Driving north and then east through Canada, out little Volkswagen Van puttered along quite nicely. The scenery was beautiful in June and we camped at many stunning campgrounds along the way, always having to hustle to find a spot as the parks were almost always full.
We traveled along a long lonely stretch of road in Manitoba, Canada right above Montana. It was a bit before dusk and we pulled into a campground with no ranger in the little kiosk at the entrance. We thought that was odd, but the gate wasn't closed, so in we drove. There were beautiful camp spots everywhere and nice facilities, but no people. We picked the nicest spot, started a campfire and began to fix dinner. Then the invasion began. At first, there just a few small ones. Mosquitoes. Hundreds, then thousands and larger. A swarm. It was horrible. We built a large circle of green branches, set them on fire and stood in the middle of the smoke and it didn't matter. We all got into the van and covered up inside of our sleeping bags. It still didn't matter. The mosquitoes, somehow, got into the van with us and into our sleeping bags. It was hot, humid and miserable. Half of us were crying. The other half were cursing and crying. Finally, we threw all the gear into the van, started up and drove away. It was 3am. We were never so happy to leave a beautiful campground. We opened all the windows and drove out into the night at top speed until all the little winged kamikazes were gone. This is a quote from a Canadian travel blog : "The Sandilands is probably a good place for you to try camping. Beware in Manitoba we have MOSQUITO'S that can pick up a human being and carry them away."
Upon arrival in New Haven, I decided to postpone my trip to Europe until the following year and instead, I worked for the New Haven Boys club as a counselor for the summer. Working with a bunch of little East Coast, pre-teen, grand-theft-auto parolees was an experience in itself. More than once, I was offered the chance to hot-wire the camp van and go for a midnight ride. I passed.
The summer was finally over and it was time to head back to California. We took the northern US route this time because the newly ordained chefs wanted to shop for quilts and antiques in the Amish country of Pennsylvania. I had just picked up a new Labrador puppy in New Haven before we departed west, so the dog and I were relegated to the back of van, which was fine with us.
We arrived in the beautiful Pennsylvania countryside that contained many interesting Amish towns, some with memorable names. We stopped in Bird-in-Hand, Pa and the chefs bought a lot of quilts and an antique, painted rocking chair. We loaded up the van with the chair and the dog and me in the back.
So, we are walking around taking pictures of signs and marveling at the number of horse drawn carriages and non-motorized vehicles in daily use. When you have a lot of horse drawn vehicles, you also have a lot of horse "plops". I don't know what it is about dogs and their fascination with the excrement of other animals. But, true to form, my dog "Sabu" decided to roll in the little "used hay" piles and then, started eating them. It was totally gross. My fellow travelers would not let us back into the van until I found a hose alongside one of the buildings and washed and hosed the dog as best as I could.
The dog, finally acceptable-to-the-nose of my van mates, and I got back into the van and we all headed West. Apparently, my quickie wash job had not been the best or perhaps the horse-dookey-eating dog's breath didn't leave anything to the imagination, because the driver's complaints about the odor started to mount with each passing mile. I opened the back windows and told my dog not to breathe through his mouth, but to no avail.
To top it off, the old paint on the newly acquired antique rocker started to flake away and now it wasn't just the horse-poop dog-breath that was a perceived problem, but that my dog was also eating the chair. The dog and I both could see where this was headed. We were not too far away from thumbing our way back to California. We were just unwelcome passengers and we were feeling the heat.
Gross as it was, the coolest thing I have ever seen a dog do, happened. The driver had started a new rant about the dog, the paint, the odor, his breath, the fact that I had a s**t -eating dog, etc. It was almost unbearable to me, but the dog had surely reached the end of his canine patience.
When people and animals are going to throw up, they usually give warning and go through some "I think I am going to be sick" motions. Not on this day. My dog, who normally stayed away from the driver on this trip, as there was an obvious dislike for each other in the air, calmly proceeded to walk up to the front of the van and vomit hot horse crap down the back of the driver's neck.
A few minutes later, standing along the side of the road with my dog and pack, with my thumb out and a freshly made sign that said "California", I felt that I had the unique privilege of witnessing, perhaps the funniest thing I have ever seen in my life, before or since. I swear I saw that dog turn and look at me and smile, as expletives I hadn't since my sports days in the locker room, filled the inside of the now "freshly spewed upon" van.
The dog and I made a relatively event-less trip back home to California and entertained each driver thereafter, with easily the best tale they had ever heard. The dog shared with me later, that perhaps, he did nibble just a bit on the antique rocker.
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