1972

Camp Four, that sprawling al fresco slum, had been our home for
many months, during which time we’d made ourselves as comfortable
as our straitened circumstances allowed. Laboriously gathered pine
needles created a thick, soft carpet over the site. Awnings over
our two tables kept out sun and rain. My large Arabian-style tent
was carpeted, hung with printed drapes, equipped with bookshelves
and, most important, a box-spring mattress. One way and another, we
had created quite a home away from home among the rocks, dust, and
pine trees. Now was the time to add the final comfort, the ultimate
triumph of technology: Electricity, and with it, Loud Music.

The music was already available, as I owned an old reel-to-reel
tape recorder. To obtain the necessary power supply would require
more effort, not to speak of ingenuity, resourcefulness, and a fair
amount of nerve. I had previously spied a large coil of power cable
which lay, apparently abandoned, unused and forlorn in the Park
Service maintenance yard. I hate to see anything going to waste, so
I decided to find a productive use for this valuable item. After
several reconnaissance sorties, we agreed that midnight would be
the best time to hit the yard.

Experience showed that, at this
time, the park security guards would be policing the bars, and no
doubt, harassing a few harmless drunks, thus leaving the way clear
for us. In the best military manner, George and I synchronized our
watches, before making our way, accompanied by ‘the boy’, to the
scene of the operation. After locating the booty, we were just
hoisting onto the boy’s back, when the dazzling beam of a car
headlight pierced the yard. Instinctively, we hit the deck behind
a pile of pipes. The boy bravely stifled a groan as the full weight
of the coiled copper struck him in the small of his back.
Fortunately, we were neither seen nor heard. On our circuitous
route home, the boy staggered and stumbled under his load, while
George and I attended to the serious business of route finding and
scouting for possible danger. Hours later we arrived at the now slumbering
camp.

Now that the first phase of our operation was complete, we
attended to the more technical second phase, namely locating and
making the necessary connections to a power supply. Delegated to
survey the various possibilities, the boy carefully paced out
various, crucial distances while appearing to take casual strolls.
After evaluating his reports, we calculated that the cable would
easily reach from the men’s restroom to our campsite. We were set.

We planned to make our move a few nights later, after the moon
waned–a hunter’s moon. Meanwhile, preparations were underway.
While George and I carefully revised the mission over pitchers of
beer in the Four Seasons, the lad was dispatched to the store. His
mission: to obtain, by any means short of outright purchase, a
brown extension lead and a suitable adaptor. The boy returned
triumphantly bearing his prize, just in time to buy another pitcher
of beer and thus doubly justifying our trust in him. George
expertly wired the adaptor and extension to the cable and we were
ready for Operation Edison. After some discussion, we agreed to let
the boy accompany us for several reasons: first, the cable seemed
heavy and, clearly, the lad needed building up; second, the cable
had to be routed through a culvert made slimy by recent rainfall
and fouled by rotting vegetation: and last, we needed a scapegoat
should anything go wrong.

That nothing did go wrong was doubtless due to our careful
planning, coupled with faultless execution. As before, we chose our
time carefully. In addition, we posted a couple of lookouts. The
boy was volunteered to negotiate the oozing mire in the culvert,
after first having dug a shallow trench in the intervening ground.
George executed the technical task of making the connections and
concealing the wire alongside the restroom’s brown wooden trim.
Meanwhile, I was busy keeping a watch on our lookouts–you can’t be
too careful. The boy, who was already dirty, was entrusted with the
messy, but vital task of burying the remainder of the cable, while
we senior officers returned to camp to check on the connections at
that end.

For the remainder of that summer, we bathed in the amplified
sounds of our favorite bands, and in the enthusiastic approval of
our friends and neighbors. We hosted an almost continuous party and
were very pleased with ourselves. Not only had we scored a social
success, but we had done so at the expense of the hated Park
Service. In time, our initial euphoria oozed into bland acceptance;
we came to take for granted what had once seemed remarkable.
Eventually, the very technology that had brought us so much
innocent pleasure brought about our downfall. Planned
obsolescence–that was what tripped us up. If we had foreseen it,
perhaps we could have forestalled the inevitable. However, we had
been living in tents so long that we had forgotten certain basic
facts about urban living, in particular, that light bulbs burn out
and have to be replaced. Even so, our luck could have been better.
As it was, fate sent along a Park Service employee who was not only
observant, but curious and persistent too.

His attention drawn by an unexpected flash, this paragon
noticed the unusual arrangement of the light fitting. Possessing
the aforementioned virtues, he then proceeded to follow our
spurious cable to the outside, where it disappeared into the
ground. Not content with this, he heaved on the free end, pulling
the remainder from concealment, as far as the culvert. With the bit
now firmly between his teeth, our hero dove into the halfsubmerged
pipe, emerging at the far end, his temper frayed, his
uniform muddied and torn, but with his zeal, unfortunately,
undiminished. Observing most of this from his tent, George decided
that now might be a good time to examine a boulder problem he had
been developing. When he returned much later, he found, to his
surprise, the tape recorder still in situ. Missing though, was the
cable, which the dutiful employee had, removed. As George gazed at
the now defunct machine, an unnatural and oppressive silence
reigned over the camp.