OF HELICOPTERS AND REDNECK LOVE

OF HELICOPTERS AND REDNECK LOVE

This story is an account of a road trip I took with some of my friends when I was in college. Every event in this story is 100% true.

My first hint that we picked a bad place to camp was the large ball of beer cans, hanging from a low branch on a nearby pine tree. Young children giggled with joy as they pumped the dead soldiers full of pellets with their air guns. The kids were shooting toward the highway, which lay about 10 feet away from their firing range. We should have turned around then, hopped back into my Dodge pickup, and driven very fast to somewhere far away.

We left late the night before, having decided to make a road trip from Canyon, the small college town in Texas where we lived, to Denver, to see our favorite band, Roger Clyne and the Peacemakers. Instead of opting for hotel rooms, we thought it would be more fun, and manly, if we camped, and did a little fly fishing as well. We would cook over an open fire, sleep under the stars, and just commune with nature.

After a late night trip to a local supermarket for supplies and groceries, we were off into the warm May night of West Texas.

We traveled under cover of darkness, me driving, Matt, Taylor, and Chuck all packed into the cab of my truck, the bed filled with sleeping bags, a tent, tarps, gas stoves, and most importantly, food and beer. We drove black country roads, the headlights illuminating a yellow stripe that moved and slithered next to the truck like a never ending serpent.

Matt, the intellectual of the group, and a mentor to Taylor and I, told us of Jack Kerouac. I was intrigued. I had never heard of this Kerouac fellow, but hearing his romantic tales of hitchhiking, riding the rails, and driving across the country, made me long to do the same. There is something magical about hearing the adventures of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty while driving on abandoned highways in the middle of the night. It’s the time that story is supposed to be told, because that’s when it happened. I think that is why the story stuck with me.

Matt was a year older than us, we had been acquaintances in high school, but gotten to be good friends in college where he, Taylor, and I were all mass communications majors, all of us wanting a career in film. Matt let us in on what was cool, and even now, many years later, I feel that my taste in music, movies, and literature were all influenced heavily by him. This is a good thing. Matt has impeccable taste in the arts.

Taylor, Chuck, and I had been friends since junior high and were three of the five current inhabitants of a house deemed “Casa de Homies.”

Taylor, always the enthusiast, was elated that we were taking a road trip. Taylor is the type of guy that thinks whatever he is doing or has at the time is the greatest thing in the world. Whether it be his latest movie idea, answering machine greeting, CD, or the candles he just purchased, they were always wonderful. He would come into the house with a big, goofy smile that fit his scrawny, six-foot-five frame perfectly, and tell us: “Dude, you’ve got to check this out.” Most times, we would be unimpressed and tell him so (we were always blunt with each other) to which he would reply, “No dude, it’s badass.” “Badass” was the staple of his vernacular. Actually, we all said it, all of the time, and it was all Taylor’s fault.

Chuck has what I like to call a “m’eh” attitude. He’s up for anything most of the time, and was on the trip for the ride and the fishing. He had very little in common with the other three of us. He listened to the radio, owned one CD (the soundtrack to Braveheart), and hated independent movies. He was pretty much the polar opposite of us which is why we liked him so much.

We continued to drive through the night, talking about things that pseudo-intellectuals like us talked about. God, girls, and dreams.

Sometime in the early morning hours we stopped in Clayton, New Mexico at a locally owned motel to get some sleep. We walked into the dim lobby, the smell of dust thick in the air, and rang the bell on the desk. The room was decorated with the typical 50’s western fare. Pictures and paintings of working cowboys were on each of the four walls. A dirty, green and orange couch, that looked like no one had sat in it since the sixties was against the wall opposite the door.

A woman of about 55 stumbled up to the desk, dressed in a ratty nightgown that could have been her grandmother’s, her eyes swollen with sleep. She gave us a room and we paid with cash.

The hotel room was decorated much like the lobby, the paintings were uglier and the beds and chair dustier. It was fine for us. We climbed into bed and slept.

My mortal enemy, Morning, came far too early. While the others awakened, showered, dressed, and watched TV, I continued to doze. I have a rule when I am in the outdoors. No showers. After all, cavemen and Native Americans didn’t have plumbing. If I am to truly commune with nature, I cannot bathe using plumbing, unless of course, we’re going somewhere where there are girls. Finally, after being threatened and beaten with pillows and other blunt objects, I crawled out from under the covers, threw on some clothes, and again we were off.
We drove the lonely highway that runs from Clayton to Raton, the Rocky Mountains slowly rising in the distance as if the jaws of the earth were closing around us. The closer they got, the more quiet we became, content to enjoy the view and the music on the stereo. When you live in the flat, West Texas plain, a mountain view is always awe inspiring, no matter how many times you may have seen it.

