First of all, turning 50 is better than the alternative. While I’m no senior citizen, I’m surely not middle aged anymore — unless I’m living to 100. I’m afraid the glass isn’t half empty — it’s 5/8ths empty, maybe 2/3rds.

Still it was a good excuse for an in-town party and another party in the woods. In-town, a couple of dozen friends came over for a potluck cookout and cakes. We had a good time and even stayed up past 9pm — woo-hoo.

For the weekend, a dozen of us trekked to a sweet little spot I’d visited the week before. The place is called Resumidero and we all loved it on first sight. It is a long, flat meadow between two rushing streams, surrounded by dense woods on the edge of the San Pedro Parks Wilderness. It was perfect — up until it was ruined. But I get ahead of myself. …

I want you to understand that I had a great time with my friends in a beautiful spot doing exactly what I wanted: hiking, playing, eating and drinking. So what if there was no sweat lodge?

However, there were distinct travails and they make for a more interesting story. My friend Fred says when good things happen one should feel a little sorrow because bad things are inevitable. I’m not so fatalistic, but a lot of balancing of good- and mis-fortune seemed to be going on this weekend.

Take for example that I almost wrecked the camper. Well, I kinda wrecked the camper. But, it wouldn’t have taken much more for someone to have been killed. So, it could have been worse.

Perversely, instead of being the first one to leave home on Friday, I was the last (with Lucky). Just before the Big-I, I realized that in spite of hours spent packing, we had all left behind the cooler full of beer and champagne. So, already behind, I turned back and struggled with it myself.

Away again, just north of Tramway, a guy driving a black truck tried to get my attention. Something was wrong, he signalled (thank you, kind stranger). Indeed, I had forgotten to close 3 of 4 latches on the roof of the pop-up camper and so, at 70mph, it had popped up on its own in front, extending higher than it should, enough to pull the canvas loose and leave a gaping maw. I almost cried, certain that I had ruined the camper AND that I would not be able to continue on to my own party. And I’m the only one in the group without a cell phone.

But, the top could have flown off and killed someone or some of the things that blew out might have done so. Or maybe I could have flipped over. As it was, it actually came down fairly easily, what was lost can be replaced, and the repairs won’t be too difficult or expensive. Whew.

Not 5 minutes later, people were waving again and I pulled over. The locked back door had flown open. That cooler full of drinks and the box of firewood on top of it were still in place. Another half-step toward disaster.

On to Cuba and a rendezvous with some of the other campers. I wondered what they would be thinking about me being a half hour behind schedule. I teased them with mention of my travails without details — better to tell tales under trees than on asphalt.

After a last minute stop for ice, I was sure I had been delayed just enough for someone else to occupy “our” spot, but no, we were in luck. Good balances bad.

We started to set up. With a beer in hand, I told of my travails. I expected Merri to cry when she saw the camper popped-up. However, Merri has achieved some state of grace ever since we were shot in the back by craven paint-ballers. She appreciated how much worse it could have been.

So, the feast and fest began and continued for almost exactly 48 hours (not 50, as I had planned). Joining Merri, Lucky and Happy (me) that first day were Steve, Fred, Ben, mAry, Meg, Dave and Kathleen. Next day, Meg left and we were joined by La Familia Mullany, Jas., Marj, Maddy and Riley.

On my first solo visit, just a week earlier, it had gotten below freezing at night. The sudden heatwave changed that; it was probably 15 degrees or more warmer at night. Still, we had a fire each night, something I almost never do (to paraphrase Alice Walker paraphrasing the Japanese, “when the campers came to the woods, the trees said, ‘the firewood is one of us!'”)

We had a great hike on Saturday into the San Pedro Parks Wilderness, which doesn’t look so wild as a near-perfect rectangle on the map, but it is quite lovely — the perfect place for cows. Oh, but there were no cows right then, just lots of cow pies, echoing the beer cans every few feet along the roads in. Still, the rushing water (sometimes flooding the trails), the beautiful granite and moss, the bucolic Vega Redonda and its beaver dams, even the snow along the trail — it was all wonderful. All ours, save for some backpackers who disappeared early on.

It was on return to camp Saturday afternoon that we saw how things would be. An old RV had arrived and parked almost as close to us as one could while being on the other side of the creek. Why? Why set your chairs to face us? Don’t you have a TV? Still, there could be worse neighbors (next day).

After a late night of singing around the campfire with the Von Mullany Family Singers and Olde Tyme Bande, we rose to bacon, eggs and carne adovada. And the traffic picked up, including the 4 or 6 ATVers who rode up to an adjacent picnic table — you can still find their tracks through the grass.

When I go into the woods, I want to be as far from strangers — and noise — as possible, so I have double trouble with people who think so differently. I’m there to experience the woods without luxury or hardship. To hear and smell and feel things — to think things I can’t in the city. I understand multiple use and I accept that we may want different things out there. But can you imagine anyone thinking, “hey, those folks are too far away and too quiet!”

Still, I’ll take a dozen ATVs plus 100 cows over one idiot with a gun. I don’t remember when the shooting began, just that that was the end. Some asshole stands in the woods emptying his chamber every 30 minutes for what? Pleasure?

By the time a couple of dozen cows ambled down the hill to be shot by slingshot by one of the neighbor’s kids, I figured I’d never see Resumidero again.

But I may yet, because somewhere in the kite flying, frisbee throwing, volleyball playing, foot-sunburning fun before the end, I lost my 14 year old wedding ring among the cow pies. Perhaps the last travail.

See the pix (some photos by MRudd).