After a few wrong turns, two pit-stops, and three “(Forrest Gump Voice): I gotta pee;” We then finally exit to our destination. Camp. Off this Oregon Highway many sights are to be seen. Such as, people pissing on the nonexistent shoulder, waiting to die.
I simply sat in my passenger seat as we drove by a car sideways in a ditch. WUT WOE.
My driving companion drove with a 10-and-2 hold on the wheel which always makes me nervous, but I was on 3 hours of coke-nap, So I didn’t bitch. Looking at those, very living, 18 year olds in a ditch on the way to camp didn’t even scold my psyche.
“I’m in route to camp and this; THIS AIN’T GONNA STOP US.”
“Fuckin Rook’s,” Driver whispered. And then we laughed. And Laughed. Back to route.
Strong left came upon our speed. Hold a buckle and hold tight. Grab the upper holster above your window. Coming in hot.
The weight began to shift. “FUCK, THE GLASS BOTTLE BOOZE.” I yelled, as I dove from children seat to booze.
All was saved. We’re drunk and ready for a fine form of what I call: ‘Organized Horrible and Uniform Sin.’
Now, up on the left. We approach camp.
That fucking left. I hear that left for 3 gravel turns. Almost there. We’re always almost there.
This is a place of freedom to do what you will. What my kind of America was built on: Drugs (Booze), Ammo, Shelter, Food, and Entertainment. Barter be code.
Echoes of camp haunt the core. What will next year bring? This year first. It’s a perpetual understanding and camp can only bring, yet once a year. It’s like, halfway through your x-mas presents, you want next year to come. Chase the dragon.
We come around that left, that horrible left, and what do we see? Friends! Family. Good people. We drive in, Drink first. Jump from that moving car, tuck and roll, make drink. Unpack when its dark. Dumbshit. Fuck, where is my headlamp? Make drink. Huh. Huh. Headlamp? Fuck is that?
Hugs. Always the hugs.
What the fuck? Don’t push. Why am I falling backward? Chairs?
I seem to enter camp the same way every year. Alcohol.