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Camping In the MadLands [1]

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Date: 2024-06-16  

NOTE: This a work of fiction meant to entertain. Often I write satire or try to add a touch of irony. Often these attempts are misunderstood. Reality is all too unbelievable these days, too many delusional stories are taken as fact. Between four and five thousand words — but it is Sunday and the news talkers will be plavering on.

Camping in the MadLands

I hated camping at RV parks; tent campers were objects of disdain. We tenters were viewed as pathetic souls or riff raff. I preferred federal campgrounds. This RV Park was in the ancestral lands of the Nez Perce, who may be the most ancient of indigenous peoples. The Magnificent Seven RV Oasis website stated it was located on seven acres. The seven being true if not the magnificence. I parked my small hybrid near the office. A man in his forties or fifties walked over to the desk. He wore a red MAGA cap.

“I would like a tent site; I’ll be hiking and exploring during the day.”

“I’m using the tent pads to store the dirt bikes I rent.”

I asked, “Is there a grassy area mostly level?”

Cowboy Calvin Coolidge — Mt Rushmore proposal

MAGA said impassively, “There’s a grassy area over by old Hop-along’s trailer. Hop-along came with the place.”

“That would work. I have several indigenous sites I want to see.”

“Everything’s sacred with them Injuns. They don’t want a man to make a dollar or have any fun.”

“I enjoy walking where the ancient peoples walked.”

MAGA continued, “They stop everything, then complain there ain’t no jobs. What they want is to roll back time and eliminate all of us that brought civilization.”

MAGA pulled out a map and drew an X, “Sometimes Hop-along puts his speakers outside, then I go quiet him down. I call him a hippie; he doesn’t like that. You’ll see his rundown trailer. Hop-along isn’t as crazy as he looks.”

I noticed the cash only sign; Apple Pay wasn’t an option. I still had some cash. He took my money saying, “A dirt bike is the perfect way to see the country.”

I thanked him.

The old trailer was near the back, well away from the six figure rigs. There was a flat grassy area beyond the trailer. A nice place for a tent better - than those packed sand pads, which were sometimes hard and rocky. I parked off the road and began to unpack my stuff. An old man on crutches came out of the trailer. He had one leg. The origin of his nickname, I assumed.

Hop-along waved, “Hey, how’ya doing?”

“I’m setting my tent up over here; I’ll try not to disturb you.”

“Good spot for a tent. I’ll help you.”

“Thank you” I didn’t need help, unsure what help a man on crutches could be.

Pointing with his crutch, “That old tree attracts lightening, wouldn’t set up too close. Cute little tent.”

“It’s a two-man tent.”

“What’s you do’n here on desolation row?”

“I’m going to hike, study ruins.”

“Just so you know my snoring shakes my trailer, hope you get used to it.”

“I won’t notice. Sleep is one thing I’m good at.”

Hop-along turned into tour guide, “It’s late, best go over to the museum first thing in the morning. One of the hosts is there early- nice guy to talk to even before it opens.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

Two man tent — one man plus gear

The old man said, “I got stew and biscuits, gonna heat them up for supper. We can share it and gab since we’re neighbors. I got no use for them rich bastards. You look like a decent joe.”

I nodded, “A real stew sounds better than peanut butter. Love it, but gets monotonous.”

“I used to work at a restaurant, I picked up a few skills.”

Soon Hop-along was back in his trailer. I finished my camp set up. My cooler made a decent table. I had a couple of solar lamps and a hiker’s folding chair. The old man came back with a can of beer. When he saw my chair he said, “I’ll bring over a couple chairs.”

He came back with two folding chairs before I could do anything other than hold my beer. I unfolded the aluminum tube chairs. I decided only one nylon strip was broken, and it would hold me. Hop-along was back with his beer and sat in the other chair. I noticed how accustomed he was to positioning his crutches. We each sipped our beer. Honestly, I do not like beer especially the weak non-craft type. He said, “Glad you’re not one of those entitled twits.” Being quiet and polite had made me a good neighbor.

I said, “My name is Travis, nice to meet you.”