Taylor, who had nominated himself the navigator, looked at the Colorado atlas so we could decide where we would set up camp. We spotted a small town just south of Denver, called Deckers, that was wedged in the mountains near the South Platte River, known for its great fishing. We decided this was our destination.

Deckers, it turned out, is not what one would call a town. It consisted of a general store and a fly shop, which is really all we needed. The large banner hung above the store screamed: “We have 3.2% beer!”

“Is that really something to be proud of?” I said. It was not, the others decided.
The elderly shopkeeper pointed us in the direction of a National Forest Service campground just a few miles north and gave us advice on how to fish the Platte. We left, small plastic cups of artificial flies in hand.

The narrow, two-lane road led us north, winding through valleys and following the river. The campground was situated in a crook of a bend in the road, sandwiched between the highway and the South Platte. Brightly colored tents were visible through the trees as we pulled into the parking lot.

We decided to check the place out and find a spot to pitch our tent before unloading anything and walked through the campsite. The first campsite on the right contained several families and tents, and the ominous ball of beer cans.

“We should keep going,” Matt said under his breath. We all nodded in agreement and kept walking. We found a site on a hill, looking down into the rest of the camp and the river and into the mountains beyond. This was a good place, so we set up camp.

As we built the place that would be our home for the next few days, the daylight faded. The moon rose large and full in the eastern sky, surrounded by wisps of clouds, the remnant of some now dead thunderstorm. The clouds made it look like the eye of God, groggily opening from His evening nap, as if to say, “I’m watching you.”

“Hey, are you going to stand there and stare at the moon or would you like to help me get this tent set up?” Chuck demanded.

“Sorry, just thinking.”

By the time we were set up, it was completely dark and we were starving. The steaks, purchased the night before, were whispering to us that they wanted to be consumed.
Chuck and I got the campfire started while Matt and Taylor seasoned the meat and got it ready to cook. Holes were poked into the steaks with a fork and filled with beer. I looked over, surprised.

“Are you pouring beer onto those steaks?” I got nothing but a look from Matt as if to say that if I were going to ask anymore stupid questions I could leave. I had neglected to think of the rule that so many attending college go by: “Beer goes good with anything.”

I thought back to when I was a boy scout in junior high and how, on a canoeing trip on the Rio Grande, our crazed guide put beer in everything he cooked. From beans to pancakes, there was always an underlying taste of the stuff in all of our food.

I shrugged and stoked the fire, waiting for the coals to reach their maximum steak cooking potential. The moment came after what seemed like eons, and the steaks were placed lovingly on the grill we had perched between two rocks on either side of the fire ring. They sizzled and our taste buds swelled with the anticipation of our coming meal.

They were everything we had hoped for (although I couldn’t taste any difference made by the beer). Once finished, the lantern was extinguished, beer was passed around, and tobacco pipes were lit. The four of us sat in silence and darkness, each admiring the endless stars, the only reminder of civilization was the orange glow of Denver just above the northern horizon.
Once enough beer had been consumed to make us sleepy, we retired to the tent, Taylor in the middle so his feet could stretch out almost through the door, me next to Chuck, smashed up on the side. Sleep came quickly to us all, but did not last long.

I was awakened by the sound of shouting and the flashing of red and blue light. I sat up and rubbed my eyes, trying to make them focus. None of the others were up. What the hell is going on?, I asked myself. Just my luck, we’d camp in the middle of nowhere only to be abducted by UFO’s.

I lay back down to try to be asleep when I was beamed aboard, but my rest was thwarted again, this time by the scream of sirens. Now, my curiosity got the best of me. I sat up and unzipped the flap so I could poke my head out and see what was going on.

Down in the parking lot were several police cars, light bars flashing and spinning, and an ambulance just arriving. Someone had apparently been injured.

“Dude, turn that light off,” Taylor groaned.
“It’s not me, there’s a bunch of cops down in the parking lot.”

Matt and Chuck were coming to now, asking what was going on. We took turns looking out of the flap until we lost interest. None of us wanted to get dressed and walk down there so we decided to go back to sleep.

I again lay my head down, only to have my rest once again thwarted, this time by the sound of a helicopter approaching.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I said.
“Is that a helicopter?” Taylor asked, his voice deepened from sleeping.
“You know, I camp to get some peace and quiet and this is really starting to piss me off,” said Matt.

