Camping, Raccoons, & Human Mosquitoes

Every few days, I’ll set aside some quality time to spiral. When I’m down, my longtime friend Andy is cosmically paged to call me. I don’t recall this feature being included in my T-Mobile plan, I’m not one to complain about a free service. Andy has proven many times to be my voice of reason and is much better acquainted with the idea of getting out of the house than I am.

I work remotely so I hesitate to call it a commute. Therein lies one of my many issues: I shit where I sleep and I never stop doing either. Relaxing isn’t my forte and a perpetual shit smell doesn’t exactly have the same effect as, say, tea tree oil.

Leaving my bedroom has been a chore, treacherous almost. For perspective, the longest hike I’ve been on since living in San Diego is the quarter-mile trek to the library. Thanks to my apparent phone plan, Andy heard blood clots brewing from Portland and forced me out of the stinky shit dungeon. Within the hour I booked a two-day campsite outside of El Cajon.

Aside from pitching a tent in my parent’s backyard during the height of the pandemic, this would be my first solo camping trip. For entertainment, I packed David Sedaris’ When You Are Engulfed in Flames, forgotten screenplays I was looking to edit, and a glass-encased idea notebook that might as well have read Break in Case of Emergency.

A getaway was what I needed and all I could think about for days. The sheer idea of leaving again excited me. I packed as much as possible into a leather bag and left on a Friday.

Day 1

When I arrived at camp I realized it was not a camp at all. In fact, it was so not a camp that I believe it’d technically be called someone’s driveway. Their front door may have only been yards away and the bathroom located at a distant public park, but the outdoor kitchen and dry-rot hammock made the $30 entry fee worth the drive.

Within the jurisdiction of a desert climate, their property was a sovereign oasis situated between dehydrated mountains. The leaves were bright green and the mosquitoes were pricks. It was as if I never left Ohio.

After I set up the tent, I immediately ate the most interesting food I packed: a spiritless veggie sandwich with spicy deli mustard. This forced future me to deal with overly ripe avocados and unsalted almonds for the rest of the weekend. For a guy who once brought a can of beans and a wool army jacket to camp, this was an improvement.

For the remainder of the sunlight, I wrote, drew, and read. I felt accomplished for the first time in months. As an inside man, it’s difficult to conceptualize nightfall. With a 6:45 sunset, I was down for the count by 7:15. A lot can happen in half an hour, especially when you’re surrounded by nocturnal wildlife.

I get anxious when I’m alone in a dark tent on a stranger’s property. The crank flashlight I pathetically thought would provide me with light died out after a few measly minutes. I felt it was futile to be hand-cranking at that hour because, with my luck, the homeowner would walk past my setup to hear vibrator-like tones paired with puzzling convulsions. I didn’t want to take the chance, so I was left alone to think.

I heard a rustle in the bushes, which confused me. I don’t remember there being bushes around here. I peeped out the tent window to what appeared to be eight midgets hissing in my general direction. Upon inspection, these midgets were actually dressed as raccoons. Or perhaps they were raccoons on their hind legs.

This thing wasn’t here yesterday, one of them whispered loud enough for me to hear. I was certain they were plotting my execution. If it weren’t for a thin polyester barrier, I have no doubt I would’ve met my end via the strength of sixteen tiny hands.

Against my own ethos, I surreptitiously cranked the flashlight to get a better view of the assailants. By the time they realized what was causing the tent to shake, they wanted nothing more to do with me. I drifted off fearing a covert assault but was comforted in knowing that my attackers were potentially rabid animals that I previously mistook for midgets. I slept for what would amount to half a day.

Day 2

Because Southern California weather can be sweltering to my pale complexion, I forget that the nights can be quasi-glacial. I woke up the next morning with a fairly frozen ballsack, the texture as defined as an uncracked walnut. It wasn’t that I didn’t prepare; it was that I didn’t prepare for this. I remained in the fetal position until my bladder was on its last inch of wick then hiked toward the designated urinal.

The park was much like the campsite, bringing color into the dull sea of desert with mauve monkey bars and sun-tanned basketball courts. It was reminiscent of the nuclear test zone in The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull that Indiana Jones visits before finding blast cover in a refrigerator — the one you expected him to fall out of and quip, they don’t make ’em like they used to.

After finding an early morning groove, my day mainly consisted of drinking coffee and pissing at the park — the legal way — up until around 4 p.m., at which point I reluctantly met some new friends.

I knew I couldn’t have possibly enjoyed the entire plot of driveway alone two nights in a row; that would’ve been an unspeakable convenience. Instead, I was joined by seemingly normal people who, upon further reflection, may have been the worst.

I had spread my weekend’s work across the provided makeshift table by the time they arrived in what I recall to be a yacht with the option of lunar travel. I cleared half my mess, which I thought was only fair — two campsites, two hemispheres of a round table. I accidentally locked eyes with the woman and she introduced herself as Jessica. Her name may not be Jessica or even start with a J, but frankly, I don’t think she was much of an empath to remember my name either.

