Below the Dam

“Excuse me”, I say from the edge of my neighbor’s campsite, “excuse me, but do you have a flashlight I could borrow? Mine is dying and my tent just went for a swim.”

The campgrounds above the dam had been full, it was, after all, a Saturday night in August. But “the guy below the dam” had space and set me up down by the river, signed me in, and sped off on his golf cart with a “so long, girl” cast over his shoulder.

Hungry and tired, I pitched my tent and set up my stove. Half way through warming a can of beans, I looked up to check on my tent. It seemed, oddly, a bit further away than where I’d placed it. When I got closer, I noticed that it was, in fact, floating on the river. I’d neglected to stake it out, and the wind had picked up while I cooked. I grabbed the poles where they crossed at the top, and hauled my tent back to land. Peering inside with my dying flashlight, I found a few puddles, but not the full swamp I’d expected. I pulled out my gear and spread it on the ground to dry, then walked back to my car holding my tent, which threatened to become a box kite with each step I took. I pulled stakes from my car while still holding my tent, found a more or less level spot and pinned the tent, pausing to slam my flashlight against my palm in hopes of eking more out of the battery.

Miguel turns from the grill and comes over. He grabs his Ryobi floodlight powered with the battery of a cordless drill and walks back with me to my site. He checks my stake job and assesses the puddles. “Keep it”, he says, “as long as you need.” This time I’ve pitched the tent into the wind and left the front door wide. I was in Utah, remember, and already the tent was well on its way to dry.

Miguel’s wife and daughter came over to check on me. They offered towels and a comforter, which I declined. “A beer?” offers Miguel and I join them at their campfire while the wind finishes its work.

My birding friend comes to mind. As we had exchanged favorite parts of our trips, he recalled asking for help with a flat tire and how the evening ended with his helpers inviting him to join them for grilled salmon and cold beer.

Tonight I’m up later than usual, enjoying the company and a Miller Genuine Draft – never my first choice – though tonight it tastes fine. I watch the stars spread above. I walk to my now-dry tent, crawl in, and fall asleep smiling.