Part One of Two
Groaning at the loud, domestic arguments of the Stellar Jays
in the trees above us, I woke to the scent of bacon on a brisk summer morning. Deciding
the brave the cold, I stumbled out of the tangle of my sleeping bag atop a
canvas cot, one of five lined up in a row beneath the magnificent oak tree in
Campsite #16 of Los Caballos Horse Camp. Pulling on shoes without socks and then
a jacket over my pajamas, I made my way to the tent to dress in warm clothing
on this 40-degree morning.
After hiking to the one bathroom for the sixteen
campsites with my sister, we returned to toss flakes of hay to Brownie and
Sweetpea whose metal-pipe stalls were within the half-circle driveway of our
campsite. We filled their water buckets, and once the horses were munching away
on their breakfast, we could enjoy ours. We folded our legs and slipped
sideways to sit at the sturdy wooden picnic table that was the centerpiece of
the site which was backed to a dry creek bed, making it more private than the
other campsites. Mom placed plates filled with scrambled eggs, bacon, toast,
and fried potatoes and onions before us, and we dug in, still shivering, while
Dad tossed kindling and logs into the cement ring a few feet away, rebuilding
the fire from the still-glowing coals of last night’s blaze.
After breakfast, my brother and I helped with washing the
dishes, filling the huge aluminum pot from the nearest faucet, then carrying it
back carefully between us, each of us holding a handle. Mom took the heavy pot
from us and set it on the battered Coleman stove to heat the water for washing
the dishes while my sister and Dad saddled Brownie, our ancient bay mustang
gelding with a greying nose, and Sweetpea, our buckskin quarter horse mare, a
former barrel-racer. Both were excellent, if somewhat plodding, trail horses,
and getting an early start was vital before the temperatures soared into the
nineties later in the day.
The three of us started washing the dishes as Dad and Tracey
moseyed out of the site and crossed the paved asphalt road, picking up the
trail around the perimeter of Lake Cuyamaca. Mom, Tom, and I planned to hike
over later to meet them with a picnic lunch on Fletcher Island in the center of
the lake. Meanwhile, the three of us might hike down to Paso Picacho, a large
non-equine campground a couple of miles southwest of Los Caballos, or we might
settle into beach chairs around the fire with books or play another game of Yahtzee! or Gin Rummy at the picnic
table.
I miss camping. My husband is not a camper despite his many
camping trips as a child. We also grew up camping every summer, often
trailering our horses up to the local mountains a mere forty miles from home to
a splendid and quiet horse camp in the Cuyamaca Mountains northeast of our
hometown of El Cajon, California. It was always a challenge to drive those
forty miles, which felt like a hundred given our excitement and our concerns
that our ancient International Travel-All, christened “Tizzie,” which pulled
our equally-ancient double-horse trailer (both painted a cheap Earl Scheib
chocolate-brown to match), might overheat on the journey during which we
climbed nearly 4,000 feet in elevation.
Dad drove Tizzie, which, with two of
the three bench seats removed, sported two bales of hay and a huge bucket of
oats plus empty water buckets for the horses in the back, while Mom drove her sporty
1971 green Plymouth Duster which hauled the small aluminum-lidded trailer that
contained all camping our gear, food, and clothing. We three kids were
distributed among the vehicles: two in the back seat of the Duster, a pile of
pillows between us, and one in the front seat of the Travel-All beside Dad, all
of us keeping our eyes peeled for potential steam coming from either vehicle
despite our early departure.
We tent-camped, but the tent was mostly used for changing
and storing our clothes; we slept outside at night since the only rainstorms that
attempted to drench us occurred in the afternoons. And if we camped in mid-July,
as we usually did, we'd miss even those storms. Camping in August, however, was
a different and much wetter story.
Part Two...Next Week!
Awash in memories,
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