The Durr Child

My mother once referred to me as her Durr Child.  She claims it was an accidental slip; a mixture of words that produced my title as Durr and that she really wasn’t nominating me as the dumbest of her offspring.  Nevertheless she said it, my brother and sister-in-law laughed at it, and one Memorial Day weekend I proved it.

I left Lewiston, ID, around four thirty on Memorial Day itself after a weekend of watching NAIA baseball.  By nine o'clock I was parked in Knife Edge campground on the banks of the Lochsa River rockin’ out to James Taylor in my sleeping bag. I ate half of my Subway sandwich and drank half of my bottled water and fell asleep. At or around six o'clock the next morning the bottled water from the night before caught up to me. As a kid I could just let fly in my diaper and roll over like nothing happened, but my mom had stopped buying Goodnites for me once she realized I was using them as a way to avoid the short walk across the hallway to the bathroom. 

It had been raining all night so I put on my boots. I also thought it might be a little chilly so I slipped on a raglan-T. Typically when I go camping in the back of my car I'll open one of the rear passenger doors and finagle my way out head first, but this time I thought it might be easier to pop open the rear gate and slide out feet first. I took care of my business (peed on a snail. Why? Because I could.) and crawled back into my vehicle for an extra hour of sleep. At this point I realized that it would be impossible to close the back hatch of my GMC Jimmy completely from the inside so, naturally, I hopped out and closed it. I got about half way to the side door when my error came into focus.

"Is it possible that I'm that stupid?"

I gave a tug on the locked latch.

"Yep, I'm that stupid."

After the swear words left my head I pondered the situation.  "The keys are in my pants pocket which I can see through the car window. This is unfortunate because if my pants are in my locked car that means they are not on me."

A timely draft reaffirmed my fear.  "I could call for help myself only my cell phone doesn't get service here and, besides, it too is in my pants pocket which again brings up the fact that I'm not wearing pants. I therefore am left with only two options: One, I can break a window; or, two, I can flag someone down and ask for help . . . in my underwear.  Well crap, this is going to get awkward."

I could see myself in the reflection offered by the sheen of my wet car. There I stood; boots but no socks, undies but no pants, and a baseball T-shirt. By appearances I was ready for a two-dollar-Tuesday performance at Chip-n-Dales. In reality I was walking around in a secluded north Idaho campground half naked. I shrugged.

“So this is what it feels like to be a creep.”

The only other occupant at Knife Edge that morning was an old man traveling alone. Attached to his truck was a horse trailer he had converted into a sleeper unit.

“Ah, a fellow creeper.”

I walked over slowly. Afraid there might be some unseen grandchildren in his truck I approached using the tree line for cover. He spoke first.

"Good morning."

"Morning. Um, I'm in a bit of tight spot here. I locked myself out of my car."

I wasn't sure where to put my hands. At my side is no good. My left hand is in a perma-shield position thanks to the unfortunate fixed angle of my left elbow.  Putting my arms to the side would mean that my right hand would appear innocently at my hip while my left would hang awkwardly in front of my groin, giving the illusion I was intentionally covering. Then do I purposely cover? To cover wearing one layer is to full on grab, there really is no in-between on that one. Behind my back, then?  No, no good. All that does is draw more attention to the waist. I was stuck. I think I finally settled with the left hand on my hip and my right hand at my side.

The elderly gentleman couldn't help me directly, but he promised to send someone my way. He packed up his carpeted horse trailer and drove out to the main road, leaving me alone with no pants. 

For the time being I had the campground to myself. It was cool outside and still drizzling lightly. The Bear Grylls in me took over and I sought shelter. And honestly, for being an outhouse it really didn't smell too bad. The occasional fecal smell wafted from beneath my seat, but overall it still smelled like the peppermint cleaner that had been used recently.

I had no clue if Horse-Trailer would come through for me so my plan was to wait until the afternoon and then break out a window. I had spent about an hour and a half shivering in the honey hut when I heard a truck pull into the campground.

Like the natives scoping out the pilgrims, I peered discreetly through twigs and leafs until I identified the vehicle as an Idaho State Police SUV. Then I started the long awkward walk down the road from the outhouse to the waiting ISP trooper. This time I spoke first.

"Good morning. Well, I guess I've had better mornings."

He didn't say anything. I had an argument in my head that went like this.

-"Joke didn't land. Shut your mouth."

-“Well the guy can see my ding-a-ling. What am I supposed to do, not say anything?"

So I tried again. "I got locked out of my car. Unfortunately my pants are locked in there as well."

He just looked at me. "Do you got a spare key?" he asked.

"Yep. It's in the jockey box."

He gave a little chuckle.  His defenses were wearing down. "Any identification on you?"

"Nope, you could see it if I did."

That did it; I had made friends with the only officer assigned to patrol the Lochsa. Our friendship was sealed when I gave him a clear view of the full moon rising as I crawled up and into the back of his Dodge Durango.  Dispatch contacted my sainted mother and explained to her how dumb her kid was. So, like usual, I waited for mom to fix it.

Tom and I talked for about an hour in his rig before the call came through that a locksmith was forty-five minutes out. He asked if I needed him to stay and I said no and hopped out. So there I was again, alone with no pants.

The thermometer in the patrol car read 51 degrees. Now that's not terribly cold, but when you're in your Billy-Bears it can wear on a fella. I tried walking around but I just ended up with dirt in my shoes so I did what I figured my brother would do.  I started to sing and dance to a Beyoncé song.

"ALL THE SINGLE LADIES, all the single ladies, ALL THE SINGLE LADIES, all the single ladies. Now put your hands up! Whaoh oh oh . . ."

That kept me warm and entertained until I got a little aggressive with a stomp-and-look-over-the-shoulder move that tweaked my knee. I limped back to the honey hut.

The forty-five minutes turned out to be well over an hour. By this time I was anxious to get some clothes on and get out of there. My anxiety didn't bode well for a few innocent visitors to my campground.

Twice I mistook the sound of a minivan for that of a locksmith's truck and ran out in my skivvies to greet unsuspecting families. I would make my appearance, realize my mistake, and retreat to the outhouse. It's not like I could play it off and pretend to be picking wildflowers or something. I would just hang my head, turn around, and walk away.

Later, when I had moved to be closer to my car, two totally cool kayaker bros caught me in the open. I stood there; proud, defiant, hands on my near-bare hips, and we traded stares.

Finally, at eleven o'clock, two locksmiths from Kooskia arrived and one of them said "Are you the guy locked out of his car?"

"Yes sir I am. Did my underwear give it away?"

The potty humor made the Idaho County boys chuckle as they grabbed their tools from their truck. In the end, my family’s designated Durr Child gave new meaning to the term attached to the Lochsa as being "Wild and Scenic."