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Monday, May 6, 2013

Our first camping trip of the season



So I'm back, to the velvet underground
Back to the floor, that I love
To a room with some lace and paper flowers
Back to the gypsy that I was
To the gypsy... that I was
 
 (Fleetwood Mac – Gypsy)


And so we slept for two nights in the gypsy tent, charming as can be. And we made toast in a campfire and fresh coffee in a coffee percolator, while the enchanting music of the red winged black bird drifted in on translucent waves of gentle evening breezes.

The gypsy tent can be a revelation to a person who doesn't get up at dawn. The birds sing like mad on cold spring morning in lonesome campgrounds, but most of the music is over by the time the sun rises. It was magical waking up to the sound of birds making such joyful ruckus on the roof of our trailer, and by the 'windowless' windows the most amazing view of the somnolent lake, just merely some steps from our door, as untimely fisherman, and their dogs, moved slowly down the gravel road to the lake, carrying fishing poles and gear.

So I close my eyes again and cuddle to the warmth of the body resting beside my own; for I had discovered that I was not alone in the gypsy tent, and the Sage Thrasher and the Lark sung again, and the Black-throated Sparrow and Shorebirds, Songbirds and Upland birds stroke their poses at the top of scraggy trees and the pallid plumes of the Pampa Grasses that shifted and oscillated and murmured by the shore.

The second day we moved to another campground; surrounded by the sand dunes of a sagebrush desert and grassland flats, and two shallow, marshy lakes. From our camp, we could see the arrogant outlines of the sand dunes and right outside our tent laid there a gigantic Cottonwood tree and in it, amongst its scrawny branches, an old owl house; dilapidated by time and weather.

All night I waited for a Great Horned Owl to visit the Gypsy tent. Then, in the distance, a dark fluttering; a silent whistle... but it must had been the Whip-poor-will and in the aloofness of the night, the coyotes too, shared our campground and the whirling wind that so often would sweep across the dunes lifting sands and shifting whirling grasses.

I always bring home souvenirs I collect from every camping trip... like oddly shaped rocks or rocks with unusual colors that later I would scatter around the garden as recollections of good times... thus, my garden harbors in its floors an atypical wealth of interesting keepsakes. Smooth black basalt rocks that happen after lava cools from the Oregon Coast, Geyserites and Travertine rocks from Yellowstone... and once, while camping at a certain mysterious woods, I found a cluster of witch's hair—parched and leafy green in color. Of course, I had to bring it home to my garden....

This time, a lovely bouquet of Pampa grasses collected from the shores of the lake embellish the gypsy tent... once again, a memory is all that is left. My heart is drenched in them. 

So I'm back, to the velvet underground Back to the floor, that I love To a room with some lace and paper flowers Back to the gypsy that I was To the gypsy... that I was (Fleetwood Mac – Gypsy)

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