RUDE AWAKENING AT GRIZZLY BEAR CREEK — JOHN BUTLER'S BUZZ John Butler's Buzz

(5 minute read time or click on Buzz Podcast link to listen to the audio version)

It was almost dark, with a sinking sunset behind Mount Rushmore silhouetting the four presidents. I took one last look as I turned to walk down the open-air corridor displaying all the state flags overhead.

Instrumental orchestral patriotic music started playing over the park sound system. About the third song, they struck up, Yankee Doodle Dandy.

That song evokes several emotions in me. I instantly flashback to a happy memory of a 4th of July weekend at a house in Beverly Hills. I was there with my newlywed wife, Beverly, and my old friend, JD Hinton.

JD was known to all of us as Dave back then. We knew each other from high school days. We also started in broadcasting near the same time as teenagers at different stations. He left Texas with his talents as a songwriter and singer, with the determination to become an actor in Hollywood.

We were all young, in our mid-twenties, with the world in front of us. And, on this particular 4th of July, we were celebrating the occasion with a fun afternoon party centered around watching the famed Jimmy Cagney in Yankee Doodle Dandy. The title, of course, is based on a song favorite during the American Revolution. The movie setting takes place after WW II.

At that party, the guests filled the living room chairs, and many of us sat on the floor to watch. Hollywood types don’t just watch a movie, they absorb the art of in detail, marveling when it is done well. We laughed and cheered as Cagney and cast stirred our patriotism for America, along with the value of bonding friendships.

So now, standing all by myself at Mount Rushmore, listening to Yankee Doodle Dandy, I was brimming with emotions. A time-warp, connecting dots in my life; one from grade school seeing photos of these Presidents carved on this very mountain in front of me, to a 4th of July party in California.

Admittedly, I felt an inner stirring of gratefulness for all this exceptional country has made available to me and everyone who is lucky enough to live here. Then, the feeling of being alone drifted down on me, standing in this granite enclave of history. The rustling sounds of the fifty state flags lining the walkway overhead, while the mood-provoking song over the loudspeakers grabbed me by surprise.

The lighting ceremony was about to begin. I had seen the lighting ceremony the night before, and also, I was feeling tired.

After spending time walking around Mount Rushmore, I thought I might check out a National Forrest campsite here in the Black Hills to avoid the drive back down the mountain. A ranger told me Grizzly Bear Camp was one not too far away.

Mostly these National Forrest campsites are booked in advance. Months ahead for the popular ones. But, I’ve had good luck with many of them as a last minute “walkup.”

Leaving the parking area of the memorial, I started down the mountain on 244, then turned right on 16, back up towards Grizzly Bear Creek.

The darkness of night had settled in by the time I reached the graveled entry into Grizzly Bear Camp. I slowly eased ARGO by the campsites where people had their tents pitched, some huddled around their fire pits. At one, a young guy was playing guitar for his friends. At another, small lights were hung around on tree branches in a celebratory fashion. Otherwise, it was pitch dark midst the tall pines.

There were two empty campsites I passed so it looked like I might be in providence’s good graces once again. Stopping at the campsite marked “camp host,” a kind lady in her upper years stepped out of her RV and greeted me.

“Looks like there are a few empty sites,” I said. “Any chance one is available tonight for me?”

“You’re in luck,” she said. “Someone left early, and someone else failed to arrive.”

“Perfect, I’ll take one.”

“You can have your pick of the two.”

“Guess I’ll take number ten.”

It was pitch-black-dark by the time I pull into campsite number ten. Both clouds and the tall trees in this thick national forest blocked any light from above. My objective is to not hit any trees as I drive slowly next to the metal stake with my designated campsite number.

I’m really sleepy now. I make my bed in the back of ARGO, then lay there reading for less than a few minutes. With little haste, the weight of my eyelids cannot be pushed back any longer.

“I’ll sleep extra late,” I mumble to myself. My last words on my descent into unconsciousness.

At 5:30 am I’m still sound asleep. Then suddenly, a thunderous noise from outside ARGO, directly against her silver skin, breaks the silence of my sleep.

Wham!

