Don’s truck rolled into the Jim Thorpe Camping Resort slightly after 1 am. Dead and dark, just like we expected it to be. At least the gate wasn’t closed, so we were going to be able to get down to the camp site without having to haul our gear piecemeal through the rain, which was now starting to intensify in frequency and strength.
We pulled into our usual campsite — referred to by the owner as “The Grove” in the camp maps — and could see the camp fire burning bright. Damn right! I knew the rest of the guys would still be up, fighting the elements and drinking the night away. While Don repositioned his truck I ran down to say hello to the brave souls.
All I found was a dog and a half-soaked fire.
Tents all around, tables resting under large draping tarps, but no one still braving the storm. Not to say that I blame them, either. This was no normal rain storm we were braving to keep the 6 year long tradition of No-Maam going — this was the remnants of Hurricane Ivan, and it still had quite a lot of strength to it.
Don and I raced to set up our tents as quickly as possible. The storm was strengthening by the minute and the quicker our shelters were in place the quicker we could get inside of them. Aluminum poles and lightning bolts aren’t a good combo, but at least we had some massively towering trees to (hopefully) attract any electrical surge away from us. Just another incentive to work quickly.
Fifteen minutes later my tent was in place and I was huddled by the fire that was slowly being drown by the river of rainwater that was running through our site, beer in hand and draped in drenched clothing. In the back of my head I was starting to wonder if the trip to see Brian Regan perform his stand-up routine in Lakewood’s Strand Theater was worth the delay in our departure time, but it was a short lived thought — a good show and a free ticket are hard to turn down.
I turned in for the night and stared at the ceiling of my tent, listening to the rain bouncing off the sides and through the branches above. With nothing but time on my hands, my mind was now left to contemplate and reminisce. I had music from The Bomb Squad and Umphrey’s McGee stuck in a constant loop in my cortex while I started to outline a letter in the style of Hunter S. Thompson in my cerebellum. Must mostly I tried to define the fork in the road of life I can feel approaching.
What it looks like and what my choices will be I have no idea yet — it’s too shrouded in the mists to still define, but I know it’s there. It could very well be another career path that I’m approaching — my little video editing projects gave me a taste of working with moving pictures and I could see making that a bigger part of my resume. It could be the beginnings of a Canadian escape plan in case G.W. thwarts common sense and logic by winning (or usurping) another term in the White House. But if I had to bet on the change coming, I’d say it would be in the form of a book — one to be written, not read, by yours truly.
Yeah, that last part was not a typo. What it will be and what it will look like I have no clue yet, but it’s been brooding and bubbling under the surface for a while. My skills with the crafting of words are the sharpest they’ve ever been and this might be that one cosmic launch window I’ve been waiting for. A chance to do something that reaches above and beyond my perceived means. Something that might live beyond my time on this plane. Don’t expect me to say much more about it until I actually have something worthwhile to show. I’m getting sick of talking about doing great things — I’d much rather just do them. Of course, if this does come to pass you can hold my cousin Sharon responsible since she planted the seed in my head some years ago.
But back to camping. Skip ahead to Saturday morning and the dying throes of Ivan. By noon the rain had stopped altogether and the cold front following it began to creep in, slowly at first but still making its presence known. I fought a long, treacherous battle with Rolling Rock and Amstel and nearly lost the battle for my lunch, but instead it left me in a vengeful state that led to a long hike down to the lake side and some exploration of the nearby Switchback Railroad, the gravity-fed line that moved coal and miners back and forth along its narrow gauge rails. Its second life is that of hiking and biking trails with the rail lines having long since been removed.
With my head clearing I made my way back to the camp site for the festival of eating and drinking. This was by far one of the best nights I’ve ever had at No-Maam — just the general sense of relaxation and the sound of Electric Mud and other assorted blues blasting from the stereo. Then there were the cigars…a nice touch but the few times I choose to indulge myself in that sinful habit I always walk away with my head spinning. Guess that’s a good enough reason to keep from indulging in the future, but somehow I doubt that will keep me from having another ceremonial stogie in the future.
The Sunday camp breakdown day was about the most orderly I’d ever witnessed. We had things broken down, cleaned, fireless and mobile at about a quarter to noon — some kind of speed record I’d imagine, if we’d been keep records on those kind of mindless facts. One thing we have been keep track of the past few years was the No-Maam MVP, with Don collecting the last two awards.
As we broke camp it was decided that since we never manage to finish emptying the traditional Jagermeister trophy that this year would have no MVP, but as Don and I drove back, he proclaimed that he finally figured out who was the MVP this year: all of us. We braved the elements when lesser campers were cowering in their dry rooms and slept on the soggy ground when others were curled up tightly in their beds with fluffy down comforters.
I humbly accept my co-MVP award, along with the other 10 recipients.