What happens at Cedar Hills....Stays at Cedar Hills
7/15/2003 10:59 AM
Been longing for this camping weekend for a long time. If I had a "Fortress of Solitude" it would be at Cedar Hills Campground outside of Mazo (Mazomanie for youse guys not schooled in Wisconsin speak). Like Superman’s bachelor pad the campground is well camouflaged behind the rustic dwelling of the perpetually working Carl Goodwilers farm. I say perpetually working because in all the instances I have seen Carl he is always working. If you visit the campground you can always hear the distant echo of Carl’s truck or Bobcat rolling through his farm or the campground. And when I say "work" I don't mean the nancy boy TPS report shuffling a majority of us do in a day. Carl does real...man type work. I have never told Carl what I do for a living out of fear that he would walk up and grab my hands like "Quint" in Jaws telling me I have "city hands, from counting money all your life". Of course he never would because not only is Carl one of the hardest working people you'll meet he's one of the nicest guys you'll meet. Every time I see him he's had a good word and a smile for you. His campground is one of the most scenic of the Wisconsin River valley. I know this because he has it displayed across the entrance to his camp. Carl is a man of few words however he IS a man of many signs. That he displays throughout the campground mostly near the entrance. Carl has a curious prose and a unique way of phrasing that makes you say "...the hell?" He really just hits the highlights of the sentence with out getting tied down by the foreign concepts like adjectives or grammar. An example of this is found by the camp entrance.

No Fireworks
Violators
Fine...No Warnings
Carl Goodwiler, Owner

When you spend a few days in the woods of Camp Carl, as we affectionately call it, you begin to speculate both about these signs and the man himself. We attribute the poor phrasing and angry tone that many of he signs project by imagining that some ass was launching bottle rockets or M-80's into the serene country night. Carl explodes out of his farmhouse a white piece of plywood, a paintbrush and some black paint his hand. In a rage he formulates the basic thoughts of the violation and hammers it up. That way when he boots these people (from Illinois of course) he can reference them to the sign now prominently hung on a pole. And Carl’s signs are a masterwork in themselves and as such are all signed by the artist Carl Goodwiler, owner.

Our merry band of rogues have started out early this Friday morning. They start out from south the border. My one friend, Norb and his one friend, Ralph begin the day early. I reference them as "my one friend" because for many years that is how I would either introduce people or describe them in a story. I never realized how much I had done it until...My one friend, Mark started saying it to laughter of all those around me. I until that moment I had never realized how many monotonous times I used that phrase. I try to pride myself on word choice so it did and DOES still irritate me to no end. Norb makes me laugh harder than any person on the planet...there are times that I want to slug him right in the nose. To me now he is closer than a friend and is more of a brother to me. This kind of friendship is a very teeter totter its fantastic to have some one know you so well that he knows your strengths and weakness. However, since he knows these he is also free to exploit them at his leisure. I'm convinced his favorite hobby is winding me up. But he also makes me laugh to no end. His comrade Ralph I've never met before and his invite entirely hinges on Norb's discretion. Thankfully, he is remarkably funny and easily fits in the quips and jokes flying about when we meet up at the Pine Cone gas station. It’s even more remarkable since he's Canadian. Since none of us really know the man it makes for the source of many easy jokes. Helping me wait at the Pine Cone is former college roommate and my one friend, Mike. Mike is my consummate straight man. He plays up my jokes no matter how bad they are. He's truly a funny guy that most of the world won't appreciate because he's a quiet guy also. Which then leads us to fellow quiet guy Jeff. Jeff another friend from college who over the past year we've kept in more contact with through the advent of the email lists and the sending of email comedy. Like Mike, Jeff is a quiet unassuming guy. I spend my life 99% of it talking and clowning and about 2% of it actually funny. Jeff’s stats are exactly the opposite he spends about 2% of his life talking and so about 98% of what he says his funny. Good editorializing we can all use it. I'm so desperate to be the center of attention I spend a majority of my time prattling away in the hope that I come across as being funny every now and again. Although he's younger than me I get the vibe from him he's entertained by Norb and my antics much the same away an older friend of your brother is entertained. Jeff seems adept at camping..more so than my own style of "Do we have enough beer?" way of planning. We initially and nobly say when this little adventure started that we would all pitch in and help prepare meals. Its totally obvious within the first 5 minutes that Jeff is going to trust us with his food preparation as much as you'd trust carrying Bobby Browns luggage through airport security. "Ok...before you clowns cut off a finger let me make dinner". It would be painful if it weren’t completely true. Within the first 24 hours I have managed to scrape, cut or bruise every one of my appendages in a painful way. One of the pinnacles of the trip was the moment when we were all lunged out in our captain’s chairs reading our respective books NOT talking with one another. It takes a great deal of comfort to have a conversation with some one it takes even a greater amount to sit there and read and NOT have to feel obligated to talk with them. It was a great way to spend a couple of hours. Plus...the naps...dear lord, the beautiful naps. Not quiet the quality as last year but there is no such thing as a bad nap in my book.

We spent the rest of the time fishing (just up stream from the nude beach). And before I get all the curious emails let me reiterate my philosophy that the people you see naked are rarely the people you ever want to see naked. Especially since the biggest cans we saw on the beach were on the guys. We talked to few of the "naturalists" in the parking lot and they seemed a friendly enough lot but they seemed to turn a curious eye towards us because we were just standing around people watching and having a beer. Our nights consisted of good meat intensive menus and my arteries have just started to pump again. Carl was right...the campground did provide and expansive view of the Wisconsin River Valley. It was a great going to sleep at night hearing the howl of a lone coyote. It really seemed to fit the mood of the moment. Then we packed up and rolled out early the next morning. It gave my batteries the recharge I've been longing all summer for. So long Carl...make some signs for next year.

No Canadians
Warning
Fine...Eviction
Carl Goodwiler, owner