It has been a while since I've gone camping in Wisconsin. In fact, I think I was a child the last time I did this. As an adult, I've noticed a few interesting things while on the road, and I thought I would share my observations with you.
First of all, why would anyone use I-90 if they didn't have a choice? Do you know how much I had to surrender to the toll booths before I mercifully found my way to Wisconsin? Three dollars. Isn't that insane? For I-Pass users, it's way less. I think it's a bit unfair to those of us who are willing to pay cold, hard cash. But fuck the tollways. I find that the only time I use them is whenever I'm going camping.
I was relieved to finally be off I-90 (which, by the way, is under construction and won't be done until sometime in 2009, so I paid $3.00 to drive on a SHITTY road), and one of the first things I saw beyond the wooden, circa 1970's Welcome to Wisconsin sign was a state cop giving some guy a ticket. I marvelled at the design of their state cruiser. Here in Illinois, we like our cars sleek with yellow lines going down the sides. In Wisconsin, their cruisers may have been purchased in the mid-nineties, and their cars are painted entirely blue except for their old school logos on the doors.
Oddly enough, his was the last cop car I saw for a long time on that stretch of road, so I felt safe letting my speed creep up into the 80's until I was almost upon 90 mph. At this point I should tell you that before I left on this horrible trek, I stopped by the liquor store to get some Wild Turkey 101 and Flying Dog Classic Pale Ale. Lo! and behold! They had a wine tasting thing, and it was only $10. Why not? I'm going to be on the road for a while, so it would be nice to relax myself a bit. So I downed a bunch of wine and hit the road. Hell, I thought I'd left early. The trip was supposed to take 2 hours and 41 minutes. I was ahead of schedule even after the wine tasting interlude.
Back to me speeding down I-90 in Wisconsin. Did you know that you can get a $500 fine for littering on the road? There are signs stating this everywhere, and guess what: it actually works! I was absolutely shocked to discover that there wasn't so much as a discarded Coke can by the side of the road. I kept my eyes open, looking for the slightest sign of a McDonald's bag, but there was nothing. Wisconsin really is clean!
Except for one thing. For a state so concerned with keeping its roads clean, they certainly like to leave roadkill lying around. And this wasn't new roadkill, either. I cannot tell you how many dessicated deer corpses I saw by the side of the road. They were flattened mummies, they were that bad.
Despite the bodies, the Wisconsin landscape is really quite beautiful. There are a lot of photo opportunities to those who are inclined to that sort of thing. Crumbling farmhouses, fields of perfectly aligned cornstalks, strange-looking trees; the state is a photography major's wet dream.
It was this beautiful foliage that disguised the state cop car on the median of the road. I looked down at my speedometer to see that I was going at the pants-shittingly fast rate of 88 mph. I stomped on the brake to slow down to the socially acceptable 65 mph, but I knew the cop had seen me. In my rear view mirror, the car pulled out and started following me so closely it probably qualified as tailgating. But the lights didn't go on. I started thinking, "Oh please, run my plates. I'm not a criminal on paper. You'll see. Then, let me go. Please. I'm only five miles away from the end of my journey."
That's exactly what must have happened, because after a harrowing three minutes of staring at my speedometer, the cop went around me and busted someone else. I swear, I'm the luckiest driver ever. Remember that wine tasting thing? I probably would have blown more than .08.
So I finally got to the exit for US-12, and the first thing I did was get gas. I'd burned nearly an entire tank getting out there, and I drive a Ford Focus. Then I went to McDonald's for some Coke and a couple of double cheeseburgers. Here in Illinois, if you go to a McDonald's, the double cheeseburgers cost the same as a regular cheeseburger: $1.00. [NOTE: THIS IS NO LONGER TRUE. Oh yes, and FUCK THE MCDOUBLE!] Up there, it costs $1.89. I did not expect this. I also did not expect an all-Swedish staff. Around where I live, McDonald's employees are quite multicultural. Wisconsin might well be the actualization of Hitler's wildest dreams.
After feeding myself and my car, it was time to find the campground. Here's the problem: according to the directions my friend, Jeremy, gave me, the name of the campground was Lake Delton. However, as I learned when I got onto US-12, it is actually the name of the TOWN. I stopped at a gas station to ask if there was a Lake Delton campground, and I was told there was. "Just head down 12 and turn right on Alexander Street and follow the signs."
I looked for Alexander, and I soon found myself lost in farmland looking at every side street for a sign. Another Wisconsin problem: they don't label a lot of their streets, not even the major ones with stop lights and everything.
