I’m yearning for pine forest.
Note: Today’s post generated numerous comments from readers wanting to share their favorite, forested camping spots. Click on “comments” below to read about some of the wonderful camping locations available in the U.S.
Back in the day when all I could do is obsess about my dream to live in a travel trailer, I envisioned the crew and me boondocking all over the U.S. I had visions of Spike, Bridget and me, wading in a mountain stream, floating along a lakeshore in our kayak, climbing a rocky trail to a high, windswept vantage point, waking to a desert sunrise, returning to our home-on-wheels after a romp in the ocean surf, and many more picturesque scenes.
Innumerable sighs, much preparation, and the passage of time have placed us in some of those visions already.
One scene my mind returns to again and again is camping in a pine forest.
I want to smell pine scent mixed with the aroma of forest sod. I want to listen to the whispers of wind in the pine boughs. I want to laugh at scampering squirrels playing on the trunks of fallen pines, teasing Spike with a game of catch-me-if-you-can. I want to eat eggs-over-easy and drink orange juice while anticipating a walk in the cool forest around us. I want to discover mossy places where lush ferns grow, their fronds embracing a giggling creek. I want to find mushrooms and pale wildflowers in beds of pine needles. Oh, to lie back in a lounger, Bridget snuggled in my lap, gazing up at sunbeams reaching down from the sky through the feathery branches of a magnificent pine . . .
Meanwhile back in the desert . . .
I’ve got to do something about our trash. The interior of the PTV is starting to stink to high heaven. My strategy for getting rid of garbage is to throw away stuff like old lettuce leaves some distance away from our camp or, if smelly like chicken packaging, seal it up in a plastic bag. Then I store it in the PTV until I can stuff it into a trash container, usually in a store parking lot.
Well, in the Wickenburg-Congress area of central Arizona, the stores I’ve frequented don’t have easy-access trash bins.
Thus, I’m sad to report, the PTV has become a landfill.
The crew and I take off for Safeway in Wickenburg. After loading up the passenger seat with groceries, I scan the area for a trash receptacle. Nothing. Just a small one by Safeway’s door. Not good. We’re way past the point of that being adequate. I navigate the PTV around neighboring parking lots. Again, nothing. Finally I spy a big, black container. It’s squatting at the exit of a bank drive-through. I drive up.
“City of Wickenburg” is printed on its side.
Ah-hah! I can do this. If I’m really quick, no one will have the chance to complain. Trying to look nonchalant, I open the back doors and start heaving bags into the mouth of the black bin. Yay! I did it! Now let’s get outta here!
Next I need to get rid of the paper trash.
Our camp has a fire ring, or the semblance of one . . . rocks strewn about an area of loose dirt with ashes mixed in. No protection from the wind that kicks up without any notice. Plus it’s right next to a tree. How dumb is that?
I could get out my shovel and start digging and move those big rocks into a circle. No, I don’t think so. Requires too much effort. Let’s see. I know! I’ll pour myself a glass of grapefruit juice and sit a spell to think this over.
As I’m sitting and sipping, my line of sight falls on the . . . Yes! That’s it! That’ll work! I can burn the papers in it and they won’t blow away!
My little charcoal grill can double as a trash incinerator!
Well, maybe incinerator is a bit grandiose. Burn-buddy fits better. Anyway . . .
I lift up the top where meat is grilled, and stuff in the a few papers and torn-up cereal boxes. The trash rests on top of where the briquettes are placed, so there’s good air circulation.
I move my new camp chair away from the smoke and instead sit in my five-dollar-falling-apart camp chair (every camper needs one of those), happily tearing and wadding paper, feeding and stoking the flames with a stick. Yep, once again it proves true . . . every problem has a solution.
I’m playing Russian roulette every time I flush.
Tomorrow I’d better hitch up and get on over to North Ranch’s dump station.
The water tank must be getting low, too. It’d be nice if the key would open the cockamamie door so I can observe the water level.
Squirting it with WD-40 helped a few times, but not lately. Sheesh.
“Every problem has a solution.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Oh well, I’ll give it another try.
Revised adage . . . “Every problem has a solution. If you can’t find the solution, keep trying anyway.”
rvsueP.S. Float your cursor over pics to reveal hidden messages. Ooh. What fun!