It was very strange to be in a proper campground after wild camping by myself for several weeks. This was probably made even stranger by the fact that the only campground available was a KOA. It’s a bizarre place, slightly detached from reality. It can’t just be a campground; it has to be an experience. Every feature is presented as some amazing trait that only they can offer— like a coin-op laundry room, or a pool that’s 52% urine by volume. It’s a perfectly fine campground, but for $43 a night it’s mediocre at best. Before I could protest, the woman at the front desk handed me a 30-page brochure about the campground, gave me a tour of the gift shop, and asked me four times if I wanted to join their rewards program and join the KOA family (I didn’t). She proceeded to take out a map and describe it in excrutiating detail. She looked personally insulted when I declined to pay an extra $7 to participate in the ice cream social that evening.
“But you get to meet the other campers of the KOA family!” She insisted. It sounded fascinating from an anthropological standpoint. Did all the campers have the smile that never quite reached the eyes that she had? For the sake of my budget and the desire not to get involved in any cults, I declined again. Maybe the ice cream was how they lured in new members.
My campsite itself boasted a flock of yellow-rumped warblers, courtesy of the large cottonwood tree on one side, and the permeating smell of dog urine, courtesy of the off-leash dog run on the other side. At least they had showers. It was my first proper shower in a week, and I scrubbed until my skin was pink and slightly tender to the touch. All the desert varnish I had accumulated so far swirled away down the drain.
I had gotten very used to camping alone on forgotten Bureau of Land Management roads where the only other people I saw were the occasional rancher or deranged murderer (such as during my night in the Book Cliffs.). In the evenings I could watch wildlife while I ate dinner, like the short-eared owl that had chased a pack of coyotes across a nearby field the previous night. Sure, there were no showers, but there was also no one to complain about my smell.
There were perks to staying at a campground though—flushing toilets were a welcome alternative to a trowel and a discreet shrub, and there was even a grocery store nearby where I could get fresh vegetables for dinner. (I had decided not to take a cooler with me, and as such my meals were limited to foods that didn’t need refrigeration and could be cooked in a Jet Boil. My body was desperate for a vegetable that wasn’t a clump of freeze-dried onion in an instant ramen seasoning packet).
My survey the following morning was nearby, and due to private property issues, I would only be able to access 8 out of the 16 points. This was unfortunate, but if I hurried, I could get back to the campground in time for another shower and the complimentary pancake breakfast that was mentioned three times in the KOA brochure.
I eventually descended the mountain to look for a place to cross a creek to my last 2 points. The creek was still too deep to cross, however, and I didn’t trust the two pieces of water-logged plywood someone had laid across them. Instead, I tucked my datasheets back in my pack and began the hike back to my car and, hopefully, pancakes.
My daydreams of maple syrup were interrupted by a loud BANG! Followed by several more loud BANGS and then a whole volley of them. Someone had decided to start target shooting, which was unfortunate if you happened to be sneaking around in the shrubbery like I was. I backtracked until I found a hiking trail and hiked down on it, hoping that whoever was target shooting at 8am on a Wednesday morning had enough sense to do it away from a trail.
I made it back to the trailhead without being turned into a colander, which was something to be happy about. Perhaps some pancakes, hot from the griddle and slathered with butter and syrup, would soothe my frazzled nerves.
According to the pamphlet the campground host had given me the previous day, the pancake breakfast would be served from the main office. My panic rose as I searched high and low for the pancake room. Was I too late? Had they already shut down the pancake party? Finally my hunger was greater than my social anxiety and I plucked up the courage to ask someone. They showed me to a small table in a corner of the gift shop. A machine dropped glops of what looked like a mixture of sawdust and wallpaper paste onto a small conveyor belt that fed into a toaster oven and deposited pancakes onto a plate 1 minute later. A tip jar asked for donations to a children’s health charity, presumably to help children who had fallen ill after eating the discs the machine spat out.
It was time to get away from people again. After one day back in a town, I had enough.
Your story of the KOA campground brings back memories … bad ones. But you at least did not have to go a separate office to get a ticket for the complementary pancake breakfast, and have this ticket then be processed by a committee of three ladies with blue hair near the pancake “feast.”