Some Campers Use Drugs, Booze to Spoil the Wilds

It seems lately that no matter what public place I go to within 300 miles of Los Angeles, everyone is (a) stoned, (b) drunk, (c) comatose, or (d) all of the above.

A recent trip to the eastern High Sierra confirmed this trend. Bad weather had the back-country trails blocked, so in lieu of our usual backpacking expedition, my wife and I decided to car camp. The Sierras are our favorite place in the world, a welcome respite from the crowds of the city.

We pulled into June Lake campground, a nice spot near both the water and the little town of June Lake, and set up. As we lazed in lounge chairs, communing with nature, up rumbled someone to claim the next camp spot. I reluctantly hoisted an eyelid to check out our new neighbors.

A new pick-up truck, the kind jacked-up absurdly high but so glitzy and option-loaded that you know it’ll never run on any road rougher than the San Diego Freeway, backed into the campsite. In addition to its Canoga Park dealer plates, its back window and rear bumper were already plastered with stickers. “NO FAT CHICKS,” “NO WIMPS,” “THIS VEHICLE INSURED BY SMITH AND WESSON,” “I’M PROUD TO BE A MEMBER OF THE NRA,” etc. Wonderful. Rambo was moving in next door.

Sounds of Music

My dismay increased as the two guys set up camp to the accompaniment of a 200-watt blaring Blaupunkt. I’m a rock fan, but I have no idea what it was they were playing.

It was tough to tell our neighbors’ ages, but they seemed to be caught in a ‘70s time warp.

The temptation to tell them to turn down the stereo crossed my mind, but the fact that they’d downed a case of beer in 45 minutes and those NRA bumper stickers dissuaded me. Then, out came the bong. For those unfamiliar with the drug world, a bong is a tubular device used in pot smoking. They fired it up and took turns.

For the next couple of days, these guys maintained a perpetual alcohol-dope haze. I began to take a clinical interest in them, noting their habits like a biologist studying the ways of the gooney bird. Joints first thing in the morning, beer for breakfast, bongs for brunch, and various permutations of all three the rest of the day. Not once in two days did they look at the trees, notice the clear sky or get anything at all from the mountains. Just numbness.

When they roared off in a cloud of dust and pot smoke, presumably back to the verdant meadows of Canoga Park, I felt a combination of relief that they were gone and a deep pity for what they’d missed--and probably would continue missing in the future. It wasn’t the first time I’d felt that way.

I’ve watched as a drunken boatload of water skiers hooted and laughed while their swamped speedboat sank. “Save the ice chest!” they screamed. The boat went down, but they rescued their precious six-packs. And I’ve camped near rowdies in a battleship-sized RV who, after getting suitably polluted, fired up a chugging generator, hooked up their amplifiers and electric guitars, and proceeded to entertain an unwilling audience in Sequoia National Park with horrendous off-key renditions of “Stairway to Heaven” and “Whole Lotta Love.” So much for the great outdoors.

Puzzling Development

The need of people these days to experience fun in a constant anesthetized state is puzzling. Recreation for many, not only means going someplace and doing something pleasant, but it also means doing it while blitzed. A cannabis inversion layer hovering over the crowd at a Motley Crue concert comes as no surprise. But on a walk through the forest? Or a trip to the beach? Or a Dodger game? Anyplace where more than two people gather, so do the booze and the drugs. And the irritation of trying to enjoy something while everyone around you is drunk or stoned takes away a lot of the pleasure.

I’ve noticed, though, that the farther away we get from L.A., the fewer blitzed maniacs we see in the campgrounds and recreational areas. Maybe the tired old cliches about life being tough in the big city are true. Maybe many who live in the overheated pressure cooker of Los Angeles need to get numb as often as possible. It’s too bad. We live in a place where every form of recreation is available within a day’s drive. The chance to unwind and leave behind the problems and irritations of everyday life are readily available. It’s just that many people don’t seem to think they can enjoy anything without a numbing crutch.

I hope that someday my druggie buddies from Canoga Park can take advantage of the Sierras without their bongs and booze. Wishful thinking, maybe, but I do hope, nonetheless.