We camped next to Elvis near Strawberry Reservoir late one summer. We were taking the maiden voyage in our new trailer and Elvis, an oversized black Labrador and his owner, Ed, parked their truck and camper between two trees near our Eden-like spot on the side of the mountain.
If you gauge a man’s desire for adventure on what his camper looks like, Ed was an Everest-climbing, jungle-swinging, bug-eating crazy man. It was half aluminum, half wood planks and held itself together with tension, strapping tape and wire. In the true sense of utilitarianism, the wire doubled for a TV antennae that picked up a static square of snow and the intermittent voice of a sports commentator calling the second game of the World Series. Ed kept a permanent propane tank on the passenger-side floor of his truck. It was held up by a square of curled corral fencing and a smashed Coors box so it wouldn’t fall through the rust-thin floor, and over the course of the weekend, we added to his collection of beer and pop cans that he ritualistic tossed all around it. It was his way of following the “leave no trace” rule of camping.
Elvis and Ed were delightful neighbors and left a trace of amusement in our souls that J.D. and I often giggle over. Both of us have confessed that we secretly wish we’d run into the both of them on another weekend adventure.
No comments:
Post a Comment