Mr. Write's Page

At the moment, I’m on a road trip. I’m heading west to do some hiking at Grand Canyon, and I’ll drive back to Georgia along the Gulf Coast — maybe go swimming and get some seafood and what-not.

This trip is unique, and quite memorable, because I’m driving an RV. It’s a Dodge van, specially tricked out with all the amenities one needs on the road: refrigerator, microwave, sink, shower, toilet, stove, heat, A/C, TV, and DVD player.

So, at the end of the day’s drive, I’m obliged to find an RV park instead of a motel. So far, things have worked out fine. I haven’t been forced to settle for a Walmart parking lot.

A couple of days into the trip, I rolled into a state park in central New Mexico. The facility looked clean, the rates were low, the weather was nice. So far, so good.

Shortly after hooking up the power, I decided to check out the bath house. If it turned out to be dirty or otherwise inadequate, I would shower the next morning in the RV.

The bath house was about 50 yards or so from my campsite, on the far side of a playground. Next to it were three large dumpsters, the kind made of heavy steel with plastic lids. In this case, the plastic lids were missing.

Judging from the scratching sounds coming from one of the dumpsters, a critter of some kind was inside having a meal.

The dumpsters were about five feet tall, and I had no idea what sort of critter was inside. As quietly as possible, I approached the dumpster so I could find out.

But I wasn’t quiet enough. When I got to within 10 feet, the scratching stopped.

Holding my breath, I veeeeery slowly moved forward and peered over the edge.

Inside, a large raccoon was looking back at me.

As I hastily retreated, the banging inside the dumpster resumed. This time, it sounded less like a raccoon rummaging through bags of garbage and more like a raccoon trying unsuccessfully to climb out.

This, I thought, is the park’s problem, not mine. After checking out the bath house — which was in A-1 shape — I walked over to the park office to tell them about the marooned raccoon.

“Excuse me,” I said to one of the two ladies at the front desk, “Are you folks good at rescuing wildlife in distress?” I told them about the raccoon.

The ladies gave each other a knowing look. “That’s Rocky,” said one of them wearily. “We have to rescue him from one dumpster or another practically every day.”

“Rocky can get inside a dumpster in a heartbeat,” said the other lady. “Our maintenance people have to drop everything and go get him out.”

“Well, it’s their own fault he keeps doing it,” said the first lady. “Rocky knows they’ll come and get him out!”

“What they do,” explained the second lady, “Is put a 2×4 into the dumpster at an angle. Rocky scampers up the 2×4, and off he runs.”

“It’s a real problem,” said the first lady. “A never-ending problem.”

“Just once, they ought to leave him in there for a good long time,” said the second lady. “Like, two days, maybe three!”

“Now, Helen, Rocky don’t mean no harm,” said the first lady. “We can’t treat him mean like that.”

“I know. But that would sure teach him a lesson!”

Five minutes later, I watched as one of the maintenance guys placed an eight-foot 2×4 into the dumpster at an angle and stepped back. In a split second, Rocky raced nimbly up the 2×4, hopped to the ground, and sped off through the underbrush.

That happened at about 4PM. The next morning, I arose, ate some breakfast, grabbed a towel and my toiletry kit, and walked across the playground to the bath house.

As I neared the building, I could hear Rocky inside the dumpster, scratching through the garbage.