I have this terrible, uneasy feeling.
It’s a beautiful, warm, breezy day here at our camp off Sidewinder Road, west of Yuma. Spike, Bridget, and I have been camp-bound for several days, not wanting to go anywhere in the cold wind. Now that we have a warm day, we should go into town, maybe do some laundry. I could get the empty propane tank filled at Pilot Knob convenience store. While there I could fill up the water jugs at the dispenser. We’ve got several empties. The trash is piling up. Lots of recycling to drop off. I could find some place interesting to photograph. Do something fun with the crew.
These thoughts repeat throughout the morning.
Every time they do, an uneasiness creeps over me. What’s the matter with me? What am I feeling so uneasy about?
I boil a big pot of water on the stove for my bath. I give myself my travel-trailer version of a spa treatment. I pour the boiling-hot water into the dishpan on my small table. Then I add just enough water from a jug to cool it to a bearable temperature. I’ve set up my facial scrub, body scrub, body brush, washcloth, soap, towel, deodorant, lotions, etc. Okay, when I’m done, the crew and I will go into town.
Freshly bathed and in clean clothes, I go outside and sit in the sun.
Why do I not feel like going anywhere? I go back inside and get my kindle. I read for a few minutes. Gee, I’ve read enough. I’m wasting this beautiful day. I think about closing up camp, loading up the crew, and heading out. I visualize us in the PTV, going along Interstate 8 into Yuma. A terrible dread comes over me. What is this? Why does the thought of going into town make me so uneasy? I work my way out of the dread by puttering around the campsite.
After lunch, I summon the crew.
“Okay, guys, let’s go to town.” Bridget squeals excitedly and prances out the door. She skitters and jumps by the PTV side door until I open it up. She hops in and claims her spot on the bench seat. Spike wanders off. Well, I’ll get him in a minute. Maybe he has to relieve himself.
I go back into the BLT to retrieve my purse and camera.
I push the uneasiness away and keep moving. Keys in hand, I make a mental check that I have everything, and then I lock up the BLT. Out by the PTV, I see Spike has come back and is lying by the stepladder. I’ll put my purse, the camera, and the keys on the driver’s seat. Then I’ll come back around, climb the ladder, and let down the solar panel, putting the supports in the PTV. Need to remember to unplug the power cord. That done, I’ll toss Spike in with Bridget, and we’ll be off!
I open the driver’s door.
That’s when I’m hit with a terrible foreboding. I stand, paralyzed, looking at the keys on the seat. Something is definitely not right. We should not go into town. I don’t know what it is, but one thing is sure. We should not go into town.
I pick up my purse, camera, and keys off the driver’s seat.
I go around to the side door. Spike has jumped in. “Sorry, guys. Not today.” I lift the crew out individually and set them on the ground. The last time this happened was when we were in Utah. The next day we were going to drive through Flaming Gorge. That day came and I couldn’t do it. We drove to Colorado instead. Strange. It’s all very strange.
I unlock the BLT and pour myself a glass of iced tea.
Relief flows over me. I take my drink and kindle outside and settle into the camp chair in the sun. I reach down and scratch Bridget under her chin. “We’ll go into town another day, honey. I promise.”
rvsue
rvsue and her canine crew 