“My real name is Ronald, but I’ve been Hop-along for many years nothing else sounds like me. Before you ask let me tell ya. I stepped on a mine in Nam that’s how I lost my leg. You ever in the army or another service?”

“No, I haven’t been in the military.”

“Yep, just keep running through the same poor folk now there’s no draft. I wouldn’t ‘ave joined but they grabbed me. I was barely out of high school. I had the dumb luck of a low number in the lottery. Only lottery I ever won, won by losing.” In a quieter voice, “losing more than you can imagine.”

“I’m sure I can’t imagine but thank you for your service.”

He sat up defiantly, “Don’t pull that fake jingo shit on me. I didn’t choose, I was took. I went around complaining and screaming about the guvment for years. It didn’t change anything. Made me worse. I was lucky they got me the restaurant job. All I had to do was answer the phone and make reservations for people. I worked from near noon to about six. The head waiter Bill took an interest in me, taught me how to eat and keep fit. Some of my innards are missing, not everything works like God intended. I wouldn’t be alive today if not for Bill.”

“I’m glad someone was able to make your life better.”

“Learned to listen to what body I had left. You come to the trailer door, and I’ll hand you the stew and biscuits. Then we’ll sit and chew the fat with some fat to chew.”

I sat listening to Hop-along’s journey, rehab to restaurant to a trailer out here in the Great Northwest.

“Thank you for sharing real food. Hot food is a rare treat on a trip for me. The stew and biscuits are fantastic”

“I learned a few tips hanging back near the kitchen answering the phones. Help me get the pans back inside, then you can get back to the tenting on the old campground thing.”

“Thank you again, I appreciate it.”

Idaho

“If you’re gonna be here tomorrow night, I could fix some beans and cornbread. We could chat some more. You might learn a thing or two on the hike unless you know it all now.”

“I’m a student of history with much to learn. Another real meal, thank you for offering. The peanut butter will stay in the jar.”

It was a pleasant evening; I read awhile. I never heard Hop-along snore; in the morning I left early.

In the late afternoon I drove back into the Magnificent Seven RV Oasis. I stopped at the office to buy firewood. A fire was needed to discuss ancient humans.

MAGA asked, “How you and the old commie coot getting along?”

I said, “Very welcoming, he fought commies in Vietnam, doubt he likes them any more than hippies.”

“Hop-along used to show some sense, but he’s getting soft in the head - maybe dementia. Our country is descending into a jungle. Gangs of weirdos will be roaming if we don’t stop them. He got into a fight defending queers a couple of years ago.”

“He’s a feisty fellow.”

“Used to bring fight to the movement. He told me he wouldn’t speak at our rallies anymore. He was a leader; folks came to hear him. Government screwed him over bad. Don’t know what’s got into him.”

“He can cook, made a good stew.”

“Just not the man he used to be. Now the coastal elites are sissifying the whole country. Trying to make us defenseless. Stealing our guns. The Chinese will be able to walk in. We’ll all be in camps like the Uyghurs if we don’t start fighting back.”

“I think we’ll be talking about the ancients tonight, not the Chinese.”

MAGA hat continued, “The old coot went back east to see his dying brother. Been addled ever since he come back. Some of Hop-along’s young relatives came out and helped some loud-mouthed weirdos pass petitions. We warned him no more of that propaganda. We don’t support pedophiles and groomers.” He gave me an intense stare, “You’re not a pedo-supporter, are you?”

“No, I vote the straight and narrow.”

“America needs to eliminate the vermin.”

I left with my wood bundle. People who worship lies aren’t much interested in rational debate. I think we are as superstitious as any human who lived ten thousand years ago. The early peoples were complex. I came back to find Hop-along had put up a better table. The speaker outside his door was not overly loud. He told me the kids had connected a device to his old stereo. It saved flipping LPs.

Surrounded by music of the 60s and 70s, I got the fire ready. We ate beans and cornbread. Hop-along knew how to cook the basic foods. After I helped him store the leftovers, we enjoyed the fire. We talked about humanity, our evolution or de-evolution.

I told him, “We are stretching to the stars at the same time we are clawing our eyes out.”

