 “I still think you went the wrong way,” insisted Trudy. Dave glanced at the rear-view mirrors, ensuring that the camper he was towing didn’t go off the narrow pavement or clip one of the many limbs hanging over the path. “I turned where the sign pointed. It said to go this way for sites 38-66.” “It said sixty-five.” Trudy crossed her arms and leaned back in her seat. “Either way, we’re not turning around until we get to the end. It does seem like a long time since we passed the last campsite.” Trudy’s inevitable statement of “I told you so” was interrupted by the sound of the bottom of their camper scraping the road as they hit a deep dip. The screech sent a chill up Dave’s spine. He maneuvered the pick-up around another tight corner and exhaled at the sight of a clearing ahead. A small wooden post marked the spot as campsite sixty-six. “There. I knew I was right.” He pulled to a stop and climbed out to look at their home for the next three nights. “It’s a long walk to the bathroom and showers,” announced Trudy. Dave slapped at a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “I’m more worried about backing the camper in. It’s a tight fit. You’re going to have to direct me.” Trudy rolled her eyes. “You know I never can help you. You always get mad at me.” Dave didn’t reply. He swatted another bug and returned to the pick-up. Then, he pulled a short distance beyond the narrow driveway and rolled down the windows. Shifting into reverse, he cranked the steering wheel to the right and began backing up. Immediately the camper veered off in the wrong direction. Muttering to himself, Dave stopped and pulled forward slightly. He would have to start again. “That was the wrong way,” yelled Trudy. “I know that,” he screamed back. On the next attempt, the camper turned the correct direction but too sharply, heading directly for a large oak tree. “Watch out for that tree.” The next try found the pick-up nearly hitting the wooden post that displayed the campsite number. “What evil maniac put the post that close to where I have to back up,” thought Dave. The fourth effort seemed to go better. Dave stopped and waited for Trudy’s verification. Eventually, she yelled, “Why aren’t you moving? I’m waving you back.” “How am I supposed to know that. I can’t see you when you stand behind the camper.” “You don’t have to yell.” “Yes, I do. So do you. That’s the only way we will be able to hear each other.” With a deep breath, Dave began backing up once again. “Stop,” shouted Trudy, “you’re going to hit a stump on the left. You’ve got to pull forward and try again.” Fifty-two tries, forty-seven minutes, over one hundred silent swear words and at least half that many not-so-quiet curses later, the camper was finally in the campsite. It sat at an awkward angle and tilted heavily to one side. The pick-up sat nearly perpendicular to the camper, and its front half was nestled in the underbrush that surrounded the clearing. Dave hopped out of the cab and stepped into what appeared to be a patch of poison ivy. After going out of his way to avoid a large beehive hanging nearby, he began the long process of unhooking the camper. The tally of curses uttered continued to climb. Dave pulled a toolbox out of the back of the pick-up and set it on the ground. His knees cracked, and he felt a sharp pain in his back when he knelt to get the tools needed to steady the camper before unhitching it. The process would go much easier with Trudy’s help, but that ship had sailed a half-hour earlier when she had trudged off in anger. After what seemed like an eternity, Dave finally finished. He tossed the toolbox back into the pick-up, banging his knee against the hitch while he did so. There was only one job left to do. The annoying itching sensation around his ankles was becoming impossible to resist. He didn’t give in to the poison ivy, but he did scratch the mosquito bite on his cheek and the three welts on the back of his right hand. Smiling at the sarcasm, he pulled the “Happy Camper” flag from a storage bin, rubbed a knot out of his back, and went to hang the sign on the campsite marker. As he approached the wooden post, Dave was struck by a strange feeling that he had done all this before. It was more than deja vu. He’d been to this campsite before. He hung the banner and took a step back to look at it. “What the…” The flag no longer showed a marshmallow roasting over a campfire with the words “Happy Campers” embroidered above. Instead, it now showed a camper engulfed in flame and “Unhappy Campers” in bold letters. A deluge of memories erupted in Dave’s mind. He remembered everything. Knowing what he would see, he looked at the campsite number. This was not campsite 66 but site 666. A mosquito settled onto Dave’s ear. He didn’t care; he was too busy screaming. “I still think you went the wrong way,” insisted Trudy. “I turned where the sign pointed. It said to go this way for sites 38-66,” replied Dave.  James Rumpel is a retired high school math teacher who has enjoyed spending some of his free time trying to turn the odd ideas circling his brain into stories. He lives in Wisconsin with his wonderful wife, Mary. Together they enjoy board games and, of course, camping.
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