Closed for Plumbing Hazard Open for Hilltop Rave

The Guidebook's Depiction of City Creek Campground

**I do not remember the name of the guidebook or the exact campground, so many details of this memory are highly fictionalized! Ericka has also informed me that I forgot about fishing at a damn somewhere during this misadventure. Ahhhhhhhh, the fading memory of a 58 year old woman is a troublesome burden to bare.

During the late 1990s, Ericka and I lived in Evanston, Wyoming, where we embraced life’s simple pleasures. Nestled amidst the striking landscapes of the American West, we grew to deeply value the outdoors, frequently spending our weekends camping beneath the expansive, crystal-clear night skies adorned with countless stars. Evanston’s prime location granted us convenient access to numerous campgrounds, each showcasing distinct environments from thick pine woodlands to peaceful lakesides and rugged mountain paths. We delighted in setting up our tent near glowing campfires, exploring local trails with our dog Sampson, and savoring the serene calm of nature. These outings not only brought us closer together but also offered a respite from the everyday rush, allowing us to forge lasting memories filled with fresh mountain air, encounters with wildlife, and the unique tranquility found only in Wyoming’s wilderness. Such moments are among our most treasured, symbolizing an era defined by adventure, connection, and the pure joy of being immersed in nature’s embrace.

Our excursions were driven by the well-used pages of a reliable guidebook, carefully hunting for campgrounds located within a two to three-hour radius of Evanston, Wyoming. This guidebook, a vital companion long before the era of smartphones and GPS technology, contained hand-sketched maps, personalized notes, and honest reviews from other travelers. Whenever we desired a respite, we would examine its entries closely, weighing the advantages and disadvantages of various spots nestled among towering pines, gently rolling hills, and clear, untouched lakes. The excitement of uncovering hidden treasures made each journey feel like an adventurous quest. Spending time together researching unique locations reminded us that often, the pleasure of traveling is found as much in the preparation as in reaching the destination.

One crisp autumn, we came across what we considered an ideal destination: Fishlake National Forest. Situated at high elevations in central Utah, the guidebook assured us this vast forest would welcome us with a stunning array of autumn colors: fiery reds, vivid oranges, and shimmering golds painting the landscape in seasonal splendor. We read about numerous winding trails while envisioning the sound of leaves crunching underfoot and the invigorating scent of wildflowers filling the crisp air. The guidebook also featured a medley of photographs depicting wildlife wandering through towering aspen groves and tents spread beneath the shade of cottonwoods. After calling to secure a campsite within the forest, we used the guidebook to map out our visit to what was heralded as an autumnal masterpiece created by nature itself.

On a much-awaited four-day weekend, Ericka and I wrapped up work on Friday and eagerly packed our equipment, placing the guidebook safely inside the cab of Ericka's magenta pickup truck. As we drove toward City Creek Campground, the autumn air was crisp and invigorating. The journey took us along winding roads bordered by trees displaying vivid fall colors, and each mile brought us closer to the tranquility of nature. With our backpacks prepared and enthusiasm high, we felt ready to welcome the calm and rugged charm of camping in the fall, anticipating a weekend perfectly balanced between exploration, rest, and the refreshing escape from daily routine.

Entering Fishlake National Forest, a wave of curiosity mixed with bewilderment swept over us. The swaying aspens and vibrant autumn scenery we expected were nowhere to be seen. Instead, we gazed out over wide meadows and rolling hills, dotted with small saplings and thick patches of undergrowth. We grew even more puzzled after arriving at City Creek Camp's rundown welcome center, and it became abundantly clear that our guidebook was outdated! The structure, once likely a bustling gathering point for visitors, now stood weatherworn and uncared for, its paint faded and peeling beneath the relentless sun. After parking our truck, affectionately dubbed our lesbian love truck, we stepped out into the fresh air, accompanied only by the distant buzz of insects and the creaking of an old wooden bench swaying with the breeze, deepening the unsettling quiet that pervaded the area. It became evident that this campground had long been neglected, leaving us to question whether the guidebook’s promises would materialize or if we faced a weekend shadowed by disappointment.

As we stepped into the dimly lit welcome center, the stout ranger informed us that check-in was not possible due to recent storms having severely damaged the water and sewage systems. The persistent heavy rains had flooded parts of the area and impaired vital systems, rendering the site unsafe for visitors. Repetitive “Ranger Ruby” further clarified that due to the lack of adequate water and sewage services, the health hazards were too great to permit guests, underscoring the fragile equilibrium between outdoor enjoyment and environmental protection. Frustrated, we headed back to the truck to look for a different place to stay that night.

