Last week, as I set the stage for our big adventure out west, I mentioned our daughter Sylvia would be our personal tour guide across her current
stomping grounds, which includes more or less all of Southern Utah.
Now a full
half-year into her internship at one of Utah’s “Big Five” national parks, she knows
her home park, Capitol Reef, inside out and has spent most of her free time ferreting
out the best experiences in each of the others. As a result Kristin and I were
promised “a first-class adventure on a steerage-class budget.” (I have since
added that phrase to my own short list of possible tombstone epitaphs.)
Fully accustomed to
traveling on a shoestring, Sylvia has embraced something called “dispersed
camping” — a pack it in, pack it out, leave no trace practice that opens millions
of acres of public lands to those willing to plunge headlong into the rough in
a full immersion of self-reliance.
Even though our own dispersed camping adventure was no
more rugged than pulling off a state route at Sylvia’s direction and braving a
hundred yards of rocky two-track in our Subaru, Kristin was fraught with worry.
“How do we know that we’re not parked on the edge of a
cliff?” Kristin asked as we unfolded from the long drive and began setting up
camp in the glow of the headlights.
“Well, we actually don’t know,” I said. “So if
you’re planning on dashing off through the woods for some reason … ”
“Heck no, I’m not dashing anywhere,” she said. “So what
if a mountain lion walks into camp in the middle of the night?”
“Well, then he’s probably going to visit Sylvia first
since she’s in a tent and we’re in the car,” I said. “And if that’s the case,
we’ll probably find him curled up in her lap in the morning.”
A chuckle rose from Sylvia’s tent, where she had set up
and sacked out before Kristin and I even had our air mattress inflated.
After addressing Kristin’s full litany of fears with a
slew of smart-aleck comments, we settled in just in time to hear another
vehicle pulling off the roadway. It was a pickup truck. Now, even I was a little
spooked. Two young men got out, and one approached our camp.
“Hi, um, I know you guys were here first,” said the
bashful 20-something kid in a button-up shirt and horn-rimmed glasses. “We’d
be happy to leave if you like, but we are quiet campers and can just set up
over there if you don’t mind.”
The kids seemed nice enough, and frankly, the thought of
having other humans about was actually a bit calming given the territory. They
struck camp at the edge of the clearing a hundred yards away as the three of us
resumed our repose.
An hour later I was awakened by muffled shouts across the
way.
“Oh my gosh!” gasped one voice. "Grab it!”
“I’ve got it! I’ve got it!” cried the other.
I peeked through the car window to find the contorting
silhouettes of the two young men crisply projected through a linen bedsheet
that had been stretched across a frame of plastic pipe. I knew in an instant
what they were up to.
“Kindred spirits!” I whispered to Kristin, whom I’d nudged
awake at the growing spectacle. “They’re moth lighting! What are the odds of
that?”
To the uninitiated, which includes nearly the entire
human population, “moth lighting” is the practice of attracting moths to an
illuminated landing spot and then geeking out over what one finds. It is among
the nerdiest of nature nerd activities, and one fully embraced by fellow
eco-dorks like me and my little tribe.
We let the boys go about their business undisturbed, but we
could barely wait until the morning when they enthusiastically shared their
findings with us over a breakfast of camp coffee and trail mix.
Kristin and John Lorson would love to hear from you. Write Drawing Laughter, P.O. Box 170, Fredericksburg, OH 44627, or email John at jlorson@alonovus.com.
