It wasn't the first time I had
returned from the lake to find groceries. When I would meet people
while fishing or in line at the shitter or on the trail, I would tell
them a little about my trip. People fear what they don't understand,
and I wasn't quite normal with my tarp and chair and no vehicle,
carrying water and fish from the lake each evening. To keep people
from speculating too closely about my circumstances, I would
conversationally volunteer how I took the summer off work and was
backpacking the Rim Country.
I didn't ask for charity, or rely on
it. Shattsworth didn't get it. He never would. The weeks he followed
me around, he kept saying he was going to figure out what my scam
was. The funny thing is, I was being myself for the first time in
years. My “scam” was telling it like it is. I omitted the part about the felony warrants. Most people appreciated my adventure, and wished they
could do the same. I was doing something most people only dream of. I
told them the hardest part was making the decision to do it. Every
couple of weeks, I'd get an invitation to dinner where my hosts
pried me for stories, or I would find a sack at my chair.
People wanted to be a part of my
journey even if only by leaving me some food they didn't want to take
home anyway. They wanted to help me to succeed. They wanted to think
I could make it because then maybe, just maybe, it was possible to have their
own dream someday. Whatever it may be. This is how I quit hiding
after all those years, using my very freedom as an example of the
possibilities you can encounter if you let go of your fears and
pursue your dreams. I had a purpose and a goal and something good in
my life. On top of it all, look at my front yard!
Of those two sacks, one was full of
hot dog buns. I learned that people bring WAY to many hot dog buns
camping for some reason. The other sack held a pack of partially
frozen hot dogs, potato chips, mustard, pickles, and an apple. I tied
a rope between two trees, hung the bags on the line, and covered them
with a tarp. We retired to Shattsworth's camp to cook the fish on his
stove. He was like a sponge. A deformed little sponge who required me
to explain everything I did. He wanted to learn and I wanted to share
what I learned. He left no stone unturned in his search for my
“scam”. He was continually disappointed to learn that hard labor
and good citizenship were the main principles of my success. He
learned how to clean and cook a trout though, even if he couldn't
catch one.
We cooked and ate on the side of his
van opposite my camp. After dinner, he reassured me that he felt bad
that he hadn't shared his grass. I told him not to sweat it and
returned to my camp. When I got there, I found that my pots and pans
were smashed flat and my journals and maps were missing. The
groceries were camouflaged in the darkness under the tarp. Pots and
maps, even hand drawn maps, can be replaced. The loss of the journals
was a blow. Then I heard the explosion.
The loud bang came from about three
hundred yards away. I looked and saw four teenage boys rapidly
backing away from their fire. Likely suspects. I hurried to their
camp and found them dripping with scalding hot Dinty Moore stew. I
was feeling no sympathy for morons in the woods at this point and
immediately launched into my own concerns. “You boys know anything
about somebody trashing my camp over yonder?” I pointed.
The guy who looked like he'd been
burnt the worst spoke up as he was toweling himself off. “Mister,
I'll be honest with you. We saw a chair and some pots and pans and
papers over there and thought since there wasn't a tent or car or
anything, that it was an abandoned camp. When we were walking over to
check it out, a guy in a camouflaged bronco drove over your gear and
started poking around. Some old bald guy chased him off. We didn't
take anything, honest. If anything's missing, it was the guy in the
bronco. You can ask the bald guy. He;s camped down that way” and he
indicated a jeep trail that led through some Aspen trees. It turns
out they didn't know enough to open the can of stew so it wouldn't
explode. They had no other food, so I took them the hot dogs and a
pack of buns. The dogs might not be good in the morning, and I was
full of fish.
It was late, and there was no sense in
looking for bald Samaritans or camouflaged Fords in the dark. I went
back to camp and rolled up in the remaining tarp with Maya. In the
morning the sight of my flattened cookware depressed me. I had no
clipboard to start my day. I set out looking for the Bronco.
I found the miscreants I was looking
for about a mile and a half up Forest Road 89 by the power lines.
There was a guy heating a pot of coffee on a gas burner. In addition
to the bronco there was a red Ford Ranger. There were two tents. “Is
that your Bronco?” I asked in the most menacing voice I could
muster. “Nope” he said. “Why?”
“That truck has been identified as
one that destroyed my camp last night. I need to settle with the
driver.” He nodded as if he knew what I was talking about and
walked over to one of the tents and stuck his head in. After a minute
he came back and said “He said he's not going to get up yet.”
I pulled a lawn chair alongside his
cooler, felt around for a beer, opened it, took a drink, and said “I
can wait.” Even I was surprised at my bravado, but I intended to
get my journals back. I was thankful for the chair. It kept him from
seeing me shake. He went over and stuck his head in the tent again.
After a few minutes of mumbling back and forth, I heard him say “You
get rid of him then!” Neither of them wanted to face the wild man
in the forest. This gave me hope of getting out of there intact.I finished the beer.
Shortly, a small round man with a
black beard emerged from the tent looking sheepish. I explained that
I understood that mistakes happen and told him about my trip, I
stressed how I depended on the gear I had to survive and couldn't
just run to the store for pots and pans. I requested he return the
journals and maps. Afraid my entreaty showed weakness that he might
take advantage of, I punctuated it by helping myself to another of
his beers. I tipped my head back and downed most of it in one
draught. I leveled my gaze at him and awaited his reply. His friend
busied himself at the burner. It was obvious that he blamed this
intrusion on his bearded buddy's bad behavior.
He was apologetic to say the least. He
explained that he was drunk and that was no excuse. He said that once
the old bald guy straightened him out, he put the papers behind a
tree with a rock on them so they wouldn't get scattered (I found them
later). He was genuinely remorseful and gave me a two quart pot, a
small skillet, a two liter of soda, and a sixer of Coors light. I
thanked him and told him he was a stand up dude.The next day I took the lid off the two quart for the first time and found a fifty dollar bill.
After leaving my new gear and supplies
at camp and ignoring Shattsworth's curiosity as to my latest “scam”,
I found the Samaritan and thanked him. He invited me to visit later,
as he was interested in hearing about my journey. We became friends
and bumped into each other in the woods for years to come. He was in
charge of security at the Palo Verde Nuclear plant.
Shattsworth hung around for weeks. I
fished for him and fed him and tried to teach him as best I could. He
was looking for shortcuts though, and I didn't know any. One day I
came back from fishing earlier than usual and found him behind his
van with three crates full of canned goods and tinned meat. When I
asked him where he got the food, he said he always had it. I was
flabbergasted. I'd been fishing and feeding him for weeks and he was
well supplied. His response was “I have to conserve, I can't do
things like you.” That was Jefferson Shattsworth's scam.
There was something that had been
nagging at the back of my mind for months, and before we parted
company, I had to have an answer. I asked him how he got back and
forth to the shitter without ever being seen that first month. He
said he didn't. He took me to the side door of his van and showed me
a piece of hose that ran out his passenger door through which he
peed. Then he opened a cooler and revealed to me newspapers wrapped
in freezer bags. “I thought about offering you some hamburger from
my cooler” he told me, “Then watching your face when you
unwrapped it”. The possibility that he was a deranged cannibal began to creep back
into my mind. “I think it's time I was moving on” I said.
His name was seriously Shattsworth.
Honestly, I couldn't make this shit up.
This wasn't the end of Shattsworth. He plagued me again in later years. I changed his name a little, but the Shatts part is accurate.
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