“You don’t have to do that!” Jessica pressed, referring to my Midwestern habits. “We’re just going to sit over there anyway,” she continued, pointing to the shoddy Adirondack chairs. Still, I tidied up in case Jessica or her Cro-Magnon boyfriend — who we’ll refer to as Grog — needed to use my paper as a coaster; not that they would, but, within ten minutes of listening, I pinned them the type.

When they brought out Cosco tequila from the confines of their 2021 Apollo, I knew they were trouble. Though I was hoping for a dry weekend, I’m too weak to deny myself a free drink. The open bottle sat there, tempting me. Within the hour I broke my wavering and discreet sobriety.

Before the couple arrived, I took advantage of the dry-rot hammock. As I reached my labor limit for a Saturday, Jessica and Grog had doubled up in the feeble rope cradle and remarkably left it intact. I’ve not experienced miracles but this surely must have been one. She sipped on a lime margarita as he nursed a bottle of Prosecco which he would eventually follow with two more bottles of Prosecco. Never before had I seen such a display.

During their nosedive into inebriation, they debated for a loaded fifteen minutes what they should caption a photo she’d taken of him and his sweet Prosecco. Eventually landing on something half-baked, as I recall, Dr. Jessica had to show off the monster she’d spent entirely too long creating.

“Look at this!” she said to me, barely able to contain her laughter. I took the laugh as my cue to do the same. I naturally followed it with a “that’s funny.” Jessica took my synthetic glee as an invitation to talk about her boyfriend, Grog.

I had no interest in learning about Jessica’s personal life, but I just had to know more about the guy who drank Prosseco from the tap. As curious as I was, my interest at the time was to maximize the space cushion between Jessica and me. Alcohol can inhibit our understanding of invisible demarcations. But if I can smell Speed Stick, you’re too fucking close.

She asked if I had an Instagram account. I lied and said no, but that apparently wasn’t the answer she was looking for. Jessica stepped closer as if there was an underutilized gap that needed filling. Then, for entirely too long, she scrolled through Grog’s profile to force me to see what he does for a living: videography, specifically for local Fox news.

“I do that sorta thing, too!” I announced loud enough for Grog to hear. He abandoned his hammock perch to talk or maybe get a refill of sparkling wine — probably the latter. On the journey over, he grunted something along the lines of must talk with plebeian. He wasn’t particularly objecting to the fawning, so I don’t think my translation was that far off.

Still, like Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange, I was forced to watch more and more drones flying under bridges.

“I can’t do that,” I said, hoping she’d get the memo. Even if my eyes had been bleeding, I still don’t believe she’d have gotten that memo.

“Yeah, well, Grog can,” she replied, scrolling to the adjacent post. This was as close to captivity as I hope I’ll ever get.

It just so happens that earlier in the week, an invasive species of aggressive mosquito had migrated from South America to San Diego County. I have this theory that Grog and Jessica may have caught a ride.

When I finally had the opportunity to utter a sentence, I made it count. Having worked on the NatGeo show, Life Below Zero, I mentioned to Grog that I was also somewhat in his industry. I’ve been riding on this credit for three years now, so I’ll take the occasional opportunity to tell someone.

Grog is 44, proud of his man cave, and happily wears a carabiner on his person. He’s been working in local news for close to a decade and, if you hadn’t heard, drinks Prosecco out of the bottle. Whatever insecurities Grog’s developed have forced Grog to let me know that Grog’s got a lot of money. Later, he even had the nutsack to ask me how much I make, too. Aware of my existence no longer than a couple of hours, Grog swaggered about a mirrorless camera he picked up for nearly forty grand. I’m sure I tried to look impressed but my innards definitely shouted sucker.

Boast after boast, Grog trumpeted off his toys as if they were mint G.I. JOE action figures and we were both in grade school. Then it hit me: this guy is sizing me up like a raccoon.

Just as I had let raccoons be raccoons, I allowed Grog to be a Grog. Neither knows any other way and neither can do any real damage: no harm, just foul.

As Jessica took back her rightful speaking staff, she decided it was time that I knew her opinions about vaccines. The silicone bandage on her arm — which I mistook for a nicotine patch — was somehow brought up by her one-sided conversation that was projected in my direction. Apparently, one of her friends had hoped it was a token from receiving the COVID vaccination but was actually caused by flaming steel wool during a photoshoot. Arguably cooler, but far less admirable.

Earlier, Jessica briefly mentioned that she’s refused “to fly with all these restrictions,” which I sidelined for the time being. But her airline sentiments paired with an inability to understand personal space could mean only one thing.

“There’s no way I’m putting that shit in my body,” Jessica said. After an uneducated sniff, she added, “it’s too politically motivated. You can be a Democrat, Republican, whatever. Not doing it. Not that it matters, but we’re Republican.”

Just as I suspected.

I don’t believe Republicans are inherently wrong about everything but there isn’t enough evidence for me to believe otherwise.

Where this misinformation puddle forms is beyond me. As with Grog, I let Jessica spout off whatever she needed to. She had a chip on her shoulder but clearly not one in her arm. Believe me. She’d let you know.

A comfortable lull set in. Unprompted, Jessica double-downed on her previous statement: “if it was as bad as the Black Plague or Ebola, maybe I’d consider it.”

