We were out. Out of Eugene and driving on the narrow, winding roads through the wilderness east of Salem. We were children again, only thinking of the time in terms of being “there yet.” We were floating through the sea of green when Marian spotted an abandoned sedan in a ditch with its nose in the air and caution tape surrounding the crash site. “Maybe it’s a sign,” Marian said as we laughed it off. Minutes later, we had arrived at the place where souls rest for all of eternity. Billowing cyan water poured into pools encompassed by a rocky wonderland. This was beauty. We swam, climbed, and base jumped for the next two hours, but soon needed sustenance.
While starting our campfire, we were joined by a Beaver cap-clad, leprechaun-tattooed stranger. He wondered if we knew any good jokes and offered some firewood to fuel the flames. Though socially inept, he seemed harmless. He recited his joke reel, poking fun at everything from “the gays” to leprechauns to the ever popular bar gags. The time had come to verbally suggest that the conversation had gone on for 20 minutes too long, as Leprechaun (a formerly assigned nickname) didn’t catch on to our hinting at disinterest. We used the idea of a nature walk as our cover, and he promptly left, but not for good.
Some time later, Leprechaun was back, with a new outfit and a newly opened Busch Light in hand. He stood there, without saying a word. As we ventured off for another stroll through the forest, Karoline stayed behind to politely break it to Leprechaun that we were trying to “have some girl time” and would appreciate him vacating the premises. As our friends set out on their walk, Karoline and I stayed behind to peer through the bushes and watch our unwanted friend. Once he was no where to be seen, we returned to find the word “bitch” carved into the ground.
At this point, some members of the group were seriously considering relocation. Should one daft male scare away six fit females? No, we ought to stand our ground. That was that, and the cloak of darkness soon began to fall.
I lay on the ground, eyes closed, with the only light emanating from the fire pit and two propane lanterns. Another mysterious man emerged from the darkness, this time discussing the advantages of a career on an oil barrack in Alaska and other topics better discussed over café au lait. His mention of Leprechaun was of interest, but not conspiratorially so. The day’s activities made for an early night, leaving Oil Soldier in disbelief and disapproval.
Aileen, Marian and I now resided in our ruby Ozark Trail dome, attempting to cancel out the soundtrack of the night with pillow talk. I was finally drifting off to sleep when a diesel fueled vehicle slowly passed by, idling for a few seconds. The car turned back around and paused yet again, this time for what seemed like a few minutes. I suddenly felt a rapid pulse spreading through my frozen body as my hands began to tremble. I was experiencing genuine fear. We thought it would be fitting to confer with our neighbors, considering the circumstances. Stephanie and Jocelyn ran over to our tent, leaving Karoline asleep next door. After some debate, we agreed to stay until another heart stopping event occurred. Though Karoline warned us earlier that packing into one tent would result in us “trampling each other like animals” if anything were to happen, we proceeded to squirm until we were uncomfortably settled. Without delay, incoming flashlights, wielded by shadowy figures, illuminated the tent walls. Their proximity was unclear, but the tent skin bubble made for quite the sensory amplifier. I grabbed the two nearest flashlights, gripped them and strained my ears, ready to swing around at the first sign of entry. Adrenaline filled my blood as my aorta vibrated to the beat of a different drum.
It was time to leave, and with haste. As soon as the figures had vanished, we started packing up. Ten minutes later, we were on the verge of splitting when a deputy appeared, just as Oil Soldier had before him.
“Is everything all right here, ladies?” he asked us. “Anyone bothering you?”
“Well, yeah, there were a couple of guys. But it wasn’t that big of a deal. We’re just going to go home,” Stephanie responded.
“Two guys bothering six girls in the middle of the forest way out of town is a big deal to me,” Sheriff Timing said. “Hold on a second.”
He retreated into the shadows, waiting for two men to walk out onto the clearing. “Sheriff’s office!” he said, shining his flashlight on the unidentified men. “You two been drinkin’? How old are you?”
“Thirty five,” said the man as if it were self-evident.
“Girls, are these the men?” Sheriff Timing asked us.
We responded with a negative and the sheriff announced that he was going to talk to the rest of the campers. We scurried into our cars and set off down the dirt road, only to find the sheriff’s patrol car blocking the path. After what felt like an hour, but realistically was 10 minutes, Sheriff Timing came back to his car. Finally we were on our way to Aileen’s house, back in Salem.
We arrived safely, and immediately prepared for slumber. As we unrolled our sleeping bags, Stephanie and Jocelyn, who were in the other car, relayed the Sheriff’s parting message to them: “I went and talked to the other campers and it turns out two of the men were on parole. I gave them a warning and called their parole officers. I just wanted to let you know that everything is under control. Have a nice night.”