I don’t think I’m camping in campgrounds anymore
I don’t know what happened to Jerry Springer or where he went, but if he’s going to resurface, you can bet he’ll do it at a campground.
I don’t have good luck with campgrounds. I’ve mentioned my first experience camping in a campground on this show before, so I won’t rehash the details of that disaster.
Thinking that might have been an isolated incident, I agreed to go camping at Glendo last weekend with some friends. Unfortunately, it turns out I have some sort of campsite karma that attracts weirdos and jerks to the camping spots right next to me.
Friday night’s campfire entertainment was provided by a lovers’ quarrel in the tents to the west of us, but that was nothing compared to Saturday night.
The people to the north of us spent Saturday drinking. I’ve got nothing against people drinking at the lake, as long as it doesn’t affect my own sleep. But these folks didn’t respect that rule. They got louder and cruder as the night went on, and one member of the party was particularly rowdy. They woke me up with their carousing at about 2 in the morning. My friend and I asked them politely to go to sleep, but that only caused them to be louder and more offensive. Eric, who is about 6 foot 7 and built like a Sherman tank, was able to dissuade the drunks from doing anything physically stupid initially, but they continued to run their mouths.
I’d like to thank the State Parks police force for their responsiveness, and I might get to thank them in person if our drunken neighbor actually shows up in Douglas for his court date. The drunk got charged for assault, though he claimed I pushed him. Five sober witnesses know, though, that he was lying through his tooth. None of us ever touched him, as bad as we wanted to.
The upshot is that I think I might stick to dispersed camping from now on. I don’t have a good track record with campsites. Just give me a tent, a backpack, and the Wilderness, and I’ll be happy. And better rested.