STORIES

Unhappy Camper

The scream for help jolted me out of bed. Disoriented, it took a few heartbeats for me to realize I was in my motorhome. My wife and I were volunteer hosts at a well-known national park campground. Screams for help usually meant it was just another bear wandering through camp. Scaring off interloping bears, randy deer, and destructive wild pigs came with the territory.

But the second scream was much louder, and carried a hint of adrenaline-fueled fear that foretold more than just a pesky black bear rummaging for a late-night snack.

I looked at my wife, who was sitting up in bed, wide-eyed. “I don’t think that’s a bear,” she said.

I agreed. “Call for a Park Ranger just to be safe,” I said as I rolled out of bed and donned my clothes.

“You’re not going out there, are you?

I pulled on my dark-green hoody with the national park logo emblazoned on the front. “It’s probably only a bear,” I answered. I didn’t really believe that. I thought maybe it was a medical emergency, but my gut said otherwise.

“You’re right. Maybe it’s a heart attack,” said my ever-prescient wife.

I pulled on my official National Park Service ball cap, grabbed a portable radio, and stuck a steel three-cell flashlight in my rear waistband. “Call the rangers.” I left my RV and headed toward the source of the screams.

Instead of a cooler-thieving bear, the meager light from a dying campfire revealed a ring of one dozen strapping young men. Based on their accents and the cans of Foster’s lager in their fists, I guessed Australians.

The human ring surrounded a stout, clean-shaven, middle-aged man wearing a dark sweatshirt and camouflaged pants. Both hands controlled a German Shepard on a leash. My money was on the Aussies.

Fearing a scene out of a Western bar-room brawl, I broke through the seething ring of campers and walked up to the man and his dog. “Sir, I’m the camp host. Why don’t you come along with me?”

Not very creative, but the wild look in his eyes gained some focus. The dog decided to wrap its leash around my left leg. Better than sinking its fangs into my thigh.

From behind, I heard a man’s voice. “That asshole just threatened to kill me. His dog started fighting with my dog right in my tent!” A number of supportive rumbles emanated from the crowd.

“Mister, let’s head back to your site,” I said.

To my relief, he complied and let me lead him out of the circle. The Aussies, sensing the chance of a good fight slipping away, allowed us to exit unhindered.

It was ink-dark once we got away from the campfires and started up the narrow, tree-lined road. “Are you going to be okay?” I asked. “What’s your name?”

“I’m doing just fine,” my new friend answered in a voice void of emotion. He didn’t offer his name.

He wasn’t staggering and seemed more in control. Even the German Shepard sensed I was an okay guy and ignored us for the most part. “We’ll get you back to your campsite and maybe you can get some sleep.”

The man stopped and looked at me. “This is a campground? I thought it was a Special Forces base.”

“No, it’s a National Park campground.”

He stopped and looked at me. “There are things in my tent and car that you will never find no matter how hard you look.”

“Well, I’m not going to look in your tent or car,” was all I could think to say.

“If you had a gun, I’d take it from you and kill you.”

The metallic taste of fear flooded my mouth. “It’s a good thing I don’t have a gun, isn’t it.”

It occurred to me I could use my heavy flashlight to smack this guy, but I recalled Sean Connery’s line from the Untouchables movie regarding bringing a knife to a gunfight. And where the hell were those rangers?

We finally reached his campsite. “Why don’t you just hang out here? Maybe get in your tent and catch some sleep.”

He simply shrugged and led his canine to the picnic table. Deciding it was well above my pay grade to wait while he pulled an assault rifle out of his tent, I memorized the license plate of his Chevy pick-up and walked back toward my RV.

I got behind a massive oak tree several yards from the guy’s campsite just in time to see him wander over and start screaming at some nearby campers. I took the opportunity to update the Park Service dispatcher on the radio.

While I re-evaluated my role as a volunteer campground host, three park ranger trucks arrived. And three wary rangers surrounded the man. He took them on and lost. The dog stayed out of it.

The rush of chemicals released by the lizard part of my brain slowly drained. My limbs became lead-heavy. Was it really worth taking a risk that could well result in getting hurt or killed?

Maybe I shouldn’t have jumped in so quickly to assist the campers. Even the Aussies had taken a chance by stepping in to help their fellow camper. And then, I thought about the man currently being handcuffed.

I would likely never know his story. Perhaps a vet returning from the wreckage of one ofour ongoing wars, suffering from extreme PTSD? If so, he’d certainly paid a high price for serving others.

Oddly inspired, I walked back to my home on wheels. A vague feeling of hope drifted into my mind. The world is a mess. Always has been. All I can do is take a stand.