There's an insurance company commercial on television these days, suggesting that "responsible" folks get a break on their policies from their company. I think we've found somebody who wouldn't be getting that discount.
We were settled in a little state park on the Washington side of the Columbia River when we noticed a motorhome pulling in. Of all the many vacant sites available, they choose the one right next door to us. That in itself wasn't a problem; we don't mind neighbors.
But it wasn't long after that, while the navigator was taking a snooze in the recliner, I was half-snoozing, half-reading a book in a chair outside. Our traveling cat was dozing in her "condo" which mounts to the rig's sidewall, allowing her safe access to the "outdoors" through a cat door under the dinette. The peace and tranquility suddenly evaporated as the cat exploded in a hiss and a howl. Kitty's "intruder alert" signal definitely brought us up out of our reverie, as she blasted out of the condo, through the living room and over to the screen door in full alarm.
The "intruder" was the new neighbor's dog, thoughtlessly left off the leash to roam the campground freely. After considerable "encouragement" from me, the unruly hound headed for home.
After several hours the park ranger made her appointed rounds, collecting from the "iron ranger" self-pay station just a stone's throw away from our site. It didn't take long before she was next door, having a conversation with the neighbor. With reluctance sketched in every movement, he managed to drag himself to the pay station and fill out the form that the rest of us folks took care for right after our arrival.
I guess I'd hoped that these couple of off-acts would be the end of the matter. How wrong I was.
Darkness fell on the campground, and sure enough, as they say in the old movies, "The natives are restless." Along with the warming glow of firelight, the not-so-warming beat of an amplified rhythm: Loud music. We wondered if the campground host would care for the matter, as it was nearly 10:00. Finally, after I'd about reached my nerve limit, the music suddenly quit. Wow! Maybe things were looking up! But only for a few minutes. As if on que, the music began again almost marking the 10:00 hour.
Finally, I put on my hat (to increase my apparent height), and stepped outside. Sitting beside the fire, the neighbor and his three companions sat with their radio, perhaps six feet from my rig's bedroom window. "Be nice," the navigator had prompted me. So I suggested (as mildly as I could) that perhaps they hadn't known about the 10:00 "quiet hours." To their credit, within a few minutes the radio was squelched, and we passed the night in peace.
Next morning, the group next door made ready to break camp. They picked up their gear, and even their litter. But of course, there had to be a "parting gift." Our 'courteous and responsible' neighbor carefully dumped his gray water tank on the ground. I think he figured he hadn't quite got it all, because he stacked up a pile of rocks behind his tire, as if to back up and ensure he could get the last drop out of the tank, but on spotting us watching, they simply pulled out. On their way to the park exit, they would have driven directly by the dump station--free for use for paid campers.
Happily, these "campers from Hell" are rare--at least in our experience. But what a sorry picture they paint of RVers to those who don't get out often, and when they do, meet up with these kind of knuckle heads.
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After several hours the park ranger made her appointed rounds, collecting from the "iron ranger" self-pay station just a stone's throw away from our site. It didn't take long before she was next door, having a conversation with the neighbor. With reluctance sketched in every movement, he managed to drag himself to the pay station and fill out the form that the rest of us folks took care for right after our arrival. 