Subconscious Exploits

 The campground itself was very unassuming, about a dozen or so acres nestled off old route 9 and a few miles from the bustle and sandy boardwalks of  the Wildwood New Jersey shoreline.  A simple sign on the shoulder marked the dirt driveway that led down a few hundred feet to the camp office.  

We had just made the three drive down from New York and after a long week of work and Greg and I were both hungry and thirsty from the bumper to bumper commute, we needed sustenance.  After locating the campgrounds we ventured out into town in search of a local eatery that could satisfy our needs. We stumbled upon a small outdoor spot that was busy, with small café tables scattered about filled with people engaged in small talk making plans to get their weekends started.  Gabbing a table near the rail fence bordering the street, we ordered a bucket of beer and some fried appetizers and dug in.  There was no telling when we would eat again, as it turns out it wouldn't be for a while.  We finished up eating jumped back in the jeep and meandered our way through weekend beach traffic and made our way to the campground.  

Arriving at campground it was looking a bit run down and rough, there was a small inground pool off the the left next to two parking spots opposite the camp office, which consisted of only a small building no bigger than a shed.  A small window sized AC rattled away installed low on the plywood siding, as condensate created a small mud puddle below.  A man we would assume was the owner greeted us with a smile and welcomed us to the facilities.  We exchanged niceties, paid for the reservation, and received our camp assignment.  As it turns out, he set us up on a site way in the back of the property next to a pond..  I thought to myself, perfect for the kayak possibly.  We set out....down the dirt road the tree and thicket canopy gradually became thicker and it became evident to us that no one had been to this particular site in quiet some time.  As branches and shrubs rubbed along the finish of my jeep, we continued for a quarter mile or so until we came across a clearing to the left as it became obvious that this was the site right alongside the aforementioned pond.  Finding a spot to to park was easy in the overgrown grass, the campsite was ample and made for plenty of room to choose where to set up our accommodations for the weekend.  While we unloaded the gear, a joint was rolled and consumed, exploration has begun.  

The tent eventually set itself up adjacent to the fire ring, various pieces of gear were strewn about haphazardly, as Sugar Magnolias blared from the jeep.  It was a nice late summer afternoon and we had it all to ourselves.  For the next half hour or so we rummaged through our belongings and sort of fine tuned our spaces inside the tent, I set up the camp kitchen for breakfast and coffee in the morning, we settled in.  Kicking the proverbial tires around the fire ring, a bag of psychedelics was produced along with some graham crackers and chocolate bars.  Mushroom smores were in order and we were all in and committed.  Without hesitation down the hatch they went, let the adventure begin!  We had some time to kill before the inevitable came over us and it occurred to us that we needed wood for the fire later that night.  Greg and I decided to grab our towels and head up the camp office and along the way we'd hop in the pool for a swim and ask the owner about some fire wood.  The water in the pool was lukewarm and barely chlorinated and no deeper than our waists but still it felt good to get wet.  We began to toss a tennis ball back and forth to each other, which seemed like an eternity, and that's when it hit us.  The smores had kicked in.  At the same time we both realized this fact, as we could no longer play catch and not because we could not catch the ball...no longer could we take the lime green tracers attached to the object. We began to imagine that there was a fair chance that we were both going to drown, and quickly exited the pool, dried off and walked over over to the directors office.  (I'll call him the director at this point for the reason being that he is about to construe the mastery of misdirection).  At this point, with joker smiles we cautiously knocked on the aluminum door to the shack not knowing what to expect he slowly opened the door.   The details of this interaction are vague and I can only recall that we asked him if there was any firewood available for burning.  Nodding yes, he told us he would have his wife bring some out to us.  Excellent!  We didn't have the capacity of carrying anything without my truck being nearby..

We began to walk back to the campsite down the packed dirt road in the late day sun which was now covered in a bright green maple tree canopy.  Exceptionally vibrant, crystal clear, and serene, we were both approaching precipice of our trip.  The trees had auras and it felt as though my feet were barley touching the ground.  Low conversation mumbles were had as we both tried to explain to one another the complexities that we were experiencing, we were slowly starting to drift into our own realities for the next few hours.  

Now at the refuge and locked away in nature from the rest of the world (or everyone else in New Jersey)… more music ensued and the frisbee began to fly, I cracked open a beer and almost immediately kicked it over onto the grass whilst chasing down a misdirected frisbee.  As the sun dropped low and the temperature fell, steam from the pond began to hover over the surface creating a spooky calm over the entire area but we were still enjoying ourselves deep in the throngs of a mushroom trip, and everything was in place. 

Enter the Director:

As this cerebral buzz had taken hold and joy was filling the air, we became startled as our attention turned to a woman walking down the path next to the jeep.  Was our music too loud I thought? Are we at the wrong campsite?  Any number of things could be wrong here, there was no way of knowing.  Until she spoke "Hey guys, I have the wood you guys wanted."  A huge feeling of relief came over me as I began to walk over and meet her halfway.  "Great, thank you!"  I exclaimed.  Walking out to the road and her truck to retrieve the firewood, I turned to look at Greg and noticed that he was frozen in place and would not budge.  "Dude, give me hand out here", he shook his head in disagreement and offered no help.  You see, the directors wife was missing her entire left arm at the shoulder, Greg noticed this fact and that's when 'all the wheels fell off'.  He slowly backed away from what he had just witnessed, as I continued to unload the wood, I apologized for my friend, paid her the money and she wished us a good night and she drove off into the darkening hue of the maple trees and left us for dead.  I noticed that Greg had retreated to the tent to change his clothes and after about 15 mins he emerged.  "You ok man?" I asked.  Not a word... this was going bad for him, this was not something that he needed to see as the rodeo was playing out in is head.  Making his way to the passenger side of the truck, he opened the door got inside, and sat upright on the edge of the seat and gripped the 'holy shit' bar at the edge of the dashboard.  I approached with the utmost amount of caution, getting the feeling that he was slipping away into the darker corners of the round room we call psyillsiban.  "Don't fucking come near me!" he demanded.  "Just leave me alone!"  I had lost him, he was now in the grips of a bad trip, anchored onto the bar, his hands were pale white as all the blood had been squeezed out.  Looking angerly through the windshield he held the look of shear terror on his face as he was motionless with exception of some mild rocking.  He was gone.  The director had unknowingly done him in.  

On the contrary, the next several hours were pure enjoyment for me, a little more Mary Jane... music... floating the kayak on crystal clear water and checking on my buddy...and making a fire.  As time unwound and the hold of the afternoon snack began to loosen its grip on both of us, the smell of burning oak filled the air, Greg was finally able to rejoin me around the fire, I'm convinced that it was the sweet smoke and the cool summer air that was able to break down his defenses.  There wasn't much talk about what had just occurred, we just tried to enjoy what little was left, smoked some more grass and had a few beers and eventually some food.  As with most psychedelic's sleep is not an option, thus began the chatter of driving to Atlantic City to rendezvous with a friend of Gregs.  There were mixed emotions about going an hour away by car, eventually we relinquished the idea and sat around the fire telling stories from childhood, and I filled him in on what I did that day!