Crowley Flats Snowbirds

On a trip to the eastside of the Sierras, my friend and I stumbled upon a bizarre and surreal campground scene. On a big snow year, early May had seen most campgrounds closed due to snow, but we managed to find a free BLM campground somewhere south of Mammoth. The campground was filled with self-described “snowbirds” who travel from one free campground to the next. Immediately after pulling in, we had an encounter with one such ‘bird.

We pulled forward into the campground proper, and saw several dilapidated RV’s spread across the grounds. Most looked like permanent fixtures in an otherwise empty lot if not for a pit toilet. It was early afternoon, and not a soul was stirring about. Our uneasiness aside, we proceeded to find a nice spot a safe distance from the nearest trailer. From our site we could just make out the camp hosts’ hovel with it’s tarp swathe flapping in the wind. I imagine the hand windmill is spinning, welcoming no one in particular.

We set up camp, settled into a couple cans of Hamm’s, and took in some great views of the Sierras. Though the scenery around us was stellar, our attention never strayed too far from the eerily strange vibe of the flats.

Three hours after our arrival, and a nice dent in the whiskey bottle, we heard a car fire up, and come sputtering down the road toward us. It was a mid-eighties Ford mustang, red and darker red. It lurched to a stop in front of our campsite. It had tinted windows that held the occupant’s identity a mystery. As the door flung open we got our first glimpse of the keeper of Crowley Flats.

The figure of a tall, rail-thin elderly fellow approached the fire, and his face came into the light. The combination of rasp and twang in his voice immediately broke the silence. “Heya der boys, I’m Wayne, I run dis place, good to have ya here.” Proclaiming to be in charge of a free BLM campground with no running water and one pit toilet didn’t exactly impress us. Wayne nonetheless welcomed us with a frantically waving windmill, and a near toothless smile.

Wayne was probably in his late 60’s, although an educated guess of between 60 and 90 based on his grizzled, weathered face might not have been too far off the mark. He walked with a slight limp, his hands low to his side, and he kicked a little gravel as his feet swung forward with every step.

Without much provocation, Wayne proceeded to launch into an ear-numbing array of stories ranging from mildly absurd, to downright disturbing. This carried on for a solid half hour, with neither Brenden nor myself saying anything more than a few “uh huh’s” and an “oh yeah, you don’t say” thrown in to give some semblance of attention. It was time to do some skiing.