Choosing a dispersed campsite on the beach takes some thought. At Lone Rock (Lake Powell), several sandy roads lead to the beach and I do not want to be invisible to any cars driving in at night. Getting run over while sleeping in my tent would certainly add a wrinkle to this journey. Also important: I do not want to be down on the water’s edge with all the noisy RV folks. I am glad they are having fun but I want my own, quiet space. The open beach behind them is too unprotected. Hmmmmm. Then, I see a nice little rise towards the back of the beach, where several others are already parked. It seems like a natural spot, nestled against a squat sand dune, away from inbound cars. I pull into the area, about 50 feet away from a little RV. I figure that is ample space between us; in fact, I use this metric most of the time I am in dispersed camping.
Shortly after I began setting up the tent, the older resident of the little RV, Tom, came by and asks why I chose that spot. He wasn’t unfriendly or friendly. Just curious. I mentioned my reasons and he agreed that the waterfront was craziness. Then he said, “I just want you to know that I have PTSD, military-grade PTSD, but I am not violent.” I answer, “ I am not violent either”. At that, he walked off with his dog, Rambo. Over the two days that I camped there, he would say hi when he walked by, but not much else.
I have experienced this before. People who think that you are too close to them try to scare you off, especially when a large expanse of other options exists. One time, a gal in Florida tried to shoo me away with untrue reports about sharks. This time, I was supposed to be scared by Tom’s PTSD. I didn’t budge though, as my previously established boundary of 50 yards seems fair enough. Sorry, Tom, we all have to share our public lands, no matter how bonkers we may be.
After that, I spent a night in Dixie National Forest, near Bryce Canyon National Park. I was at a small campground with only 4 sites. Two retired couples came in with their horse trailers and took two of the remaining sites while I was setting up. We waved, and I deduced that they were ranchers from their Wyoming license plates and their rancher demeanor. They are people I respect and know well after years in Wyoming, so I wasn’t at all worried about them. Tango must have sensed this because he did not warn me when one sneaked up on me from behind. He had circled around the back of my car to see my license plate (NM does not have a front plate), then scared me to death when he approached within a foot as I was poking around in the car. He said, “You drove all the way from New Mexico to see me?” What a weird thing to say. I was startled and shouted back “you should never sneak up on someone like that or you might end up with a hole in your belly”. He looked at me with an odd grin and stared into the car, making mental note of everything in there.
Seriously: I don’t know where those words came from. I don’t own a gun. I had no idea that I had those words in me. Too many wilderness and adventure novels is all I can think of. I do have a taser somewhere in the car that may not even be charged up. After quiet reflection, I realized that I was miffed that this person invaded my space like that. Yes, I was in a campsite on public land, but that was my space. He had no right to invade those boundaries without invitation.
After my initial declaration about shooting him in the belly (wouldn’t the heart be more efficient?), I smiled and was friendly; however, I definitely filed him away in the creepy folder after he left. A bit later, the other guy came over. He shouted out before he arrived, but still, he stepped into my campsite without invitation. He was friendly and talkative while he looked over every single thing inside and outside the car. Nosy. Inconsiderate. Rude in my book.
I started to understand better how Tom felt. Even on public land we all need some space boundaries. It is easy to define in a campsite with actual boundaries but less so on an open beach. Or is this a cultural thing? Turns out that the ranchers were Mormons, which I discovered when they left for church Sunday morning, all dolled up in Mormon church-going clothes (modest, long dresses for women, black western garb for men). Oh yeah, this is Mormon territory. Do Mormon men believe that they have some rights over a single woman camping? Is it acceptable for them to prove their authority by invading my space? Why didn’t their wives come by to say hello? I don’t have the answers but I think there may be some truth in those questions.
As I travel and camp I will be more mindful of personal space. Maybe I will even stake my claim up to 100 feet away from someone else if space permits.
