Dusk was falling and we had been driving through sticky heat for nine hours. Even the highway was a bit dusty, and we had long since quit pointing out mirages to each other. It was the end of a humid day and our cranky stomachs were telling us that the Lunchables and Salsa Verde Doritos had worn off. It was time to stop, make camp, and cook up the frozen hamburger patties, which were now limp and in need of reconstructive help. We consulted our AAA Campbook for Missouri and settled on a wonderful sounding “resort,” billed by AAA as a “fisherman’s oasis and a camper’s delight.”
A quarter of a mile in, we drove past a 1978 Camaro, bouncing on hydraulics to the tunes of Iron Maiden. We all shared a look which said, “Let’s not be snobs. Everyone is entitled to his or her own music.” Coming into The Lemon Ranch, we noted that the pool looked nice (if not a little cloudy), and the swimmers seemed refreshed. This was the place for us; a deep mud puddle would have been tempting after a full day of sweaty backs glued to car upholstery.
At the main building, we were told to drive around, find a site we liked, then return to pay, so we followed camp rules, and did just that. As we drove away from the building, my sister, Amy, looked over to the left and asked, “What’s that?” What we saw was a large body of water, neither pool nor lake, very brown and a little bubbly. “Maybe just a flooded area,” was my husband, Ryan’s, answer.
We coasted on and discriminately tried to choose the best campsite, which became more and more difficult the deeper we drove into the camp. Coming upon a barren but extremely muddy area, we all gasped as we caught site of a fellow camper. Reclining in a broken lawn chair, he was a bald man with a handlebar moustache, protruding belly, and no shirt. Across his chest, from shoulder to shoulder, spanned a tattoo of a flying eagle, with bloody meat clutched in its claws. In his hands, he held a bottle of rum, from which he gulped thirstily as we stared on in sick fascination.
We finally settled on a site, about halfway between the lodge and Eagle Man, and decided a swim should come before dinner. After setting up camp, we trekked back to the lodge to pay and swim. As we entered the main building, a large pit bull growled at us from the entry and we hurriedly made our way to the front desk. We told the woman who had helped us before that we had chosen campsite number 51. She looked very concerned and quickly ran over to another woman to discuss our choice. She returned with her information and said, “40-60 are extra because they have water and hook-ups.”
“That’s fine. We’ll pay it.”
She ran back to the woman again, who this time returned with her. At the same time, Amy and I involuntarily let out a small scream. This woman also had an eagle tattoo, visible between the thin straps of her tank top, and even though she appeared to be looking at us, her eyes shot in different directions, focusing somewhere over each of our shoulders. The first woman asked, “What should I do?”
The Eagle Woman scowled at us, and in a deep, angry voice responded, “Make ‘em pay more!”
We quickly paid more and exited the lodge. Poolside (we decided against a swim as there were unidentifiable “floaters” skimming the top of the water), we discussed whether Eagle Man and Eagle Woman were married or just dating. On our way back to site #51, we stopped at the bubbly brown body of water that we had pondered earlier. We realized that the thick, sewer smell we had been commenting on since we entered was actually emanating from this bubbling brew, and we were further dismayed to discover that with each sound of a flush from the toilets just outside the lodge, the brown water gurgled violently in one concentrated area. Disgusted by this revelation, we trudged back, postulating theories on what kind of three eyed glowing fish must serve as the proud catch at this “fisherman’s oasis.”
With our appetites fairly curbed, we sat at our site for awhile and decided to shower that evening instead of in the morning. We were concerned with “beating the rush,” as none of us were sure what we might find in the bathrooms. Just as we began to head to the showers, our neighbors walked up and greeted us. Aside from the balding, three-legged greyhound dog they had mercifully chosen as a pet, they seemed very normal, and we felt a little surer of our choice in campsites.
In the bathroom, it was a different story. Upon entering, Amy and I immediately noted a distinct shit smell--and it was strong! At the counter was a young woman, about 19 years old (my sister and I disagree on this point--she believed the woman to be much older, perhaps 27 or 28 years old), singing to herself and washing her small dog in the sink. She was barefoot and looked like she could use a scrub herself. Amy and I each ducked into a curtained booth, determined to set a new record for the quickest shower. When we emerged, we felt cooler and refreshed, but we were still acutely aware of the pungently persistent smell. The young woman now had her little rat-looking dog on the counter, and she was blow drying its hair into a perfect fluff ball. As we each went into our nightly cosmetic rituals, she began to make conversation.
Her name was Sammy and she lived just two hours from the Lemon Ranch. She and her family had been at this camp for two weeks. It was their big yearly camping trip. Her brother was her best friend and they did all kinds of things together -- none of which she named. My sister and I listened politely to this outpouring of information and answered briefly when she asked about us. During a lull in the conversation, I asked what her dog’s name was.
“Ozark! He goes everywhere with me. He’s my baby. Isn’t he cute?”
After we agreed about how cute Ozark was, my sister and I went on with our rituals. We whispered back and forth several times, “What is that shit smell?”
Sammy sat on a sink, carefully studying our every move. “You sure have a lot of stuff for your face! Where’d ya get all that junk?”
As I leaned over to toss a cotton swab, not in the mood for 20 questions, I smugly answered, “At the store.” I then spotted the source of “The Smell.” Sitting on the counter was Ozark’s house, a mini-dog carrier, and covering the floor of his little home were three mounds of fresh doggie doo.
After nine hours on the road, an empty stomach, and a tally of reasons never to return to the Lemon Ranch, I began to giggle in disgust at the mounds of crap only inches away from my toothbrush. My sister asked in a whisper what was funny and this only made me laugh harder. Sammy, curiously oblivious to my giggling, began singing to Ozark again, frequently glancing at us for our approval of her rendition of Garth Brooks’ “The Dance.” When I had finally recovered from my fit, Amy asked me a final time, “What the hell is that smell?”
With little social grace and a complete lack of manners, I blurted out, in a half giggle, half snort, “It’s shit!” I pointed quickly to the dog carrier as Sammy was turning away to kiss Ozark on the mouth.
“Oh my God! Let’s get out of here!” was Amy’s response. We grabbed our things, managed a quick “Goodbye” and laughed hysterically all the way back to our site, falling to the ground several times--as walking was more than we could manage on no food, the giggles, and thoughts of Ozark, Eagle People, and three-legged greyhounds.
Making our way to the bathroom at 6:00 A.M. the next morning, having decided it was the best way to avoid further “experiences,” we felt sleepy but sure that we were the only ones stirring at the Lemon Ranch. We had no doubt, after a night of listening to young boys tear up mud fields in old, worn-out golf carts until 2:00 A.M.; however, we were proven wrong in our assumption. Sitting cross-legged on the counter, with Ozark in her lap, Sammy smiled broadly as we entered and greeted us with a warm, “Good Mornin’!” We had made a friend. The morning conversation went much like the one the evening before, except that she had left Ozark’s home away from home behind. As we left, she gave us her address and we promised to write.
All packed up and on our way, we waved goodbye to Sammy, our neighbors, the bubbling brown lake, and the happily tattooed Eagle Couple playing with their pit bull outside the big lodge.
As we headed west, we began a postcard to AAA: “The Lemon Ranch in neither a camper’s delight nor a fisherman’s oasis...” We all agreed it was the perfect place to meet interesting people though.
