Gone in an instant

Thanks to some kind friends, my first night was not even in the van, but in a real bed in a house in Santa Rosa Beach. I was extremely grateful, since that first day of driving was super-stressful.

On day two, I continued west through Pensacola and Mobile, and then headed northwest on US 49 in Mississippi. It’s considered a “scenic highway,” which translates to wooded vistas and a wide, 4-lane road. At the end of the day, I pulled into a campground that said “WiFi” and looked like it had plenty of room, with some heavy equipment indicating construction in progress.

I was mystified by the construction and repairs.

A confusing set of signs at the office directed me to “the back.” At first, I tried to walk around the building, then realized they were referring to the back of the property. Back there, I found a handful of very grubby RVs and cabins and the manager, Carrie.

She took my payment and told me to choose any spot. “Except, well, maybe not that part…” She gestured down the road, and her voice trailed off. “And not out front, because, you know…” her voice trailed off again. I didn’t know, but it didn’t seem like a good time to ask.

I thanked her, got in the van, and selected a site near the restrooms. I was excited about my first campout in the new van.

My first night in Muffie!

As soon as I plugged in the electrical cord, magic happened! The house air conditioner started humming and pouring cold air into the tiny (hot) space. The display on the microwave lit up. And I tested the stove burner — it works!

I sat down and read through all the manuals. I am now the proud owner of something called a “cartridge toilet,” which features a custom-molded toilet paper holder. I also have mood-lighting. It’s cool, but not as cool as my toilet paper holder.

It didn’t take long to go through all my new systems. I was ready to stretch my legs and explore this mysterious campground.

It had the feel of a ghost town, where you walk past a cabin and the curtains stir. In the middle of the road, something shiny caught my eye. It was foil from a Polaroid photograph, mixed up with the dirt and a handful of family snapshots. The people were awkwardly charming, posed in their 70’s outfits, washed out by the bright flash.

Why were someone’s precious memories scattered in the dirt?

A few minutes later, a golf cart overtook me, with Carrie and her black lab. I asked her about the photos, and all the pieces fell into place.

Three months earlier, on May 11, there was a record rainfall — almost 15 inches. In less than an hour, this place was completely under water from the nearby creek, and people had to be rescued by boat.

Now I understood. The strangely flat, sandy terrain. The mud stains on everything. The small handful of remaining RVs. The furniture piled up in the office window. “That was my home,” she said. “I had four and a half feet of water inside. I lost everything.” She shrugged and looked at her dog.

A layer of mud still coated many surfaces.

At the time of the flood, there had been 55 families living at the Perk Creek RV Park. They all lost everything. I thought of the handful of photos in the dirt and asked where everyone had gone. “I don’t know,” she said, “but they’re not coming back. They’re scared to.”

Thinking about the former residents, now scattered, left me somber, recognizing how easy it is to lose everything in a instant. But Mother Nature is resilient, and I noted bright green grass poking up through the sand. It gave me hope that a new community will eventually grow here, like the grass. Although the faces and memories will be different, joy and laughter will return to this place, as it does to all of us.

The map of Perk Beach RV Park. Everything had flooded, but the section on the left, farthest from the water, was in the best condition after 3 months.

Meet Muffintop!

This past January, I said my final farewell to my father, and if you’ve read any of the old stuff on this blog (which goes back 15 years now — yikes!), you’ll know that was a big deal. I was my Dad’s mini-me, the kid who knew his whole history and could finish his sentences. He was my buddy, my mentor, and my companion in travel and exploration.

It’s taken me about six months to work through my grief, but one day, I emerged from my chrysalis and just like that, I bought a camper van. I can imagine Dad now, saying, “You bought a WHAT? What did you do THAT for?!?”

Muffintop was named by my friend Karen, who has a penchant for RV-naming. Her own Class A is known as “The Loaf,” due to its bread-like shape.

Well, Dad, I was looking into cabins where I could go and write and paint. And then I thought, why not get a cabin on wheels? Then I can have a creative retreat in any state park, or even a fancy RV resort with a swimming pool!

The teddy bears couldn’t see over the dashboard, so I made them a “bucket seat.”

This is how I ended up with Muffintop, a Chevy conversion van, complete with bed, toilet, kitchenette, air-conditioner, and a 13-inch TV with a VCR. I can stand up inside, and she still fits into a regular parking space!

Muffie belonged to Denise and Bob for many years, until they decided camping wasn’t in the cards any more. They took very good care of her, with trips to Alaska, Oregon, and Connecticut. There were only a couple of minor things to fix, we all thought. But Muffie wanted to test my love, so those turned into a series of hard-to-diagnose issues that almost drove my mechanics to tears. By the time they got done, I didn’t even have time to get used to her. I picked her up in the morning, literally threw my stuff in the back, and hit the road, heading for the Florida panhandle and then Burning Man.

But first, I bought a Good Sam emergency road service policy.

That was about 1000 miles ago, so I think we’re good now. My teddy bears and I are currently sitting in an RV park in Louisiana, with all the comforts of home — well, actually, more comforts than home. I don’t have a microwave or a VCR at home!

As you’ve probably guessed, I’ve been talking to strangers along the way. I even got some candy from one of them! In my next post, I’ll share some of their stories with you. Thanks for following along, and remember, I Smile First!

Let’s go find strangers with candy!

A girl jumps under my umbrella

On Monday, I returned from AfterBurn, a three-day event in Florida that’s similar to a small Burning Man. Here’s a little vignette from Sunday night. I didn’t have my camera at the time, but send me a message if you want to see the rest of the AfterBurn photographs!

