Feeding the Enemy

Anyone who knows me well is aware that I hate hiking where there's people—especially the crowds. Sometimes it's unavoidable. I had hoped that this place also would be thin with human visitation. Even though images of it are iconic, many people are simply unaware of its remote location.

After thirty-two miles on a dirt road we finally arrived at the parking area, and to my disappointment, there were already a dozen vehicles. With no other choice but to concede, we began setting up camp.

I came with a couple buddies from work and a brother to one. Our intent was to explore a rugged land carved with canyons, once inhabited by an ancient people and later used as a hideout for outlaws.

We set up our cots, then Rob warmed up supper in a dutch oven with a small propane stove. We ate “chilighetti” under the remaining light of day.

A crisp breeze picked up and we worried about staying warm during the night. But as the stars began to fill the sky, another thing picked up also—a guitar.

The camp just behind us set up in a semicircle of tents and trailers, with the open end facing us. A large fire in the center threw flames into the air while those around drank and talked loudly. All the while, a lone player strummed his guitar and sang boisterously into the night air.

We all rolled our eyes as we sat quietly in our camp chairs. “This better not last all night,” I was quick to voice my opinion. We were all running on fumes and needed a good night's rest in order to tackle a full day of hiking.

This is one reason why I don't like hiking or camping where there are people. Many of them tend to be the party type and have no consideration for others. When I'm outside, I just want it to be myself, the breeze and stars.

On the other side of camp was another group, less rambunctious, but still making a racket as they set up their tents. I remember their license plates being from Colorado and Massachusetts. I wish that such places as this (referring to the place we were about to hike) were not marketed to vast amounts of people via the internet and guidebooks. I'd like to have it all to myself!

When it came time for bed, I nestled into my sleeping bag, which I rolled out over my cot and under the wide dark sky. I folded one blanket beneath me and the other over. I wore a camouflaged head-cover that I had used hunting, that wrapped around my ears and chin. With a head-lamp, I rested on my pillow and wound down with a Louis L'Amour book.

Meanwhile, when I took the opportunity to look upward, the stars in the sky seemed to glisten a hundredfold. With no moon in sight, the creamy Milky Way spanned directly above us. I found the Big Dipper and Polaris, and realized I had been slightly off in my orientation. Small blinking lights moved far in the sky, probably either airplanes or satellites.

As I turned the pages of my book, I had hoped the group with the fire would have mellowed out. Not so. The same guy strumming the guitar hadn't stopped singing since dinnertime. They laughed and spoke loudly, as if they were the only campers here.

As for our neighbors on the other side, they weren't quite as flagrant as the others, but still made lots of noise. Two more cars joined them, and for a long time, a set of headlights shined directly on us. Sometime later, a couple of them came trudging near our camp with flashlights wagging ahead. We had to listen to them set up tents and converse until very late in the evening.

At last it was time to put down the book and make an attempt at sleep. The wind was picking up and I worried that my blanket would blow off. The temperature was supposed to get down to 40⁰F that night. The guy with the guitar continued to sing, but I did my best to let my mind relax.

After a long night mingled with sleep and wakefulness, the pre-morning sun began to light the sky in the east. When all of us finally awoke, the first topic of comment was that of our noisy neighbors. “Two of them came walking right through our camp with their flashlights!” Dave complained. 

We seemed to be the first ones awake, and I didn't hesitate to display my irritation. I didn't yell, but when I spoke, I didn't whisper either. I hoped to wake them up. If I spoke bad of them (meaning our neighbors) and they were to hear me, I wouldn't care. In fact, I wanted them to know how perturbed I was at them. What I really wanted to do was get a stick and frying pan and walk through their camp while banging the two together, yelling out, “Wakie, wakie!”

Little by little, they did wake up, although I'm sure it had nothing to do with us. Before our hike, Rob cooked us breakfast. In the same dutch oven he fried sausage and scrambled eggs. We spooned them into tortillas and drizzled hot sauce over the top. We ate to our stomach's content.

When we were done, Rob asked each of us if we had had enough. When we assured him we had, he then made a declaration: “I might go ask those guys if they want to eat the rest.” Then he pointed toward our neighbors on the side.

What was he doing? Feeding the enemy? He couldn't do that. I was still mad at them! But he did it anyway.

Using the handle of the dutch oven, he carried it in his right hand while packing the tortillas and a spatula in his left. I watched him walk over to a small log where they sat. From a distance, I could see their eyes light up and I watched Robbie hand each of them a tortilla and then he scraped a healthy spoonful from the oven.

When he returned he wore a big smile. “They all had some except the vegetarians.” Then he saw the carton on the tailgate and said, “I better go see if they want orange juice.”

The deed he did felt right. We later passed some of them on the hike and they enthusiastically thanked him again for the breakfast burritos. I learned a lesson that morning, a lesson that many have already learned. Negative feelings toward anyone is never a good thing. Sometimes all it takes to wash those feelings away and to see them as real people is an act of kindness. ♠