Hop-along set his bowl aside, “Yep, all grabbers, no one cares. My gramps said men ruin everything.”

I thought awhile then replied, “The human race is in a race with itself. We must attain a critical mass of consciousness that renews life, or we will cause our own extinction.”

Hop-along spit out some gristle, “No respect for anything or anyone.”

I mentioned my exchange with the owner. I asked, “What were you warned about?”

Hop-along asked, “You ever heard of the American Redoubt Movement?”

I said, “No.”

Hop-along then explained about the number of anti-government people who hoped to create some type of sanctuary east of the coast in the northwest. He said there were many variations of the states it would include, how it would be ruled, and how it would be created. All the plans had one goal: to create a Conservative Christian Nationalist refuge.”

“They need a refuge?”

“They think they do, bunch of whiny bitches.”

Indigenous Carving

I stifled a laugh, “I call them the grievance caucus.”

Hop-along spoke earnestly, “I was bitter. I didn’t just lose a leg I lost my nuts. Them commies made me a steer. I wanted to blame everyone, but I liked my job. I got all fired up by Ruby Ridge; I gave stemwinders against the guv-ment. I was a leader in the movement.”

“What changed?”

“My older brother Keith got cancer. His family asked me to come back to Ohio. Keith had a wonderful family. His grandkids drove and took me places. We had great talks.” After a pause, “Guvment’s just people, the ones we elect and the ones we hire. Guvment supports me. Back with family for four months I realized this whole militia movement was a dead end. I’d heard talks filled with anger calling on an avenging God. Keith’s family lived by a different God, one of love.”

“Sounds like a loving family.”

“I’d been away so long I’d lost touch, but they cared for me. My grand nieces and nephews came to visit, never been out west. In town they helped the rabble rousers. Our officials don’t like to be challenged.”

Hop-along stirred the fire, “I spoke up about the laws making it illegal to be gay. A small delegation come to talk. Now, I stay quiet.”

“Why do you have to be quiet, and why did you speak up for gay rights?”

“Bill the waiter was gay. Wouldn’t be alive today without his care for me. They talk freedom, but scream lies that hurt folk. It riled me. The movement is worried I am becoming a turncoat and will rat them out. They have advanced plans and are powerful. I go to the store and come back. I’ve said nothing to no one.”

“I am going back to hike sites; I won’t talk to any subversive elements. I’ll help get stuff put away.”

As we finished stowing away stuff and putting the fire out Hop-along said, “Talking can get you killed out here, especially now. I like talking to someone, and you seem not be a jabbering jay. I’ll make a hash tomorrow. There’s frozen smoked meat I should use.”

“Sounds interesting, I only talk about the ancient peoples. I’ll avoid the crazies.”

“Good night, my snoring must’ve been tolerable; you didn’t move your tent.”

In the morning, I drove to a small visitor’s center. An indigenous man was the only one who worked there as an interpreter. He was pleased to talk to a colonizer who was respectful and a serious student of the land. As we were studying detailed maps of the area, he said, “the souls and spirits are still here for those open to them.”

A man wearing a black cap with the roman numeral three surrounded by stars walked over. He said, “The little toy you’re driving can’t get to most of those places. Need a four-wheeler if Chief here would loosen up a little.”

“Walking will carry one everywhere without disturbing the spirits and destroying the land.”

In parking lot I saw what must have been his pickup, a big 4x4 with a four-wheeler in the back. It had a large exhaust pipe likely to roll coal, the obnoxious taunt to environmentalists. He also had a flag with Trump astride a tank. A fantasy battle image better suited for a dystopian novel. “I prefer hiking; it allows my slow thinking brain to appreciate my surroundings.”

“If you drove that little toy all the way from Iowa, you had plenty of time to think. OK Chief, everything is clean for today, better be moving on. Where you stay’n farm boy?”

III %

“My tent is at Magnificent Seven. They don’t have many tent sites. I’m over by the trailer of an old recluse.”

“Hop-along, what a crazy old coot. He’s lost all sense, better not listen to his lies.”

“We’ve mostly talked about my hikes.”

