Campfire Capers: Throw a Little Light on the Subject

Being that Stough's Point was part of a state park, we did not have exclusive use of it, though very few people camped there besides us (or maybe because of us). The resulting "solitude" created senses of ownership and privacy that perhaps were unfounded but nonetheless powerful, breeding resentment and distrust when others showed up or ventured nearby. Ah, the curses of privilege, eh! On one particularly uneventful trip, something happened that would give us campfire chuckles for several years. It was a downright enlightening experience. Apparently, while the three boats were out, Muskie had gone exploring, abandoning his post, sacrificing his fishing spot, and neglecting the chore of building that night's campfire. In his absence, a stranger showed up and set up a "mini-site," complete with a set of rod holders, two lounge chairs, a cooler, and, of al things, a portable, gas-powered generator! How long the stranger had been there before we returned for dinner that night, we never knew. As the boats hummed along, gliding the few hundred yards across Tub Run to the mooring slots on the shore of the Point, Gasser sounded the first alarm, his booming voice carrying across the water. "Who's that asshole on the shore?" We knew it couldn't have been Muskie, because Gasser knew him and would have phrased it as a declarative, not a question. As we got closer, maybe fifty yards out, Gasser sounded off again, "Who the hell is in our campground?" I know Gasser felt he had to talk over the engine noise, but I don't think he realized that all of Tub Run could hear him, including the guy on shore, who was smiling but seemed confused and a bit scared. After we had jumped off the boats and walked toward the trucks, the stranger, a friendly black guy, smiled and offered his hand saying, "How ya doing? How was the fishin?" In response to the utter silence that followed, he continued, "Hope you fellas don't mind if my wife and I fish here tonight." Hoppie, acting as group representative, answered," Well, if you can put up with us, you certainly can fish here. It's up to you." And he did... Darkness had fallen and the chairs were arranged around the campfire, now moved about twenty yards back from the usual spot. We settled in for the night's festivities of talk and agitation, though the presence of the stranger and a lady constrained the subject matter and intensity quite a bit. With many a muffled rebuke and lubricated sneer, the conversation centered on a group-chiding of Muskie for surrendering the terrain. Suddenly, a "putt, putt, putt, ROAR" disturbed the blunted barbs--the stranger had fired up his generator so he could see his bobbers, which for some inexplicable reason he had clipped on to the tip eye of each of his rods. The noise squelched all talk; not even Gasser could be heard. The initial anger and confusion soon turned to laughter as the group collectively realized what an odd thing was going on. Gasser left the circle to talk to the stranger. "Hey buddy" he yelled..."that's a hell of a lot of noise for a little bit of light!" To which the stranger said "What?" Gass waved his hand in that familiar "wait a minute" gesture. He jogged up to his truck and returned shortly bearing a Coleman lantern in hand. Placing his hand on the stranger's shoulder, he barked in to his ear, "Try this, man...the guys will appreciate it and maybe the fish will come back from Maryland." And he did... Next morning, the stranger was gone; the generator was gone; Gasser's lantern stood propped up against one of the lawn chairs in the circle. To it was taped a slip of paper with a simple note: "Thanks. We didn't catch nothin."