Kornfused at KOA

KOA Kampground was not what I expected. It looked like a playground at a trailer park. There was a small pool, a rubber bouncy thing, and a bunch of dirty kids on bikes in the parking lot. Surrounding this joyful mayhem was a ring of RVs, tents, and trucks, the tailgates of which functioned as impromptu kitchens. I checked in at the office and was surprised to learn that the girl who managed the place was a New York expatriate, who had enough of city life and retreated back to the simple life. She lived above the KOA office and didn’t seem terribly alarmed by my admission that this was my first time camping since childhood. On the one hand I was disappointed not to get any advice – I expected, at the very least, a stern warning about hungry bears or West Nile Virus – but in a strange way I felt that her restraint was a vote of confidence. Without saying a word, she was in effect telling me “Calm down, city girl, it’s not that deep. You’ll figure it out.” She handed me a map, pointed out where to find the tent site, and sent me along my way.

I drove Mitzi (my rented electric blue Mitsubishi) along the gravel pathway marked out by the map; but I must have taken a wrong turn because I ended up at a dead end behind a row of cabins, beside which were three picnic tables full of adults drinking beer and eating roasted weenies. They stared at me and started to giggle hysterically as I got out of the car and looked at my map, then at them, then at the pathway, then back at the map. I was scratching my head like a moron and must have looked pretty ridiculous. No wonder they were having such a laugh at my expense! I asked one of them “Did I take a wrong turn somewhere?” but he just doubled over in hysterics. His friend, who was able to stifle his amusement long enough to offer some assistance, asked me “Where are you tryin to go?” I handed him the map and started to explain, when a kindly gentleman rushed over and gently took the map out of the guy’s hand and said “You’d better talk to me.” It was only then that I took a closer look at this group with their matching t-shirts and ear-to-ear grins… and it hit me that these were all mentally challenged adults, having a gay old time laughing at this dumb lost greenhorn who can’t even read a map! It struck me that they could probably pitch a tent, build a fire, and make a s’more before I even got my sleeping bag unrolled… and don’t think it didn’t cross my mind to ask them to show me how! But Ranger Bob turned my map right side up and pointed out the tent sites, which by the way were about 10 yards to my left. Dumbass.

I pulled the car in next to the tent site and started to unload the tent gear. Now, I have put up a tent once before, pretty recently, so I was relatively familiar with the concept; however, this tent was MUCH bigger, it was getting dark, and P.S. I could not find any instructions in the bag. Nevermind, I’m a smart girl, I can figure this out. Well, I pulled out all the poles and stakes and whatnot, flattened out the tent on a nice grassy spot under a tree, then I started poking around the tent trying to figure out where the poles went.

Hm.

Back to the car to look at the picture on the box. Really, there are no instructions?

Hm.

Walking around the tent, peering at holes and rings and hooks, measuring the poles, trying to picture an engineering schematic in my mind.

Hm.

OK seriously, there HAVE to be instructions. I pull apart the whole kit, and finally I find an instruction booklet stuck inside a pocket. Whew! I go back to the tent, still lying prostrate on the grass, and start reading. As I’m learning how to identify all the various parts, a guy in a wife beater walks up to me and says “Need some help?” I hesitated for a second, had a brief argument with my pride, and said “You know what, I really do.” “No problem,” he says, “you were lookin a little corn-fused over here!” He took a quick look and started sliding the poles into place and staking the tent. I followed his lead, and in no time, my home for the next 3 days began to take shape. It was enormous – could easily fit 5 people – but so cute! and seemed pretty easy to assemble, once you knew what you were doing!

I thanked him profusely and he went off to pee in the bushes. “Watch out for raccoons, don't leave any food out, and if you need any help, I’m right over there!” he pointed toward his bivouac off to the right, which included several tents and a screened-in kitchen area, with a circle of rednecks drinking beer around a merrily roaring fire. Definitely a sweet setup and something to aspire to… but for now, I was going to take this thing one step at a time. I set up my little bedroom, zipped up my tent, and hopped in the car to go in search of beer. I briefly wondered if it was safe to leave my tent unguarded, but quickly realized how stupid that thought was. This place felt like a community -- goodhearted, kind, helpful people who shared a love of the outdoors and PBR in the can.

