black-eyed bandits

Aug. 8, 2009

We took the 10-step wooded trail from our campsite to the lake. The dock jutted over the water; the sun set purple behind cotton candy clouds; a single acorn hung from the branch overhead. Bree did yoga beside me. I tried to write.

We had already set up our tent and our wet clothes hung on the line. As darkness fell, we crawled onto our sleeping bags. Not minutes after closing my eyes, I heard rustling at our feet. I grabbed my headlamp and shined it into the eyes of a racoon pulling my backpack out from under the rain fly. For whatever reason, my first instinct was bark. It worked for a moment, until we heard our friend up the hill clawing into our saddle bags. Bree’s bike fell over. “That’s it, give me the mace!” she said. I had her back with the light. We barked and ascended the hill. The several warnings of aggressive racoons repeated in my head, and my heart beat in my ears. Using tag-team methodology, we got our food hanging from a hooked medal poll and tried to fall asleep.

That was Kitsachee National Forest, LA. Two nights later at Martin Dies Jr. State Park, TX, swarms of mosquitos chased us into the tent. Our food hung from the pole–a wooden pole. We closed our eyes to the buzz of blood suckers, but moments later heard the familiar rustling through bags. Bree shined the light in time to see a racoon shimmy up the wooden pole, open my backpack and pull out our brand new pack of tortillas. Rage emboldened me. My sleeping bag unzips a the feet, so I crawled in for protection from the mosquitoes, strapped on my headlamp, exited the tent, started barking, and waddled over to our bags. It took several trips to move them from our wooden pole to the metal pole at the next campsite. By the time I dove back into the tent, I was drenched in sweat. The racoons continually visited us throughout the night, but couldn’t get any more freebies.