Tango and I began our walk around the campground, and we were only a few steps from our site when I sensed that this morning was different. Silence! I did not hear the crackle of a morning campfire or the sound of someone cooking breakfast on a Coleman stove. No soft whines from sleepy children. Not even the distant roar of OHVs on the nearby dunes. The weekenders were gone. Every tent, every bicycle, every beach towel was packed up and gone. Already, the camp hosts removed from the Reserved signs from the posts, and it felt like new signs should go up in their place: The Party is Over!
That is not to say the weekenders did not leave evidence of their passing. As we continued our walk, I noticed the overflowing trash dumpsters, the cigarette butts strewn about on the ground, and the dog poop left along the narrow road. The bathrooms needed a thorough airing and a large bucket of sudsy cleanser splashed onto the floor.
In late June, when the weekenders first appeared in the campground, I was resentful about losing my solitude. Their soccer balls rolled into my space, their kids annoyed my dog, and their overflowing piles of junk spoiled my views. I chastised myself for my grumpy attitude, and I forced myself to be patient. We do have to share our public lands, and it is such a good thing for parents to take their kids outdoors where they can run and play. It is such a good thing to let them dine on roasted hotdogs and s’mores. The family is bonding and creating important memories. I reminded myself that my son and I spent many weekends ourselves camping and exploring. Remembering that, I adjusted. When a kid screamed nearby or a parent yelled back, I smiled to myself. When dogs started barking at each other, I stayed calm. When Tango and I walked, I took taking stealthy glances into their sites to see what tents they had. I noted how they configured their camp kitchen, and I took inventory of their gear. I said hi to the kids and then, slowly, I started offering a positive-sounding, “Good morning,’ the harried parents.
On this grand adventure, especially during the two months in Alaska, I have had bucket loads of solitude. And in that solitude, I began to appreciate the company of others much more than I have in the past. On Mondays now, I actually miss everybody a tiny bit. Oh well, they will be back on Friday. In the meantime, the birds will start singing again and the chipmunks that torture Tango will resume their games on the picnic table bench, just out of his reach. Although quite a distance from me, I hear the ocean roar. I notice that wind whistles through the treetops and I hear the loud creaks and cracks of the tree trunks as they sway.
It must be Monday.
