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”

 

 

Karli holding Sturgill while Hank ignores the camera.