Being good ‘murkins, the Ms and I decided to get away this past Labor Day weekend; to go out into the wilds of Alaska with only a 27’ motor home between us and certain death.
On Friday night we packed all the essentials: beer, cheetos, some green leafy things to make what the Ms calls “salad”, the trusty 12 ga. (not trusting to the forbearance of, well, bears), a selection of CDs and a Scrabble board, and my Nikon digital. Being the macho, rugged Alaskan he-man that I am, I elected not to take the DVD player, but rather to commune with Nature in other than a virtual way.
We made our way down past the State fair in Palmer, a veritable orgy of deep-fried halibut, salmon enchiladas, something called ‘kettle corn’, and rides violent enough to make you revisit the entire food experience. I wanted to stop to take a look at the 707 pound pumpkin (a new state record), since nothing appeals to a man more than oversized vegetables that he knows will never end up in his refrigerator. But I was overruled by my resident Weight-Watcher.
Onward we pressed, our goal the Matanuska Glacier overlook campground. We arrived in good order and found a nice spot, settling in for the day and night. The view of the glacier was spectacular as always, with the fall colors contrasting stunningly with the blue-white ice. The afternoon wore on, with the quiet of the beautiful fall day only interrupted by the sporadic gunfire of hunters sighting in their rifles on the State-provided targets along the road.
The next day we headed up closer to Sheep Mountain and descended into a gorgeous valley off the highway known mostly as ‘the ACS tower road’, more formally known as “Knob Lakes”. This is an area of low bushes, including blueberry, cranberry, crowberry, and lots of lichen. The surface is tundra-like and spongy, and the area is a favorite with the aforementioned hunters, who drive up and down the roads, clad in camouflage, glaring grimly out the windows, hands clutched over the steering wheel. I’m always puzzled by the camouflage, since if most of them wanted to blend in to their surroundings, they’d be wearing a blue tarp, or possibly a Ford logo.
We pulled into a wide spot off the road and settled in for the day. Since it’s late in the summer and it’s been very warm this year, we figured all the berries would have long since fallen from the bushes. But to my surprise, I immediately spotted blueberry bushes laden with fruit. I walked back into the bushes a bit to see how thick they might be, and leaned over to pick a few to taste.
As my head approached closer to the ground, I got a distinctive whiff of…oh crap! Looking down at my shoe, I spotted the brown goo, then to my horror the wads of toilet paper in the area. SUMBITCH! FREAKIN’ HUNTER MOTHER*&^%&!
It’s bad enough to step in dogshit, but there’s something truly and viscerally repulsive about having another human’s excrement on your person. Or your own, for that matter. Nature may call, but it’s common courtesy (not to mention proper camping etiquette) to dig a hole and bury your leavings.
Hiking up my pant leg, I heel-and-toed it back to the RV where I was able to sluice most of it off with the external showerhead, then deposited the offending garment in a ziplock bag for further disposition.
On the positive side, we went further afield and discovered a huge patch of berries that hopefully hadn’t been defiled, picking enough to make a respectable pie upon our return.
At least the beer was cold.