In the truck we grabbed a map of Utah and quickly searched for the nearest town. Junction, Utah appeared closest, so we headed there with hopes of finding somewhere comfortable to stay overnight. However, our arrival revealed that Junction was such a small community that it did not offer any hotels or motels for visitors. Without the invention of cell phones to call in advance or search for accommodation online, our options were quite restricted, making the situation a test of creativity. Ultimately, we drove down some of the areas backroads in search of a secluded place to set up our tent. Around eight o'clock, we reached the end of a dirt trail atop a small hill surrounded by sagebrush. It appeared private enough, so we pitched the tent, quickly ate sandwiches we had brought along, and settled into our sleeping bag to rest for the night.

Ericka and I were just beginning to slip into a peaceful slumber, lulled by the steady sounds of the open field surrounding us, when the stillness of the night was suddenly shattered by the distant roar of engines. Our makeshift campsite had felt like a hidden refuge until headlights sliced through the darkness, casting ghostly shadows over our tent. As the vehicles drew nearer and slowly circled around our small retreat, a surge of adrenaline coursed through us. Our hearts raced, and we exchanged uneasy looks, uncertain whether these unexpected visitors were allies or threats. The loud whooping of the invaders combined with the revving of engines amplified the tension, turning our tranquil evening into a tense thriller and heightening our sense of vulnerability in such a remote place.

Snuggled together inside our nylon shelter, we could hear the unmistakable sounds of teenagers spilling out of their vehicles, their lively energy breaking the quiet night. They quickly gathered dry branches and built a roaring bonfire, its flickering flames casting dancing shadows across the clearing. The unmistakable clink of beer bottles punctuated their raucous revelry, a carefree celebration that seemed worlds away although they were mere feet from us. Despite the noise and the glow of the fire, they paid us no mind, lost in their youthful abandon as they laughed, sang, and partied deep into the night. The contrast between our quiet solitude and their wild festivities created a strange mix of emotions – nostalgia for carefree youth and a quiet appreciation for the calm that awaited us once their voices finally faded into the night.

After the merrymakers finally left, their laughter and music fading into the night’s quiet, we sank into a peaceful sleep, thankful for the sudden stillness atop the deserted hill. However, at dawn, tranquility was broken abruptly by the unrelenting drumming of hail and heavy rain pummeling the tent’s roof. The sudden deluge transformed the once serene atmosphere into a symphony of nature’s raw intensity, each volley echoing against the tent’s polyester surface which now rested only a few inches from our faces. The exposed, barren hilltop seemed to magnify the storm’s force, heightening our vulnerable position. Despite the peril, we quickly dressed, rolled up our sleeping bag, and readied ourselves to flee.

Dodging the ice bombs, we hurriedly scrambled to load our belongings into the pickup’s bed, the chill soaking through our clothes and making every motion slick and frantic. Overhead, the slate-gray sky poured sheets of water, blurring the landscape’s edges while we struggled to detach the soaked tent fabric from muddy stakes driven deep into the earth. Our fingers, numbed by cold and slick with rain, wrestled to pack the tent before it absorbed even more water, while the stakes clattered together as we collected them. The steady roar of the rain swelled around our urgent shouts and bewildered groans, turning what should have been a peaceful breakdown of camp into a thrilling race against nature’s violent downpour. That chaotic moment remains etched in memory, not only for its difficulty but also for the sheer absurdity of the situation.

We swiftly shut the tailgate against the glut of muddy gear in the truck's covered bed. Inside, we collapsed against the leather seats while rain streamed down the windows in relentless sheets, masking the exhaustion etched on our faces. Our clothes clung to us, soaked through and heavy, while our lungs heaved with heavy pants as we tried to catch our breath. The rhythmic drumming of hail against the metal roof created an almost hypnotic backdrop to the chaos we'd just endured, and we winced thinking of the damage to our treasured lesbian love truck. Outside, the world remained a blur of gray, transformed by the storm into a wild, untamed landscape. Inside our snug cab, however, there was a fleeting sense of refuge – a moment to gather strength and reflect on the misadventure that had left us drenched, muddy, and utterly exhausted.

As we drove along the curving roads back home, the hail stopped, and the gentle sound of the windshield wipers moving through the rain helped calm any remaining nerves. Although our planned adventure ended suddenly, leaving a mix of emotions, the trip itself reminded us how unpredictable and beautiful nature can be, as well as the resilience needed to fully embrace it. Although the absence of aspens at Fishlake was disappointing, the adventure blended effortlessly with the wide-open skies above the sagebrush hills, the impromptu laughter of youth, and even the persistent rain, all becoming part of our collective memory. Returning to Evanston and the sight of familiar terrain, we made a pact to check the guidebook’s edition more thoroughly next time and to bring a bit more patience for whatever surprises each journey might hold. Ultimately, we admitted it is often the road less traveled that teaches the richest lessons.

Actual campsite at City Creek Campground