It was a helicopter, it turned out. One that landed in the middle of the highway and shut off its engine. While we all lay there, wondering what was going on, we heard voices not far from our tent and a flashlight sweeping over us. It was two policemen, checking the camp for what we hoped was not a murderer. Maybe all the commotion was over a lost dog or something. We shut up and feigned sleep, as if we were guilty of something, until they passed.

After an hour, the sound of the helicopters engines spooling up floated into the tent and a few seconds later the loud thup, thup, thup, of whirring blades was heard. The flashing blue and red was gone, and the chopper disappeared into the mountains. The silence and solitude of Colorado returned at last. We slept.

The following morning came and we were forced awake by the heat inside of the tent as the sun came up. Still dressed in the clothes of the previous day, Matt and I stumbled down to the parking lot to get clean clothes from my pickup.

Passing the fully-packed campsite with their personal firing range, we were stopped by one of its inhabitants.

“Morning,” said the man.
“Morning,” Matt and I replied in unison.
“I suppose ya’ll heard all that commotion last night.” His voice indicated that this was a question.
“Yeah, what happened?” I asked, not knowing that I wouldn’t want to hear his answer.
“Well, we was sitting around the campfire and my buddy and his girlfriend started fighting. She was drunk, and when she gets drunk she gets mean, and she just started tearing into him. Well, he decides he’s had enough and just gets up and leaves. He got in his car and she started a chasin’ after him.”
Matt and I caught each others eyes and communicated that we didn’t like where this story was headed. The man continued on:
“Well, as he’s driving off, she opens the door trying to get in, he doesn’t notice and keeps going. Well she’s just hangin’ on the door and when he turns onto the highway he slings her off and accidentally runs over her, right across the middle.” He used his hands to indicate where the wheels of the vehicle had gone on this woman, drawing an invisible line from his left hip to his right shoulder.
Matt’s and my eyes doubled in size at this horrific news, and the man kept going.
“The worst part is, he just got out of prison, that’s where I met him, and now he’s probably gonna have to go back, which is a shame cause it was an accident. He didn’t know she was on that car.”
“Did they arrest him?” I asked
“Naw, like I said. He didn’t know and he just kept driving.”
“Wow, that sucks man,” Matt said. I couldn’t tell if he was mocking the man or being serious, but the man didn’t notice either way.
“Is the girlfriend okay?” I said.
“We’re not sure, she was pretty banged up and screaming, in a lot of pain you know. They took her to Denver.”
“That sucks,” Matt repeated.
“Yeah, it sucks.”
The three of us stared at the ground, avoiding eye contact, possibly all thinking the same thing: too much information.
“Well you guys have a good day. I think we’re going to pack up and leave.”
And with that, he turned and walked away.

“He ran over her and didn’t notice?” Taylor asked, incredulous.
“That’s this guys story,” I said.
“How do you not know someone’s hanging off your door and then again not notice when you run over them?”
“I don’t know.”
Matt and I had returned with our fresh clothes looking disturbed. Taylor and Chuck inquired about what was wrong and we had told them.
“At least they’re leaving, maybe now we can have some peace,” Chuck said.
Peace was not meant to be.

We spent the day fishing the South Platte, Taylor and I fly-fishing, Matt and Chuck using spinners. I believe that fly-fishing is an art form, and if that is true, then my talent could be compared to drawing stick figures, rudimentary forms of the real thing. Taylor’s talent was comparable to drawing basic shapes.

More beer was consumed than fish were caught, but we were there to enjoy the outdoors and the beauty of God’s creation, which was evident by the long sloping mountain on the western side of the river and the river itself, winding its way through the valley, occasionally being held up by a log or boulder only to find a path around the obstacle on its way to wherever it was going.

The sun had worn itself out and was laying down in the western sky for some sleep by the time we had finished. Waving my fly-rod back and forth from the ten and two position all day and not wearing deodorant gave me a painful rash in my armpit which I kept rubbing and complaining about. The other three just mocked me and enjoyed my pain, offering little sympathy. Matt, fancying himself a photographer, snapped a picture of it.

We kept no fish to eat for supper and returned to our camp to cook some chicken and macaroni and cheese (a staple of every bachelors diet). The pellet gun rednecks had abandoned their camp. No trace of them remained, they even took their ball of beer cans.

