It was getting close to Halloween as I pulled in. The sign at the gate said, “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.”
Please don’t ask me why, but I returned to the scene of the crime. You will recall that I was nearly murdered by two female serial killers disguised as RV operatives in northern Colorado in early September. I called the duo June and Robyn back then, but let’s use Bett and Cyndi this time. After such a narrow escape the evening they took me over the mountain to Red Bear Tavern (Red Bluff? Red Corn?), you’d think I would have learned my lesson.
But no.
So I booked a spot at The End of Life RV Park on the Cache la Poudre River under a clever assumed name that would not call attention to my visit: Clark Griswold. The sign at the gate said, lasciate ogne speranza, voich’intrate. “Abandon all hope ye who enter here.” Who doesn’t want to stay at an RV park with a Dante quote on the gate?
When I arrived, Bett was off “running errands,” but an older man who does camp maintenance motioned me to my slip. I plugged in water and power and did some work at my assigned picnic table. You will recall that there are stiff fines for violating any of the dozens of camp rules, many of which have never been committed to paper.
Soon enough, Bett appeared. We shared a gin & tonic at my picnic table. “Hey, I remember you,” she said. “Weren’t you the guy who tried to roll out of the back door of my car up on the mountain at 40 mph? You know, if we had run over you, it might have ruined the rear alignment.” I denied it. I said that was my brother Eddie Griswold, and I could not be held responsible for any of his actions.
So we settled into our drink. Bett shared about 234,000 of her opinions on life, the JFK assassination, the Hollywood sound set faking of the moon landing, John Denver’s musical oeuvre, recent political developments in North Korea, the problem of polyester, the heartbreak of psoriasis, the corruption of the U.S. Forest Service, and some other gems. The nice thing about spending time with Bett is that you don’t have to do much talking. She did have to stop talking occasionally to hack some stuff up — three packs a day since she was eight, she said — but even then, I could not get a word in edgewise — same old Bett.
I began to lower my guard a little. She’s a lovely woman. She had just had her nails and toes done down in Fort Collins. Bett doesn’t settle for clear lacquer or even a single color. Not even French cut. Each nail was decorated with a different peaceful icon. Left hand: a guillotine emoji, a skull, a saber, a noose, and a Halloween apple with a razor blade sticking out of it. Right hand: an electric chair, a stick of TNT, a skeleton, a vial of arsenic, and a stiletto. Her toes: all dark red. Blood red.
She’s trying to sell the place, but she’s afraid the new owners will start digging around just outside the perimeter, and all that’s buried there will come back to haunt her.
I asked her where Cyndi was (her partner in the “murder-the-stooge-sell-his-RV-in-Hemet” business). She was vague. Said Cyndi had “moved on.” Found God or something.
I asked Bett if she loved me. She said, “Honey, I eat guys like you for breakfast.” With Bett, you never know just what’s a metaphor and what isn’t. I changed the subject. I asked her what she does around here for fun when she isn’t working. “Honey, I’m always working, but every Thursday night, there is an ax-throwing contest at The Gallows Tavern. There is an open class and a meth-only class. By midnight when things heat up, the targets are no longer much use.”
Then things began to deteriorate. Bett asked me to crawl into her brick kiln, about the size of a large doghouse, to take a look at a valve that appeared to be stuck. The kiln had a strong metal doorplate that could be locked only from the outside. She must think I’m stupid. I said I’d be glad to do it, but my diphtheria was acting up. Then she said she was getting ready for the Halloween rush and had constructed a pretty cool replica of a guillotine where the basketball hoop used to be but was unsure of the placement of the neck holder. Would I lie down and stick my head under the frame so she could make some “adjustments?” I said I’d rather not stick my neck out. And then, when I asked her whether she had had a prosperous summer, she said it had been a “killer season.”
You can see where this was headed. Fortunately, I have a keen intellect, and it began to dawn on me that she might be intending to harm me in the night. I excused myself, and she wandered off towards her bunker, muttering at 114 mph.
Inside my Airstream, I prepared for trouble. I placed three pillows under my sheets and blanket in the shape of a 5-8 humanities scholar and slept in my pickup with my head scrunched down below the windows. I slept holding my Executive Leatherman with its ¾-inch blade open for trouble. It was either that or my nail clipper. I also set 32 mousetraps on the floor of the trailer. I slept rather soundly.
In the middle of the night, I got up to pee. Through the fog, I saw what appeared to be a ghostly female figure walking around the site, wringing her hands as if washing them over and over. I thought I heard her say, “Who would have thought the old man had so much blood in him?” So now she was channeling her inner Lady Macbeth. I know my Shakespeare. I adore a well-educated woman!
The thing is, I really dig Bett and I would marry her in spite of a few of her more unusual quirks if she ever stopped talking for a nanosecond. Imagine if we wrote our own vows! We’d have to take bathroom breaks. How can I describe her? She is a cross between Marjorie Taylor Greene and Roseanne Barr but without the civility and charm. In every conversation, she adds emphasis to her modest opinions by punching the air like an over-eager bantamweight boxer, and she jabs her finger into your chest in a way that makes you wheeze with attention. When she finishes a beer, she compacts it with one crunch of her right hand. I believe she could do the same to a gallon paint can. Her voice has a rasp that could peel the bark off of a sycamore tree.
I’m not sure about her hair, because she wears it up under her cap that says, “Kill Them All. Let God Sort It Out.” Her giant mastiff “Fluffy” weighs 145 pounds. It got second runner-up in last year’s Hound of the Baskervilles Lookalike Contest in Greeley but somehow failed at Miss Congeniality. Bett has been married an indeterminate number of times. I asked her what happened. “Two run off; one is in a witness protection program near Tucson, and one had a massive heart attack on our wedding night.” And yet, she is quite dainty. She carves mushrooms and shallots on a giant butcher block with a cleaver the size of a small ax. She has a whiskey still just behind her “home rendering plant,” built from a health kit. She has a perfect Elvis Pressley sneer. The county water board installed a satellite transmitter on her water meter so that no employee would ever have to enter her property again — after the “incident.” Her backhoe and woodchipper have suspicious gobs of matted hair sticking to their sides. You can see why men find her irresistible.
I left at first light. I stopped at the convenience store in Rustic, just a few miles up the road. As I purchased my morning coffee, I saw the local newspaper, the Rustic Riffraff and Gazette. On the top right side of the front page was the headline, “Recent Red Mountain Deaths Continue to Perplex Sheriff Fife.” Time to get truckin’.
Just to be sure, before resuming my journey, I stepped into the Airstream to have a look. Twenty-three of the mousetraps had been sprung. There were 17 2-inch gashes in my bedding and pillows, and half of the top pillow had been savagely severed O.J. Simpson style.
Once again, I had barely escaped with my life. Eternal vigilance.
Despite these small issues, it’s a tough dating scene out there, and I’m already planning a return visit next year, but this time, I’m going to wear a truss. I cannot decide whether to bring black roses or a Taser.
Happy Halloween.
Over the next few months, Clay is shadowing Steinbeck’s 10,000-mile trek around the USA (and making a few detours of his own). Clay’s expedition is a central part of LTA’s big initiative to explore the country and take the pulse of America as it approaches its 250th birthday. Be sure to follow Clay’s adventures here and on Facebook — and subscribe to our newsletter.