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What's Happening in Wanderland?

By David Feela

Found in: | Hiking |

I'd been driving through the Pike National Forest and the daylight had ground itself into dusk. I didn't have money for a motel - barely what it took to pay the fees at a formal campground. With the price of gas my cash gauge was running near empty.

When I glimpsed a side road cutting off through the trees, I braked and doubled back. Unimproved roads are my favorite highways. Gravel would have been promising but rutted and muddy glittered like gold in the twilight. I pulled off the pavement and lumbered slowly along my newfound hope.

The road proved to be a classic squatter's paradise. I drove a few miles before small pull-offs began appearing on both sides, none of them posted with no-nos. Thick scrub oak offered plenty of camouflage, and I didn't see any lights, except for a billion stars out beyond anyone's reach. I chose a spot and parked the car, rolled down the windows, and listened: mosquitos, crickets, a few frogs. The occasional acceleration from a distant traveler rushing past on the paved road I left behind.

I decided my haven looked safe enough to unpack and pitch my tiny tent. It would feel good to stretch out, bug free, for a good night's sleep. I fell into a perfect slumber that would have remained that way, except that headlights suddenly tore through my canvas. Busted, I thought. But I stayed very still and waited.

The lights dimmed, doors opened and slammed shut, voices not too hushed made plans to pitch a tent. My luck was holding, and as the new campers next door counted their blessings, I counted mine. Naturally, I despaired the loss of my solitude, but good fortune should be shared. Eventually the neighbors settled down and it turned quiet again. I fell back to sleep.

Early the next morning I crawled out of my tent and nearly tripped over one of my neighbor's tent stakes driven into the ground three feet from my tent flap. I glanced down the road, both ways, expecting to see the woods overcrowded with campers, but nobody else had stopped for the night. A half-dozen potential pull-offs along this road and these bozos pitched their tent on top of me.

I tore my tent down and made as much noise as was humanly possible. I even tried to sound like a bear. When I started the truck I revved the engine, letting it idle a good five minutes before I pulled away.

Maybe I should have been kinder. Who's to say how many campers will fit on the head of a pin. At campgrounds all across the West the tourist experience has turned into a beach party, asphalt and gravel rectangles laid down like government issue towels, where outdoor gear gatherers from opposite oceans and all points between cram together for their week or two in the wild. A national park has come to mean exactly what it says: A chance to park next to people from all across the nation.

Take Fun Valley, an RV retreat near the top of Wolf Creek Pass, as an example of the park mentality. Testimonials toasted up on a South Fork website make the place sound so sweet I'm surprised it doesn't just spontaneously burst into flame like a marshmallow.

"I've been going to Fun Valley my whole life, and it's completely amazing! My Indians and I love it!" says one camper.

Or try the redundant quality of a younger writer: "Fun valley is soooo much fun when i grow up i will take my kids to Fun valley!!!!"

The prospect of one more RV containing a new generation parked beside its parents' rig, which is parked beside the grandparents' rig, which is parked beside the neighbors' rig, which is parked beside a rig full of folks from Texas that the neighbors rendezvous with every summer drains the fun right out of the scenery.

I'll admit not everyone's recreational mission amounts to finding a quiet place, away from the pace of the world. I mean, why else would a bicycle enthusiast arrange to ride en mass over the scenic Rockies with 2,000 like-minded individuals unless cycling is really about pedaling what one wears. Apparently it takes 7,000 thundering Harley Davidson bikers gathered over Labor Day to feel the freedom of the open road. I can hear them coming all summer, because I'm the only one who's baffled. To me, sports require teams; wilderness ought to be approached on its own terms, politely, with quiet respect for those with whom you are sharing it.

Ah, give me the music of a breeze strumming the aspen leaves. I'd even dance with a bear that mauls me rather than park at another recreational mall.