Dumping in Phoenix to an audience

Driving into Phoenix was horrible. It's a big, sprawling, congested city with freeways every which way. The last place on Earth I want to drive my motorhome is in a big city.

I had to be there for a business meeting. After spending the previous night in a gorgeous, spacious campsite surrounded by saguaro cactus and wildflowers at Picacho Peak State Park outside Tucson, I was forced in Phoenix onto a stingy-sized gravel pad smack dab at the entrance to the sprawling Desert Shadows RV Park. There — at the very lip of the park — at its very portal — I enjoyed the sights and sounds of passing cars, RVs, UPS trucks, scooters and golf carts.

The locals — those snowbirds who come each winter to escape Minnesota, play horseshoes and walk their poodles — strolled by one after another. They were very friendly, laid back, enjoying their golden years. They smiled and waved. Some said hi. But they stared at my RV. What did they see? Then it hit me! They were reacting to my prominent position at the gateway to the park: "How did he get to become the official park greeter?"

But, there I was, just inside the park, no more than 20 yards from 29th Street. I immediately met my neighbor, a dog named Ruby, a Lab/Border Collie mix who believed that life is not acceptable unless you have a stuffed doll in your mouth. Ruby became my instant friend as I prepared to hook up my RV to the three camping essentials — water, electricity and sewer.

Ruby's owners seemed nice, a couple from Colorado. As I prepared to attach the sewer hose in preparation of dumping, they smiled from their lawn chairs not more than 12 yards away — a superb vantage point to witness sewer dumping, all the while relaxing with a cocktail.

Hooking up to electric and water is no big deal to me. I don't care if anyone watches. But hooking up the sewer, especially when the very first action is to dump full tanks — in my case nearly overflowing tanks — is not something where I want an audience.

AT SUCH MOMENTS, should someone be watching, I think, "What if the hose should come unattached, or breaks, or pops a huge leak and spews the vile contents every which way?

Oh, it was okay for Ruby to watch. Dogs don't count.

As I gathered up my hose in preparation of the forthcoming purge, I struck up a conversation with the neighbors. I think it was a subconscious defense mechanism — just in case something should go wrong. Maybe if they got to know me a bit they would not be so upset if the hose broke or came unhooked or sprung a massive hole. "Boy, they sure do pack the RVs tight in here," I said to the woman as I prepared to attach my hose. "Oh, this is nothing," she said. "We were in a place on this trip where there was only six inches from our slideout to the neighbors'. You couldn't even walk between our coach and theirs."

I told her I, too, had experienced such places.

That ended the small talk.

I felt better. I returned to the matter at hand — the dump!

Finally, both ends of the hose in place, I pulled gently on the handle, ever so slowly at first to be sure all was okay, that no unwanted ooze was spewing forth. All was good. So I pulled a little harder. With each tug, I could hear the increasing, reassuring sound of liquid flowing like perfection into the bowels of Mother Earth.

It was a flawless dump. No smell. No leaks. My neighbors drank their cocktails. Ruby played with her doll.

I retreated to my RV and listened to traffic.