The dog and I took off on our walk around 9 a.m. That’s quite late considering the growing heat. But I have so many morning practices that—even with me awakening at 5 a.m.—prevent an early departure. There is my potty break and her potty break and appreciation for the sunrise and the birds, my breakfast and coffee, her breakfast, my journaling and pondering and meditation, my shower, my dressing and my make up. It adds up.
Strapping on my hiking boots and applying sun screen, I gathered the essentials: sun hat, defensive walking stick, poop bags, water bottle, her water dish, cell phone, earbuds, dog brush, and my keys. I don’t normally lock my trailer door when I leave camp. I simply clip together the hippie panels across my arched awning and figure that will hide all my stuff. But last night a young man in a patrol vehicle that passed us on our walk changed my mind. In the darkness, he called out from the SUV’s window: “Hey Cannoli!” I looked puzzled and he said: “It’s Rick! The security guy. I’ve been gone a while.” He said there had been some daytime thefts in the section where I am camping, presumably by a young man who was spotted swiping stuff (Rick didn’t know what) and then retreating into the dry wash, which my camp overlooks. I had no idea. I liked the description of the campground recited by a dinner mate last night, who said Thousand Trails campgrounds are essentially “gated communities.” Yes, that’s true in theory, as you must use a passcode at the gate to get your rig into the campground. But what of the surrounding acres? Usually no fence. So, this morning heading out, I locked my door because I had just set up my 27-inch iMac inside The Tiny, and my laptop was in there, and I don’t have time for trouble.
Heading out of the campsite, I wanted to go left to a long backcountry path to the dry wash. But the girl wanted to go right and get to a big green park-like area a mile away. I bowed to her wishes. We passed the cabin across the way where a big family has been partying all weekend. I had made the decision to be friendly and we had waved and exchanged pleasantries on their arrival to establish our friendliness. Two small girls passed by on their bikes. The littlest girl rode a bike way too small, and the bigger girl rode one way too big. They both looked up and said Hi. I said good morning and they repeated good morning. A teenage boy riding just behind them said: “Good morning, ma’am.”
We passed a few more camps shaded by giant eucalyptus and pine trees. A very large man sat at a picnic table facing a faded 30-ft. trailer. A little dog came rushing over. It was grey, about 10 lbs., and looked like a Tasmanian devil on a bad day. The man tried to twist around and he called out: “Scruffy!” My dog and the devil dog greeted and sniffed. A woman’s voice came through the screen door: “Do you need the leash?” The man said no. The man called for Scruffy again as the two dogs did a bit more research. The man said: “He sure listens to me.” I said: “What are you gonna do?” The woman called out: “Scruffy, are you getting into trouble?” I use the same technique when I’m caught with my dog off leash where she ought not be. I blame her. I say sternly: “Cannoli, I keep telling you that you should be on a leash.”
The dog and I moved on along a nature path between two parts of the campground. She stopped to take care of business, which I bagged and dropped into the nearest dumpster. With the sun reaching higher, she was eager to get to the part of the dry wash fully shaded by trees. Once there, I released her from the leash, put in my earbuds, and called into one of my favorite support group meetings. The topic every Sunday morning is Trusting Our Intuition. There has been a heckler disrupting the calls lately, and we will soon need to have a moderator on each call who can block these troubled people. While I’ve never disrupted a support group meeting, I do know the feeing of distress when others are working hard and doing well. Before I got on that path, others already on it filled me with fury and despair. So I switched over to a Dave Ramsey podcast I’ve been listening to that stresses getting out of debt. I dislike much of what he says, but the part about paying off debt and never being in debt again is spot on.
We walked under the trees and branches and native shrubs in the dry wash, which only flows during monumental rains or flash floods. I kept my walking stick handy in case of coyotes, feral dogs, bully dogs, or rattlesnakes. I reflected on the calf-high Merrell boots I had just ordered. These will be my 6th pair (the previous 5 thoroughly worn out by my walking) and for these I paid full price. To me, that’s shameful, especially with my goal to pay off debt. They are full price because Merrell discontinued making this style, and they are in high demand and short supply. I justified my purchase by reminding myself that they will protect my legs from snakebites. Plus, they are so damned cute. I’m guess I’m that vain.
As the dry wash narrowed we took a familiar trail up and into another part of the campground. A couple had their dog off leash and I called out to ask if it was friendly. It was tan, about 50 lbs., with short hair. They said he was obsessed with ground squirrels. As the girl and I passed by, the tan dog ignored us and got going on a hole. We agreed that neither their dog nor mine ever catches a squirrel, but chasing them is pretty blissful, and we worry the digging dogs will get nipped in the nose, again something that never happens.
I leashed her up and we walked past mostly empty campsites in this area toward our green and grassy area. I passed an elaborate tent camping site with a giant Great Dane tied up. The man there and I greeted each other.
