Monday, April 24, 2006

Dune Therapy

"Can we go camping?" I ask every summer.
"Ummmmmmmmm" The Prof avoids my question.

Later. Same Day.

"Can we go camping?" I ask again.
"Ummmm. Yes..." The Prof answers.

Then adds,
" our backyard."

It's not because my spouse hates to camp. It's because before my spouse calls anything camping he has to have the BEST equipment. He has to spend time and cash at Cabelas.

DON'T TAKE ME TO CABELAS. Just don't. I really REALLY REALLY hate it there. I don't care if it's bigger than Malaysia and takes up most of Lehi. It's not my scene and I reserve the right to never have to go there again for the rest of my life. Sure, you go there, take your kids, pet the dead animals, smell fishing tackle, try on orange cowboy hats. You do it. Just don't invite me to come.

Did I just tiraded?

Something happened this week. Saturn aligned with Jupiter and CK said that we could go camping. I was so excited that I filled up my camel pack.

We left Provo around 6 on Friday night and arrived in Nephi around 7. Dinnered and headed west. We was going to the Little Sahara Sand Dunes! A BLM Recreational Park. We didn't have no recreational vehicles, just a tent and willing hearts.

On our way there we passed a whole lotta o' trailers and RVs. One had "Dune Therapy" in cursive on the back. It struck us funny. Now we use "Dune Therapy" all the time around here.

"I can go after my Dune Therapy appointment."
"Is my little Dune Therapist home?"
"I learned today in Dune Therapy that..."

We arrived at the park shortly after sunset. There was a sign that read:
Last Serious Accident 3 days ago.

As you can probably guess, the "3" was switchable, so like, if there were an accident the next day they could insert "0". And so on and so forth.

We found a nice little spot amid some junipers on a hill. It felt like we were pretty secluded. CK started to make a fire. He wanted me to fetch firewood, but I just sat down and ate some Fritos. I was in the middle of doing such, when 2 four-wheelers, or ATV's or Quad Runners (CK's preference) came flying through our campsite! I could have been in the buff! Hello! Dust in my Fritos bag! Gross!

The dust was just settling when I heard someone yell from out of the darkness of the desert.

"Jeremy, is that you?"
Cough. cough.

And I ignored it.

Moments later CK returned.
"I ran into a lady. She was lost and very drunk."
"How did you know she was drunk?" I asked.
"She kept saying 'Hooo Heee. I've been drinking. Can you show me where I am parked?' " He explained.

As the story goes this lady (missing teeth) got mad at her boyfriend (relationship dune therapy?), hopped on her Quad Runner and flew off in a drunken stupor. Now she was desperately lost and didn't know how to shift her ATV. CK had to start it a half a dozen times for her before she took off over the hill, hopefully to a safe place. But one never knows. She was in flip-flops.

I grew up riding them things. It ain't that hard. Even if you are drunk.

As the night grew on I became more grumpy. By the time we decided to get into the tent, we could hear ATV's and Troop 49 playing kick the can only yards away.

"Ali Ali Oxen Free! Brother Garrison is it! Again!"

Snuggled into our sleeping bags we lied there. The tent was so thin we could see the blinking orbitals above us. Four wheelers shook our tent. After a half hour of enduring the Sand Dune Circus in silence, CK said what was in my stubborn heart,

"That's it. We're going home."

He carried me, still stuffed in my sleeping bag, to the car. I sat there in disbelief, as he meticulously rolled all the bags, sleeping pads and finally, folded the tent. He had such angst, that he folded, tucked and rolled like he was a factory worker.

1 hour and 4o minutes later, I was home in my bed.

But before I fell asleep I heard this whispered in my ear,
"Let's try it again next weekend..."

And, much to my joy, he didn't add,
" our backyard."