Duck Creek Shit Storm
Karli and I pulled up to Duck Creek and drove through what
seemed to be a pretty average “car camping” site. There were small, treed areas
separated by thirty or so meters scattered among both sides of the road that
were already about half full of various RV’s and pickups. Based on the
recommendation of our friends who had camped here prior, we kept pushing
through the valley of the weekenders. After about a mile, we hooked a turn and
we were in one of the most stunning landscapes I have ever seen.
This valley looked like something out of a painting. We had
finally achieved our much needed vacation from the city of Denver.
We drove down the road for what felt like hours, just taking
in all this mountain range had to offer. We said very little on this portion of
the drive because the scenery was simply awe inspiring. We finally found a
perfect little secluded spot, miles and miles down the road.
This was it. I parked the car. We let the dogs out and we
set up camp. This felt perfect. The woman I love. Our dogs, Sturgill and Hank.
Cold beer. Food cooked over a fire. I felt like I was living out a country song.
Hell, I felt like Zac Brown was just whispering sweet, soft little nothings
into my ear as I rode on the shoulders of Garth Brooks. Yeah, it was that kind
of trip.
For two days and one night, this was absolute paradise. The
second night was… uh, more chaotic.
Camping out of the back of a Subaru Crosstrek with two grown
ass people, and two medium dogs is very tight but doable. We had the backseats
folded down and had fit a decent sized air mattress in the back. The dogs were
supposed to sleep at our feet, but they basically just did whatever they fucking
wanted to because they are dogs that were being forced to sleep in a car. The
first night went ok. A little uncomfortable, but we figured it was manageable.
The second night came, we piled into the back of the car,
and we all fell asleep. I was asleep for three and a half seconds before the
dogs started stomping me out like I was being initiated into a fucking gang. I
finally got them to settle and laid my head down once more. Insert the most
jarring panting noises I have ever heard. They were panting so hard, they were
shaking the car. I could not sleep and I was getting very upset. I let the dogs
outside, hoping they just needed to pee or poop. I was partially right. They
both peed and got back in the car. I fell back asleep.
I woke to even worse panting, a really strange noise, and
utter darkness. I thought it came from outside. “Oh, fuck! Is that moose we saw
yesterday out there?” I asked myself. I groggily came to, and my head began to
fill with questions, “Was there an animal outside? Is that why the boys were
acting so crazy and denying me of my precious sleep? What time is it?” All of
these questions were cut short by the intrusion of a smell. “Is that a fart?” I
think to myself. And then it hits me. That was the sound I heard. And that was
no fart… that was a shart.
“That’s shit! That’s fucking shit!” I start to repeat with
increasing levels of volume every time I say it. Karli wakes up as I am chanting,
“That’s shit. That’s fucking shit.” As she begins to put the confusing pieces
of me yelling and trying to get the dogs out of the car together, she begins to
ask me what in the hell I’m talking about. “Sturgill shit somewhere in the
car!” As the dome lights in the car finally turn on, I realize that the
“somewhere” that Sturgill shit was, in fact, right next to my head.
At this point, I get Hank out of the car and Sturgill
quickly follows. Sturgill is a long, tall dog that resembles much more of a
horse than a K9. As his body sneaks past me, he manages to brush my face with
his exceptionally long tail. Normally, this would be of no issue. But due to
the explosive diarrhea that he had just expelled from his bowels and onto our
bed, this was a huge problem.
