Morgan Lake, Oregon
B By the time we reached La Grande, the sun had started to settle his hips down into the mountain tops. So many of our days were like this: waking in the dew-covered tent, breaking camp with a flurry, then the long, pretty drive against dusk. We hoped to find a camp spot and make dinner before dark.
“What town is this?” asked Kate, a bit nervous about the setting sun.
“La Graaaand?” I replied. “La Gran-day?” I googled for a campsite, park, or pond nearby. Google returned a place called Silver Lake Campground, with a specific address. We drove up road X for 1.2 miles, took a turn on road Y for .02 miles, then a HARD LEFT at the traffic circle, followed by a slight right, then a slam! on the break for .0001 miles, followed by some cursing. We were at the exact address Google delivered us to, and it was…a fire station.
“Quick! Let’s ask those guys for directions!” I pointed at two strapping lads headed for their car. Kate hesitated a little. They looked like Lumberjack Oregon Firefighter Loggermen! When we asked them about Silver Lake, Franklin (light green eyes) and Joe (quiet, background-type) said they’d never heard of such a place. But they’d gladly see us to a city-owned campsite not far off, at Morgan Lake. We followed their old Volvo (Kate loved their car) through town and country, parting ways at a gravel road that would lead us to the campsite. I invited them to join us for dinner, in a few hours, if they didn’t mind camp food. They accepted.
Kate couldn’t believe it. “We have no food!” she insisted. “And we don’t have any time–the sun’s going down!” She was right. She dropped me off by the lake and headed back into town to shop for groceries. I pitched the tent. My cell was dead, there were swarms of mosquitos following me everywhere I walked, and I could swear I heard a band of coyotes in the distance, making me shiver. When finally the Chevy pulled up, gratitude flooded my brain. An hour later, dinner was ready: rice, beans, homemade guacamole(!), chips, homemade salsa(!!), bread, olives, and roasted vegetables. And beer. Kate had out-done herself.
The guys arrived at ten to find us huddling over a paltry fire made of twigs and branches. It was all I had been able to find. They left and returned with their arms full of firewood. Ah, men.
The evening went off splendidly: everyone had enough to eat, Franklin and Joe proved to be engaging dinner guests, and we soon succumbed to the “dazed and sleepy” look of people who had eaten too much. When at a very late hour the guys left, I sat poking at the embers for a bit, thinking about the need people have for other people. A coyote howled in the distance, but I didn’t shiver. It was an honest, beautiful sound.
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