Night four at our campsite:

Hubs and I spent the evening watching a crowd of new campers arrive.

For the previous three nights, we’d had the Chisos Basin campground (at Texas’ Big Bend National Park) pretty much to ourselves.

Now, it seemed, many people had decided to spend a long weekend at the park.

We wondered aloud whether the camp host had warned the new arrivals about the Skunk Invasion.

“Now this ought to be interesting,” Hubs mused as a carload of giggling 20-something women pulled in to the site next to us.

The happy-go-lucky quartet threw up a tent, then drove off again, presumably for dinner somewhere.

A few hours later, darkness fell.

“Any minute and Maxwell will be here,” I told Hubs. “Maybe tonight we can get a better photo of him.”

But my faithful nighttime visitor never appeared.

“Is it weird that I feel sort of … slighted?” I asked Hubs, who practically fell out of his camp chair laughing.

“Let me get this straight: First, the skunks are ‘scary.’ Then, after one sees you naked, they’re ‘intrusive.’ And now, you’ve not only named a skunk, but you’re actually disappointed that he’s not scavenging here tonight?”

I nodded sheepishly.

“I guess I just got sort of used to him. Seems strange not to see him poking his nose into our tent or sniffing around the bear box,” I explained.

Hubs gestured at the newly filled campsites.

“Look at all the virgin campers here tonight. Maxwell has a whole new array of dining options.”

“I guess,” I sniffed.

Thirty minutes later, we turned in, with nary a sign of Maxwell.

Which is when we heard a piercing scream. Then shrieks. And then the sort of hysterical laughter that erupts when one is confronted with a situation so dire, the only solution is to make light of it.

More shrieking, followed by several beep-beeps from the women’s car.

“I think they’re back from dinner,” I said, giggling.

“I think something was waiting for them,” Hubs added.

He opened our tent window wider so that we could hear better.

A rumble of guys’ voices soon joined the screaming and shrilly laughter.

“Did you leave food in your tent?” we heard a male voice inquire.

“It won’t leave!” a woman answered, not exactly answering the question.

“Guess the camp host didn’t tell them about the skunks’ ability to open tents,” Hubs whispered.

“Oh, Maxwell,” I said. “What a naughty boy.”

And then I snickered myself to sleep.

Tomorrow: A break from my vacation tales so that I can share my daughter’s very first concert experience. Then it’s back to west Texas, where we next encounter scorpions. Want to go camping with us sometime?

 

Shortly before this trip, Hubs went out and bought a couple of those solar shower bags so that we could at least pretend to be somewhat hygienic during our four nights of camping.

I say “pretend” because a shower at night does little when you get up the next morning and hike anywhere from 6 to 12 miles.

Anyway.

On our second night, I suggested that we shower before dark, given that the skunks made their first appearance when the sun set the night before.

Hubs was horrified.

“People might see us!” he exclaimed.

Given that I have twice now hosted crowds gathered at my nether regions (childbirth, anyone?) I didn’t particularly understand his horror.

“Uh, yeah. We’re surrounded by brush. And the showers are hanging behind a column. No one can see anything.”

But Hubs continued to protest.

Once darkness fell, he finally agreed to showers.

I went first.

Unfortunately, the showers couldn’t be hung high enough to allow for standing.

Instead, I had to squat in order to rinse my hair.

Which is when I noticed a pair of beady eyes trained on my nude and vulnerable self.

“Eeeeek!!! Skunk!!!” I shrieked.

Hubs chuckled.

“I don’t see anything,” he said. (Rather patronizingly, I might add.)

I grabbed the rubber tubing and aimed it at my Peeping Pepe.

The skunk scurried off.

“Oh. Yeah. Now I see it,” Hubs said.

Of course, his shower was peaceful and uninterrupted by wildlife.

Meanwhile, I brooded.

Around 9 p.m., we went to bed.

For some reason that has yet to be determined, Hubs did NOT double-knot the ties on our tent zipper.

So the next morning, I awoke to this:

“Cathy. Cathy! Wake up!”

“Huh?”

“Did you get up and go to the bathroom last night?”

Yeah. Right. After two nights of skunk encounters, I figured it would be safe to trot off in the wee, dark hours to the potty room. Because, really. If the skunks have laid claim to our campsite, surely the bears and mountain lions will stay away.

WHATEVER.

“Trust me,” I replied. “If I had needed to pee, you would have been awakened and ordered to  escort me. WHY are you asking me such a STUPID question?”

Hubs pointed to our “front door” tent flap.

Which, my friends, was OPEN.

At some point, while we slept, something had managed to untie the fastenings and unzip our tent.