Arriving in our camp, we were greeted by a couple of large barking dogs, who charged at us, only to be suddenly stopped by the chain around their neck. We had neighbors. What seemed like a small village of tents was set up below our camp. A tan, shirtless, middle-aged man, his plump wife, young son, daughter, and daughter’s friend had moved in next door. Their camp was already littered with cans of cheap beer and other assorted trash. The dogs would constantly bark, run to the end of their chains and be pulled back onto their rumps.

“Great,” Matt said. The rest of us muttered various curse words.

The chicken, although not near as euphoria inducing as the previous night’s dinner, was good, and after finishing we sat around the campfire in the darkness, drinking beer and smoking pipes. The family below us went to bed long before us and as they did, the wind began to pick up, making the fire rumble and whip around. The trash below, began to move too, and their campfire, now reduced to smoldering coals, reignited.

“They could get in trouble for that,” I said.
“Thanks Smokey,” Chuck said, the beginnings of a smirk on the corner of his mouth.
While we sat discussing life, we were interrupted by the sound of a tent zipper and giggling girls shushing each other. The daughter and her friend, whom I guessed were around 13 years-old, were sneaking out.

“Oh this can’t be good,” Matt said, the fire flickering and illuminating half of his face.
“They’re going to get caught, and we’re going to have to stop that guy from beating his children,” I complained.

The girls, quiet as an elephant, made their way downhill toward the river and disappeared into the darkness. About 50 yards from their camp two tiny points of light came on. As they were doing this, a small pickup pulled into the parking lot and a man with a wide-brimmed hat got out and walked our way. The lights, now in the middle of the river, froze in place at the sight of the new arrival.

The park ranger made his way into our camp.

“Evening,” he said.
“How’s it going?” I replied.
“Not too bad. Just checking up on things. You guys make sure to put this fire all the way out before you go to bed. The wind’s pretty bad. We don’t need a forest fire.”
“We’ll do.”
“Thanks guys, have a good one.”
“You too.”

The ranger headed downhill into the family’s camp. Upon seeing the unattended fire the silhouette of his large hat swung back and forth.

“Sir?” he asked into the dark tent.
“Mmm rrhm mm,” was the reply
“Sir, I need you to pick up this campsite and put the fire out.”
More grumbling from the tent.
“Sir, the wind is blowing pretty bad and your trash is blowing into the forest. You need to pick it up.”

Still more grumbles from the tent, but now came the sound of movement.

“Thank you,” said the ranger and he made his way back to his pickup.

As the pickup’s headlights came on and it began to pull away, a shirtless form flopped out of the tent. The man lit the lantern, illuminating the large amount of garbage in the camp. The flashlights were still sitting motionless in the middle of the river.

He began to pick up the beer cans, all the while grumbling to himself. We could only make out the occasional curse word. Apparently the commotion had awakened the man’s son, as he too came out of his tent and had a seat next to the fire.

The man was throwing away a beer can when he suddenly yelled, “Hey Mister Ranger, I’m picking up my shit!” His southern accent added another syllable to this last word so that it came out as “shee-it.” The ranger was long gone by now and could not hear that the man was following his instructions.

We began to laugh, quietly so the man would not hear us. We didn’t feel like fighting right then.

“Hey Mister Ranger, I’m picking up my shee-it,” he called again.
“Ron, don’t talk like that in front of your son,” came a quiet, sleepy voice from the inside of the tent.
“Ah hell, he’s ten, he can hear words like that!”
“Father of the year,” Taylor whispered. We all began to laugh harder.
As Ron picked up the camp, he discovered a beer that had not yet been opened.
“Ah hell,” he said, a hint of excitement in his voice. He popped the top and had a seat next to his son at the fire.

Once the beer was finished, Ron extinguished the fire and the lantern and got back into his tent. The boy followed a few minutes later, returning to his own tent. The flashlights that had been in the middle of the river for thirty minutes began to move toward the parking lot. They disappeared behind a small cluster of bushes on the bank.

A few minutes later, we again heard giggles. The girls had made their way around the entire campground and were walking through the edge of our camp.

“Hi,” one of them said.
“Ignore them,” Matt commanded.
One of the girls nearly tripped over something and cussed. Chuck, who had consumed a few beers throughout the night, did not obey Matt.
“You’re too young to talk like that.”

The girls ignored him and made their way back to their camp, got in their tent, and were quiet. The drama was over.

Except it wasn’t. A few short minutes later, there was a slight moan from Ron’s tent.
“Oh please tell me I didn’t just hear that,” I said.

Before anyone could reply, another quiet moan was heard, followed by a male grunt.
“This isn’t happening,” I said, trying to withhold my laughter. The others were all doing the same.

