Shifting Sands

I wouldn’t read this, if I were you. I just ramble on and on. You have been warned.

There’s a reason I have never in all my years been a salesperson. It goes against my nature. But this past week, I had to venture into that terrain. As I told y’all in an earlier post, among the mounds of junk crammed into my house and basement, only two objects had any immediate resale value: a 1957 Leica M3 rangefinder film camera, and a 1980s Otari MX5050-BII reel-to-reel tape recorder, both classics in their respective realms. Though nervous about dealing with finicky strangers, I listed both, with careful descriptions, on Craigslist for lower than what they fetch on eBay. Pretty quickly a wonderful young woman came by to see the camera and, after thorough inspection, decided to make it her own. She was excited, and also grateful that I accepted her offer of $250 less. Sadly, a mere hours later she had second thoughts, and texted to propose the possibility of bringing it back. I had to remind her that it was listed as-is, with no returns. This story may or may not be over. It bugs me because I want her to be happy.

Meanwhile, I was getting no takers on the tape deck so decided to chop the price in half. I’d tested it and it seemed to be working fine, but when I re-listed it I wrote that I’d let it go (“price absolutely firm”) for what buyers lay out for a non-operational unit that’s sold just for parts. I figured it was wiser to bring in at least some money and not have to worry about customer dissatisfaction. A couple hours later, an earnest young man met me in my basement to give the machine a complete workout. To my horror, it soon started misbehaving: the reels turned too slowly when rewinding, the hubs rattled, and the pinch roller wouldn’t engage the tape. Learning from my previous experience, I tried to convince him not to buy it. “It’s not supposed to do that,” I warned. “Oh, this is a problem here,” I advised. “I can’t take it back if it acts up,” I cautioned. My impassioned admonitions had no effect. After asking, a bit to my surprise, if the absurdly low price was firm (uh, yeah), he reached into his jeans pocket and plunked down some big bills, and then hauled everything (cables, reels, the machine, and more) to his car. Once it was nestled securely in the back, I reached out to pat it one last time, telling him with blatant vanity, “I’ve produced some good, award-winning documentaries on this thing.” And off they went, into an uncertain future.

And that is the end of my sales career. I hope.

And then there’s the matter of my upcoming camping trips. My destinations seem to be moving targets. You might be saying, “Give it a rest, Allison. Just stick with your choices!” But there are reasons my plans are shifting like desert sands.

I blame mosquitos and yellow jackets. I’ve been reading a lot about how Calaveras Big Trees is infested with them, so I looked online into how to handle the problem. A bowl of balsamic vinegar in a strategic location? A wadded-up paper sandwich bag hung from a tree to resemble a hornet’s nest? One article Lulu sent suggested investing in a 13’ x 15’ Coleman Instant Screen House that encloses the site’s picnic table. A brilliant solution, I thought, and who could resist the rave reviews? “Super easy to put up and take down!” “This thing sets up in 2 seconds if you even have half a brain.” And “Very light weight.”

When it arrived in the mail, I could barely lift it out of its box. And though I’d checked the dimensions before ordering, I was appalled by its size. I wrestled it outside and learned that there’s no way it fits into the trunk of my wee car. However, the rear doors do close, just barely, when I insert it like this:

Back inside, when I hauled it out of its case, its eight long, heavy metal legs spontaneously sproinged out, spider-like, in all directions, crashing into the floor and smacking nearby furniture. I sweated and swore and wrangled and gave up, irritated that, apparently, I don’t have “half a brain.” A bit later I tried again. Nope. But three times was the charm. My third of a brain and I were gratified that I succeeded at last.

When erected, this thing is huge. I looked on the Internet at the photo of the tiny, steep campsite I’d reserved in Calaveras and realized there’s no way it will fit around the table. See the red line between those two trees? That’s no 13 feet.

Not relishing the prospect of being tormented by flying, biting insects for two days, I tried yet again to find a roomier site in Calaveras. No luck. It was time to start researching other venues further away in the central Sierra. In the process, I happened to stumble upon an article in Sunset Magazine that listed California’s best campgrounds. I was thrilled to see among them the place in Lassen National Park that I’d chosen for Ember’s and my August trip. The piece went on to specify the two best sites there. You know perfectly well what I did. Lo and behold, one was free the exact two days we’ll be there. So I fixed that.

Later I realized that our prior site was probably nicer, but I think I’m done now.

Examining a map of California state parks, I located one I haven’t been to in decades: Grover Hot Springs on the eastern edge of the state, almost in Nevada. 

It’s a ton more driving, but three sites were open there. I consulted with Eleni who agreed that it might be a better option, because—look—there’s room for the screen house. I think. 

And I’ll need that protection, with the site backing up to a tiny creek, and a big meadow a few yards away: serious bug action. I’m wondering if that’s why those three sites—the only ones in the campground close to the brackish water—were still available. Oh well. Fingers crossed. No more plan-changing. 

In telling you all this, I realize I am, once again, fully exposing my obnoxiously compulsive nature in all its glory. Oh well; take me or leave me. After all, Mister Rogers told me I’m fine just the way I am. No, really: he actually said that. I have it on tape somewhere. Let me search. 

Okie dokie, here ya go: