Bennett Springs

We took the back roads to Bennett Springs, by way of Buffalo, and on down Hwy 32. As we passed by Windyville then though Long Lane, the two lane highway rolled from one hill to the next so it felt like we were loping along. The drive was reassuring. I realized again that not far out from the city, a rustic landscape still thrives with cedar trees and oak groves dotting the hillsides. We had the windows down in the pick up so we could hear the meadowlarks as we passed each open field. Under one large oak tree: a herd of goats. Under another: rusted out cars from as far back as the forties. Occassionally, we met another car coming the other way. But mostly we had the road to ourselves. We took a left after Long Lane onto OO and after an hour long drive we were entering the park.

Bennett Springs State Park had plenty of campers in the full scale RV section, but it was in an open field with no trees so it wasn't for us. We headed straight for the more basic camping... just electrical hookup and lots of trees. We had to climb a pretty steep hill, and I admit I was a little concerned about the pick up pulling the trailer over such an incline, but we geared it down and up we went. In the more rustic camp, we found a lot more woods, mostly tent campers, and only one other RV in the next section over. Our Lil Loafer was the only ten foot vintage trailer in sight. We backed the HC in, unhooked it, placed the braces under the back bumper and we were set. Family came up later and stayed for dinner with the plan of leaving for home at dusk. We tossed the frisbee, played a game of cards, went for a hike along the river's edge and watched the hopeful fly fishers (amphibious in their high-waisted waders) cast their lines. Later, we shared a dinner of grilled chicken and vegetables along with other goodies. Time goes fast when your outside playing and before we knew it, our company was loading up to head home.

Night fell and campfires burned around us. Our most surprising moment: once the sun had fully set and the campground was overtaken by a deep country darkness, the voice of Andrea Bocelli rose from somewhere near the edge of the woods. I didn't expect to listen to opera at Bennett Springs, but somehow it was perfect. Bocelli's voice was both haunting and joyful. It made me happy to hear it. A thunder storm had gathered to the south of us and even though we couldn't see the thunderheads which rise like purple mountains on the horizons here, we could hear the thunder. It rumbled in the distance and sounded like tympanis which provided a nice accompaniment to Bocelli's song.
A rough edged fellow in the camp across the road was the one responsible for the opera. I wouldn't have figured him for an opera lover. Earlier in the day he had stepped across the road to speak to us. It was five o'clock or so. Happy hour and everyone was holding a beer or some other cold drink. "I like your camper," he said. His voice had the low gravely sound of someone who had been smoking for thirty years or so. "I got one myself, though I didn't bring it out," he said. "Guy had it sitting in a field out behind his house, and I saw it one day. So I went up and offered him two hundred for it. He had fallen on hard times and so he lit up and said, Sure!" The man laughed his gravel-ly laugh. "We both was happy!"
"You're are welcome to take a look inside if you like," I said. So he took the tour of The Happy Camper, which consisted of him poking his head in the door to have a look around. He explained he had been camping on his own for the last few days and fly fishing the river for trout. "I caught twenty and kept two or three. Every once in a while I'll pull one out and think--oh! that one is big enough to keep. Mostly, I just throw 'em back. But I always take a few home. My wife likes to smoke 'em. She says--what do you do out there camping all by yourself anyways?"

The opera concert went on for about a half an hour. I had already set up our bed with blankets and pillows, so I walked down to the camp showers, a flashlight marking my path. Near the showers I was met by another operatic singer....perched on the edge of a muddy open pit next to the shower room, a lone frog was making up a loud persistent song. I found him with my flashlight . He was not much bigger than my thumb but he could raise a relative refrain equal in volume and sincerity to the world's best tenors. When I got back from my shower, which was steaming hot and hard against my skin the way I like it, Bocelli had stopped singing. The thunder clouds had ambled on past us and the woods--silent. Even the frog was still.
The next morning, we brewed strong coffee which is The Point of Everything. I had gotten some large coffee cups--the kind you almost have to hold with two hands and had to brew two pots in my camper-sized Mr. Coffee to fill them up. But it was worth it. Once the coffee was gone we were ready to pack up and go, which we did, stopping at the Bennett Springs Lodge for an omelet on the way out.
I can say The Happy Camper worked its charms and a wonderful time was had by all. We are already scheming for the next outing....