Goin' Out To Cally – Part 15, Masculinity At Stake

I grew up camping. My family and I camped in Massachusetts, on the top of Black Mountain, in the Rocky Mountains, the Smokey Mountains, in Indiana, Illinois and many other places. We didn’t stay at the K.O.A. campgrounds either, those were for wusses… and they cost more money. K.O.A.s were too luxurious for us. Paved roads, hah! Community pool, please! Electricity, what is this, a hotel?

No, we roughed it. We were tough. Give us a small clearing, a level site and home was where the tent was.

So, heading into our first foray of camping at the K.O.A. in Tucumcari, New Mexico, I was completely confident. I would have been comfortable putting down stakes anywhere in the arid Southwest, but my fellow travelers were not as seasoned as I, so we settled for the relative luxury of a K.O.A. campground at the base of Tucumcari Mountain.

K.O.A. at Tucumcari

I was a seasoned veteran. My friends looked to me for guidance and experience. But, I had forgotten one, minor thing… I didn’t actually do any of the work when I camped with my family. I was a kid. And a lazy one at that.

Being a man, with a beautiful, yet unattainable woman watching my every move, I had to keep up appearances. So, Tim and I unrolled the tent and fumbled with the supporting poles and zippers like a blind spastic trying to juggle jello. After recovering from that temporary setback, I pulled out the ten plastic stakes, ready to secure the base of the tent to the rock solid floor nature had provided us. I looked up to my best friend.

“Where’s the hammer, Tim?” I asked.

“Hammer… hmmm. It’s not in there?” he questioned.

“Nope.” I verified.

He turned to his girlfriend and asked, “Beth, did you bring a hammer?”

What!?! Why not just take my take out a pair of hedge clippers and castrate me right there! Asking his girlfriend if she brought a hammer so we could put up the tent? How emasculating! I stepped back as if hit in the gut with a sledge hammer, feeling emotionally sterile as Tim and Beth rifled through the hidden orifices below the hatchback.

Moments later he popped his head above the trunk and surmised “We forgot it.”

Tucumcari Mountain

Great men do great things at important times. This was my chance. This was my time! I had to save face so I could beat my Neanderthalic man-chest with honor. I quickly scanned the surrounding area like a predator on the prowl. Eventually I found my prey… a big, red rock. With tiger-like reflexes I closed in on the immobile object and snatched it from its family of pebbles.

Determined to prop up my canvas cave, I placed the plastic stake through the tent loop, pulled the base of the tent tight, diagonally angled the stake into the ground, raised my still warm rock carcass and swung with the force of Atlas.

You know, the sound of a rock hitting plastic is very anti-climatic.

Despite my Herculian efforts, the weak, orange plastic stake did not puncture the hardened rock of the New Mexico ground. With unflinching determination, I put a little mustard behind my next swing and struck the stake with such a force that it’s little plastic top sheered off and flied through the air like a royal head during the French Revolution.

That’s was unexpected. My Dad always brought a hammer. And our tent had metal stakes. I grew up in Florida, where the ground was made of soft sand. What the hell am I doing in a dessert trying to pound a plastic stake into pure rock with… a rock?

Using my college algebra skills, I quickly recalculated our actual stake-to-tent loop ratio and figured we could lose one and not know the difference. I reinserted another plastic stake into the loop, pulled the tent base tight, angled the stake, raised the rock and struck with all of my force.

Again, the stake head sheered off. “Off with its head!” I exclaimed in a faux French accent.

A retiree watched with bemused curiosity from the comfort of his RV at the camp site next to us.

“Need a hammer?” he chuckled.

Acting as if it were an unnecessary excess I replied “Well… sure.”

Using our K.O.A. neighbor’s hammer I slugged the plastic stakes into submission, eventually piercing the solid foundation and securing our tent to the floor.

Like after a great mammoth hunt, I was exhausted and hungry. Tim and I proudly marveled at our great accomplishment. Our reveling in self-congratulatory pronouncements was interrupted by the women complaining about being bored, hungry and bored.

Sure, they looked disinterested and completely unimpressed, but deep inside I knew that my masculine heroics were that of legend and would resound in their memories for years to come.

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Goin' Out To Cally - Part 15, (Text, Audio) Masculinity At Stake
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 14, (Text, Audio) Texas: Latin For Shoot Me Now
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 13, (Text, Audio) Cars, Crossroads and Cosmic Convergence
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 12, (Text, Audio) Tumbleweed Dreams
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 11, (Text, Audio) Wet, Rinse, Repeat
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 10, (Text, Audio) Divine Misdirection
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 09, (Text, Audio) Getting Nowhere Fast
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 08, (Text, Audio) The Cock Crows Nine
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 07, (Text, Audio) Is Jackass A Sign?
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 06, (Text, Audio) Leftovers
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 05, (Text, Audio) The Kiss Of Friendship
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 04, (Text, Audio) Scholastic Intimacy
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 03, (Text, Audio) Space Invaders
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 02, (Text, Audio) The Fourth Wheel
Goin' Out To Cally - Part 01, (Text, Audio) The Seed Planted