It was barely past noon when I noticed the sign for the campground at Casper Mountain, but I was done. Western Illinois had been bleak, Iowa had been bleak, Nebraska had been (is it possible?) even bleaker. Basically everything since I'd left Chicago had either been brown, desiccated landscape or gray, paved industrial blocks.
Ok, to be fair, the diner in Souix Falls had been cute. The glitter Formica tabletops had reminded me of my first waitressing gig, and the earthy smell of cigarettes coming from most of my fellow diners had made me feel, when I closed my eyes and cupped my hands around my coffee mug, like I was actually back in my Aunt Lisa's kitchen. Like maybe the voices around me were just the banter of some sitcom characters, projected from the miniature TV on her counter. Like if I turned around, my uncle Chris would be "just resting his eyes", sleeping in the recliner with a half finished sudoku on his lap.
Alas, Aunt Lisa's kitchen it was most definitely not. The large trucker's thigh butting against mine had been proof enough of that. I couldn't tell if he had such a feeling of ownership for all that surrounded him, he honestly wasn't aware of just how far into my bubble he'd invaded? Or if rather this was a romantic overture, a nudge sans the withdrawal? I hadn't stuck around to find out. I'd made my small self as small-er as possible, finished my eggs and crossword, and left a twenty on the counter rather than waiting for the bill. Then it was back to my Subaru and I-20.
I'd had Ira Glass and a carry out cup of coffee to keep me company, and I'd told myself that was enough. I'd made it as far as Ainsworth before I realized my head was starting to bob. I slapped my cheeks and rolled down the window, but by then I was too tired to hunt down a campground. I'd ended up pulling into a Walmart parking lot and sleeping a couple hours in the backseat.
When the sky started to lighten around 5:30, I had dragged my ass back to the driver's seat and continued west. I'd stopped twice for giant cups of gas station coffee, but as lunchtime approached and I neared Casper Mountain, my blinks were getting longer, and my mood was slipping. I was beginning to suspect that, despite Ira's gentle pondering to the contrary, this particular American life (mine) might not have a resonating morale buried in the mundane. Maybe I was just a sad girl doing a sad thing.
Anyway, I wouldn't be finding my deeper meaning in this state (wallowing, I mean. I wasn't ready to write off the state of Wyoming just yet). I obviously needed a real break, and Casper Mountain looked like a good place to take it. The campground looked actually really nice, and the park host, Jan, was an older woman with a wide, brightly lipsticked smile. She pointed the way to my site, the camp store, showers (thank you sweet baby Jesus), and even gave me the names of a few spots to check out in town.
A shower and a nap later, and I was feeling almost human again. It was an unseasonably warm 58 degrees, so the walk down to the camp store was kind of lovely, despite the vistas of mud and dead plants. The first bits of green were just beginning to poke through, and I could find crocuses blooming here and there if I kept my eyes peeled. The longer I walked, the prettier it all felt.
At one point a Jeep drove past me, the men inside whistling and catcalling through the open windows. I let it make me smile. Optimism, right? Spring comes and we all think we might get lucky.
The Jeep dudes were at the store when I arrived, stocking up on beer and firewood. I slipped in quietly, happy to let their loud, raunchy jokes cover the sound of the door chiming at my entry. I kept my eyes low and imagined myself getting smaller, quieter; imagined myself invisible.
I wasn't like this in Chicago, except maybe on the El. I'm not naturally shy or submissive; I don't think it's more feminine to be somehow less. And it's not that I was fearful or even tense now. It's just, you don't have to be on the road long, alone and female and all of 110 pounds wet, to figure out that everything goes more smoothly if you can go unnoticed.
While I didn't want their attention, I wasn't suspicious of these men. In fact, listening to them give each other shit was making me wildly homesick. I imagined Dan and Eric at the Weary Wanderer, mocking Ditka and trying to one up each other at the Boot Scoot Boogie. These guys were about twenty years younger, and donned in more camo, less Cubbies gear, but still. They could have been my regulars. Fuck, what was I doing? Did I really expect to arrive at the Pacific Ocean and magically figure out all my shit? What would be so different about those waves from my own Lake Michigan? Why was I driving away from my people and my place right now?
A pair of large Timberland boots made their way down my aisle, and I focused my gaze on the travel-sized shaving cream. I hoped he'd just pass me by, but this Jeep dude was evidently another non-believer in the personal bubble, because he parked himself next to me and started casually picking up and returning the various toothpastes, lotions and soaps, all of them looking comically small in his giant man hands. His arm brushed against mine once, twice, and I casually stepped to the side. Not too quickly. You don't want to seem too eager to get away or you risk offending.
My side step was matched by one from him, and now our arms were touching again. Not an accident, then. I kept my breathing very quiet.
"You here for the mountain bike trails? You look like a biker." He paused, leaving space for my reply, and then after a beat continued as if I actually had. "Big event going on this weekend? We passed an awful lot of Sprinter vans loaded up with bikes."
He was being kind. I don't actually look anything like a biker. Bikers have thick asses and shapely calves. I have what Aunt Lisa called a delicate frame. She always said it with an air of envy, but I would have traded for her warm curves in a heartbeat.
So it was a bit transparent as a pick up line, but there was my rule about not looking too eager to get away, and also, I hadn't had much conversation in the last few days. I side stepped again but answered him.
"I wouldn't know, I'm just passing through. I was hoping to do a hike while I'm here, but it sounds like it might be a little crowded."
"Oh now, you shouldn't let them chase you off."
He once again followed my step to the right, and once again managed to need to reach for something just in front of me, so his stupid enormous bicep nudged my shoulder again. This was getting ridiculous. I gave in and turned to look up at him, eyebrow raised.
Oof, damn. Ugh, I did not need to be swooning in a campground minimart in the middle of Wyoming, but shit. A wave of heat swept through me and I suspected I was suddenly blushing. Playful brown eyes sparkled back at me. His eyelashes were full and dark, honestly the kind mascara models must dream of. The sides of his head were shaved so that intricate geometric tattoos showed beneath his dark hair, disappearing as the stubble transitioned to thick curls on top. And that bicep that felt so unnecessarily large repeatedly nudging me was, in fact,
absurdly
large.
"Jesus," I was poking the taut sleeve of his hoodie before I could think better of it. "Have you got swim floaties under there?"
The laugh that burst out of him was deep and growly and did funny things to my stomach.
Warning bells rang in my head. This was flirting - he was flirting, I was flirting back, and I knew better, I fucking
knew
better. Don't fall into that trap. This was supposed to be a solo, soul searching trip, not a rebound fuckathon.
Uncaring about the mixed signals I was giving, I spun around and headed for the door. I could finish my shopping later; it would give me a reason to do that pretty walk again. I didn't trust myself lingering.
