The Natural Order

My lovely wife and I met at a beautiful beachside campground in Michigan in 1987. My family had been going to this campground every year since 1971. I have camped there every August since. My boys have both been camping there a number of times equal to their age plus one. But all that is not important right now. Warren Dunes State Park contains quite a bit of nature and one night we had a Close Call.

Mrs. Icy and I were sleeping together in a tent on my parents' campsite. This was some time in the early '90s as we were both legally married and driving the Fabulous 1989 Ford Thunderbird (black). The tent in question was a cube about 10 feet on each side. It had come standard with a 1971 VW Campmobile that my parents purchased new. The front door of this tent was an inverted T with zipper closure. For some reason, I came awake in the middle of the night. As I lay there listening to nature sing, I heard another noise in jarring contrast. Plinksh. I listened some more. Plinksh. I had almost fallen back asleep when I heard the sound again and sat straight up on the air mattress. "My God," I thought, "that's my car keys being dropped!"

I know what you're thinking: "How does he know what his car keys sound like when they're dropped? Don't they all make the same jingling noise?" No. This key ring had a special commemorative fob made of the aluminum out of a first-off-the-line Honda and also contained a remote entry fob along with the usual set of metal keys. When it hit the ground, it made a special "plinksh" noise that was unmistakable. At this point, the special plinksh noise was coming from somewhere in the woods outside my tent and not from its more familiar position about 12 inches from my foot and halfway between me and the Fabulous 1989 Ford Thunderbird (black). "This just cannot be," I thought. "It is not part of the natural order."

I began trying to sort the universe back into proper alignment. "My car keys are in the pocket of my jeans that are laying right in front of the tent door. I shall retrieve them." Of course, this is the proper place for jeans and keys; if a rapid exit of tent and/or campground is required in the middle of the night then you are properly prepared to do so in a) trousers and b) the aforementioned Fabulous 1989 Ford Thunderbird (black). I all things camping you must be prepared or things can go in the crapper with incredible speed and magnitude. My keys were not in the pocket of my jeans. "How can this be?" I thought. I grabbed my flashlight from its proper place right inside the tent door, donned my jeans and headed out to attempt the retrieval of the number one requirement for operating the F1989TB(b): keys.

Upon shining my flashlight in the general direction of the last special plinksh noise, I discovered the location of my keys. To my horror, the were located in small teeth set slightly below a couple of shiny eyes that were mostly hidden behind a tiny robber's mask. A raccoon was attempting to commit grand theft automobile upon the F1989TB(b). Apparently, this varmint had reached through the zipper gap on the tent, rooted through my jeans and stolen my key ring. This was unacceptable because a) raccoons generally are poor drivers and b) it would leave Mrs. Icy, I and all our gear stranded in a campground.

I am a cool camping customer and a long-term student of the ways of sneaky raccoons. I did not panic (well mostly not) and made my way slowly to the trunk of the F1989TB(b) to retrieve bread and marshmallows to trade with Mr. Raccoon for my keys. Damn. Mr. Raccoon has the keys, opposable thumbs and the upper hand in this bargaining session. I sidle slowly toward the GrandIcy's camper so that I might level the playing field. Plinksh. Damn. If I scare Mr. Raccoon and he either a)drops my keys in the woods or b)runs deeper into the woods with my keys, I will be what is known in the camping jargon as "in the shit campground without a recreational vehicle". I shine my flashlight on Mr. Raccoon as he retrieves my keys from the forest floor and calmly returns them to his nasty little jaws. His eyes never leave mine. He is determined.

I toss a breadball to the edge of the campsite. Mr. Raccoon's inquisitive nature and bottomless pit of a stomach get the better of him and he slinks over to investigate. He removes the keys from his mouth with his tiny little thief’s hands, picks the bread up with his other hand and eats it. Damn. At no time did my keys leave Mr. Raccoon's possession and he is still far too close to his forest home. I toss a marshmallow about halfway between Mr. Raccoon and me. He repeats the previous procedure only this time with a marshmallow. Damn, but also Hmmmmm. Much like every egotistical villain in every action movie, Mr. Raccoon has given me the time and insight to defeat his dastardly plan. I crouch into a position of spring-loaded, key-retrieving maximum potential energy and toss a marshmallow and a breadball into the middle of my strike zone. Mr. Raccoon, over-confident in his quick reflexes and built in 360 degree escape zone, slinks into my trap. He picks up the marshmallow in one paw, picks up the breadball in the other paw and attempts to take a bite. He is foiled by the keys stuck in his gob. He ponders the snack in hands vs. the potential joyride to Chicago. Plinksh. Yarrrrghhh!!!!!

I leap, scream and the throw the flashlight all in one orgasmic festival of unleashed Icy Mt. The nasty little varmint (downgrade from Mr. Raccoon occurring simultaneously with loss of key possession) leaps and squeals. My flight continues towards my keys whilst the nasty vermin's flight towards his woodland home begins with great haste. His thoughts of joyrides and sugary delights are forgotten in the face of my superior cleverness and primal scream. Sorted. Keys retrieved, I relieve myself in the general direction of his departure and return to the tent to answer Mrs. Icy's sleepy inquisition of "Wuhthfuh?" I finish off the night reclining in the plush bucket driver’s seat of the Fabulous 1989 Thunderbird (black). I am smoking a Marlboro ignited via the dashboard lighter, listening to the Allman Brother’s Midnight Rambler on the Premium Sound System, drinking an Icy cold beer and considering who had more fun and got the better story: Icy Mt. or Mr. Raccoon.