Wherever there is a human being, there is an opportunity for a kindness.
~Lucius Annaeus Seneca
The first time I got on my scooter, I didn’t have the faintest idea how to drive it. I revved the gas, shot up my inclined driveway and instantly toppled into a hedge. My neighbors helped me out of the shrubbery. It was that same sort of youthful, spontaneous whimsy (reckless lack of preparation) that landed me as the fifth man (well, woman) in a tiny, three-man tent during a rain shower (relentless deluge) in the wilderness of Washington State.
A few days after my practice ride on my gutless mini-motorcycle, I began to drive my scooter to my part-time teaching job because buying a car was not in my budget. Summer vacation was weeks away, and I’d been dreaming of travel, but the costs were daunting. Then I had an epiphany. Why not just take my scooter on a camping trip? Sure, it topped out at 35 miles per hour, but still I resolved to explore the Pacific Northwest on my puttering steed.
I borrowed a small tent and a tarp, bought a sleeping bag at the thrift store, and took fifty bucks out of the cash machine for gas and campsite fees. I rigged a clever milk-crate contraption to the back of the scooter and shoved in my supplies: the camping gear, a rain poncho, my rattan purse (hey, it was all the rage) and a plastic bag filled with a traveler’s perfect food — peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches.
My destination? Hurricane Ridge at Olympic National Park. As the light came up over Puget Sound, I lined up for the ferry behind a row of cars, but the port employee waved me out of the area. He guided me toward a spot by the foot passengers and bicyclists. Thus demoted, I began my travels as second-class citizen of the road.
On the peninsula, cars honked and trucks whizzed by my ear as I drove on the road’s shoulder at half the posted speed limit. At this rate, I thought, I’d be lucky to make it to the campground by midday. At least it was a pleasant day. I’d been enjoying the drive . . . until distant thunder interrupted my thoughts. The air cooled off rapidly as the dark clouds rolled my way. I pulled over and fastened a tarp over my belongings, grateful that I’d thought to pack rain gear. In minutes, the downpour was upon me. I slowed to a nervous crawl along the edge of the slippery asphalt.
Beside me on the road, enormous trucks flew past, hauling pine trunks on their flatbeds. Cars honked as they passed me, but I could not speed up. One car drove behind me, honking repeatedly. Finally, the driver pulled over and rolled down her window. My helmet and the sound of the pounding rain muffled her shouted question. “Did you lose some stuff on the road?”
With a sick feeling, I turned behind me. All of my belongings were gone. Only the plastic crate dangled from the bungee cord. “How far back?” I asked.
“Maybe five miles ago? Or ten? I kept honking, but you didn’t hear me.”
Deflated, I turned back and rode through the rain. After almost half an hour of retracing my steps, it occurred to me that my stuff had either been picked up or had blown over the hillside. Whatever the case, I had nothing. No purse, no tent and no sleeping bag — nothing but the clothes on my back. My thin, drugstore poncho had sprung a leak. I barely had a quarter tank of gas left.
What could I do but limp onward? Just when my gas gauge read empty, a small filling station appeared on the horizon. I told the attendant, “I’ve lost my wallet, but if you give me your address . . .” He shook his head in wonder at my drenched appearance and wordlessly filled the tank. “Where can I send . . .?”
“Don’t worry about it,” he said, already walking back to the station. “Be careful driving. You’re not too far from the park entrance.”
By the time I rolled into the national park, the rain had died out, but darkness was creeping in. “Do you have a reservation?” the ranger asked.
Reservations! Why hadn’t I thought to reserve a campsite? I shook my head pathetically, fighting back tears of exhaustion and frustration. The park ranger looked at my soggy state and told me gravely that all the campsites were full. “But feel free to take a look around,” he offered kindly.
I drove the campsite loop hoping to happen upon an open campsite, but every site was taken. The grounds were quiet. The damp weather had made cooking on a campfire impossible, and folks had probably headed to the nearby town for supper. I washed up in the cold water of the bathroom sink and considered that I might spend the night sleeping on the linoleum floor. Then, I sat in a stall feeling sorry for myself and allowed myself a brief cry, wondering how my brave adventure had gone so wrong. I kicked myself for my lack of preparations.
I heard the bathroom door open. “Are you okay in there?” I didn’t answer at first, embarrassed. When I heard her brushing her teeth, I came out. When she saw my puffy face and waterlogged clothes, her blond eyebrows arched in surprise.
Quickly, she collected herself. “Hey,” she said as if we were old friends getting together for tea. “What’s wrong?”
I told her everything. It poured out of me like the afternoon rain shower.
Her name was Joanne, and she took me back to her campsite where her husband Arlo was busy dressing their toddler in pajamas while simultaneously cradling a baby in a sling. They spoke together in low tones, and then he waved me over. “Look, we have space. Why don’t you come in with us?” I peeked at their crowded, three-man tent and politely declined, even though I desperately wanted to climb inside.
“We insist,” Joanne said. She loaned me a dry sweatshirt, and I wolfed down the leftover hotdogs and crackers they offered me. I was so sleepy that I curled up against the tent wall and fell asleep quickly.
I woke shivering in the middle of the night. The rain had started up again in earnest, and the nylon walls of the tent were wet. Joanne insisted that I squeeze onto the inflated mattress next to her. She unzipped her sleeping bag, and we shared it as a blanket. It was tight quarters, but we were cozy, especially for near strangers!
Come morning, we all unkinked our bodies. As I stretched, my hand landed on the back of my jeans. Something flat and solid was in my back pocket. My credit card! When I took money out of the cash machine, I must have put it back there.
“Can I take you all out for breakfast?” I suggested.
“That’s okay,” Arlo said. The wood was already crackling in the fire pit, and he was making eggs and coffee. “I prefer to eat outdoors beneath the open sky.”
I couldn’t have agreed more. I looked up at the wide blue sky, dotted with puffball clouds. It was turning out to be a fine day.
~Ilana Long
