Neely
ByThursday,Iknowthe campground’s rhythms the way you learn a new song, badly at first, until suddenly you’re singing along without thinking. I know the Hendersons in site twelve get up at five in the morning to fish. I know the door to the vault toilet on Loop B sticks and you have to lift it while you pull. I know Tate Benton's truck comes through at 7:40 AM and again around dinner time. And every time I see him, it’s a jolt to my system all over again.
I doubt I’ll ever get used to having this handsome man around.
He never stays long. He checks the bins, checks the board, checksme. Asks if I need anything, how'd the night go, what’s instore for today? On Thursday, he brought a better lantern for the kiosk and never mentioned it. I found it when it got dark.
That's how he operates, I'm learning. He quietly makes the world a better place when no one is watching. Always serving others. Never taking.
I'm used to being the one who does that. Having it done for me makes me… uncomfortable. Like wearing an itchy wool sweater.
Thursday evening, on my walk-through, I find the problem at site twenty-six.
It's a big group site, with three tents, two trucks, a folding canopy, and a spread across the picnic table sure to attract every raccoon—and maybe the bear—in the area. And it’s obviously been there for hours. There are several open potato chip bags. A jar of peanut butter with the knife still in it. A bottle of huckleberry syrup from the local store. And two coolers on the ground.
The guy at the site’s grill is maybe thirty-five, wearing cargo shorts, and holding a beer and a set of tongs like dual scepters. It’s clear he’s the self-appointed King of the Campsite.
"Evening," I say. "How's everybody settling in here?"
"Living the dream," he says, friendly enough.
"Glad to hear it. It’s a beautiful place to vacation,” I say with a smile before gesturing to the picnic table. “Not sure if you’ve heard, but there’s been a bear in the area, so I wanted to remind y’all that all this should go in the bear box or your locked vehicles as soon as you finish eating. Not just the food, but also the coolers, and anything with a smell, such as sunscreen. Nothing should be left out, okay?”
"Yeah, we saw the flyers." His friendly tone of voice is gone. "We're literally eating again in twenty minutes. It's fine."
"Please just make sure it's all packed after each meal."
"Sure," he says, waving his tongs to dismiss me. “See you later.”
I could leave it. Four years of hosting campgrounds has taught me that most people do what you ask, though the stubborn ones wait until you walk away. But this guy rubs me the wrong way. And it’s not cool to have so much leftover food on the table when there was a bear print seen in the dirt just eight sites away.
"I'm going to need this cleaned up and latched in the box now, actually," I say, keeping it easy. "Coolers, too. The bear's already gotten into two this month."
“I told you, we’re eating soon—”
I raise an eyebrow. “So, the peanut butter and the syrup are for the burgers? Even if they are, someone can pull them back out of the box when the burgers are ready.”
He narrows his eyes. "We paid for this site.”
"You absolutely did, and fortunately, we provide bear-safe food storage for your safety.” I nod at the laminated card stapled to their post. It’s the same card that’s now attached to every post. "If you need help putting things away, I’d be happy to help."
"Look, sweetheart."Sweetheart. Ugh. What a prick."We've been camping here forever. I know this campground, and if I say it’s fine, it is.”
"That's what the last two people said," a voice says behind me. "They both thought their coolers would keep a bear out. They were wrong, and they lost very expensive coolers. We need to encourage this bear to leave the area—not invite him to a buffet.”
Tate crosses the site at an unhurried walk, and I watch King of the Campsite do the math every man does when Tate Benton enters a space, taking in his height, the badge, and the forearms.Okay, the forearms may just be amething.He instantly adopts a more cooperative posture.
Tate comes to a stop half a step behind my shoulder, not in front of me, and says, "My campground host has already told you what needs to happen."
My campground host.There’s nothing unprofessional about the sentiment, and yet he could have saidthe campground hostoryour campground hostor even justNeely.But Tate saidmy, and who knew a two-letter word could make a girl’s heart race?
"If a bear comes through tonight because of that peanut butter," Tate goes on, conversational now, "this is how your evening will go: I’ll close this whole loop, and your group is forced to pack up and leave in the dark. Not to mention the citation with a hefty fine that’s guaranteed to ruin your trip. Or you can just put the coolers and the lunch leftovers away, eat your dinner and clean up after, and never have to have another conversation with Neely or me again.”
It takes them six minutes. Tate carries nothing, and neither do I. We stand there while the King of the Campsite calls on his court to help him, and when the latch on the bear box clicks into place, Tate says, "Appreciate it. Enjoy your night.”
Walking back toward the kiosk, I wait for it. Thedebrief.The instructions for next time a camper doesn’t listen.What you should do XandYou’d be better off doing Y…and so on.Every ranger, every manager, every well-meaning man I've ever worked with has these sorts of comments locked, loaded, and ready to go.
Instead, Tate says, "You handled that exactly right. He would have moved everything for you. I just sped things along.”
