Primitive Campsite

We load our necessities into a large gray wheelbarrow supplied by the park service and stagger toward the “primitive” campsites of Paonia State Park. The site enchants visitors with its long vistas, cool summer breezes, English muffin landscape, and one ruggedly handsome ranger, but for us, Paonia is just a pit stop on our circuitous journey to the fabled Gunnison forest. It’s late in the day, Kiwi has somehow contracted giardia, a function of her indiscriminate eating techniques, and we’re making her fast until dawn.

We wheel our belongings into site 240 and nod our heads in the direction of the new neighbors. A feast of rice and beans for supper followed by a cup of cocoa, and together we watch the golden orb of life drop beyond the western slope.

Casey persuades me to attend the digital photography workshop held in the park’s cozy gift shop, delivered by a professional photographer who moonlights as a seasonal park ranger. I arrive early to a small turnout. A man nervously grabs books from the stacks and thumbs through the pages of “Who Pooped in the Park?. Two 70-something women discuss the relative value of digital file formats. The scene is surreal, and the ranger’s photos of Silverton are spectacular.

Back at camp, the sky darkens, we zip snugly into our tent, and wait for the sounds of nocturnal nature. A woman upchucks in the distance, loudly and violently. A man yells at his son with the angry tone of adolescense: Be nice to her. I’m sick of you not being nice. I spent two thousand dollars on this trip. You know I could’ve bought a car for her with that money? Do you a want a piece of this?

The next morning we awaken to the roar of off highway vehicles (OHVs) in the distance. Down at the communal water pump, we meet a sleepy eyed young girl in patterned pajamas. I just saw a dog riding a motorcycle, she whispers dreamily to Casey. We glance up to see a knot of gear-clad riders that resemble 1980s transformer toys. F*%$ me! One of the transformers shouts within earshot of the girl. I hurt my arm, man. This is the Fourth of July in America. A day off from an already easy life.

A young soldier rolls a cigarette in the desert outside Bagdad. John Adams rolls over in his Massachusetts grave. Two off highway vehicles roll over a bluff outside Paonia (no transformers are hurt, only humbled).