Don't Open That Door - GoM 1

1

"You'd think that I'd learned my lesson by now
You'd think that I'd somehow figured out
That if you strike that match
You're bound to feel the flame."
Daughtry, Learn My Lesson

The sun slid slowly toward the frozen edges of Mount Baker when the car drove into the Boulder Creek public campground, to stop near the Forest Station cabin. Two young couples stepped out of it, and while the boys unloaded their backpacks, the girls headed together for the cabin.

Jeff Miller came out to welcome them before they knocked on his door. Tall and fit, he greeted them with his nice smile. He'd been working at the Boulder Creek Forest Station for the last five years, assisting all kinds of climbers, campers, hikers and hunters, so a single look at the girls told him they'd come from the city—Seattle, maybe even Portland—and they were out for a different weekend.

"What d'you have in mind?" he asked when the girls said they were looking for a nice place to camp.

The girls traded a look.

"Somewhere other campers won't bother us."

Jeff knew they meant some hidden spot where they could try outdoor sex and party around the clock without unwanted witnesses. He waited for the boys to join them and led them all into his cabin.

The back half of it were his own quarters. The front half was the public office, a large room with a fireplace and a window to the campground. The boarded walls were covered in maps and pictures of the area. By the window, his desk disappeared under dozens of informative brochures.

Jeff gave them maps and the mandatory list of camping conditions, checking one by one with them—how to dispose of their garbage, how to make safe campfires, how to secure the tents, what to do in an emergency. Only then he took them to a large map on a board and pointed at one of the trails starting near the cabin.

"This one will take you to the White," he said, pointing at a stream that flowed into Boulder Creek a mile away from the Station. "You'll find some good places to camp here, here, and here."

Jeff showed them the spots on their small maps, made sure they understood how to get there and escorted them out. He watched them walk away. Their backpacks were loaded as to survive a whole year in the wild.

"City kids," he murmured.

He only hoped he wouldn't need to sleep with his music loud and earphones. He'd directed them far enough to keep them from disturbing the families staying at the campground—and himself. But the northern wind in the quiet woods carried noises far and clear. Enough to make it sound as if they were right outside his window.