Camping Big Bend

When a group of six 22 year old guys who ironically call themselves the Gator Boys go camping in Big Bend, you’re bound to have a night that consists of beer and whiskey shots. I was one of the last two sitting outside the tent in lawn chairs. We draped blankets over our three layers of clothes to fight off the 40 degree wind, but there was no way to help my nose tip from getting brutalized.

                Our stories filled the void of silence and afforded a decent excuse to stay outside and observe the night sky. Clouds shrouded the moon but were highlighted around their edges by an iridescent gleam. Periodically, the moon peeked out from the overcast, shining full and bright. Dark craters contrasted the grey lunar rock. Without light pollution to invade, the features were as distinct as I had ever seen them. In the middle of the night, we pulled out sunglasses to count the craters. A respect and appreciation was established between us and the moon.

                After my friend nodded off and woke up for the second time, he entered the tent, making me the lonesome man. Left to my own devices, my tipsy self also established a pact with the moon. He would fulfill the role as protectorate if I kept him company throughout the night. A fair trade off. I constructed a lawn chair bed orienting three in a row and sank in.

                I closed my eyes to focus on the sounds of wilderness. The valley our campsite was located in must have been a wind tunnel between the two peaks. The howling of the wind was rather incessant, drowning out anything from a distance. But in the fragments the wind did stop, animals were out to play. The yelp of a mountain lion (or what I imagined) out of camp startled one eye open. Remembering the sign bearing caution to bears and mountain lions, I gripped our hunting knife a little tighter.

                I trusted the moon is a man of his word. After a couple attempts to get comfortable, I dozed off in the makeshift bed. Although a tent is a thin sheet of nylon and polyester, that barrier is enough to have peace of mind. With every little noise, I jolted up, knife in hand, but fearing what might be around. On my third wake, I heard bustle from behind my chair. Half-asleep and not truly believing my senses anymore, I turned. And down-below me, illuminated by the moon, was a skunk. No mistaking those white stripes. Better than a mountain lion. I could fight off a skunk, but if I got sprayed? The car ride home was going to be a long one by myself. Without making a peep, I sunk slowly into the back of my chair and threw the blankets over my head. I was now legitimately praying to the moon for protection. I heard footsteps raiding our campsite. The skunk wandered around my bed, stopping occasionally. The sound of his steps became fainter as he sauntered towards the tent. I waited to hear him again. And waited some more, too scared to make a run for the tent. Within my blanket fortress, I stayed up as long as my body would physically let me, pleading with the moon for help. And at 6 A.M., I was greeted by the rise of the sun and an overwhelming sense of security.