On the road again. We left Williamsburg and headed southeast toward Norfolk before turning north and crossing the 17-mile Chesapeake Bay Bridge, which is a bridge for a few miles, then, somehow, in the middle of the bay, becomes a tunnel, which becomes a bridge again, then a tunnel, then a bridge. Try to picture this, and then please tell me how they engineered it.
(Keith wants me to add into the blog that, while we were in Williamsburg, we were near Camp Peary, which is purportedly a super-covert CIA training site where they teach interrogation and other super-covert spy techniques. However, their secret is out, I guess, because Keith found this out on Wikipedia. He was completely fascinated. He read in the Virginia Gazette that Camp Peary trainees walk amongst the the tourists at Colonial Williamsburg and do, according to Keith, “super-covert, sneaky things.”)
The traffic around Norfolk was heavy and gross -- like, eight lanes of interstate -- but it thinned out as we turned off for the bridge. Once we got across the bay, onto the Delmarva Penninsula -- named for the three states that take up real estate here: Delaware, Maryland and Virginia -- the landscape relaxed from metropolitan fast-lane into something decidedly more provincial. The four-lane divided road maxed out at about 50 mph, and slowed down often in small towns that were not much more than intersection with a gas station, a flea market, a church and a produce stand. And maybe a John Deere dealership here and there.
Finally, around 6 p.m. we turned off Route 13, and, a short while later, we were tootling down the road that stretches along the Assateague Island National Seashore. This is where we’re camping for the next three nights.
I have been really excited to get here. Assateague is a barrier island off the coast of Maryland and Virginia. Camping is allowed only on the Maryland side, and the campsites are set amid the dunes, steps from the beach. The island is known for its herd of wild horses -- about 100 of them -- descendants of livestock the colonists put to pasture out here 300 years ago.
I wasn’t sure how elusive the horses would be. I figured we’d be lucky if we could catch a glimpse of them from a distance. But, as we drove into the campground, we passed a few of them standing right by the side of the road. And then, as we passed some other campsites, we saw several horses grazing right next to the tents and trailers.
Several weeks ago, when I was researching screen tents before our most recent camping-equipment purchase, I read a customer review of the shelter that we ended up buying. The happy camper had written that he had taken his new screen shelter to Assateague Island, and boy, was he glad he had -- because it kept him safe from all the mosquitoes. That was the only clue I ever got about the buggy conditions on this island. That one little hint burst into full-on reality as soon as we opened the van door at our campsite.
Let me put it this way: The mosquitoes here are the size of bald fricking eagles, and Keith and I were nearly carried away by hordes of them as we were setting up the tents.
Let me put it another way: The mosquitoes are so strapping and dogged that the wind, which is coming off the ocean at a brisk and steady 20 mph, doesn’t even slow them down. In fact, it seems to somehow bolster them.
Ah, yes, the wind. It’s relentless. The tents are flapping like sails. Keith and I were certainly driven by an uneasy sense of urgency as we set up camp. Slapping at mosquitoes, scratching at the welts already blooming on our arms, legs and faces, scrambling to keep everything from blowing away while simultaneously trying to set it all up as quickly as possible -- and then worrying about getting dinner on the table in these conditions -- added a degree of difficulty that we hadn’t anticipated.
Here’s something else that added to the degree of difficulty: The horse droppings. Evidence that, yes, the horses do get close to the camp sites, because their shit is, like, all over. Keith and I actually used the poop piles as markers as we were setting up the tents: “So, like, the far corner should be right there by that horseshit, and then the door will face that way, and then the other corner will be right here by this horseshit.”
While I was cooking dinner, the horses paid us a visit. They called on the neighbor first, and got into his garbage. Then they poked their noses into another neighbor’s tent. They sauntered through our site, as well, even took a sniff at the Teardrop (which didn’t seem to enthuse them), and then moved on. The kids were not exactly excited about our visitors, though. This is due in large part to all the signs posted around the campground that order us to STAY AWAY from the horses because they are WILD ANIMALS. Also, the National Park Service brochure that was given to us at the ranger station shows pictures of humans with huge horse bites on their flesh. So, that has turned our kids off thoroughly to the novelty and excitement of having ponies stroll through our campsite.
Tonight, I’m catching up on the blog in our kick-ass screen tent, which manages to keep the mosquitoes at bay. But a new issue has come up: Beetles are getting themselves trapped in here. They must be crawling up from the ground, from under the screened walls, and there are now several dozen beetles clinging to the insides of our screens, buzzing around, flopping around on the table, dancing across the computer screen, dripping off the ceiling and getting themselves tangled in my hair.
Meanwhile, the wind is whipping the tents around and the poles are flexing and contorting like a master yogi. If the broken pole on our lame tent holds up in this, it’ll be a miracle. Good thing both tents are guyed-out to the nines.
And, hey, like my dear friend Chrissy Hanson Snider observes via facebook, at least our picnic table is dry.
No comments:
Post a Comment