Wherein our hero, Davy, continues his vagabond RV adventure through Midwestern campgrounds but feels a pull westward.
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"I'll keep rolling along
Deep in my heart is a song
Here on the range I belong
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds..."
I awoke to the sound of guitars. I'd slept for nearly two hours and it was 10 p.m. From the side of the bed, Santo looked at me with those big eyes and I knew he had to go out. I rousted myself, washed my face and walked out into the crisp night. It was cooler than I expected so I went back in for a long-sleeved t-shirt. Back outside, I listened to the guitars a couple of sites away. Santo leaned up against the tree and emptied himself and we walked toward the music.
There was a cowboy air all around me as I came upon a group sitting under a large screened tent. Must have been a dozen people listening to a couple of guys strumming country songs. I joined the group and listened to their sweet harmonies. As they ended "Tumbling Tumbleweeds", one pointed to a guitar off to the side and invited anyone who wanted to join them to sit in. I walked over and picked up the small but very sweet Martin D-18 and sat down. Santo curled up under my feet as I checked the tuning while they started "I Ride an Old Paint." I began to pick some riffs and fills. I fell in right away and it sounded fine and felt kinda nice, too. The singer grinned as the sound filled out and sweetened. As any good listening musician, he heard it happening, too.
The audience filled out a bit, too, as a few more sauntered into the tent. I was trying to sound like a dobro and I liked the sound we created. It was one lonesome cowboy tune after another and I imagined myself around a campfire during a cattle drive in the late 1800s. I looked around the crowd for the first time and was delighted in its diversity. There were a couple of families with small boys snuggled into the parents, a few older white haired folks, a few hippie types in their twenties, a pair of young women also in their twenties - one black, one white, an hispanic family with a beautiful raven-haired dark-eyed little girl, and a few couples holding hands. One couple caught my eye as I played. He was a tall black man graying around the temples and she was also tall, with red-brown skin and incredible cheekbones. I figured her to be a Native American. Their dog, a small collie, lay at their feet. I smiled as I played and I drifted back into the music.
The lead singer asked me if I wanted to play one so I thought of songs to fit the mood. I laid out the chords and the loping rhythm for them and rolled into Randy Newman's "Blue Shadows (On The Trail)", an obscure number from the film, "Three Amigos."
"Blue Shadows on the trail,
Little cowboy, close your eyes and dream,
All of the dogies are in the corral,
All of your work is done,
Just close your eyes and,
dream little pal, dream of, someone..."
I sang out strong and liked the timbre in my voice. It felt good to sing and play in front of an appreciative audience again. The other two walked right into it and we created a magical moment. I was very pleased especially with an extended solo break. It sounded wonderful and it brought a nice applause. It was now eleven and the leader thanked everyone for hanging out but it was time to pack it in. "Blue Shadows" seemed the perfect way to end the impromptu performance.
The families collected their kids and began to disperse toward their tents and trailers. I thanked the other players and told them just how much I enjoyed it. We had one of those "musician moments" where we all smiled at each other and we silently knew we had performed well together - we had meshed. Quite a few people surrounded us to thank us and offer compliments. The leader said he thought I looked familiar and I introduced myself. He nodded with recognition and we shook hands. Santo and the little collie were making their sniffing ballet-de-deux as I thanked the audience and shook lots of hands. I tugged at Santo's leash and began to leave the tent as I chatted with the tall couple, the young female couple and a dad and his little son.
We walked our dogs along the perimeter of the campgrounds and I was invited to their trailer for a beer. The dad and his son had drifted off by now and it was just the five of us sitting under their tented awning. We talked about our journeys thus far. I learned that the tall couple was on their way to the Pawnee Reservation up north to see her family. The young women were heading up to Bozeman, Montana where they lived and ran a business. After a few beers, they bid their goodbyes and drifted into the darkness. I figured that this my cue to leave, too, but the couple began to ask me more questions and the conversation became more personal. Their names were Jack and Sunny and they were very gracious. They asked me if I wanted something a little harder to drink and asked me to step inside. I asked if they wanted to share a joint. Jack passed but Sunny liked the idea. I offered to go get one and then to return.
I walked Santo back to our trailer and he immediately curled up in his bed. I pulled out my stash and headed back to their large motorhome. Clearly, it was the largest vehicle around and the slide-outs made it even more immense. This sucker was about 40' long. I rapped on the door and stepped in. It was really something to behold. Jack took me on a tour showing off the large galley and dining area, the adjoining living room, the bathroom suite and the huge master bedroom. The interior was lit by soft LEDs and I commented on how this was a helluva way to travel. The driver's cockpit looked almost like a jet pilot's seat with a myriad of gauges, dials and screens. Jack began to pour and I asked if he had any cognac. He lifted a bottle of Hennessy from the bar and poured me a couple of fingers. We sat around the table as I began to roll up a couple of spliffs.
Sunny's voice was soft and sweet. She told about how they'd been on the road for three months and still had another six weeks before they returned to Tillmook, Oregon. Jack was swigging away on his single malt and he was putting it away. At 6'3", he was a former basketball player with The Warriors and was now enjoying his life as a college coach. His deep mellifluous voice was very expressive and as the liquor fueled him, he sounded even deeper and more resonant. I asked him if he was a singer and he said no, laughing me off and saying that he couldn't carry a tune at all. Sunny was a history professor and they'd met at the college. It was her first marriage and his third.
Sunny sipped her white wine and between the booze and the smoke, we were getting looser. Jack began to toke up, too. They asked me more intimate questions. Jack asked how a single man could travel alone - didn't I get horny. Sunny tried to shush him but his gregarious nature seemed naturally bold.
"Sure," I said, "but it seems to me that road warriors all seem to be horny toads so there's lots of sex everywhere I go. I haven't been horny for too long!"
Jack lit up and asked for some details. Politely, and watching my words, I told them about my Jefferson City debauchery. Sunny was all ears. I also told them that I planned to stop at another nudist/sex resort along the way. They wanted details and so I told them how to look it up on the web. Sunny turned to her laptop and pulled up the URL. Within moments, they were locked onto the screen. I directed them to the resort in Palm Springs as one of my destinations.
"Oh, Jack, this is us. Let's do it after Grand Canyon."
"Hey, that's my plan, too!"
"Yeah, this looks cool, Sunshine."
"I like that it's got a fancy spa."
"You gonna meet us there, Davy? Looks like pussy heaven."
