Now I Know Why Germans Are So Friggen Happy!

Several hours after I had awakened the entire Capitol Reef campground, I awoke to the sound of rustling at the campsite next door. Three German women were waking up and breaking camp. I was breaking wind deep down in my sleeping bag. It’s hard to cover that up at daybreak in a crowded campground. When I crawled out of the tent, the German women grimaced at me. I waved cheerily and put the coffee on to boil. All of the people who were tucked in to their RVs with Direct TV dishes were still asleep, so I loosed another butt reveille in 4/4 time in hopes of rallying the camp. This time the German women didn’t look.

It’s a strange culture that RVs these days. As we were getting ready to drive out of camp, the American RVers came climbing out of their wheeled houses. Some of these RVs really are as big as houses, with La-Z-Boy recliners, washers and dryers, satellite televisions, Internet access and Puerto Rican man servants. The RV Captains gathered in the center of camp, clutching coffee cups and their wives, and wearing sweatshirts with logos or scenes from all the places they had visited. Some banded together to see if they could gain any traction with scandalous tales about the campground host that might spread all the way up to park headquarters—possibly freeing the way for one of them to earn the title of “Host,” with all the honors and benefits that come with it. Others gossiped about the camping habits of the other campers. One glared at me and muttered something to her friend about “farting.”

I’ve never published the word “farting” before. It’s a new experience. I wonder if the Internet has some kind of rules against using using the vernacular term for colon gas? But which term is worse: fart or colon gas? I’m thinkin’ that I’m in the right on this one, and for those of you who might try to argue that I take on a more formal tone, you're wrong. But I digress.

The other brand of RVers are those who have rented them. These people aren’t owners, but rather are the scabs of the campgrounds in the eyes of RV owners. Every time one of these rental RVs shows up in a campground, the RV owners gather to sneer and give a chilly welcome. The owners know that it’s impossible for someone to truly absorb the RV Culture if they merely are squatting in one of the coveted vehicles. They know that the only sure way to understand “The Craft”, as they call it, is to mortgage yourself to the hilt and buy one, or, better still, to sell your home, buy one and live the vagabond life until age, infirmity, poverty or total mechanical failure force you to move in with your children and live out the rest of your Autumn years in uncertainty and cloaked resentment.

This week, many of those in the rental RVs are European tourists. I guess these folks get several weeks of vacation each year, and they know how to use it, too. Here in Utah, thousands of Europeans and Asians have taken to the roads, making Americans a minority here in the leisure capitals of the West, because most of us Americans are at work. These foreign vacationers seem immensely satisfied, and who can blame them? Everybody should have five weeks of vacation each year. Even our President thinks so; he’s been known to spend an awful lot of time in Crawford each summer, and this year he only gave up two days of his extended vacation to deal with the largest contemporary natural disaster America has ever known.

So I’m thinking we should all get five weeks vacation like our President and the Germans. There is so much to see and so little time, and I think we would all be better people and better employees if a whole bunch of R&R were on the schedule each year.

We found ourselves in a cavalcade of rental RVs on our way to Bryce Canyon. The narrow roads were scary enough in a car, but they must have been especially treacherous in an RV. My suspicions proved true. In a particularly winding stretch on a 14 percent grade, we saw an RV quickly pull into a turn out, ostensibly to let the line of 40 cars behind her get by. As we passed, I looked over to see the driver gulping down a handful of pills. I’m pretty sure what she was taking wasn’t Feenamint ...

At the Hell’s Backbone Inn in Boulder, UT, they serve fancy breakfasts. Every dish is tastefully prepared with organic ingredients. It is a Zen garden set up smack dab in the middle of Mormon country. Go eat there if you ever find yourself out here in the middle of nowhere like we did. Or if you need to post something to a blog. They don't mind a bit if you walk in stinking of camp. The WiFi access made the meal particularly satisfying.

Hiking in Bryce Canyon, a spectacular place, we came across a man from Pittsburgh named Manny. He worked as a tax accountant. He admitted that, being from the East Coast, he was slightly scared to be taking the hike alone. So he invited himself to tag along with us. We didn’t mind. He was good company. Turns out he had come to the area a week before he was to run the St. George Marathon, scheduled for this coming Saturday. As we walked, Manny indicated his pleasure with the current Administration’s tax cuts and credits for things like energy efficient cars. He lamented the impending winter costs of natural gas. He stopped short of telling his political affiliation. I refrained from expressing my belief that George W. Bush is the Devil or, at the very least, a minor demon. Manny's marathon legs were good at climbing, and there was plenty of that—for a long way. We finished the hike in about two hours, 15 minutes, a full forty five minutes less than the park’s listed required minimum hiking time.

If you take nothing else away from this blog, remember this: Do not eat at the restaurant at Ruby’s Best Western hotel on the road to Bryce. Caroline and I enjoyed all of the fare the place had to offer in true, stuffed-to-the-gills buffet fashion. It was like eating at Furr’s Cafeteria, except Furr's has more entrees and doesn’t cost 40 bucks. Throngs of German vacationers seemed to be enjoying it though, which lends more credence to my theory that five weeks of vacation makes for more satisfied, happier people.

I’ll have time to post this tonight from Ruby’s main Lodge. Ruby’s was started in 1920 by Rueben and Minnie Sybett. It began as a guest tent that served toast for the Sybett’s friends. Nowadays it's a gold mine! The guy in the restaurant, the manager, told us that they serve 5,000 meals a day. Every day of the year! They have hotel rooms, a trading post, a store, pony rides, a rodeo, campgrounds and, oh yeah, they are located right next to Bryce canyon. That adds up to millions! Cha-ching! Why, oh why didn’t my parents move someplace cool and start inviting friends over for toast?

(It’s amazing how much WiFi access there is in this state. Keep checking back for postings.)

Auf Weidersehen!