“Number… four!” he said, with a delight unseen up until this point in the conversation.
Number four, as it would have it, was the campsite furthest from where we requested to spend the night. We paid our twenty bucks and quietly left the office. Driving past more desirable tent sites, heading further and further away from the stream, I swear I could hear that old man laughing.
Friends and I had patronized this particular campground numerous times. The gruffness of the proprietor was usually mitigated by the low cost and close proximity to the creek. The creek was filled with trout, so these excursions were purely about fly fishing. The wild brown trout made for a challenge, and the stocked rainbows kept things pretty busy. Every once in a while, a brook trout of unknown origin would pop up.
We were ideal campers. Early to bed, so as to be early to rise. No fireworks, booze, or fisticuffs. In and out; the campsite was the means to an end. You’ve probably seen campers who bring chili-pepper lights to decorate their site. Usually such festooning is the pièce de résistance to other varied and sundry decidedly un-camping items. Mini-fridges on generators, boom boxes, and dogs that can’t shut up being some of my favorites.
