Memoirs of a Gas Station by Sam Neumann

Author:Sam Neumann [Neumann, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Amazon: B007W68SDG
Barnesnoble: B007W68SDG
Publisher: Sam Neumann
Published: 2012-04-19T04:00:00+00:00

Three hours later Jim and I sat on a rock outcropping some 50 yards above our seriously bitchin' campsite. The three of us had moved northeast along the mountainside, which brought us down to hilly clearing between two ranges. We continued the same direction, through some marshy lowland – if it hadn't been for the waterproof neoprene boot inserts I'd bought, my feet would've been soaked. Instead, they were toasty warm and bone dry, and it only cost me $19.95. It was possible I was getting the hang of this. From the swampy land we spotted a valley in the distance that looked to be dry and ideal for camping. A mile and a half later, we reached the spot and our assumptions were proven correct; the valley was firm and grassy, with a harmless river snaking through the middle. It was beautiful. We pitched our tents in and undergrown circle by the riverside and congratulated each other on finding such a majestic site. Camping near rivers was prohibited – you were supposed to set up some predetermined distance from any water – but everyone agreed this was not a concern. I suspect we had begun to realize the park service was seriously lacking fangs when it came to enforcement. We were miles from anything, and would surely not see another human until we decided to return to the road. If the stoner in the backcountry office wanted to bushwhack out here to ticket us, he was damn welcome to do so.

The rain began soon after our tents were up – we seemed to have a knack for narrow misses – and all was right in the world. Dark clouds had been creeping in for some time now, and we all calmly entered our tents without a word to avoid the fracas – Jim and I into his, and Annie in her borrowed single next door. The rain never got too heavy, and after 45 minutes of lying on my sleeping bag and reading a book, I emerged to a dry sky. Jim soon followed, and the two of us climbed to our perch on the outcropping. Annie never left her tent; we assumed she was sleeping.

Jim and I gazed down on the valley and shared a hand-rolled. The sky was cloudy, but the rain had evidently left us for the evening. When the cigs had burned down, Jim put forth quite the greatest offering of friendship of which I have been a part.

"So," he said, "what's going on with this draft thing?"

I nearly wept. For all intents and purposes, Jim hated sports. He had never seriously played any of them, never watched them, and probably didn't even know what a first down was. I suspected he would rather attend a Cher concert than a Vikings game. Yet here he was, in the midst of the Alaskan outback, pretending to pretend to be at least microscopically interested in the thing which currently dominated my thoughts. And it was beautiful. He knew the draft was weighing heavily on my mind, and so he made an effort.

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