I came back with two six-packs of beer (in the can, of course) and handed the Budweiser to my knight in shining armor before heading back to my camp and popping open a cold Miller Lite for myself. He seemed genuinely pleased and surprised, explaining to his buddy that he had stopped to give me a hand when he saw me walking around looking “corn-fused”. He thanked me for the beer and I headed “home”.

The mosquitoes were merciless. I tried sitting outside the tent for a bit but was driven inside within seconds. In trying to be practical, I had selected the repellent wipes instead of the can of bug spray, and that was a big mistake. Inside the tent, even with the flaps unzipped, I was well-protected by the layer of mosquito netting over the “windows”, which let in a cool breeze and gave me a nice view of the trees and the sky. It was cloudy, muggy, sticky, and hot – about 90 degrees and 99% humidity – but I was LIVING in that tent. I sat in my camp chair and enjoyed a Miller Lite in the can, listened to some Eva Cassidy on my iPhone, and sighed contentedly.

When I got tired, I went to bed, and laid awake listening to the crickets, the other campers, and eventually the welcome sound of rain on my tent. It rained heavily while I dozed on and off, unable to get quite comfortable enough to sleep – just skimmed along the edge of sleep like a waterbug on a pond. I scratched and slapped at my bites, sweating, tossing and turning, relishing the pitter patter of raindrops. The tent stayed dry inside; and finally around 5am, just as the sky was beginning to turn light, I finally caught a couple of z's.

Normally, if I can’t sleep, I am terribly grouchy the next day. But even though I tossed and turned, scratched and slapped, and barely snoozed all night, I woke up with a huge, goofy smile on my face. I had made it through my first night in the tent! What had I been so afraid of?

Walmart Perspective

Day 3. Dwight, IL.

The road to the unknown! I didn’t really know where I was going, or how far I’d get, or where I’d stay when I got there. I just knew I had to get on the road and eat when I got hungry and sleep when I got tired. Going back to Chicago was not an option, nor was hightailing it straight home. The rental car and the ticket back to New York 4 days later were mine, and they were unalterable. I had gotten some advice from my dad on finding campsites, as well as some encouragement from Noel and from my dear friend Melissa. Everyone else was much more confident than I in my ability to make this journey successfully. If you’re a seasoned camper, you’re probably thinking I’m a big sissy – and you’re right. In some ways I’m fearless and I don’t pay attention to my limits; but this was different. I was going to have to rely on myself for my survival, with no front desk to bring me extra towels, no tv, no comfy bed, no maid service, no air conditioning, no plumbing. What I fear most is the unknown, and all that lay ahead was four days and nights of it.

The fuel light came on about 2 hours into the trip, so I pulled in to a BP/McDonalds. Quick side note – I would have thought that BP’s gas was going to be cheaper than anyone else’s, given their recent disastrous behavior and their sore need for public love; but it’s not. What’s up with that? Anyway, as I sat in the parking lot Google mapping my route on my iPhone, a minivan pulled up next to me, and out piled 7 women, all dressed in white shorts and black t-shirts with BON JOVI bedazzled on the front. I stopped to talk to them and it turns out they were 7 sisters, on their way to see Bon Jovi in Springfield. Aren’t they adorable?

Around lunchtime I pulled into Bloomington, IL to grab a bite and some supplies and figure out a route. The trip suddenly looked a little brighter when I got a call from mom saying she could pay me back some of the money I loaned to ransom her stuff from the moving company, and would wire it to me immediately. Suddenly my goal went from basic survival to survival adventure! I could afford a KOA! I wouldn’t have to sneak my tent into some unguarded farm and wake up to a shotgun poking through my tentflaps! I rewrote my budget, mapped out a route, and hit Walmart and Aldi (again, obsessed) for supplies.