The interpreter signed his form. He turned to me as he left, “Just so’s you know, the old man is being watched. Might be best for you to get back home.”

I smiled at the interpreter, “Chief?”

“All he knows of the Nez Perce is Chief Joseph. Don’t argue with fools.”

I came back to the interpretative center after hiking two different loop trails. I thanked the interpreter who did go by the name Joe.

He said, “I will show you this map. This site is not identified or marked. You are genuine and respectful. It is not far from your campground. The path, not a real road, starts by this rock formation. The highway bends but with a toy car like the one you drive you can drive through this opening. Follow over to the cluster of trees. He pointed to another photo. There are interesting ruins down by the stream. If you are adventurous and patient, climb up this outcropping. It is a very sacred and spiritual place. You have ears. Most of you, invaders, do not. Your soul is open to spirits.”

I saw the rock formation as I drove back to the campground and stopped to investigate. My car could drive through the opening; it was narrow. The path was rough, slow speeds required.

I parked in our isolated portion of magnificence. I began getting a fire started in the pit. Hop-along came out, “Hope you had a fine day. My hash is a special treat.”

Surrounded by classic rock we were about to eat. Three trucks drove up, rather aggressively. Five men came over to us. The flags, slogans, and imagery identified them as right-thinking patriots, not liberal sissies. A short stocky man spoke louder than the music, “Hey you two socialists what’s you plotting?”

I smiled, “Hop-along fixes beans, sitting round the fire, reminds me of Blazing Saddles.” We all had a laugh.

Hop-along a little nervous, “Ain’t plotting. Shooting the breeze about old Indians and Nam.”

The stocky man rubbed the holstered gun on his hip, “Wouldn’t want no more of those woke easterners causing disruption. We’re close to victory, now.”

“I’m from Iowa. Heart of America almost heaven, as you may have heard.”

A tall gangly man glared intensely at me spitting words, “You’re a tree hugger that’s sure. You woke folk are gonna find hell, not heaven. We’re watching you.”

Stocky man quickly spoke up, “Now Gabe, not everyone is man enough to drive an American truck. We’re not here to hurt you. We are warning you, just like the old hippie here.”

Hop-along was obviously pissed but stayed silent.

Gabe snarled, “No hurting, yet.”

The stocky man spoke calmly, “You go back to Iowa. You’re one of those college farmers, all indoctrinated.” Speaking directly to Hop-along, “No one has any use for a hero gone bad. Your talks better be about old things, nothing about the new era.”

Hop-along straightened up trying to look as tall as possible, “I want to live in peace here, watch the sunsets. I’m done with it all.”

The stocky man nodded, “You keep out of things.” He turned to me, “We don’t trust you, likely from the deep state not a farm. You better peddle that toy back to Iowa or maybe DC.”

I thought my Iowa plate was plain to see, but I followed the advice of not arguing with the delusional.

They all walked back to their trucks. Gabe turned as he opened the door, “You tree-huggers will be hanging from them when we clean up the filth.”

I was stunned and simply stared as they drove away.

Hop-along was angry but silent. He finally said, “We’ll hash it out over hash.”

While eating I said, “Tasty hash but you’ve got some crazy folks out here.”

“Ain’t so bad they’re crazy; they’re dangerous. Gabe wasn’t joking they plan on killing a bunch of people. You can stop them if you want to risk it.”

Bear — wood carved

“Not much I can do.”

“I’ll lay it out for you, then you decide.”

Hop-along went to his trailer and brought back a curious wooden figure. This one was a head. He said, “I like to work with wood.”

“Nice work. Why trust me? Your friends do not.”

“You see things as they are, not conspiracies. I am hoping you will help and not get me killed.”

“How?”

“Flip that wooden head over. Can you see the indentation, the circle at the bottom?”

“Yes”

“Can you feel the pegs?”

“Yes”

“If turned carefully they will come out and reveal a hollow area.”

“What’s in them?”

“A Staples was closing out a few years ago. They had a box of adding machine tapes. No one wants them anymore. I bought several rolls for near nothing. I have written names, dates, and places on the tapes. I have rolled them into scrolls. The scrolls have the detailed information the FBI will need. The turtle has a memory stick. Don’t know anything about it, nieces and nephews done it all. It holds scanned maps and photos. They told me to keep it hid unless I decided to go to the FBI. I think they thought I was delusional.”