We finally made it to the lush green lawn and I led us to a picnic table and offered her some water. I did some brushing on her loose fur. She hates this and protests much. But it must be done. Tufts of grey fur surrounded the area. I assume birds will use it for nesting. She didn’t drink the water because she was thinking about the artificial stream flowing through the miniature golf course where she splashed and drank yesterday. After the brush torture, we headed over there. A large Spanish-speaking group was unloading stuff from various cars and setting up a picnic. There were young people and old people and adults and kids and babies. I thought about how fear is being manufactured in this country about immigrants. I thought: These are superior people. They have big close families, the parents stay married, they are hard workers, and they are happy. I thought our immigration policy should be that each time an immigrant enters the country, one of us should leave. Or at least we should take classes from them, telling us how to be happy and close to each other. (What I’m saying is probably racist, but I’m not sensitive enough to know it, so perhaps someone will enlighten me?)
We found a nice deep pond along the miniature golf course and she splashed and dunked her muzzle and her belly and drank her fill. I’m assuming the water is safe and clean because she is alive and healthy.
We started back. Our total walk would be 2.5 miles, so that was the 1.25 mile mark. One of the maintenance guys drove by on his golf cart and waved enthusiastically. He had come by when I first arrived and I was having trouble with my electrical pole. My surge protector said there was no ground wire, and it wouldn’t allow power into my trailer. “Dan” (fake name) came by after I called the office and he added a ground wire. Problem solved. Dan lives in the campground with his wife and 12-year-old daughter and he and I enjoy delightful repartee.
The girl and I walked through a section of the campground that has terrible cell service, which is why I never camp there, even though it’s almost completely shaded by giant trees. I tried to summon more Dave Ramsey, and then Fresh Air with Terry Gross, and the support group meeting. But, as I said, the cell service there sucks. Finally I realized I had just downloaded an audio book titled “When Breath Becomes Air,” written by a young neurosurgeon who was dying of cancer. I get to borrow audio books for free from the library, and I had read about this one and found it available. I am writing my own memoir, but I’m not making much progress. So I decided I need to listen to memoir after memoir after memoir until I do it myself. As they say: “If you sit in the salon long enough, you’re going to get a manicure.” (I just made that up. The analogy usually references a barbershop, but I thought I’d update it for current needs.)
I find this audio book spellbinding. A fellow surgeon wrote the prologue after the book’s author died. He spoke of respecting the author’s time in his dying process, but also wanted to reach out and ask: “Are you making time for your writing?” I thought about my own inability to finish my memoir. I have so much to share about my journey from a broken down, beaten down, suicidal child and teenager to the satisfied, self-determined woman I am today. I don’t want my story to die with me. I want to get it down and perhaps inspire another suffering soul to keep going. I’ve been thinking about how I need to treat my memoir and my other book projects like I do my income-producing work. Set deadlines, grind it out, get it done.
We passed a man all packed up and getting ready to pull his 5th wheel out of his campsite. He jumped out of his shiny black Ford F250 and pulled out his large side mirrors. I complimented him on his mirrors and on his truck. Walking past the entrance to the campground, I saw him pull out onto the road, and immediately a large Class A motorhome towing a car pulled in. I thought about the ebb and flow of the campground, and how the constant change I observe and live with everyday has affected and freed me.
The dog and I passed another large Spanish-speaking family camping in a tangle of tents, awnings, and vehicles. Yesterday, I had seen a woman at this camp spread out a cloth between the camp and the dry wash and lie down on it. I then saw that she was next to a baby sleeping in a playpen. She had curled up and turned toward the infant.
Swinging back toward camp, the girl and I had two ways to get there. The first was to walk back on the nature path and past the row of trailers and 5th wheels and cabins and back to The Tiny. But the words flowing into my ears were so moving and profound, I didn’t want to be distracted by any more greetings or chitchat. How much more can an introvert take? So we chose the path through the wide part of the dry wash. That would put us level with the back of our camp, which we could access up a steep slope, perhaps the same slope the daytime thief uses. A boy around 10 with a teddy bear backpack was collecting rocks and we greeted each other. I tossed the ball a few times for the dog.
Back at camp, I unclipped the hippie panels, unlocked the trailer door, and entered the coolness of my air-conditioned space. All was intact. I grabbed two dog cookies from the Tupperware container and tossed them out the door. She crunched them up, got a long drink from her bowl, and retreated to her dirt patch under the picnic table. No matter how many rugs or mats I put out, she always wants to touch the earth.
Back inside, I weighed myself, which is the monthly habit of those who do my food plan. Most of us dread the monthly accounting of how we’ve done. I figured I’d gained weight because I didn’t feel slim at all, and I’d been eating on the richer, fattier side of my food plan for the past few months. But my weight was within 0.2 lbs. of last month. How is that even possible?
With half of my day’s required 10,000 steps completed, I grabbed an ice-cold fizzy water from the fridge, sat down on my cushion, picked up my laptop, and began to write.