“Think of the children man,” Chuck said. This was too much and we were all laughing hysterically, trying to keep it quiet, which only made it worse.

We took the amorous noises as our cue to put out the fire (it had been lit somewhere else) and go to bed.

This time, sleep was not interrupted by flashing lights or helicopters, just the well rested sun beating down and heating our tent until our bodies made us seek cooler climes.
We decided to spend the day in Denver as none of us had done anymore than drive through. So, unclean, unshaven, and smelling of campfire, we piled into my pickup and were on our way.
Taylor, the self-appointed navigator, found a shortcut on the map that would take us straight into Denver. Without questioning him about it, we followed it, and ended up bouncing along on a dirt road in the middle of nowhere. Just as we were about to fire Taylor and drop him off onto the side of the road, the dirt turned to gravel, then to pavement and met with the highway, which led us into the city.

Denver, despite the traffic, is a beautiful city nestled in the Rockies and full of interesting people. You get everything from the tree-hugging women who don’t shave their armpits, to yuppies, to rich CEO’s. I can see why Kerouac loved it so much.

We made our way to Colfax, the street where everything happens in Denver, with little problem, found the theater where the concert would take place, then tried to decide what to do for the next several hours before the concert started. I suggested we find a mall, get something to eat, then wander around for a while to kill time. Everyone agreed this was a good idea, so we set off to find a mall. We killed a couple of hours just trying to find one. Several gas station attendants gave us several different directions, all of which we managed to screw up. Finally on our fourth or fifth attempt, we located a mall, parked, and went in.
It was immediately evident that we did not belong in this place. Two of us were wearing taco’d cowboy hats and all of us were dirty, a cloud of stench seemed to follow us around. Women dressed in the latest New York City fashions cut wide paths around us, avoiding eye contact at all costs.

I decided to get some money out of an ATM so that I could eat and was greeted by a five dollar service charge, the text on the screen seeming to turn up its nose and suggest that I leave.

Matt spotted a cinnamon roll stand and purchased one. We all sat and passed it down the line, each taking a bite and savoring the deliciousness of it.

I studied the people that walked past us. Many would look away when our eyes met and the rest would whisper to their companions then giggle. I watched this with interest and pointed it out to Matt, who began to laugh after looking at me.

“What?” I asked.
“Well, they might be laughing at that,” he said, pointing at my cowboy hat.

I had set my hat to rest just on top of my head as my hair hurt from lack of being washed. We both set into fits of laughter as more people pointed at us and told their secrets.
After eating some overpriced pizza we left for the concert.

The theatre was old. Paintings depicting the history of Colorado decorated the walls and friendly bartenders and waitresses greeted us.

The concert was unlike any other I had ever attended. It was one of those rare moments in live music where the crowd does more than listen to the band and cheer for their favorite songs. The crowd was an extension of the band, and the band knew it and played accordingly.
Roger was in rare form, taking shots of tequila, bought for him by fans, between songs. At one point, he told the crowd he was going to play a new song.

“Sounds good to me!” I yelled in a weird Italian accent which caught even me by surprise. He laughed and replied: “Sounds good to me too.”

As the concert ended, P.H., the drummer, tossed his drumsticks into the crowd. Matt and I both leaped for one and he came down with it, then promptly turned around and handed it to me, knowing I was a bigger fan. I knew then, that he was a true friend.

As we exited the theatre, the band had come to the foyer to hawk their wares. I had the drummer autograph my drumstick which he signed: “Gracias Jered,” misspelling my name, which for some reason makes it more special to me.

It was two in the morning when we finally pulled away from the theatre, Matt driving, Taylor again assuming the position of navigator. We were quiet for most of the way, partly from exhaustion, partly because we were reliving the concert in our minds. It wasn’t until an hour after we left that we noticed we had missed the turn. Taylor was quickly fired from his position.

The path was found once again and we rolled into the parking lot of our campsite around five, the first blue light of dawn appearing in the east. We crawled into our tents and slept in our clothes, too exhausted to change.

Sleep was short. We awoke and broke camp, reluctant to leave the serenity of the Rockies and head back to reality.

We talked the whole way home, reliving the insane moments of the trip and planning our futures. The jagged Rockies soon gave way to rolling hills which then lowered themselves into flat grasslands. For those who are born and raised in Texas, coming home is always exciting. You grow to love the flat land, where the wind blows and sunsets are always visible, never hidden behind mountains.

Upon arriving home, I crashed and entered a deep sleep, uninterrupted by helicopters or redneck love.