ah. motorcycle camping. warm, shaken up beer. no ice chests. scant grub. re-living vienna sausage and busted up cracker suppers... forget bungee-ing a loaf of bread off on the back... aluminum coffepots and a baggie of folger's or maxwell house in the 'bags for comfort, a plastic 750 of jim beam or other noxious likker alongside it for sweetener... the necessity of keeping a roll of toilet paper on your bike at all times. public restrooms in state/county parks are notoriously low on such a firm necessity. it's a necessity if you don't have it and have to put in 800 miles the next day. if you forget it one time, you never will again...
but then there's the campfires... and the stories from 'em.
once, camped at enchanted rock with Birdy and assorted ne'er do wells, we were treated to the call of a bird with a long-forgotten name out in the blackness beyond the flickers of the fire...
"That", intoned Birdy, "is the call of a somethingorother whatzit... it winters in texas and flies yearly to bumfuzzle uruguay... that's a male, the female sounds like this... (insert bizarre birdlike sounds of your furthest imagination here) and it's in the middle of it's migration route, prolly searching for a mate and foraging along the way..."
then there was the time my cousin and i shared a KOA campsite up in Cortez Colorado. extremely well kept camp, and like birdy's adventure, clean bathrooms and kentucky bluegrass on which to pitch our tents... good times at the 'fire then, with the rockies all about and full bellies from steak, potatos and salad, a tad of beer to cleanse the palate... almost makes me forget the homicidal maniac two days later who was trying to kill me and the cousin coming off the mountain... interesting times...
go on, birdy... go on...
-tom
Last edited by tommygs; 07/12/10. Reason: go on...
