Lost Dutchman, like basically everywhere else we camp, is mostly filled with old peeps. They’re retired, they’ve got time, they can camp in December. But it also has some … other people. The place just draws some oddballs. There are the partiers from Phoenix out drinkin’ under the stars (the only time we weren’t worried about mountain lions on the way to the bathroom was when we overheard these guys looking for another bottle of Tequila one night). There are the prospectors looking for the Dutchman’s lost gold. There are the painting hunters. There are … criminals?
Here’s what I overhead:
“Yep, I gotta get me some money,” this guy began. He was talking to a guy he knew from somewhere but hadn’t seen for a while and had just ran into at the dish-washing sink. I was at the sink intending to do my dishes. “Then I can get up to my father’s place and pick up these refrigerators,” he continued. “Then I can get me some more money.”
Now that didn’t make much sense. Maybe he was talking about selling them for scrap. Or refurbishing them, maybe? And did these guys live here permanently? Or were they just regulars around the state park circuit? So many questions. But the reply made even less sense.
“Yeah, you know that gas station you go to down near __? You should head over to __, it’s real big. That place is loaded with money.”
What the? Did I overhear a robbery tip? Bizarre.