My tone now shifts from that of confusion and frustration,
to unfiltered rage and fury “There is shit on my face! There is shit on my
goddamn face!” I begin another chant, as if stating my misfortunes will somehow
resolve them. I scramble out of the car still screaming about the smear of dog
poo on my face. Not a ton of shit, mind you. But any amount on your face is
warrant for an emotional reaction. I am so upset that I scare Hank and he just
runs away. I don’t blame him, that’s the correct response when you are a
thirty-eight pound labradoodle who doesn’t understand English but are smart
enough to understand that your brother just shit on your Dad’s face and Dad is
now throwing poop covered items out of the car while informing your brother
that he will spend the rest of his days in these woods. It is also worth noting,
I looked criminally insane during this portion. The smell was so awful that I
was gagging, dry heaving, and still yelling obscenities at my dog. All the
while, Karli is laughing hysterically, and I don’t blame her. That’s the
correct response when you are a nurse and shit is a normality. When you look
over and your boyfriend is behaving as though he just contracted Ebola and
smoked meth simultaneously, you laugh.
Hank finally returns and we load up everything into our 2021
toilet on wheels and begin our drive home… with the windows down, of course.
Karli had to drive at first because there was so much stuff
jammed into the back of the vehicle that I couldn’t fit in the drivers seat. We
got on the narrow, two-lane, mountain highway in the middle of the night and two
semi-trucks and trailers zoomed past us and shook the Crosstrek violently. You
know, like a small car with all of its windows down would shake when being
passed at an opposing seventy-five miles per hour. “Nope. You have to drive.”
Karli says to me.
We pull over to the side of the highway and rearrange the
car, again. I’m nearing the end of my patience with this escapade and I am just
fucking ready to be home.
I’m driving down the highway, the steering wheel is only
inches from my chest, all the windows were down, and to say I was upset would
be a gross understatement. I looked at my dog and once again told him I should
have left him in the woods. I obviously did not mean this. Sturgill is my horse
dog, my sweet boy, my dog. But in this moment, I was being downright mean to
him. Karli informed me that saying horrible things like that was not funny. I
wasn’t trying to be funny. I was trying to be hurtful because I was angry.
There was, after all, dog shit on my face. But as we hurdled down the road
surrounded only by the sounds of the headwind of the highway that drowned out
the already low sound of the radio, my mind began to wander. The cold air that
was bellowing through the open car windows was the only thing keeping me awake.
Well, that and the overpowering stench of dog shit that smelled strangely
reminiscent of Cheerios. The smell was so pungent I couldn’t keep my mind off
of Sturgill.
I began to feel lower than low. As I should have. I said
some off the wall shit to him when I was angry. It’s times like those where I
really hope our dogs can’t understand us. But even if he couldn’t verbally express
anything to me, his face spoke volumes. I could tell that he was hurt. He was
afraid and uncomfortable because he knew that his Dad was furious with him. I
looked at that sad face of his and I thought of that same boyish face that
would light up when I came home. That same face that would look up at me with
complete and total trust. That same, sweet face that kept me company throughout
pandemic lockdowns and some of the hardest chapters of my life. I was flooded
with all of the countless joys that dog has brought to my life.
I look back at him and I earnestly apologized. He seemed to
accept my gesture.
We continued down the road as the wind blasted us and the
dogs. Karli looks at me and smiles, as if to remind me that everything is going
to be ok, and that we will laugh about this someday. I smile in return because
I know she is right. I look in the rear view mirror and I see Hank, just
sitting there looking justifiably confused and cold. I look for Sturgill and I
notice that he is squatting and is facing the rear window. He is once again,
shitting the car. I take a deep breath in to process the situation. In
retrospect, that was poorly timed inhale. I look over at Karli and simply say
“He’s pooping again.” “Oh, wow. That’s really unfortunate.” She responds. We
both focus back on the road and realize there is nothing we can do about any of
this right now. It was relieving. We both just dug into our reality and
realized that we had a unfortunately pungent drive ahead of us, but we were
going to make it.
Sometimes life is an oasis in the mountains. Sometimes life
is a Subaru filled with watery dog shit. It is the reaction to either scenario
that dictates the overall energy of your life.
Strive to move with grace and eloquence through all aspects
of life and reciprocate love to those who give theirs to you. Even if they shit
on your face.
Dedicated to my
little family:
Karli, Hank, and
Sturgill aka “The New Amber Turd”
