Northwest Passages II
Wind Whistle Camp
Leaving the locked gate at Four Corners Monument behind, we quickly passed from New Mexico into Arizona and then north to Utah, where we planned to make camp at the BLM's Wind Whistle campground. As we drove northward, I could see that the thunder storm was moving north with us, but most of the lightning was to our west and hopefully would be passing northeast of us as we set up camp around 10 PM.
I often make the stop at Wind Whistle, one of my favorite overnight campsites. It has running water and is tucked intimately among rounded, sensuous Mesozoic sandstones that are rich in warm hues of oranges, ochres and oxides that leave wildcat-like marks striping their flanks. These intense colors can all be seen when we rise with the sun in the morning. But for now, it is dark and drizzly when we turn off the highway and drive 6 miles back to the now, familiar campground. I've been to Wind Whistle when it was packed with RV's and I've been camping all alone under the desert moon here also. I prefer to have it to myself, but just as long as there is a space for my ground cloth and sleeping bag, I'll be pleased. Tonight, there is only one other site occupied, from appearances and a bit of long-distance eve's dropping, our neighbors for the night are from Japan and Germany. An unexpected combination of bedfellows in the Utah desert, but all are welcome.
I select a campsite up close to the cliffs on high ground. I aim the car's headlights into the camp to afford some light on the site we will be pitching the tent. There is a light rain falling, but after a summer of wilting heat in Dallas, I can live with change in atmospherics. Grant is assigned to inflate the two air mattresses while husband and wife set to erecting the tent under the precipitous skies.
This is embarrassing. I have set this tent up a dozen times before, and half of those times in the dark, yet tonight, this seemingly simple task of connecting the rods into two long poles and inserting them through the tent sleeves in an "X" pattern does not go smoothly. For Pete's sake, it is only two poles of equal size, but once assembled, Sue says this does not look right. I want to say, "Well, what other possible combination is there?" But, I have to agree, it does not look right and I do not know why. We disassemble the poles, ask Grant to shine the flashlight on particular parts of the nylon fabric and we again go through the steps to set up our shelter for a night out of the rain (I hope, I hope). By 11 PM, it finally looks right. The fiberglass poles are arched and positioned into their pin-sockets, the rain fly is attached and it is past time to move in the air mattresses, sleeping bags and get some rest.
Ready for some sound sleep with rain-cooled temperatures, far off lightning gently illuminating the interior of the tent, but no thunder can be heard. Only the slight rustle of the fabric in the breeze and the gentle plinking of small drops of rain interrupt the silence of a desert night. Except that other strange effect of the breeze on the rain fly that sounds just like someone walking next to our tent; the sound of boots slowly taking steps on crunching gravel. Tucked inside our bags, we all hear it. Grant finally gets the nerve to ask, "What is that sound? It sounds like somebody is walking outside our tent."
"Well", I answer in a hushed, matter-of-fact, yet with an ominous under tone, "There are the old tales of a crazy lady, dressed all in white, who lives in these desert canyons and wanders through the desert on nights when there are thunder storms. It is said that her victims car hear her sharpening her axe on the rocks, just before she walks into their camp and ..."
"Oh Shut Up", groans the woman lying next to me. End of story. At least that one.
I go on to tell the family another, and lighter story from my undergrad days camping with my geology department. Speaking of strange noises outside one's tent --
Once, we had a January field trip scheduled for the Transverse Range in Ventura County, California, and the rain had turned into snow (yes, in southern California). One of the Geology Department vehicles had gotten stuck in a muddy pothole on a Forest Service dirt [mud] road as we were heading to the camp late at night. We all got out to push from the side and rear of the vehicle get it out of the mud hole. All of us except a foreign student named Frank form Nigeria. Frank got out of the vehicle but immediately went over to lean against the tree to watch us work in the snow and mud.
"Hey, Frank, come on over and help get this moving."
Frank's response was to fold his arms and tell us all, "In my country, I am prince."
Of course, someone mockingly said, "Well then, Prince Frank, in my country when we need to get the supplies into camp, everyone that hopes to eat breakfast in the morning needs to help make sure we all get to camp with all of our gear."
Frank insisted, "I am prince and do not do dat work."
