At the beginning of my trip I made a command decision; I tossed my truck’s GPS under the seat. I’m a free man. Unfortunately, it also meant I was ill-informed about the distance between Pumpjack and the nearby State Park. It wasn’t “just a few miles”.
There was a sign leading out of town, so I followed it. A few miles later there was a sign at a turn, so I turned. Lather, rinse, repeat. The game went on for a while. Eventually I was 25+ miles out, completely lost, and aimlessly chasing signage through the prairie.
There was one stretch of road that basically went through some rancher’s backyard. This isn’t weird. It happens all the time. It was an official road, probably maintained by the county, but you had the feeling you were intruding on a private area. Probably not a lot of traffic on this road. Almost none heading for the State Park? (Was this a seasonal thing or just an unused park?)
A big white dog sauntered off the ranch house’s tiny lawn (ironically but wisely, ranchers with a zillion acres tend to mow/water only small lawns around their house). The dog walked to the middle of the road and stood there waiting for my approach. It was deliberately blocking the road.
It was a huge and beautiful dog; a Great Pyrenees. My favorite breed. The thing I like about a Great Pyrenees is the way they look at you; as equals. They view you with respect but not deference. As a guardian dog, it’s their job to communicate that they could, if necessary, fight. I suspect they would do so with considerable effectiveness but Great Pyrenees comport themselves in a manner that implies they don’t want to fight. In general, they won’t create an issue where one doesn’t already exist. Every Great Pyrenees I’ve met has been like this. The gentle yet powerful soul of a warrior monk. They exude a feeling of control. Not control over you, but over themselves. The greatest control is self-control.
This dog was on duty, but calm. It had a look I associate with the best and most perfect chivalrous knights of a long-ago time. In my experience, a Great Pyrenees has no interest in starting a fight, in fact they’re quite friendly. Yet if there is to be a fight they will win because that’s what they are there to do. It’s all very polite and straightforward. I can’t imagine anyone dumb enough to get crossways with one of these noble beasts.
This is the exact opposite of many other dogs. A Labrador Retriever will turn itself inside out trying to please you. A Dachshund or Chihuahua might “guard” an area with the unhinged frenzy of a psycho crackhead. A well-trained Pit Bull might come off like a pleasantly athletic musclehead and a poorly trained one as a thug. A German Shepherd might be a happy mutt or so well trained as to seem like an organ of the State. But only a Great Pyrenees, in my biased opinion, protects an area while sizing you up like an equal and possible friend. It does this while clearly and calmly communicating that it has certain responsibilities and thus has certain expectations of you. Unseemly behavior won’t be tolerated. If you start causing trouble it will end you; but it would be a regrettable shame you made the fuss happen. A Great Pyrenees is civilization with fur. Would that we could act so reasonably amongst ourselves; society would bloom.
I love Great Pyrenees!
The dog stood placidly in the road. I rolled up, gradually slowing to a halt. Once I stopped, the dog sniffed around my front bumper and the driver side (my window was down and it made eye contact for several seconds). Apparently satisfied, it turned and walked back to its lawn; as if to say “I approve, you are free to go”.
Good dog!
I rolled on, looking for the next sign.
Another sign, another turn. It was windy; some tumbleweed blew in front of the truck and I ran over them. I started thinking of my dog. It’s a Great Pyrenees and the best dog I’ve ever had. It’s too old to travel. Regardless, it prefers to be on post at the homestead.
It has been 11 ½ months, almost to the day. That’s how long ago it was. On one very ill and sorrowful morning I thought my dog was going to die and I almost broke. It was old then. I was in the throes of a serious illness. Things were closing in on me. I couldn’t fathom the additional loss of my dog… not on that day. And so, in what I consider a miracle, I was granted a reprieve. The dog just plain stood up and carried on. It’s nearly a year older now. I’m thankful for every minute. I dote on it. I treat it like the treasured companion that it is. I try to give it the golden years it has earned from a full lifetime of guarding the family with an unfailingly noble and generous disposition. Any man would be lucky to have such a dog.
Eleven and a half months. The time will come. It will come soon. I will have to face it. I cannot expect grace a second time. It’s going to hurt.
I’m in a sad mood when I finally find the campground. I’m cheered when I discover it’s mostly empty. Plus, the air is that fresh scent of sage and recent rain that I love so much. Tomorrow’s sorrow can wait for tomorrow. In the meantime, it’s time to setup camp.
Everyone else has fifth wheels, huge motorboats, and various gleaming RVs. I have a tent. Silly me!
The gate is open. It’s unmanned (of course). I already have reservations so the gate is a formality. I notice a very cool, high tech, kiosk for taking reservations. It’s strategically positioned at the gate. Ah ha! My earlier complaint that everything is all cell phone mumbo jumbo has been heard and heeded. The kiosk’s gleaming structure has a credit card reader, a keypad, a touch screen, and even a solar panel (we’re pretty far out). Very impressive.
Also, it’s broken. Not mildly broken but completely inoperative and likely to be so for a long time. It doesn’t look like the elements or vandalism took it off line. It looks like maybe it hasn’t been fully installed? It might have been half installed and then never finished, possibly last summer?
“Fall of Rome.” I mutter to myself. From time to time I get the sinking feeling I’m witnessing an modern echo of the “decline of Rome”. This gleaming, high tech kiosk is an artifact from a society that can maintain and operate technologies that America right now can invent but not deploy. It is the antithesis of resilient. Everything about it is from a superior world; from its clever solar power system to its cellular based communication to a cloud-based reservation system to the banking system that supports a debit card reader in the hinterland… everything about it is impressive and it has utterly failed. Maybe it never worked at all.
A minimum wage flunky in the booth, taking checks and handing out receipts would be crude but more resilient. The job would get done. But I see nobody.
Later, when I’ve setup my tent, I see a dude in a truck patrol the campground. He’s diligent. About once an hour he makes the rounds by the half dozen RVs and single oddity tent. He’s a good employee, but he can’t fix the kiosk.
The wind dies down and I make dinner. The lake looks beautiful.
I forgot to bring firewood (which would have to come from an approved vendor I’m sure) but I’ve got a propane burner and make a simple Mountain House meal. It’s filling. For desert I pour myself a big cup of…
…in some Parks you’re not allowed to have alcohol, because the world is filled with people who are terrified other folks might have fun…
…lemonade.
It’s good lemonade. I drink a lot of it. Lacking a campfire, I kick back and read a backlit Kindle in the dark. C.S. Lewis, The Screwtape Letters. It’s very good writing.
I briefly consider running the power cable to my tent but my extension cord is woefully too short. It’s not cold anyway.
I meant to write down notes reviewing my new cot/pad/bag. Instead I’m stretched out and asleep in 5 minutes. Which is, now that I think about it, a pretty good review.
Late that night the wind picks up again. This pisses off the pelicans on the lake and they make a racket. Yes, there are pelicans in the rangeland. Go figure. Other than that, I sleep like a brick.