Well, I didn't find Alexander, so I stopped at another gas station. The attendant told me he didn't think there was a place called Lake Delton campground, but he checked the map and the phone book, just in case. There are about fifty different campgrounds, maybe more, but none called Lake Delton. I remember thinking, "Why the hell doesn't someone build on Wisconsin? Their lack of anti-environmentalism is making this trek extremely difficult for me!"
I decided to call Jeremy from a pay phone (I still have no cell phone), but he wasn't answering. I noticed that he'd reserved site 400, and that sounds like a lot, so I decided to start going around to various campgrounds and asking them if my friend had checked into site 400. If they don't have 400 sites or more, I thought I'd ask if they knew of any campground that might accomodate this number.
I stopped a few places before trying Jeremy again. Still, no response. I went around to a few more places. I stopped at Jellystone not because I thought he'd be there (it's mostly a kids place), but because I recognized the name from my youth, and I knew they'd been in business for a while. If anyone would know, it would have to be them.
I got in line behind a middle-aged lady and her incredibly annoying 8-year-old. She was jumping around, trying to climb the ranger building, saying things like, "Ask the man why they have Christmas decorations up!" And then she turned her attention on me.
"Where are you from?"
"Illinois," I said.
"Grandma! Do we have an Illinois license plate in our collection?" Then, without waiting for an answer, she said, "Why does it say Modern Drunkard Magazine on your shirt?"
"Because I'm a drunkard." Hoping that would get Grandma to usher her over-active, Prozac-starved child away from me. She kept talking with the guy in the booth.
"My daddy's an alcoholic. He drinks, like two beers a night. I wish he'd stop."
"That's not an alcoholic," I said. "That's a social drinker."
She lost interest in me and started running out into the road. A pick-up drove by, and the driver's arm was hanging out, a cigarette poking out of his hand. "Hey!" she shouted. "No smoking in the campground!"
Finally, Grandma finished conducting her business and dragged the girl away. I then stepped up to the booth and stated my problem. The guy responded in perfect English, but with what I thought was a Russian accent. I looked at the tag on his shirt and saw that his name was Ivan. He looked nothing like a Russian stereotype, but I thought it was pretty damned cool that I was talking to a Russian named Ivan.
But he wasn't able to help me. He said there was another campground down the road where they might have 400 sites, but he didn't know. He gave me directions to Mirror Lake, I think it was. I pulled in, and it looked very professional and promising, but when I talked to the clerk, she said they didn't have anywhere near 400 sites. She said Devil's Lake had about 500, though, so I followed her directions. By now it was starting to get dark, and I really hoped this would be the one.
The sun wasn't quite down yet when I finally got out to Devil's Lake. I couldn't see it, but the sky was still tinted a reddish-orange. When I pulled into the drive for Devil's Lake, I found myself in complete darkness. The trees were so thick and plentiful that they blotted out the sky. I switched on my headlights and hunched over the driver's wheel, peering into the darkness.
I got out of the car and went toward the registration building, and as soon as I was inside, I saw a huge taxidermied wild turkey over the desk, and I knew I was in the right place. (Also, the name "Devil's Lake" was a good sign. How can my friends NOT be at a place called Devil's Lake?) I looked around and saw so many stuffed birds that if Norman Bates were there, he'd be in need of a new pair of pants. There was also a taxidermied baby bear, which was kind of creepy. I'm a complete asshole, but I don't know if I'd kill and stuff a baby bear.
Anyway, I looked at the map behind the desk and saw with glee that there were 500 sites. But when I got up to the clerk, she said that they didn't have a site numbered 400. They apparently skip each hundredth number, for whatever sadistic reasons. I then asked to use their phone. If I couldn't get Jeremy this time, I'd give up and go home.
This time, the phone picked up, and Jeremy's relieved voice said, "Bruni! Thank God you called again!" Apparently, his phone was on silent, and Monika and Kristina had been bothering him all day to check his messages to make sure I hadn't called, but he didn't think it was necessary. When he finally checked, he got my messages. Believe it or not, this was a mere ten minutes before my final call.
He gave me the name of the place and directions. I sped back the way I'd come until I finally found the right road (only by the Motel 6 on the corner; this street was, of course, not labeled) and turned down into Red Oak Campground. I registered my car and got a map. Who knows why? But there are not actually 400 sites there. There were maybe 20, it was just the way they chose to number their sites.
