I just wanted to take a moment acknowledge that I am a freaking genius. And it’s all because I admitted defeat. Let me ‘splain.
I got to my new campground yesterday afternoon around 3. I was late because I got a flat tire on The Tiny, my T@B trailer, about 10 miles away. Getting a flat tire on The Tiny had been one of my big fears. I had the tires checked out by several experts in advance of the trip, and all of them said the tires were fine. But something went wrong somewhere along the way. By the time time I discovered the problem, the tire was pretty well torn up, but the trailer did not get harmed. I found out what you do. You pull over to a wide shoulder, call roadside assistance, wait a bit, and have them put on the spare. I have faced one of my biggest fears. The trailer is so light that nothing terrible happened.
So I was later getting to the campground than I expected. The tire thing had taken a toll on my energy and psyche. I had already driven 3 hours on big city freeways. That took a toll. And earlier in the morning I had broken camp in my hot desert campground. That took a toll. The day prior to that, the dog and I had driven 60 miles at 7:30 a.m. to meet up with friends, and then 60 miles back to camp. Again, the toll was paid.
So when I got to my new campground, I was not at the top of my game. I stopped at the entry station and asked a nice and hip young man there to show me on the map what kind of aura and personality each part of the campground had. He circled some of his favorite sites, and said some were near the pool and all the action, others were more quiet and peaceful, etc.
With the map in one hand and the steering wheel in the other and The Tiny following behind, I began my trek through the large mountainous campground to find the perfect site. Each of the young man’s favorite sites was already taken, and I crossed each of those off, one by one. The rest of the empty sites that I saw were either too sunny, or too small, or too near the road, or too steep and awkward for me to back into, or had no privacy. I circled and circled and circled. I started recognizing some folks and rigs for the second and third time. The thought was going through my mind: “I am not handling this. I am not doing well.” I considered for a moment driving back into town and getting a hotel room.
The idea to retreat felt familiar. Just a few days earlier, I had called a friend and said: “I can’t do this,” and I meant the whole trip. “I need to come home.” We talked about how what I really liked was camping with friends, and if I came back and used his house as a home base, I could camp closer to my friends and repeat that enjoyment. He said I was welcome to come back, but he also encouraged me to press on a little, and especially to see my dear friend who is facing health challenges and who lives not too far from this campground and who wants to camp with me. Just spend time with her, he said, then decide.
So rather than hightailing it back to the Southeast, I came to this campground. My inability to navigate it and find a campsite suitable for my planned 3-week stay was alarming. I gave up. I said to myself: I am defeated. I cannot do this.
Then, a thought came to mind: I wonder if I could pay one of these guys $20 to drive around with me and help me find a good site and even help me back into it? They live here. They know this place.
I had a little fear that if I approached one of these guys, they would think: “Ugh. This lady is so lame and stupid.” And they might say: “I’m sorry m’am. We don’t do that.”
Just the other day I read an acronym for SHAME: Should Have Already Mastered Everything. I’m at only the second campground of my new campground membership and I’m not yet an expert at all this. Imagine that. Indeed, living through a difficult childhood where not much guidance was provided, that’s how I thought you got through life, by knowing everything. I had nightmares that I had to count every molecule on the planet, starting with the grains of sand on the beach, and that’s how I would know everything.
I’ve learned during my years in recovery that not knowing everything and admitting defeat — on food intake, on handling alcohol, on pot, on resentments, on fears, on life — and asking for help is the way to go. Still, it doesn’t always come natural.
So yesterday, as evening was approaching, and I was lacking any other ideas, I drove back to the entry station to admit my failing. I saw there a different young man on the evening shift. When I made my proposition to pay him for his knowledge, he lit up: “Yeah! I’ve love to make some extra money!” It turns out he and his colleagues are paid minimum wage, and when he got promoted to supervisor, he got a $1 an hour raise. So my $20 represents half a week’s supervisor pay.
He asked me what I was looking for. I said I wanted shade, privacy, enough space to pitch a tent or two for guests I am expecting, and a safe space for my dog to hang out. He saw that The Tiny is indeed tiny, and he said if I don’t need a sewage hookup (I don’t), then he knew of the perfect tent site with water and electric. He had me and the dog get in his golf cart and he drove along a narrow bumpy road to the site. According to him, it’s the best site in the campground. I had not even seen it on my endless circling. He showed me where The Tiny would go, and where it would face, and then he walked past three large oaks to a clearing and said that when his buddy camps here, he puts his tent there. Bingo! I was sold.
We went back to the Durango and this young man drove it up here, along the narrow road that a larger rig could never have navigated, and he backed The Tiny in for me. It turned out because of the angle I could have done it myself. But we had momentum going and he did a good job. He wondered if he could help me unhitch because he felt embarrassed taking $20 for what seemed to him such a little amount of work. He has no idea the blessing he brought to my life.
The site is stupendous. I’m on the top of a hill, with a flat part accommodating my rig and gear and the Clam shelter, and then the land slopes gently down all around us. Large granite outcroppings are within view. I can hear cars on the campground road, but can’t quite see them through the trees. I can see some cabins and the bath block through the trees. From what I was told, the rest of the tent sites behind me will be full each of the three weekends I am here. But for now, it’s me and the girl and the squirrels and the blue jays and the pines and oaks and manzanitas.
Three other campers have ventured on foot past this camp, on their way to follow trails through the forest. They stopped and chatted, admiring The Tiny, and were dumbfounded by the magnificent site I am in. One man complained about the narrow site he found last night, but said his Airstream would never have made it up here. When I stopped by the entrance station later on, the other young men agreed that my site is the best one in the campground.
I’m so grateful to the young man whose knowledge of this place was so valuable to me. I’m grateful that I gave up. I’m grateful that I asked for help even though I feared ridicule.
Looking back, I can see that giving up and asking for expert help is the most freaking genius thing I can do. I hope to remember this the next time I am at the end of my wits and feeling defeated and admit to myself: “I can’t do this.” At that moment, I may well be on the verge of winning the lottery of life. Who knew?