The emptier campground is fertile ground. I could wander in places that a few weeks ago were full up with motor homes and vehicles and tables and tents and grills and tarps — and people. It’s only about a quarter full now; half of it is closed, to reopen briefly for the holidays and then again in March. At 8:30 this morning, I didn’t even catch a whiff of bacon cooking. It was quiet and serene, and this twisted, gnarly skeleton gave me pause.
There were skeletons in our closets and someone found a master key. I suspect, with great sorrow, that it will take years to vanquish them.