Camping

Last week after we got the camper fixed, we dragged it across the border to Wisconsin to attend a wedding. The camper wasn’t invited, so we parked it nearby at a campground. In my experience I have found that there are generally two types of campgrounds: the public (State or National Parks) and the privately owned campgrounds. Both offer advantages, but in the end it comes down to a lifestyle preference. As I prefer to stay home, I don’t like either one of them – but eventually you have to park somewhere for the night and most people are opposed to letting you park in their driveway, run an extension cord and build a fire in their yard – even if you bring your own firewood.

For the first night we stayed with the private sector in a campground at an old resort on a chain of lakes. The “office,” shared a corner space in a wood paneled bar, where you could have a beer, play pool, watch the game and eat a pizza. I dropped fifty cents and played pinball instead while I listened to John Prine and Iris Dement sing “In Spite of Ourselves” on the juke box.

From its hilltop perch, the bar had a panoramic view of the lake. Outside, ancient concrete steps dropped unevenly to a shore line boardwalk, where a series of white docks with peeling paint exposed rotting piers. Rental rowboats saddled with outboards restlessly tugged on their moorings. Further down the line pontoons bobbed up and down; the waves slapped their sides sounding a hollow, tinny report luring fisherman to their decks.

Having ventured out to the one of the docks, Rhonda and I sat a bench and took it all in. Looking back towards the bar a sign, which was hung high on the building, flashed OPEN, OPEN, OPEN across the water. Every lighthouse should be so welcoming.

While we were sitting a little boy, about nine or ten years old, had carried an inflatable boat down to the water. For only a moment or two we watched him struggle trying to get into the boat without falling into the water. Always the motherly type, Rhonda asked if he needed help.

“Okay,” was all he said.

Rhonda bent down and held the boat while I held his fishing pole. Soon he was sitting amongst his two oars, his yet-empty wire basket, his cup of worms, and his can of root beer.

“Looks like you’re going fishing,” Rhonda said – trying to extend the conversation.

“Uh-huh,’ he said.

“Where’s your life jacket?” I asked.

“Uh-oh,” was his trademark two-syllable reply.

“You want us to hold your boat while you go get one”, Rhonda asked.

“Yes, please.”

In a few minutes he was back safe and sound. We helped him in the boat and wished him well. As we walked back to our camper we wondered which camper was his and where were his folks. Many of the campers were situated in a semi-permanent stage. They ranged from almost new to forty some years old.  Some had decks attached, some had screened-in porches adjoined to their trailers. Many had the green and yellow Packers colors flying proudly next to the Japanese lanterns and “Welcome to our Cabin,” signs.

“Where you folks from?” we were asked by the Fred half of the “Fred and Carol’s Camper.”

“Southwest of Minneapolis,” I said. Fred went on to explain that he and his wife, Carol, come here every weekend. Carol would be joining him later because he had been at his grandson’s football game.  Wanting to avoid getting dragged into a Packers/Vikings discussion, we excused ourselves and went to the camper to get dressed for the wedding.

Tomorrow night we would stay at a state park.