Arkansas River Valley, Colorado, a couple summers ago. Believe it or not, I will say something nice about motor-crazed yahoos today. First off, should I use a new name, such as "motorsports enthusiasts?" Actually ATVs aren't that noisy and tend to be operated by responsible adults, which the dogs and I are friendly to, on the trail. But those young guys on their dirt bikes! Growl.
On Friday night they arrived in force, with all the usual commotion and anticipation. They have finished their drive from a population center and to celebrate the occasion they serenade the nearest square mile with ugly, raucous music. One of the cretins camped fifty yards away from me. The next day they buzzed around like insect pests. I kept to short hikes in the dry washes of decomposed granite so I wouldn't have to overlap with them.
On Friday night they arrived in force, with all the usual commotion and anticipation. They have finished their drive from a population center and to celebrate the occasion they serenade the nearest square mile with ugly, raucous music. One of the cretins camped fifty yards away from me. The next day they buzzed around like insect pests. I kept to short hikes in the dry washes of decomposed granite so I wouldn't have to overlap with them.
On Sunday morning I played a game with myself, guessing which group of louts would leave first. What a joy it is to see the ramps get put in place at the back of their gigantic toy haulers. Back to the rat race they go.
I had been feeling lazy and unappreciative of my present location before the yahoos showed up. Maybe everything was too nice: the weather, scenery, geology, and trails. After the yahoos left, my appreciation for the local land was rejuvenated. In that sense I owe them gratitude.
This experience reminded me of something else that happened the first couple years of full time RVing. We have all experienced a piece of music, which made chills go up and down the spine when new, become dull through repetition. What a pity.
When I parked my RV near some traffic and listened to the music, something interesting happened. I would lie down on the bed and listen to the music, while the traffic noise half-drowned it out. At first the traffic noise was ugly and irritating. It partially drowned out the music, which forced me to fill in the gaps with my own memory. Then the traffic noise would relent briefly, letting me hear the music again. This happened several times, and each time it recalibrated my imagination. Eventually I lost track of whether I was actually hearing the music or imagining it. The tired old music was reborn. When it was new, I had only been listening to it; now it seemed like I was half-composing it.
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