“Why did you do all this?”

“There’s a plot to seize power by militias and local police. They even have allies in the national guard and on some bases. It is getting close to D-Day as they call it. I was in deep; they’re worried about me.”

“Seize power! You mean a coup?”

“It will be an uprising. They believe they will have power and control. All based on this year’s fraudulent election. They learned from January 6th. They plan demonstrations at election offices and early polling locations. The statements are prepared to declare it a fraud. Some state officials in Idaho are involved and many local officials elsewhere. One base commander is an ally. If they establish control over a territory, they believe patriots will flock to help defend it.”

“Are you serious?”

“Serious as a rattlesnake in your tent. I know how many allies they have.”

“It is difficult to believe.”

“If you heard the speeches and talked to the people, you’d know. They believe the derndest things. Many feel a threat looms in this country; they’re eager for a civil war. Foolish fantasies will kill a thousand likely tens of thousands. You must go to the FBI in Seattle. Seattle will be familiar with militia threats.”

“I planned on going home to help with the crops.”

“The planned demonstrations will start soon. November 5th is D-Day. The race to get my information to the FBI is on, and I can’t run. The vultures have been circling like I was roadkill. I would be if I done anything.”

“Why will the FBI listen to me?”

“I will tell you tales. We will put the wooden figures in your gear. You will be able to tell the FBI enough to interest them in looking at my carvings. Tell them to be careful with the pegs. Ask them when they make arrests to please arrest me. It will disguise my role; I like it here. Want to stay peaceful, not be shot.”

“How did you get into this?”

“I was filled with bile. I was blind. I believed if we organized and had the will, we could win. We could establish a region preserved for Freedom Fighters and Real Americans.”

“You don’t believe it now?”

“Getting out of the bubble here, I see a different world. It will be a bloodbath. First the patriots will start it. When the superior federal guvment ends it, more blood.”

“Tell me tales. I believe tales are required for a quest.” I was already thinking how many days delay. Hoping the crops weren’t ready yet. Tonight’s tales were more sinister. When he finished, I better understood the violent desperate people. He helped me pack. We concealed wooden figures inside my pack. We put his speaker back and ended the 60’s/70’s fest.

I packed up except for the tent and sleeping bag. Time to leave, too many crazy people, Hop-along could be totally bonkers. Now I was driving to Seattle; proof I was insane.

In the morning, I quickly packed the tent and bag. I stopped by the office where potable water was available. As I filled my water bottles, two dirt bikes came sliding to a halt beside me. The riders looked to be thirteen they had the air of arrogance only entitled youth possess. The one closer to me said, “There’s buzzard bait.” The other boy who had now removed his helmet laughed almost a giggle. “When you leave here, they’ll search you, then you’re buzzard bait.”

King Buzzard — Tim O’Fallon

I posed feigning indifference, “Maybe you’re a buzzard’s lunch after you crash. Who called me buzzard bait?”

“We followed the pickups last night. After their talk with you and the old burnout, we buzzed back here. We heard them. We want to follow and see you all laid out for the buzzards.”

Many thoughts were churning in my mind. I tried to stay with cowboy cool. “Reckon them buzzards would starve on a scrawny feller like me.”

They ripped off spraying sand and rocks on me and my car. I needed to try to slip away. The days were fast counting down. If Hop-along was correct and not delusional, in three weeks the first steps would occur. The movement thought most of Idaho, eastern Washington and eastern Oregon, plus Wyoming likely would join their separatist state. They had a county-by-county strategy. Property seizures, exiles, trials, and even executions of those not real Americans. Hop-along admitted the not ‘Real Americans’ were those not white or overtly Christian. He said many of the wealthiest and newest residents were supporting the movement. Desirous of seizing the national lands, they encouraged the hatred, a knife in their sheath.