To which someone chimed in, "In America, we have a saying, 'Get your fat royal ass over here if you hope to avoid a royal pain in your royal ass.'" Which got everyone laughing (except Frank) just as the rear tires caught hold of a less slick spot and propelled the vehicle back onto the road.
As a very late, but hot and satisfying dinner was being finished by everyone in snow camp, including Frank, a flurry of snowballs pummeled Frank.
"Why da do you this thing to me?" shouted Frank, as he shook the powered snow from his jacket.
"Oh Prince Frank, it is an honor we reserve in this country for all royal people among us once we have feasted on warm food after we all have worked so hard get all of our vehicles safely into camp. You should consider the anointing by the white ball of coolness a great royal honor."
By morning, the sun was out, the storm had passed, and all of us geologist were getting ready for breakfast before going into the field for some mapping assignments. Yet, Frank remained enthroned within his royal tent. Raymond, with the full attention of the rest of camp focused upon him, picked up a hand of dry sand and walked over to Frank's still occupied tent. With the morning sun casting a silhouette of Raymond posing as if he were urinating on Frank's tent, he then slowly let the sand particles drop from his hand onto the nylon, making a sound as if Ray was peeing on the tent.
Prince Frank bolted upright inside and demanded, "Wat you do out there! Who do this!? You can not do dat to me! I will make a report of you to the Dean. You not do this thing!"
At this point several others joined in the shadow theater for everyone's entertainment at Frank's expense. They answer, "Frank, we are doing this to protect your tent from poisonous ice snakes that come out after a snow storm and crawl into tents seeking the warmth of an African summer. The only thing that will keep you safe from the deadly ice snake is for us to put a pee perimeter around your royal tent/"
Frank was not buying the story, though he was deathly afraid of even garter snakes when encountered. Frank again threatened to take up his treatment with the Dean.
Someone then informed him that he was lucky that they were not doing #2 on his tent to keep the dangerous poo-bears away from him.
Much laughter then in the Transverse Range, and good laughter again among the three of us after I finished my story at Wind Whistle.
Speaking for myself, I slept so very well that night. And I don't think the Insane Lady in White bothered anybody with her axe that night either.
Grant awakes, having survived a thunderstorm and avoided being chopped to pieces by the Insane Lady in White. It was a good night for everyone.
Wind Whistle Camp
Leaving the locked gate at Four Corners Monument behind, we quickly passed from New Mexico into Arizona and then north to Utah, where we planned to make camp at the BLM's Wind Whistle campground. As we drove northward, I could see that the thunder storm was moving north with us, but most of the lightning was to our west and hopefully would be passing northeast of us as we set up camp around 10 PM.
I often make the stop at Wind Whistle, one of my favorite overnight campsites. It has running water and is tucked intimately among rounded, sensuous Mesozoic sandstones that are rich in warm hues of oranges, ochres and oxides that leave wildcat-like marks striping their flanks. These intense colors can all be seen when we rise with the sun in the morning. But for now, it is dark and drizzly when we turn off the highway and drive 6 miles back to the now, familiar campground. I've been to Wind Whistle when it was packed with RV's and I've been camping all alone under the desert moon here also. I prefer to have it to myself, but just as long as there is a space for my ground cloth and sleeping bag, I'll be pleased. Tonight, there is only one other site occupied, from appearances and a bit of long-distance eve's dropping, our neighbors for the night are from Japan and Germany. An unexpected combination of bedfellows in the Utah desert, but all are welcome.
 |
| View from Wind Whistle Camp of Sensuous Mesozoic Sandstone cropping out from the Desert Floor |
This is embarrassing. I have set this tent up a dozen times before, and half of those times in the dark, yet tonight, this seemingly simple task of connecting the rods into two long poles and inserting them through the tent sleeves in an "X" pattern does not go smoothly. For Pete's sake, it is only two poles of equal size, but once assembled, Sue says this does not look right. I want to say, "Well, what other possible combination is there?" But, I have to agree, it does not look right and I do not know why. We disassemble the poles, ask Grant to shine the flashlight on particular parts of the nylon fabric and we again go through the steps to set up our shelter for a night out of the rain (I hope, I hope). By 11 PM, it finally looks right. The fiberglass poles are arched and positioned into their pin-sockets, the rain fly is attached and it is past time to move in the air mattresses, sleeping bags and get some rest.