I noticed that 400 was all the way in the back, and it was a hell of a dark place. The path was heavily lined with trees so only one car at any given time can drive on this road. If you encounter another car, you have to put yours in reverse, and good luck in not hitting any trees.
I made it through, and when I got there, I noticed a super-creepy path that led away from our campsite, presumably to another site. More on this later.
I got out of the car, and after greeting Monika and Kristina, they helped me put my tent together. Their flashlights were very useful in achieving this goal. Jeremy came over and helped put the finishing touches on my tent. He then proceeded to apologize so profusely that I actually started feeling sorry for him.
But never mind that. They quickly moved on to introduce me to the people I didn't know, and we started drinking heavily. Well, they'd all gotten a head start on me, and I did my best to catch up, but since I'd gotten there so late I was only able to drink half the bottle of Wild Turkey and a few bottles of Flying Dog.
It was a good time once I'd finally gotten there. Plenty of booze was passed around with almost as many that's-not-a-sausage-that's-a-dick jokes making the rounds. It got a little weird when we headed out to the campfire, like there was a strange vibe in the area. (Again, more on that later.) Then, one by one we started dropping off, and I was left in charge of making sure the fire doesn't get out of control and kill anyone. (Yeah, I was elected as the responsible one. Go figure.) With the sounds of snoring, hiccuping, and fornication all around us, it was just Monika and me left. We started talking about how creepy the woods were, and how it looked like there was someone sitting in one of the abandoned chairs. The image was so distorted by the darkness that I thought the fellow might have had skeleton legs, and it really was quite creepy. It was even worse when I stepped into the brush to take a leak. The woods were completely quiet, which didn't sound right. There should have been some animal sounds, right? I didn't have a flashlight, and it was so incredibly dark that I couldn't see anything but the treetops. The moon was out, but the foliage was so thick that I couldn't see very well. I had to take a guess as to whether or not I was far enough out and hope that I wasn't about to piss on someone's tent.
After burying potatoes in the dying embers (potatoes she found the next day to be inedible), Monika helped get me back to my tent with the aid of her cell phone. Normally, whenever I go camping I sleep terribly, but I felt so drained I slept like a baby and woke up without any pain whatsoever. (My ribs usually ache after I sleep on the ground.)
The following day, I went down the abandoned, super-creepy path that I mentioned earlier in order to take a leak. It was now completely bright out. The sun was shining. There were very few shadows. And the path was still super-creepy. Nothing moved back here, no animals or birds made sound. The path was overgrown with weeds, and there were spiderwebs everywhere. The only thing that seemed plentiful were mosquitos. As I pissed on a bush, I had to keep blowing on my penis to make sure they stayed away from it.
Check out was at eleven o'clock, which is terrible for a group of drunkards like us, but we all packed up and, dripping sweat, we abandoned the campground. On the way back, I filled up my tank (again), pleased with the $3.88 per gallon price. (In Elmhurst, it's closer to $4.17.) Then, I got back on I-90, and when I returned to the retched tollway in Illinois, I found that construction had slowed traffic down so much that we were crawling along at an ant's pace. Traffic crept like a rapist in an alley. I spent about an hour on that horrible, 11-mile stretch of road. When I finally got home, I noticed that the front of my car was covered with dead bugs.
Every weekday, I make the trek from Elmhurst to Schaumburg on I-290, and I have never killed so much as a single bug with my car. When I went to Wisconsin, my windshield was a roadmap of bug guts. So, I took it to the car wash, and when I got home, I felt so drained I had to take a nap. When I woke up a while later, I was still exhausted. It wasn't until this morning when I finally found myself energized again.
(For those of you wondering, I finished the rest of the Flying Dog before we left the campground, and the remainder of the Wild Turkey went down my gullet last night as I ate a Pizza Hut Stuffed Crust pizza and watched MAJOR LEAGUE.)
When I came in to work today, Monika started talking about the weird shit that happened out in those woods, including the failure of her cell phone, mp3 player, and a brand new flashlight. She mentioned the haunted chair and said that there were orbs in the pictures she'd taken. Considering how drained we were the following day, and how electrical devices had a habit of not working, we decided that whatever was sitting there was sucking all of our energy away. We theorized about the super-creepy path, because she'd noticed a lot of the same things I had. We came to the conclusion that the path actually leads to a campsite that Red Oak never lets anyone use anymore, probably because there was a murder back there.
So Red Oak is now considered Camp Blood. We have no evidence to back up this theory, but you've got to admit, it sounds like an appetizing thought. If any of you have heard anything about Red Oak in the Baraboo, WI area, let me know.
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