Spencer & Erica

July 21

As our new neighbor slept in across from us, we quietly prepared breakfast, cleaned up and aimed ourselves toward our next trailhead, the McKenzie Gulch loop 20 minutes south, outside of Weaverville. Despite the early hour, it was already climbing toward 90° and much of our route was exposed, hillsides denuded of shade due to a previous wildfire. 

Once again the AllTrails app kept blaring warnings that we were off-route, and this time it was correct, though we never saw any other way to go. The result was the unintentional addition of half a mile to our planned 3.8-mile trip, which didn’t please my lower-left side. But I uttered not a word about that, nor will I again until I ask the doctor on my return. Our meanderings are represented by blue line, and the suggested trail by the red.

Returning through Weaverville, we stopped for more ice cream and then decided on one more tiny hike that originates a 45-minute drive out yet another steep, unpaved road.

The Trinity Alps guidebook noted that Lake Eleanor is an easy, quick stroll from the trailhead. The guidebook lies. True, it wasn’t far, but I don’t consider a rocky uphill slog for half a mile to be a “stroll,” particularly in blazing sun. Still, it was pretty, and once again we encountered no one either on the drive in or on the trail.

We passed by a lovely little meadow with a distant view of Trinity Lake.

See all those light-green blobs? They’re pitcher plants. Here are a few up close.

Back at the car, I spotted a giant plume of billowing smoke some distance south, but never learned what was burning.

On our late-afternoon return to the campsite, we found Creepy Biker astride his steed, lingering right next to our sites. He called to us, but I couldn’t make out his message. Because he made me profoundly uneasy, I left Nick to deal with him, man-to-man, while I pretended to be busy inside my tent. The dude ranted on and on. Finally, the conversation over, the intruder once again rode to the back of the campground and Nick gave me the report: the guy, name of Spencer, revealed that he’d had an argument with his girlfriend Erica twenty minutes before, and she had taken off on foot, with no food or water or sense of direction, in the 95° heat. He was worried about her, he said, and was going to wait for her down at the dead end in the campground. Here’s what I figured: Spencer hit and/or threatened Erica and she fled. Judging from his behavior, he was high on something. I still don’t know what they’re doing in a campground (it’s not a day picnic area). As time passed and Spencer lurked nearby, Nick’s and my active imaginations ran wild: Spencer had killed Erica and dumped the body in the ravine. I went a step further, suggesting we were next because we knew too much, but Nick disagreed. In any case, we worried about Erica’s safety and I, for one, was anxious about Spencer’s prolonged proximity. 

My concern didn’t keep me from another bath in the creek. Here’s the slippery access point.

And here’s the pool, not more than 16 inches deep.

After a while, another tough-looking motorcycle man with no camping gear passed us and made his way to the back, where he stayed for an hour before leaving. Then another biker and, later, some guy in a car, did the same. We suspected Spencer was selling drugs back there. Our afternoon and early evening were unpleasantly colored by our concern over these turns of events. The privacy, once so desirable, now seemed a liability, especially without cell service.

It wasn’t until hours later, in the early evening, that Spencer began his ride out, shutting his engine off and dismounting at our site. As before, I hid while Nick dealt with him. Spencer said he’d left a light on a picnic table at the furthest site back, along with his contact information, should Erica return or be spotted. He planned, he told Nick, to contact the police tomorrow morning if she didn’t turn up. His delay in action is alarming. Why wouldn’t he go for help sooner? I figured he had something to hide. Nick thought the guy was just spinning some kind of tale to explain his odd presence at the campground, but when we took our dusk walk after Spencer’s departure, we saw that, sure enough, there was a flashing headlamp propped up in a pile of rocks. A convoluted message, scrawled with a charred stick across the entire top of the picnic table and its benches, asked readers to let him know if they found Erica.

Our last bit of exploring for the evening was to the nearby day-use area. There, on the bulletin board where yesterday there were only warnings about fire, rattlesnakes and bear, was a glossy 4×6 color photograph. I examined it, mystified.  It showed a fleshy protuberance, wrinkled at the top and tied about the middle with a sort of frilly, polka-dotted blue apron trimmed in white lace. I couldn’t for the life of me determine what it was, so I handed it over to Nick. “That’s an uncircumcised penis wearing a skirt.” After a day like today, I shouldn’t have been surprised. In ink on the the back was a message: “Interested in some unusual fun?” or some such blah-blah, along with an email address. This is all sick and eerie. I came here to enjoy the wonders of nature, not aberrant human behavior.

The first two nights I’d kept all my tent windows open. Tonight I sealed each one (resulting in a stifling sleep), lay my opened Swiss Army knife next to my bed, and asked Nick to be alert for any nocturnal calls for assistance from me.

This will be my last stay in a national forest campground.