Ready for some sound sleep with rain-cooled temperatures, far off lightning gently illuminating the interior of the tent, but no thunder can be heard. Only the slight rustle of the fabric in the breeze and the gentle plinking of small drops of rain interrupt the silence of a desert night. Except that other strange effect of the breeze on the rain fly that sounds just like someone walking next to our tent; the sound of boots slowly taking steps on crunching gravel. Tucked inside our bags, we all hear it. Grant finally gets the nerve to ask, "What is that sound? It sounds like somebody is walking outside our tent."
"Well", I answer in a hushed, matter-of-fact, yet with an ominous under tone, "There are the old tales of a crazy lady, dressed all in white, who lives in these desert canyons and wanders through the desert on nights when there are thunder storms. It is said that her victims car hear her sharpening her axe on the rocks, just before she walks into their camp and ..."
"Oh Shut Up", groans the woman lying next to me. End of story. At least that one.
I go on to tell the family another, and lighter story from my undergrad days camping with my geology department. Speaking of strange noises outside one's tent --
Once, we had a January field trip scheduled for the Transverse Range in Ventura County, California, and the rain had turned into snow (yes, in southern California). One of the Geology Department vehicles had gotten stuck in a muddy pothole on a Forest Service dirt [mud] road as we were heading to the camp late at night. We all got out to push from the side and rear of the vehicle get it out of the mud hole. All of us except a foreign student named Frank form Nigeria. Frank got out of the vehicle but immediately went over to lean against the tree to watch us work in the snow and mud.
"Hey, Frank, come on over and help get this moving."
Frank's response was to fold his arms and tell us all, "In my country, I am prince."
Of course, someone mockingly said, "Well then, Prince Frank, in my country when we need to get the supplies into camp, everyone that hopes to eat breakfast in the morning needs to help make sure we all get to camp with all of our gear."
Frank insisted, "I am prince and do not do dat work."
To which someone chimed in, "In America, we have a saying, 'Get your fat royal ass over here if you hope to avoid a royal pain in your royal ass.'" Which got everyone laughing (except Frank) just as the rear tires caught hold of a less slick spot and propelled the vehicle back onto the road.
As a very late, but hot and satisfying dinner was being finished by everyone in snow camp, including Frank, a flurry of snowballs pummeled Frank.
"Why da do you this thing to me?" shouted Frank, as he shook the powered snow from his jacket.
"Oh Prince Frank, it is an honor we reserve in this country for all royal people among us once we have feasted on warm food after we all have worked so hard get all of our vehicles safely into camp. You should consider the anointing by the white ball of coolness a great royal honor."
By morning, the sun was out, the storm had passed, and all of us geologist were getting ready for breakfast before going into the field for some mapping assignments. Yet, Frank remained enthroned within his royal tent. Raymond, with the full attention of the rest of camp focused upon him, picked up a hand of dry sand and walked over to Frank's still occupied tent. With the morning sun casting a silhouette of Raymond posing as if he were urinating on Frank's tent, he then slowly let the sand particles drop from his hand onto the nylon, making a sound as if Ray was peeing on the tent.
Prince Frank bolted upright inside and demanded, "Wat you do out there! Who do this!? You can not do dat to me! I will make a report of you to the Dean. You not do this thing!"
At this point several others joined in the shadow theater for everyone's entertainment at Frank's expense. They answer, "Frank, we are doing this to protect your tent from poisonous ice snakes that come out after a snow storm and crawl into tents seeking the warmth of an African summer. The only thing that will keep you safe from the deadly ice snake is for us to put a pee perimeter around your royal tent/"
Frank was not buying the story, though he was deathly afraid of even garter snakes when encountered. Frank again threatened to take up his treatment with the Dean.
Someone then informed him that he was lucky that they were not doing #2 on his tent to keep the dangerous poo-bears away from him.
Much laughter then in the Transverse Range, and good laughter again among the three of us after I finished my story at Wind Whistle.
Speaking for myself, I slept so very well that night. And I don't think the Insane Lady in White bothered anybody with her axe that night either.
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