"Remember, It Can Be Used as a weapon" part 1

In lieu of an actual blog, in which I describe the series of travels I have undertaken in the past 24 hours, I'd rather include here one of my many "stories." I'm sitting on a plane, in the second leg of my journey home, and the atmosphere in very conducive to (not) writing (my dissertation). These stories are formative moments in my life--all events described herein are true events, although I'm sure that the rough edges have been thoroughly smoothed out in my memory. TW insists that my penchant towards hyperbole ruins such stories, but I believe that any good story needs a little juice here and there.

The players in this story are:
Celexo, a college sophomore home for summer break, on a weekend vacation down in the Ozarks with his (then) girlfriend;
The Vet, a college freshman, whom as her name implies, is "animal crazy;"
The Woody, an ancient Forerunner that The Vet's dad had just purchased for her--it was so-named because of the faux-wood panels running down the outside (not quite this color, but exactly the same wood panels;
Rio and Rio's mom (R&RM), two Labs that The Vet brought along on every camping trip;
Man, who lived down in a Van by the River (MWLVR), self-explanatory;
Driver, from AAA and his wife Bertha, who came to the rescue

The setting:
Inside the Woody, as Celexo, The Vet and R&RM drive many hours south from St. Louis.

"After a few hours, The Vet pulls into a gas station--yes, she was driving as this was her inaugural trip in The Woody (this info becomes in important later, trust me!). In addition to filling up the tank, go figure, we head inside to--I swear to God--to fill out my application for a fishing permit. Apparently, all you need is $15 and the ability to read & write (and all those years I was afraid of the multiple choice test). Beaming from my newly minted status as a (redneck) fisherman, I jumped back into the driver's seat: this allowed The Vet to pull out the map and find our destination for the weekend.

I forget the name of the river we were at, but shortly before dusk we pulled into the state park and we settled on a particularly nice setting. I followed the dirt road, which led us directly onto the rocky riverbank, and settled on a nice bend in the river. I put the Woody into reverse, yet nothing happened; I tried the gas a little harder--no movement...shit, we're stuck in the rocks.

As I mentioned earlier, this was our first 'real' trip in the Woody so we were a little uncertain about its off-road capabilities. Before we messed around with the jeep itself, we tried digging out the back tires--no dice; we tried putting the floor mats under the back tires--no dice; and we even dug around for some planks of wood--no dice! At this point, the sun is setting and I've got no cellphone reception down in this canyon. I'm seeing images of flash floods shooting around the bend and washing the Woody away.

So, what do we come up with? Well, The Vet and I decide to go find someone else at another campsite and have them drive us into town so that we can call AAA and have our car towed. Now, at this point, Celexo, The Vet, and R&RM, armed with only a hunting knife strapped to The Vet's leg and a huge-ass Maglight flashlight, strike out for someone else's camp.

We stumble upon MWLVR at the next campsite over from us. We turn the corner, still about 100 yards away from his plot, and check out the surroundings: in the middle lies a smoldering campfire; a clothesline is strung up between two trees near the river, with a long-sleeve shirt still hanging there; a lantern sits on a log stump at the base of the clothesline. Parallel to the clothesline sits an old, beat-up van with a pop-up roof and a window-unit air conditioner coming out of a whole cut into the driver's-side halfway back of the door. Other detritus lays around the van: a pair of boots, a milk crate, etc...

Freaked out by the obvious parallels between the scene just described above and any number of bad horror films from the 80s, I stop from entering the campsite. "Perhaps we should try the next one over..." I suggest, weakly. The Vet, tough as nails, denies the request and prompts me further in toward the van. I stop short and voice an awkward, "Hello. Is anybody there?" No response; I take a few steps further and knock on the door. Finally, a fairly short and very round older man comes out the sliding, rear door on the passenger's side. It takes a few minutes to convince him of what I need, and during this conversation the MWLVR says fewer than five words. In fact, it's a little unclear if he understands me at all.

Fortunately for The Vet, and most unfortunately for me, the van that MWLVR lives in and drives around only sits one person--me! I can't sit in the front passenger's seat because that's where the MWLVR's dog sits, and nor would I want to because it looked (and smelled like) it hadn't been cleaned in years. Before I get in the van, The Vet gives me one lasting piece of advice: she hands me the huge-ass Maglight and says, "Remember, it can be used as a weapon."

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion in tomorrow's installment...