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.
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.
“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!”
“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.
“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.