I'd spent a couple of winters at the
Verde, and thought I'd seen it all. I know now what an understatement
that can be.
Spring was coming. I remember that
because more people were showing up on the weekends and it was still
a little cool in the mornings. Janine was there sleeping in a
hammock. There were a couple of schoolteachers, fellas from Colorado,
camping near her. Other than that, there was only one other truck in
camp. It was unoccupied and parked in the Hackberries.
I woke at 6 O'clock on that Friday
morning and decided to hike up and have a nice soak before the crowds
rolled in. I packed my canister stove, coffee, water, and a worn copy
of “The Monkey Wrench Gang” a hippie girl had laid on me. The
river was a little high, so I took the old ranch road to the One
Crossing. I approached the springs carefully, having heard a single
gunshot when I was passing the old corral.
When I arrived, I found the tarp from
the roof of the inside tub had been removed and hung across the
doorway. I assumed a couple was in there and wanted some privacy, so
I left my pack on the steps and lowered myself into the cooler
outside pool.
After about an hour, I was eager to
leave the breeze and 98 degree water for the warmer spring. After two
hours, I began to get annoyed. There hadn't been a sound coming from
the stone building just feet from where I sat. That was unusual. The
water in there is pretty warm, and people usually have to at least
stand up now and then to cool off. If somebody was camping in there,
it was time for them to get up. Nobody has the right to monopolize
the building like that. The other option that crossed my mind was
suicide; that single gunshot I heard.
I had enough. I climbed out, naked and
shivering, I stood at the door listening through the tarp. Nothing.
“Hello”, I called. No answer. I carefully pulled back the tarp
and nothing could have prepared me for what I found.
Next to the wood stove was a pile of
dirty laundry about three feet high. Who in the world could have
carried so much up the trail from camp. It wasn't there the night
before. Odd as that was, it was nothing compared to what else I saw.
The inside tub is roughly six by eight
feet. A shallow rectangle of hot water with a few steps leading down.
The entire thing was covered in carefully placed sheets of glossy
magazine pages. Closer inspection revealed it to be lesbian porn. In
the middle was a large beach ball. Next to the steps was an empty
wine bottle on it's side, a large purple rubber dildo, and a set of
false teeth.
Who in the world would leave their
teeth? Nobody. That’s who.
There's a cave on the other side of the
outside pool, and the smart money said that whatever wackadoo owned
this collection was probably in there, possibly armed, and likely
didn't want to be found. I gathered my pack and my clothes and
dressed on my way down the trail to the river.
About halfway back to camp I passed the
schoolteachers, who shared some tasty blond hash. They asked how my
soak was and I cautioned them about the gunshot, false teeth, dildo,
beachball, and thirty pounds of laundry. They laughed and said they'd
keep an eye open.
Later that afternoon, I was visiting
with Janine and they came over. They said they thought I was just
kidding. They were surprised to find everything exactly the way I
described, with the addition of a little old man who appeared, packed
everything up, and split.
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