The Squatters

What seems like a long, long time ago, in a faraway land, my parents and I left the city, pulling a very archaic wooden trailer behind our Desoto. We were in search of the perfect summer getaway.
We drove across dusty dirt roads, always pointing our dreams in the direction of the Rocky Mountains that loomed ahead on the Western horizon. Eventually we arrived in the Sun River canyon. We crept along a narrow roadway that snaked in the same pattern as the Sun River below. We parked our rolling home in a grove of trees at the base of the newly constructed Gibson Dam. Behind that dam was a wilderness that would come to be known as "The Bob."
My father carried boulders from the riverbed and mixed up some cement to create our fire pit. I made a print of my hand in the wet cement and my parents wrote our names. We were squatters and that was our land. We rarely saw any other campers. Mother and I picked wild flowers and Daddy cut fire wood and no one told us not to. We went uphill, away from the river, to relieve ourselves and I learned to carry a shovel to bury my waste. I remember starry nights and blackened marshmallows with creamy centers. After I was tucked into the top bunk I could hear my parents murmuring between music strummed on Daddy's guitar.
This past Memorial Day weekend my husband and I drove out of the city in our motor home searching for our own idyllic getaway. The traffic was heavy with recreational vehicles of various sizes and shapes all apparently headed in the same direction. We left the freeway and continued on paved roads to the campsite we had reserved. We registered at the little hut near the entrance. Name, address, vehicle license, dog licenses numbers and picked up the policy and procedure booklet. Thirteen dollars a night, one week only, gates locked at 10 p.m.
The paved, level spot we decided on had a long distance view of the lake, our own picnic table, a designated fire pit and we were in walking distance to the shower house. We hooked up the water, sewer, electricity, cable and secured our dogs to the post provided for that purpose. At the coin-operated wood dispenser we secured an arm load of wood for our evening fire for only $3.
Our immediate neighbors, in their behemoth motor home, had all of the window shades pulled so we left our blinds up on that side of our motor home. We toured one of those Greyhound bus sized motor homes one time and I wondered if our neighbors had a washer and dryer and spinet piano in theirs.
We burned a few marshmallows and watched the neighbors on the other side tap their keg before we went to bed. The camp host made frequent rounds, even after the front gate was locked, and our weekend was peaceful and quiet behind our window shades.
My dad made up a song for me on one of the nights he strummed his guitar under the stars. To the tune of Clementine:
In Augusta, in Augusta, in the days of '46
lived a couple and their daughter
and they lived out in the sticks.
Had a trailer house, yes a trailer house
and they liked it very much, etc.
A few years ago my husband and I made the trek to the Sun River canyon in search of my childhood. We found a small bit of the fire pit my dad had built and written in the cement was the date, July 5, 1946.
Across a newly built bridge was the campground city. RV squatters had happily paid the rent on a bit of 21st century wilderness.