Three repeated impacts against the side of ARGO startles me from my near coma. I’m not sure if it’s a dream or a real danger. A pause, then the noise repeats.

Wham!

Now, I’m more awake; at least enough to perceive that the disturbing noise is not coming from a dream. It’s real. Have the grizzly bears returned to Grizzly Creek?

Wham!

Now, I’m desperately trying to push my heavy metallic-like morning fog away so I can deal with whatever creature is attacking. The next thing I hear makes me quickly realize it is not a grizzly bear. It’s something much more dangerous and unpredictable: a human.

“Wake up,” a voice commands in Nazi fashion.

 “Who’s there?” I shout back. But there is no answer.

Wham!

No answer still. “What do you want?” I ask again.

“I want to talk to you,” a forceful, angry voice, in a near rage, comes back.

“Just a minute,” I manage to say, as I glance for assurance at my metal flashlight which doubles as a self-defense night-stick. It’s within easy reach. I frantically stand up putting on my pants and belt.

The grog of my half-awakened state makes me perceive my actions as if I’m pushing against the force of water. Voices sound like a soundtrack playing in slow-mo.

I slightly crack open the sliding door on ARGO. A thin wire-like man in oversized denim, wearing a dense wool brown plaid shirt, topped with a tattered western hat is standing outside the door. His size doesn’t fit with the loud banging noise he was making.

“What do you need?’ I ask with a sleepy and puzzled tone of voice.

“Do you see that rock?” He points to a rock on the ground, just to the right side of ARGO. I look down and do indeed see it.

“You are on the left side of that rock,” he proclaims with a religious piousness that confuses me more.

“Yes sir, I do see that,” I answer.

“Well, you are supposed to be on the other side of that rock!” He points firmly at the right side of the rock. “Campsite ten is on the right side of the rock.”

“Okay, well, I’m sorry,” I say, still trying to make sense of the early morning arousal. “It was pitch dark when I came in last night, and I guess it wasn’t obvious which side of the rock to be on.

“Well, it is obvious!”

“I was trying to avoid hitting any trees in the dark.”

“Well, you have to be on that side,” he affirmed, again point to the right side of the rock that was easy to see with the morning light. He turned and briskly walked away huffing like a dog who has barked away another dog. An air of an elevated pride lifted him up an inch or two.

“I bet I’m not the first to do that,” I said, trying to make a connection with the old fellow. Possibly calm him down a bit.

“Yes, you are the first!” He said without missing a step in his stride or turning to look back at me.

I wanted to say something clever, bordering on stinging, as a parting jab. My better nature took hold. Kept my mouth shut. Not prolong the exchange.

He didn’t tell me who he was, but it was apparent he was the manager at the campsite. The husband of the sweet lady who checked me in last night.

It struck me that I probably helped this guy complete his morning constitutionals. He most likely wakes up every morning looking for someone to let off steam on in the camp who didn’t park to his exact specifications, then takes a dump and has his coffee and eggs. After that, he’s likely a decent amicable fellow.

He kept me from that long-awaited morning sleep in the solitude of the forest I wanted, but maybe that was a good thing. I quickly brushed it off, made coffee and ate a protein bar. Cranked up ARGO and moved her to the right side of the rock.

I walked around the campsite sipping my coffee. A soft breeze vibrated the leaves on the brush and undergrowth around me making a pleasing white-noise background sound. The cool air felt soothing across my bare arms and face.

In front of me, a bouquet of pine needles dropped from the overhead branches. Breathing the freshly produced oxygen from the forest was almost intoxicating. A big difference from the belching toxicity of the city.

I continued sipping my dark hot coffee as my senses took in the surroundings, enjoying the rest of, what turned out to be, a very reasonable start to a new day.

Now the thought strikes me, I should find that old geezer who rudely and unceremoniously banged on my door, rattling me awake, chastising me for parking on the wrong side of the rock at Grizzly Bear Creek.

I should find him and thank him. He turned out to be an angel. An angel who called me up from my slumber into a glorious morning I otherwise would have missed.

But, again, my better nature tells me to leave well enough alone.

Time to move along, on down the road of America’s Heartland Highway.

Thanks for following the journey on JohnButlersBuzz.com

Hope to see you down the road.