The checkout girl at Walmart was chatty and very friendly. I really admired the way she handled an issue with the customer in front of me, and her attitude was just so sunny and positive, I felt I had to compliment her on it. I said to her, “You have such a great attitude. It’s very refreshing.” Do you know what she said to me? “Thanks!” she said, “I love being a Walmart cashier! How many jobs do you get to stand in air conditioning all day and talk to people?” I thanked her and moved toward the door, feeling a lump growing in my throat. You know how sometimes the smallest things can just knock you over with a feather, when you least expect it? This was one of those things. How much do I worry, fret, complain about everything – my job, my apartment, my life, my government, my health – and here is this woman with a $6/hour job who thinks she’s the luckiest girl in Illinois because she gets to “stand in air conditioning and talk to people.” Perspective check! I pulled myself together and wiped the tears that had uncontrollably spurted from my eyes, not wanting to alarm anyone; and made a quick trip to customer service to notify the manager that she had a star employee on her hands. She made a note and promised to bring up my compliment at the next staff meeting. Maybe that girl will get a raise!

Since I’m such a fan of The Simpsons, I HAD to stop in Springfield. Turns out the timing was perfect for me to spend my first night camping there, as I would arrive by 6ish and therefore have plenty of time to get myself all tangled up in tentpoles. My iPhone found me a KOA right by Springfield Lake – perfect! As I pulled off the exit ramp toward the lake, I could see two giant smokestacks – just like in The Simpsons! The KOA was way back by the lake around a long, windy country road that got smaller and smaller and more rustic (and far away from the Springfield Nuclear Plant!), until it was just a tiny bumpy country road deep in the woods; and there, as I pulled into the KOA, were the Burma-Shave signs: No planes, no traines [sic], no highway noise. KOA Kampground!

Super 8 gets a bad rap. The one we stayed in was quite nice – better than a Days Inn, not as nice as a Hampton…. But friendly, clean, and cheap! We even had a hot tub… plus they allow dogs with no weight limit and no extra fee, which was great for us. It was near a military base, Ft. Leonard Wood, in St. Robert, MO. So of course I took to calling it Ft. Robert Sean Leonard Wood because I couldn’t remember the name of it.

In the morning we set out for Chicago, passing through St. Louis and its famous arch. But first, we stopped at a Waffle House in Rolla, MO, which we chose because of its proximity to the Route 66 Totem Pole Trading Post. (Pics to come!) Now, I’m kind of obsessed with Rt. 66 for some reason, so any kitschy roadside stands are like a magnet for my car. But this Waffle House was a bastion of stereotypes: At one table was a couple of middle-aged ladies with bleach blonde hair, haphazardly done up in some kind of windblown, bedraggled updos; wearing flowered mumus, smoking B&Hs and speaking in phlegmy baritones. The booth next to them was straining to hold up two oversized gentlemen, one wearing a trucker hat and smoking, the other with one of those holes in the throat that you have to put your finger on to talk, and then you sound like Stephen Hawking with bronchitis – you know what I’m talking about? Mercifully, this fellow was not smoking. His more fortunate (so far) friend stubbed out his cigarette in his eggs and left just when our food came, so we were spared the secondhand tracheotomy.

I’m going to skip the whole unloading/unpacking saga… suffice it to say that Billy the Russian Mover and his muscular, sunglasses-wearing underling had a bad morning, as their truck broke down about a quarter mile from the apartment. And my mom has quite a job ahead of her – I got her some groceries and helped her get started with unpacking, but, well… you’ve seen Hoarders, right? Just imagine a spinoff: HOARDERS: MOVING DAY!!! Cue scary violin music.

The dog hair and dust were killing me, and there really wasn’t anywhere for me to sleep. Plus I was itching (literally) to get back on the road… so after a quick trip to Aldi (with which I am obsessed – and why don’t they have one in New York yet??) to get my mom some groceries, I was ready to hit the road. Just one little problem: When the movers showed up, my mom didn’t have enough cash to pay them, since they had quoted her about $500 LESS than the final cost. By the way, if you ever have to move, DO NOT hire Nationwide. They give you an estimate that is WELL below what it will end up costing you, and then when they show up with all your stuff, they slap down a bill for $500 more and hold your stuff hostage until you pay up. What can you do? They got you by the balls. So, I loaned my mom the money to pay the movers… which meant that I was left with a budget of about $36/day, after gas. My flight back home was not until 4 days later. So… I have to get back to Little Rock to catch my flight on Tuesday, I can’t move my flight, and I can’t stay with mom. I did what any sensible person would do, of course – I went on craigslist to look for a tent.

