New Mexi-COULDN'T!

This is the third of the four-part series chronicling my vacation with the roommates to New Mexico. I may be live-blogging, bouncing a wireless signal off some errant cactus in the desert, or maybe I tried to predict how the trip will transpire ahead of time. Certain parties may or may not be fighting Master Tetsu, and they may or may not be spending time in a New Mexico prison. Fact or fiction, that’s for you to decide.

This is not my first time camping. I’ve pitched a tent in the Adirondack Mountains of upstate New York. I’ve started campfires in the state parks of Delaware. I’ve been flooded from my campsite along the shores of New Jersey. I’ve roasted a marshmallow or two on the western lakes of Virginia. I almost crashed a pontoon boat on the last excursion the roommates took into the wilderness – in West Virginia.

Camping in New Mexico is completely different.

First off, shade is about as abundant as leftovers at a fat camp reception. This presents two problems. First, days grow long and hot without sunscreen or trees. Between Nordberg and me, we have one pair of sunglasses (mine were shattered in that ninja fight – was that really only two days ago?) that we platoon in order to save our eyes from the sun. Secondly, nights in New Mexico are COLD. El Vado Lake State Park is up in the mountains. During the day the temperature averages a balmy 75 degrees, but at night it plunges down to 33. Without trees, there’s little to burn. We went through pages of Dave’s Spanish book last night, and Nordberg’s getting awfully nervous as I eye that big book of maps he keeps under his seat in the Blazer.

(And yes, before Dave’s untimely incarceration, he let us know that El Vado is Spanish for “the Vado.” I told you he knew his stuff.)

Nordberg, in his infinite wisdom, did the grocery shopping while waiting for us to arrive on our expected flights, and therefore planned for 4 mouths and not 2. Having food was not a problem. That is, until the coyotes came.

Previously, I was under the impression that coyotes were limited to the Phoenix area. This was not the case, as after one night in the New Mexico desert we realized we were not alone. While camping in any of the five aforementioned states had I encountered a coyote – maybe a slightly agitated squirrel, but nothing more fierce. When one is forced to deal with such an animal (or a pack of 7, as it were), one must know his limitations and what is valuable in life. A wife back in Virginia? Valuable. A prime job opportunity in Charlotte for the Nord? Valuable. Meaningless grocery purchases? Coyotes, it’s all yours.

The two of us waited in silence as these beasts ravaged the cooler for any meat they could find. There’s always more food in this world, and just yesterday I had convinced myself I could kill a jackrabbit if my life depended on it. But transportation? That’ a limited commodity. This became apparent when one coyote (the ugly one) started to rifle through Nordberg’s pack.

And found the car keys.

I don’t know which was more surprising. Watching a band of coyotes carjack Chris Nordberg with all the cunning spirit of Ocean’s Eleven, or watch Chris Nordberg stand in the way of the car with all the cunning spirit of a pancake. It was a game of chicken that was never meant to be. Mr. And Mrs. Nordberg, if you’re reading this, please be satisfied that I gave your son a proper tribute before laying him to rest. I wouldn’t have expected coyotes to know how to put a car into gear, either.

And then there was one.