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Camp Loverock Farewell

By Michael Wolcott

The meadowlarks are back on Government Prairie, chasing each other through the spring-green grass. I'm out here to check on my friend Scott's place. Well, the place that was Scott's - and mine, too, for awhile. But not any more.

Scott lived on the prairie for a dozen years - with no phone, no plumbing, and no apologies. Back when he set up camp the grid had not yet arrived on Government Prairie, a mile-wide break in the Kaibab National Forest 20 miles west of Flagstaff. Scott spent his days here quietly, walking the dogs, drinking Budweiser and writing poems. (Now he is married, fully employed, and raising kids in town - a happier, more useful man.)

A rock climber from the old school, he had christened his dirtbag empire "Camp Loverock." It wasn't much, but it was everything: two ratty old trailers, seven acres of bunchgrass, and one straight-on view of the San Francisco Peaks.

I became Scott's replacement, wintering here for six years between summer gigs in Wyoming with the Forest Service. At Camp Loverock, there were rabbits in the yard, coyotes on the prairie, and a giant plywood butterfly with yellow wings, clinging to the bright green outhouse door. Living off the grid was an antidote to the 21st century. Hauling water, splitting wood and washing clothes by hand all provided a sense of order and purpose. No place ever felt more like home.

Now I live in town. Indoor plumbing and grid electricity make everything easy. Like most Americans, I now spend way too much time on a computer. That wasn't the case at Camp Loverock.

I stand at the edge of the yard, looking the place over one last time. Camp Loverock is ragged as a bird's nest, elegant and spare. The small single-wide trailers are nearly hidden by a few trees. The one I lived in is a wan beige color, faded from 30 years in the sun. The roof leaked and the floor sagged, but the view, as they say, was good. I step around what's left of the woodpile, remembering:

Waking before dawn on frigid mornings. Lighting a fire. The difficult but necessary visit to the Butterfly House. Ten minutes later, the water in the dog's dish is still frozen, but the tiny living room is toasty-warm. Settling into a chair, sipping strong coffee, and gazing out the east window. Silver creeping into the violet sky over the Peaks. Ravens, jays, and juncos weaving through the ponderosa branches. Sunlight turning the frosted grass into prairie diamonds. Quiet, seamless days, then sundown, dusk, and the deep night sky powdered with stars.

I walk to my old trailer's one working door, turn and look across the fence at the only nearby dwelling - a giant, redwood-stained house. As usual, the neighbors are not around. Bob and Suzie winter in Phoenix and Las Vegas. I rarely saw them when I lived here.

But I often saw their motion-activated yard light. Whenever a rabbit crossed their lawn (several times nightly) our previously dim swatch of prairie was suddenly floodlit, bright and cheery as any Wal-Mart parking lot. Their circular driveway, the RV and boat and woodpile, the backhoe, the two-stall garage, the 200-gallon propane tank - all of it would be awash with a thousand watts of crime-stopping illumination.

Bob had the light installed just after they bought the place. He told me this one day in November, a year after he and his wife had moved in. We had only spoken once or twice, over the fence, so I invited him over for coffee. I showed him around my place - the woodstove, the bobcat skull, the view of the Peaks.

He told me about their remodeling projects - the new deck, the kitchen, living room and staircases. ("Really nice work!" he kept saying.) I never saw the new staircases. I was not invited. Nor did Bob ever ask me to keep an eye on the place during the months when he and Suzie were gone.

I turn my back on the big house. Two ravens scrawk in the harsh blue sky. I reach for the busted door handle and wonder when the new owners of Camp Loverock will return. They have two old trailers to get rid of now, and seven more acres to defend. They are on their own.