I left without alerting anyone. I got on the road back to a highway. A county police car came up behind me with lights and sirens another was parked a quarter mile up the road. I pulled over I doubted a Prius was meant for a ‘Fast and Furious’ style chase. The other car began driving to where I stopped. I gave the officer my license, “Checks out, you are from Iowa. I was ordered to pull you over and arrest you if you were violating any laws. You smuggling anything from Hop-along?”

“He gave me a wood craving, not smuggling. Hop-along looks like a hippie, but he doesn’t smoke pot or anything.”

He took out a walkie talkie, “He says he has a wood craving but nothing else.”

The other officer was now leaning against the hood of his car. His drawn gun was pointed at me. The man gave me back my license, “What type of craving?”

“Hop-along said it was a native spirit symbol.”

“Most native spirits are found in bottles. OK, get back to Iowa. You’re breaking no laws.”

His walkie talkie crackled, “Hold him, we’re coming.”

“That’s the posse boys, they don’t follow rules. We’ll just wait and chat awhile.”

I tried to smile and be the ever-polite Iowan. Whining dirt bikes ridden by a bevy of teens came and threw firecrackers.

I almost fainted. The gun man holstered his weapon. The man beside me shouted, “Better go round them up.”

He turned to me, “Ok farm boy, posse will be here soon. I would be agreeable, and they won’t rough you up. We’ll be chasing brats all day: not street legal, no licenses, illegal fireworks, likely underage drinking. City brats think we don’t have laws out here.”

If I could make the rock formation, I was sure those big pick-up trucks would not fit through. Maybe I could get away from the posse. I made it to the rocks. The slope was steep. I started down the path. If I made it to the trees, I could park unseen. The tree area across the plain was farther than it appeared, deceptive views in the West. I saw a drone. I was almost there when I saw a puff of debris. A gunshot? I sped on, headed for the trees. I drove under some cover and grabbed my pack. I ran to a draw trying to get to where I could see what was following me. A flash in the sky, as I turned my car exploded. What the fuck, a rocket? I only had three months of payments left. My car was smoking rubble. I knew I had to slip away stay out of sight. Drones, rockets, it must be military. I turned off my phone. The cliff face and outcroppings seemed the best hiding place. I began carefully climbing, getting out of sight was imperative. My race now was not being home before harvest or in Seattle before a civil war. It was living the next hour, day, or week. My pack had a surplus of craved wooden figures that attracted missiles. I had to watch each step, unable to look for drones. I found the large outcropping and the room off it. A dark room with some light. I sat on a rock; fear had left me, sweaty, weak, exhausted, but calm. I sipped water. Hop-along wasn’t delusional; I had entered a land of madness. I took out one of his carvings both human and bear with other symbols. I stilled my mind and focused on it.

I opened my eyes to see an indigenous man. He spoke, “Hunting along the river, safe here. We will move tonight. Relax, sip water stay calm no words until morning.”

I leaned against the cool wall and dozed.

We began hiking at dusk, he said, “Silence until morning.” We hiked in silence. We got to the river and uncovered a canoe. This canoe was a dugout; it looked a thousand years old. I realized it would take a miracle to navigate such a river at night. An inner voice calmed me, accept fate. In predawn we came to a landing. He said, “Walk with me. These good people come to fish and preserve winter’s food every year. They will help you. Walk do not talk.”

Dugout Canoe Bob Yates

We approached an encampment an indigenous man was building a fire. He stood up, “Ya’ka many years, welcome.”

The man named Ya’ka spoke, “Take this man to Pasco, there he can take the Amtrak to Seattle.”

“A great blessing to aid Ya’ka. I’m Sam, follow me.”

I turned to thank Ya’ka and ask ten million questions, but he was gone. I thought I saw the back of bear disappearing behind a bush.

We walked to a pickup. Sam said, “I will take you to the station. You will be in Seattle tomorrow morning. I was a young boy when I last saw Ya’ka. You have walked a spirit path hold it precious. The need to be in Seattle must be great.”

Hop-along was took or grabbed by his government again. He now lives in a new trailer at an undisclosed park. Dad was hopping mad when I called and said the FBI had me in protective custody. I now work preserving Nez Perce culture. I am called Iowa.

[END]
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