Camp Host

On May 3rd, I reported for a camp host gig on a lake in Central Oregon. I had read about what such a position entails on the CheapRVLiving website and in the book version of Nomadland so I had some idea what to expect. I am paid minimum wage in the county the campground is situated in ($11.50) but I am also given a site for Pandette (a slot between some trees and a shed) along with power and water.

I had been on “island time” for nearly a year: No schedule. Drifting like a leaf in the wind. Alarm clock? What’s that. It took me a few days to adjust. During those days, the week before official opening, I raked the pine needles away from the fire pits and picnic tables. I cleaned the ash and charred wood from firepits (a very physical job). I deep cleaned the bathrooms. The site manager taught me how to enter “site payments” into the company software. Basically, you go to a campground and the host makes sure you pay for your site, processes your payment, ensures that your site and the bathrooms are clean, and puts out any campfires you leave unattended. I have already had to do that twice. The first time, the dude just left. So, I went back to the shed, grabbed the water, and doused his fire. The second time it happened was another story. I see the fire going and no one was in the site. At the edge of a site we call out to let you know we are walking into your camp: “Hello! Anyone here?” I then walk in until I am in the middle of your site, right next to your tent: “Anyone here?” On this occasion, I got no reply. I was loud, people in adjacent sites were looking over to see who the hell was yelling. I got back to the shed, put a can of water in the golf cart, and repeated the whole calling out thing. Getting no response, I doused the flames. As the steam rose, a man wearing a hoodie and eating a sausage on stick strolled over. Instinctively, I knew he was the guy the site belonged to but still asked if he knew who was camping there.

“That would be me,” he says mildly.

I explained my actions and he just looked at me. The conversation died a weary death and I walked off. I mean, I felt like a dick for putting his fire out but why didn’t he say something? If I see someone walking into my camp I am going to walk up on them unless I see a weapon. Who knows what was going in that guy’s head.

Forty miles away in Bend, fast food restaurants boast “$14 an hour starting wage!” Fourteen an hour, and probably a lot less responsibility than I have. I still prefer my gig: Instead of giving food to people that will slowly kill them I am helping people experience nature. In other words, I finally have a job that is part of something I believe in. Also, there are all sorts of birds out there, jays and ravens---I even saw an eagle circling yesterday. This week has been relaxed, I will write more about this job as we get into the frenzied weekends of summer…

Izk