Spurnpiker's Journal: Forced to hack through technology, bureaucracy, campsites backdoor

It wasn’t quite mid-morning when I rolled up to the campground gate at East Harbor State Park. Invoked memories of sitting in the back seat of our ’59 Ford Ranch Wagon − the precursor of the Family Truckster, for those familiar with National Lampoon’s Vacation movies.

After a long drive from Cleveland on U.S. 6, Dad would leave us in the car, go inside, and pick out a campsite from a large map painted on the wall behind the counter. The campground map was dotted with little pegs representing occupied sites.

That’s how things were done back then. You queued up at the gate, walked into the camp office, picked out a site and paid for however many nights you planned to stay. The postwar baby boom had hit critical mass and state park campgrounds were jammed with station wagons and canvas tents. They swarmed with kids, skunks and other vermin. On weekends, you’d be lucky to get a campsite. If you were really lucky, you might get one that wasn’t right next to the toilets.

Sometimes all the sites had been taken by the time we arrived Friday evening. We’d have to camp at a crappy little private campground till Monday, then come back to East Harbor and get a site for the remainder of our two-week vacation.

Reservations about booking campsite in advance

These days you don’t register at the gate. Face-to-face interactions are a thing of the past. As is spontaneity. You have to register in advance − online or by phone.

More: Spurnpiker’s Journal – Where a journey of a thousand miles begins with the first misstep

Apparently, this is to keep riffraff like me out of state park campgrounds. So far, it’s worked pretty well. The last two times I tried reserving a campsite online, all the information I’d entered on the screen vanished into cyberspace when I pressed the “submit” button. On both occasions, I repeated the process four or five times with the same results.

It’s been said that doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results is the definition of insanity. I disagree. It’s the definition of futility. And life in the 21st century.

As mentioned in a previous column about this particular spurnpiking/camping/canoeing adventure, I became frustrated and resigned myself to booking a campsite the old-fashioned way − in person.

I arrived around 9 a.m. to find the campground office closed. A note posted on the window advised prospective campers to register at the camp store. I went there and was told I could register by phone.

So, in 60 years, we’ve progressed from waiting in line for 20 minutes at the campground office to get a site to being put on hold for twice that long.

By late morning I managed to reserve a campsite and wasted no time pitching my tent. The Little Debbie oatmeal creme cookie and gas station coffee I picked up along the way had sustained me up to that point but my sugar and caffeine levels had dropped precariously low. I was in danger of slipping into one of my fabled crabby episodes.

Fabled because, in reality, there’s not one cross bone in my body. I’ve been told that, when one of these episodes occurs, my behavior becomes unpredictable. With the slightest provocation, I’ve been known to respond with a dirty look or − worst case scenario − a half-hearted snarl.

More: Spurnpiker's Journal Part II: Divine - and mayoral- guidance on the road to Lake Erie

Off to brunch, and 5 o'clock somewhere

So I set out to Marblehead for brunch.

The Marblehead Galley looked promising so I went inside and ordered a Lake Erie perch dinner. Hadn’t planned on doing much drinking on this trip, but the Great Lakes Rally Drum Lager advertised on the menu board called out to me. It would fit right in with my plan to go back to my campsite after brunch, crawl into my tent, and nap.

It felt odd drinking in the morning so I took refuge in the old adage that it’s 5 o’clock somewhere. I posted a photo of the Rally Drum Lager on Facebook and quickly found an enabler in my artist friend Michele Marcoux.

“It’s 5:43 here in Spain ... think I’ll join you,” she posted.

A little authority thumb-nosing to cap off the day

When I returned to East Harbor, I was shocked to find an actual person inside the campground office. I told him I’d registered earlier. Then he went into government official mode.

“You can’t go back there (into the campground) until 3 p.m.,” he said.

I told him I’d already pitched my tent. But he was in government official mode, not programmed to listen. There was no point trying to explain any further.

From decades of camping at East Harbor with family and later by myself, I knew there was a picnic grove along the beach road where I could park my truck and hike back into the campground. It was a trek of a quarter mile at most.

With a bellyful of Lake Erie perch and a Rally Drum Lager buzz, I crawled into my tent to nap. Slept exceptionally well. I suspect it had less to do with the beer than that warm feeling you get from thumbing your nose at authority.

(To be continued.)

This article originally appeared on Ashland Times Gazette: Forced to hack through technology, bureaucracy, campsite's back door