Later, I found a tuft of white and black hair.

“Do you think it was IN HERE?!” I asked.

“Hmmm,” Hubs said, studying the now-open flap. “Sure looks like it.”

Now maybe some of you don’t have a problem with the thought of an … aromatic …. intruder wandering through your sleeping quarters while you are, well, sleeping, but I am not quite so blase’.

“I don’t care if you have to superglue our tent shut,” I informed Hubs, “but I DO NOT want furry little creatures crawling across my sleeping body.”

Tomorrow: I develop a friendship with our faithful, nightly visitor.

 

As most of you know, Hubs and I return each year to Big Bend National Park, where we married 10 years ago.

On that occasion, Hubs spent our nights battling the javelina that invaded our campsite each night. (He wielded a spatula and tongs as weapons. The javelina were not what I would describe as impressed, let alone frightened.

Never seen a javelina? Here ya go:

This year, Hubs faced a more, uh, threatening adversary:

Monday afternoon, just as we finished putting up our tent, the camp host stopped by.

“Just letting you know: This year, we’re having a problem with skunks getting into tents,” he said.

Hubs and I must have appeared skeptical.

“Seriously,” the camp host said. “You need to either tie a knot or find a way to secure the fastenings. They’ve learned how to unzip tents.”

Thankfully, Hubs and I heeded this advice.

Because later that evening, as I sat alone at our campsite, polishing off a fajita, a skunk ambled into view. And then another. And then another.

The first skunk, which was rather on the large side, headed right to the  bear-proof storage box, which Hubs — who was in the restroom when the gang arrived — had left open.

The skunk climbed inside.

I hauled myself out of the camp chair and, lunging toward our pickup, threw my plastic cup of wine at him.

The skunk didn’t even flinch.

What to do?

I raced off to the restrooms, flung open the door to the men’s potty room and hollered, “Hubs! There’s a skunk in the bear box!”

“Huh?”

“A skunk! In the bear box! He’s ransacking it!”

The toilet flushed and then Hubs emerged from the stall, looking somewhat incredulous.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

Seriously?

Hubs strolled back to the campsite, where chaos reigned.

The big skunk still sat in the bear box, gnawing on the Styrofoam container our steaks were in.

The other two rummaged through the rest of the trash bag, which now rested on the ground.

“Get out of there!” Hubs shouted.

The two smaller skunks scurried off. The big guy, however, didn’t budge.

Hubs threw a rock at the side of the bear box, but the resulting clang had absolutely no effect on our striped party-crasher. He simply continued feasting on his bloody Styrofoam dinner.

A few rocks later, the skunk crawled out of the box, meat container clenched in his jaws, and turned his back toward Hubs.

Later, Hubs and I would marvel at how fluffy and pretty that tail was.

At the time, however, we ran for cover.

At which point the skunk decided there was no need to waste his scent on a couple of wimpy, stupid humans. He picked up the container, walked a couple of feet and resumed dining.

A fox approached, appeared to weigh his chances in pulling a Swiper and then wisely backed off.

Hubs threw more rocks, hoping to scare Pepe off, to no avail.

“I will win this battle, skunk!” Hubs yelled, pitching another rock …

… which nailed the skunk in the head.

The skunk toppled over and grew still.

“You killed him!” I shrieked, running toward the fallen critter. “Oh, the poor little thing!”

We stood over the skunk, pondering what to do.

“Should we tell the camp host?” I wondered aloud.

“Let’s just hide the body,” Hubs replied.

“I don’t want a rotting skunk at our campsite,” I argued.

About that time, the skunk decided to end our debate by rising from his prone position and trotting off with his Styrofoam prize.

Our jaws dropped open.

“Let’s just go to bed,” Hubs said in defeat.

We zipped ourselves inside the tent and made sure the ties were knotted securely.

Thirty minutes later …

“Do you smell that?” I mumbled to Hubs.

“I don’t smell anything,” he said.

“Just wait.”

“Oh. OH!”

“Maybe he sprayed the fox.”

“Or maybe it’s a parting shot,” Hubs said. “I mean, I did hit him in the head.”

Eventually, we drifted off despite the pungent odor wafting through our tent windows.

The next morning, our camp host strolled by.

“See any skunks last night?” he called out. “The guy up above you got sprayed while trying to chase one out of his tent.”

“Poor guy,” I muttered. “Probably our fault for pissing off the skunk in the first place.”

“Could’ve been us,” Hubs agreed. “Tonight, we’ll be ready.”

Only … we weren’t.

Tomorrow’s post: The night I showered with a skunk. And pictures! (of the skunk)