Where it all happened

Where it all happened

At 9 pm, I’m holed up in a tiny tent, listening to the pouring rain and feeling sorry for myself. It’s the final evening of AfterBurn, and they are supposed to burn the temple at 9:30.

I doubt they’ll be burning anything in this downpour. But I hear music at the nearby Camp Funk Evolution, so people must still be having a good time.

“Hey!” I think. “I borrowed an umbrella!” I stick my big blue umbrella out through the rainfly and push the button. Shwoop! My head stays dry as I step out, right into a puddle the size of a small lake. Five seconds later, a lively woman I’ve never met before jumps under the umbrella and introduces herself as 9-Volt. “Where ya goin’?” I ask her. “Shangri La La. How about you?”

I tell her I’m going wherever she’s going, and we zig and zag across the property, find a tent with a DJ, and start dancing. A few minutes after we arrive, the DJ announces, “We’ve got a real treat for you tonight. Gather round here and watch this drummer.” Everybody crowds into the tent, but luck has placed me right in front.

What an experience! The drummer’s near-solo performance whips the crowd into an excited frenzy and leaves me shouting for more. Like Cinderella’s prince, I must find this man again! Luckily, with Facebook, it’s not hard: He’s Mike Gray, of the Screaming J‘s, and I’m his newest fan. That’s short for fanatic, you know.

Thank you, 9-Volt, for leading me there. Thank you, Jon Z, for posting your video of Mike’s performance. Thank you, Shangri La La, for creating the magical space. And thank you, Dad, for loaning me your blue umbrella.

Got a minute? Visit the Screaming J’s website, which has a couple of excellent videos and really captures the boogie-woogie piano. Then book your ticket to Vero Beach — they’re playing here on December 4!

Maddox Ranch, in Lakeland, Florida

Maddox Ranch, in Lakeland, Florida

You have to have a tent

I set out yesterday from Vero Beach in Bon-Bon, my Toyota Matrix. I packed everything I’d need for the drive to Seattle via Las Vegas, including a folding bicycle, an inflatable kayak, clothes, art supplies, and two boxes of Strangers Have the Best Candy. I also brought lots of pillows, three teddy bears, a brand-new Therm-a-Rest pad, a couple of blankets, and a sleeping bag. I can make a cushy blanket fort in the back of the car and sleep anywhere.

In the late afternoon, I saw a sign for Withlacoochee River Park. It seemed like a nice county park, about 5 miles off the highway. I circled the camping area, which was mostly empty, then followed the sign to the office.

A young park ranger was outside the building as I got out of my car. He greeted me with a smile and asked how he could help me. “Is this where I pay for a campsite?” I asked. “Yes, it is,” he told me. “What kind of site do you need?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t particularly matter.”

“Do you have a tent?” he asked me.

When I said no, his smile disappeared. “You have to have a tent.”

I continued smiling. “I can just pay the RV rate,” I said. He looked at my car and shook his head. I couldn’t figure out how they could have a rule against sleeping in the car, but I was determined to figure out a way around it.

What if I put my sleeping bag on the ground next to the car? Nope. What if I rigged a tarp as a tent? Nope. What if we called it a Toyota Matrix RV? Nope. At that point, he suggested that I wait for his supervisor.

While I waited, I thought about telling them my tent was six feet tall, pink, and went by the name of Harvey. Unfortunately, the supervisor who appeared was much more humorless, so I stayed quiet about having an invisible tent.

Condescendingly, he showed me the written rules, which said that I had to have a “commercially-made, flame-retardant tent.” When I told him my car was a very small RV, he rolled his eyes. “That? No way.”

I just waited. Finally, he said, “If you insist, I will call my supervisor, even though it is after hours on a Saturday evening, and I will have to call him at home.”

I nodded and said, “Would you, please?” He picked up the phone and called his supervisor. “I am so sorry to bother you at home, after hours, on a Saturday, but there’s this lady here who wants to camp…” His tone spoke volumes. “And she doesn’t have a tent, and she’s just driving a car.”

The man on the other end of the line said something. Then he said, “That’s what I told her, but she insisted that I call my supervisor, after hours, on a Saturday, at home.” He hung up with a smirk.

I put on my most gracious smile and said, “Thank you very much,” then I turned and went out to my teeny-tiny RV and drove back out to the road.

I pulled out my phone and ran a search for nearby campgrounds, and a listing popped up just a few miles up the river. When I clicked on the Sawmill Camping Resort, the first thing I saw was the photo on the homepage. It featured three hot guys, two of them shirtless. This was not your every day campground. The list of amenities included a pool and several nightclubs. I read further, and found the statement “…the premier gay and lesbian community in the Southeast.”

I called to make sure they had a campsite for a person without a tent. No problem. I didn’t tell the woman I was straight.

In the camp store, the young woman took my credit card and gave me a wristband. “You do know this place is, um, alternative, right?” I just nodded.

When I asked where to set up camp, she wasn’t certain. “I’ve had this job for five days,” she told me, “and I actually haven’t been back there yet.” She was referring to the 120-acre community on the other side of the fence.

When I drove through the gate, I was unnerved to find that there were no other women “back there.” Just me and a few hundred guys of all ages, doing what everybody does on vacation: Relaxing. I stuck out like a sore thumb, but I felt completely safe.

More importantly, I felt completely welcome. As the FAQ said, in answer to the question, “Are Women allowed at Sawmill?” ”YES!  We are open to anyone who is open minded.”

It’s OK that I don’t have a tent. It’s OK that I’m not gay. Saturday’s curious turn of events reminded me that being surrounded by open-minded people is more important to me than anything else.