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Monday, September 07, 2009

Beatlicks: Last Generation of Campers 

Subject: Beatlick TR3: Glenwood here we come
Date: Aug 26, 2009 12:40 PM

Last night Beatlick Joe and I sat outside to watch the sky. It was too dark to see the cow patties but we got lucky and missed most of them. I haven’t really spent that much time looking at the stars since Joe and I took that sailboat trip out of Zihuatanejo to Mazatlan, sailing beneath the Southern Cross. I couldn’t even find the Big Dipper, but in my defense the stars were so numerous that it was lost in the masses.

You know if you look up into the sky long enough you will definitely see something that makes you want to scratch your head. Joe and I both saw a little red star that seemed to pulse and quiver around, not really travel, but definitely move incrementally in all directions. We watched the blinking lights of airplanes traverse the whole horizon and the summer heat lightning illuminate the sky off towards Silver City.

Next morning we pulled out and learned a lot more about the Bubbles at the Ranger Station. The Bubbles don’t exist anymore – dried up years ago. All our information was too old truthfully. We also learned from the rangers that the road to the hot springs was closed because of squatters.

Apparently a small enclave was living there and word got out that an infant had died up there. Upon further investigation it was discovered that the people were poaching long horn sheep for sustenance. They were run out and the road was closed forever.

The young female ranger that came to our campground told me squatting is still a problem. She had a work crew back near the springs to clear brush recently when she discovered an intact “house” that someone had constructed for themselves out there. Now for her own protection she’s not allowed to go back there to work.

She also said the rangers who work in this area do not restore the hot springs after a flood. So maybe the person in that “house” is the one who attempted to restore one of the pools. Or maybe the person whose blanket I now own did it. The smaller pool near that camp was by far the cleanest and best being constructed all out of rocks without mud.

That camper who left the blanket had sustained himself or herself with a twenty-pound bag of organic oatmeal. I know because the bag was left there as trash along with the blanket, pan, backpack and tarp.

So, only problem campers, floods, and a need for constant restoration, it’s easy to see why these campgrounds can be cut from the Federal budget or simply diminished to hiking trails. In this economic climate it’s just a matter of time – especially when there is the pristine Cat Walk hiking experience fifteen miles down the road with only picnic grounds to maintain.

Beatlick Joe says we are probably the last generation of campers.

Happy Trails
Beatlick Pamela Hirst

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