I so badly wanted to let her know how privileged we were to even be offered such a vaccine, but a lone voice doesn’t quite cut through when arguing with megaphones.

At this point, Jessica started cooking. Grog migrated back to his hammock, likely insulted that he was no longer being talked about.

“Keep doing what you’re doing, babe. I’ll be over here,” Grog shouted, not offering a hand. I was startled by his clarity. He went back to grunting.

When they piped down, I had some time to reflect on the experience so far. I’d been writing down conversation highlights on the sly, a stockpile I’d even impress myself with logging. I realized that even in moments when I inserted myself into the conversation, the purpose of doing so was to steer their dialogue into new territory. I’ve always appreciated listeners, maybe because I’m one myself. If the only thing on your mind is getting your opinion on a billboard, it may be time to quiet down and consider the other side.

It’d be commendable not to enact judgment on this couple for dismissing intense scientific research. But if I’m too weak to deny a drink, I’m weaker still in mending first impressions.

Though unreasonable in some aspects, Jessica did offer me grub: pounds of cheese and — in my count, three — potatoes. I figured if I didn’t already contract something by being inches away, eating a little of her artery-clogging food couldn’t hurt. As I approached indigestion, I thought two things: 1) this potato cheese is great and 2) are these spuds also unvaccinated?

When the starch/dairy compound neared extinction, Jessica started grilling chicken tacos. She offered, but I’m a vegetarian. She looked worryingly at the empty potato tray as if to say, oh no — what have I done? I reassured her that potatoes are not meat.

Because of the seasonal risk, fires weren’t allowed. So when darkness fell, Grog didn’t hesitate to break out his camera’s LED.

“Man, that light is coming in clutch,” he repeated, ad nauseam.

The more we drank, the more reasonable the two of them became. On some level, liquor and potatoes can solve differences. Once I got some liquid courage in me, I opened up too. Internet smut soon became a hot topic and I didn’t hesitate to share fun facts about “Two Girls, One Cup.”

It was chocolate whipped cream.

As the conversation shifted to life outside of Earth, we unanimously agreed that it’s impossible we’re alone in the universe. For once, it felt like I was right where I was supposed to be.

The night came to a close when Grog’s clutch light died out. I certainly wasn’t going to hang around a pumpkin-scented candle just to have another ten minutes with them.

At 11 p.m. a confused rooster squawked as I stumbled to my tent and my new acquaintances entered their mid-sized spaceship.

Twenty-four hours prior, I was dreaming of a raccoon ambush. As I nestled into a sleeping bag cocoon, I got the impression that I had just been attacked by something far more ugly. I took solace in my vaccination status and the advancements in science: both of which I absolutely trust. With that, I soundly slept.

Day 3

I woke up warm and rested on a semi-deflated air mattress. Wearing extra layers and doubling up on tube socks mended the previous night’s mistakes. My chestnuts were toasty as if they’d been roasting over an open flame. Feeling like an accomplished camper, I exited the tent and tip-toed past Grog and Jessica’s shuttlecraft like Elmer Fudd on the hunt for a pesky westwoom.

Despite not being the nature hike I had been promised, I enjoyed my numerous trips to the bathroom. The property owners for the most part weren’t lying; there was wildlife around. Aside from raccoons, there were plenty of birds, lizards, and barking neighbor dogs. If we were any further from infrastructure, who knows: I may have seen more.

I had a small run-in with a rabbit on the way back from the park. He side-eyed me, like most untrusting rabbits tend to do, and remained still as if to say, try to find me now! I followed suit and he seemed to forget I was there, too.

During our standoff, I wondered if he knew he was a Californian. If so, does he take advantage of the perks? Or perhaps, like me, he’ll never be happy and always believe he’d be better off elsewhere. Like any good fabled rabbit, he hopped away before he offered me the answer.

When I arrived back at camp, Jessica and Grog had arisen as parched as the surrounding mountains. After watching him guzzle three Proseccos and whatever else he could find the night before, I was hungover just looking at him. Despite their dumb ideas and horrendous personalities, Grog & Co. was ultimately a pleasure to be around. That said I’d be happy never to see them again.

I said my goodbyes and went on my way with fresh ideas and a newfound worry that I’d return to my old self once I got back to the stinky shit dungeon. It took me a few days, but the benefits of the trip are not lost on me. I needed this rehab as much as Jessica needs the vaccine.

Just as those who swear by colonics, I swear by routinely leaving your comfort zone. Colons need cleansing; we are the fecal remains that desperately need dislodging.

A turd outside the body is a good turd indeed.

I wouldn’t have this to tell if not for my friend, Andy. I encourage you to get an Andy, too. The alternative to outsourcing is to become one yourself; then maybe you can meet a Grog or a Jessica or, better yet, anyone else.

Listen to what the ideologically disparate have to say. You can always argue into the rearview on the car ride home.

There is life outside. It is desperate for attention. Whatever state, country, or planet your four walls are located in, on, or around — they can only inspire you so much. Make stories, even if you only have a few famished raccoons to share them with.