Anomalies

I sit here at my little campsite, #PT-6, at Up the Creek RV Camp in Pigeon Forge, staring across the little asphalt road at the site I wish I was sitting in. It’s currently occupied by a brown 30+-foot trailer whose inhabitants have driven off somewhere–to eat, presumably, in town. And their tree-covered site with a creek running behind it mocks me. I am in the last pull-through site in the center of the campground, and the last site available for this prime week in October in the Smoky Mountains.

The temperature is 74 degrees, and I have started my first fire in over a week of camping here. It’s still not cool enough for my fall cravings, but I choose to overcome the incessant heat and make myself a fire and a glass of Ravenswood Zin. I am willing fall to arrive in this drought-stricken, heat-waved town. And I sit in my little site in the center of the campground, on display. Noticed because everyone who drives or walks through the campground sees me, makes eye contact with me [if I dare to look up], feels obliged to say something to me since I’m so OBVIOUSLY alone with my fire and my glass of red wine. An anomaly.

Another anomaly: I don’t have a small, barking dog. Or three. Apparently, RVers LOVE their dogs. Ear-piercing barking seems to offend no one. Two days ago, a young-ish couple pulled in beside me and I thought, “yay! No dogs!” But I spoke too soon. Momentarily, a massive bloodhound and a boxer mix clambered out of the back seat. Big dogs, though, I thought with optimism; they won’t bark. Big dogs are cool. And they didn’t bark! But the owners took them out at every single moment–including three o’clock in the morning–and walked them by my open windows to get at the stretch of grass between our sites. The clinkety-clanks of their collar tags woke me up every three hours. Do these dogs have incontinence issues?? Okay, whatever, I’ll sleep in. It’s Sunday. Make up for it. Nope. At 6:20 a.m., their door opened and slammed closed (which all RV doors do; really no getting around it unless you actually CARE what others think about you and close it gently, with your body weight — as I do), and out came the dog tags and the heavy breathers into the grass stretch beside my bedroom window. Sigh. On a good note, they left two hours later.

Anomaly #2: I don’t have kids. Or visiting grandkids. Yes, I know camping is a rite of passage for many crumb-snatchers who are learning the ways of the world; I get it. But please don’t let Little Johnny out to light a morning fire and bat his plastic baseball around in the space just three feet from my window. That’s all I ask. Well, that and some more, I guess.

Anomaly #3: I am single. NObody at this entire campground — or any others in the 100-mile radius of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park, I would surmise — is single. People pull in, wife/girlfriend exits the passenger side of the vehicle (usually a heavy-duty truck) and guides the man/driver into the spot, bitching and moaning all the way, showing the stress of their umpteen-hour commute to this place through pursed lips and scowls and angry parking directives. Two hours later, I see these same couples walking through the campground with intertwined hands. What?

Anomaly #4: I don’t have a 4×4 truck. Okay, this is about to change; it’s not the greatest idea in the world to tow a 21-foot trailer through the mountains with a Ford Explorer. BUT, in my defense, my Explorer has a towing capacity of 5,000 pounds, and my trailer’s dry weight is recorded at 4,200 pounds. Yes, it’s probably right up to that 5,000 pound mark when you add in the occasional too-full tank, all the junk I pile into it, and all that jazz. And, yes, two weeks ago when I almost didn’t make it up a steep incline after stopping for traffic (mistake I won’t make again) and almost created a situation worthy of front page news, well, that was not good. Nor was the amount of brand new $1,200 Michelin tire rubber I left all the way up the hill. So this particular anomaly will be changing. I will be purchasing a 4×4 truck with a towing capacity that allows it to haul Junebug up any mountain the Smokies, Rockies, Tetons, or any other damn mountain range my travels throw at me.

I’m used to being a bit of an anomaly. I am a single 49-year-old who explores alone, hikes alone (“Rule #1 of hiking: Don’t hike alone.”), hauls a trailer around the country with two cats, and does some unconventional stuff–like buying a cabin in another state and learning how to rent it out for income. But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. If I had waited for Mr. Right to “help” me do all the things I’ve learned to do alone, I would now resemble a rotting, lace-covered corpse in a knitting rocker with my hardbound copy of Sense and Sensibilities on the table next to my cup of chamomile tea. I’d still be alone, and I’d have missed out on all the amazing experiences I’ve encountered by taking chances, risks, and having dreams.

Here’s to anomalies!