I immediately found a listing for a brand-new, still in the box camping set, bought for $100 from Wal-Mart. One 4-5 person tent, 2 sleeping bags, a cooler, a set of dishes, 2 camping chairs, and various accessories. I sent the lady an email saying I’d give her $75 and pick it up in the morning. She wrote back to say she had someone else who offered the same amount but would pick it up tonight. I wrote back and said $80 and I’ll pick it up tonight. Sold! So I kissed mom goodbye, hit the road, and met the lady at a Circle K a couple hours south of Chicago. All was exactly as advertised, and I loaded up my new camping gear and hit the road!

A few hours later I checked into a Super 8 in Dwight, IL. I was feeling the thrill of adventure, the open road, the prospect of sleeping my way around the Midwest in a tent under the stars… and then I sat down and crunched the numbers. Well, it turns out that camping isn’t free; in fact, it costs about $20 a night at KOA, maybe a little less here and there. So there goes more than half my daily budget of $36/day. Sitting in my Super 8, with a very noisy cricket chirping incessantly, I was suddenly very alone and terribly scared. How in the hell am I going to do this?

Day 1: NYC-AR-Kum & Go

Getting to a major highway from Northwest Arkansas Regional Airport requires a rambling 20-minute drive through the backcountry, passing about twelve churches, a handful of general stores, and a mine. Upon turning onto Healing Springs Road from the airport access road, I was greeted by this sign in front of a church:

In other words… Welcome to Arkansas,

you’re going to hell. Not that I have anything against churches; just ones that tell me I’m going to hell. To me, God is about promises, not threats. I wanted to stop for food before I got to mom’s house but I didn’t want to eat at a chain cuz I’m all about local flavor. Luckily, I stumbled upon the Catfish Hole, an inauspicious, antiseptic (from the outside) establishment with a big sign on the front door stating their policy that they only accept LOCAL checks with a LOCAL address ONLY. Unless your name is Carrie or Bob Cencitt, whose checks (according to the handwritten sign on the front of the cash register) are

NOT to be accepted under ANY circumstances. Just so we’re all clear what crooks Carrie & Bob are. I asked the young gentleman at the register what comes on their salad, and as he started to stammer something about lettuce and um, lettuce, an older gentleman in a rocking chair informed me that the salad was quite “nice”, but you have to like a little kick in your grilled chicken. Sold. I plugged my iPhone into the back of the Toy Claw machine (The Claw! The Claw!!) and sat down to wait.

The salad turned out to be quite good, and had actual lettuce in it, not just iceberg – which was a nice surprise. It was served with Hush Puppies – I LOVE Hush Puppies – and something pickled, which I could not identify and therefore did not eat. Not very adventurous, perhaps, but it's only day one... overall, a food Success!

Picking up mom turned out to be quite a challenge. She wasn’t entirely prepared with everything packed, and when I arrived the movers were packing the boxes and furniture, but there was random stuff EVERYWHERE that was not packed. You’ve seen that show Hoarders, right? Now imagine a hoarder having to move. I know, right?? I started packing the car, but every time I returned to the house, the bags of stuff had multiplied. It was like that scene in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice, with the broomsticks multiplying… and all the while the water was pouring… in the form of sweat, down my face. Finally we were stacked to the roof and ready to take off: Me, Mom, Sparky, and Max.

The first exciting sight was roadkill: a dead armadillo on the side of the road, belly-up. This was my first armadillo, and I have to say, I’m not sure it would be much better alive. After a few hours we needed a pit stop, and since I’m really a 12-year-old boy at heart, I just HAD to stop at the Kum & Go. And buy a hat… and a lighter… and be a dick and take pictures of the sign. I mean, KUM on.