One of the many blessings of my life is the trail system in Hyde Park which starts about ten miles north of my house. Yes, it’s very crowded now—or, for me, what counts as crowded, twelve or so vehicles at the trailhead, a dozen people on a trail. Nevertheless, a blessing, particularly as the pandemic sprouts new wings and Labor Day weekend brings its crowds.
This morning Pip and I hiked Black Canyon, a short loop that starts at the end of a fully occupied campground. I enjoy seeing the many ways my fellow citizens make themselves at home in the woods, from a simple tent (not many of these) to the enormous, lumbering house trailers arriving and parking from many states.
We want to be away—to be gone, maybe even to vanish, but we also want to be comfortable, and so we buy these huge houses-on-the-road that must contain not only every necessity but many luxuries—and consume enormous quantities of fuel and emit enormous amounts of pollution.
I’ll try to forget that for the moment while admiring the way these road warriors settle themselves in wooded, shady paved campsites in the forest.
Hummingbird feeders are hung out. Folding chairs are arranged. The picnic table provided at the site is soon covered with a tablecloth. A rug is laid beside it. The fire ring is stocked with wood or charcoal. Laundry is hung to dry on the pole meant for a bag of food, too high for the bear to reach. I haven’t seen the bear around here for a long time, and of course these land cruisers have refrigerators.
New this summer is a peaked collapsible hut set up near the giant machine. Perhaps a private potty house so the inhabitants don’t have to visit the pretty but malodorous public privy.
There are dogs, too, often fiercely barking to defend their space, but rarely any children. This seems to be an older crowd, perhaps retired, and able now to afford this pleasant escape.
At the base of the campground, the host resides in his caravan, putting up notices on the campsites: “Reserved,” with name and dates, or more rarely, “First Come First Serve.” There’s a limit to the amount of time anyone can camp here. The fee is very modest.
And, at the base, there’s a working pay phone, probably the only one for a thousand miles. A group of tourists was exclaiming over it when I passed and seemed astonished when I said, “Even today not everybody has a cell phone.”
Oh for the adventure of being phoneless! And for those few moments at the top of the trail when the chatter of my fellow hikers dies away, and truly it is the silence of the wilderness.
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