A kickboard might fill the gap. This thought suddenly came to me in the early morning hours. I had been wrestling with how I could fill the gap between the flattened back seat and the back of the passenger seat in my relatively tiny Subaru Crosstrek. I planned to car camp in a week to meet up with my daughter in southern California and pick up her dog for pet sitting while she was on a trip. I had seen people make all sorts of bed platforms for their SUV’s on youtube. Most of wood, and most requiring power saws. Something of which I lacked.
My husband and I are lap swimmers and so perhaps that’s why the foam kickboard idea popped in my head. Later that morning I measured. Won’t work. Too narrow. But as I was looking online at kick boards, another idea popped in. Perhaps a foam kneeling board like gardener’s use. I measured again. Perhaps two side-by-side. As I was toying with the idea, I was hit with yet another possibility.
There was a box of extra cork flooring from our kitchen remodel. I snapped four panels together and laid them in the Subaru. What do you know? They made the approximate dimensions of a twin bed. With my latex foam and wool futon mattress, it should be a big improvement over my last car camp attempt. I also like that the solution was eco-friendly. It was utilizing materials I already owned.
Accompanying me again on my latest journey was my trusty mutt side-kick Cosmo. He is a quiet traveler and seemed to enjoy sleeping atop my comfy car bed.
We made it to Orange County in the late afternoon. I was startled that very few people were wearing masks. Certainly none of the restaurant staff where I picked up some to-go fish tacos. We continued on to the state park campground. Even the park aide and camphost at the check station didn’t wear masks. I found it unnerving, like they are in denial about the current delta surge.
It still feels weird being a park visitor instead of a park ranger, eleven years after I retired. After dinner and watching the sunset and a walk, I start getting ready for reading and bed. As I am getting what I will need to walk to the bathroom, I drop my toothbrush. In the dirt. Quite the germaphobe since contracting Lyme disease and as a former EMT, I cannot force myself to simply rinse it off and use it. Note to self—pack an extra head for my electric toothbrush.
Finally I settle into our cozy AKA cramped space. It’s surprisingly hot. We are near the ocean but we are also in a canyon. There is no need for all or maybe any of the covers I had put on the bed. I read for awhile. Just as I am drifting off to sleep I hear a loud angry voice.
It is a male’s voice and there is lots of swear words mixed in. Occasionally I hear another male voice responding, but it sounds quiet and calm. I cannot make out what that person was saying. They sound relatively close, maybe a couple of sites away. At one point the shouter says, “You never loved me.” I conjecture it might be a father and troubled adult son. One who might be drunk. I have a brief flashback to my father and paranoid schizophrenic brother arguing.
A couple of decades or so ago that might be the sort of situation I would be responding to as a park ranger. Dispatch telling me to respond to a 415. The code stands for the California penal code for disturbing the peace. I keep waiting for the camphost to contact a ranger, and for someone to respond as it continues. I had passed the camphost site on my walk. It’s near mine. There is no way they are not hearing this.
For several minutes I consider crawling out of my car and changing from my pajamas back to clothes and walking to the camphost site to complain. Instead I continue to lie in my car bed with Cosmo by my side feeing a bit helpless. I am 61. I rationalize that I have a long drive home tomorrow. I am no longer armed and trained. At one point the angry man says, “I could stomp on your head.” I listen to see if things start to escalate. That will get me out of the car if so. It doesn’t. Instead it gets eerily quiet. That also feels worrisome. I feel bad for not getting involved. Eventually I fall into an uneasy sleep.
The next morning I walk Cosmo past the camper that I think the argument might have emanated from. There is a black and white kitten sitting under it. I think it must be a feral cat. If I can catch it I can bring it to the nonprofit cat shelter in my town. It shies away when I approach. I put out a bowl of water and a handful of Cosmo’s kibble in the site. I notice that there is an animal carrier on the passenger seat of the RV. I then spot an open tuna or cat food can on the picnic table. This poor kitten is probably a hostage of angry man. Maybe so is the other man. They both don’t realize that they could flee. I feel sorry for them, but can’t fix any of this.
Awhile later I see a young male park ranger talking to a man in the driver’s seat of the camper. The man is disheveled and maybe in his forties or fifties. “So confirming you guys are heading out this morning?” the ranger asks him. A few minutes later the vehicle takes off.
As I am checking out I saw a roadrunner bird disappear into a clump of brush. So at least that’s good.
Chick Ranger 