August 1999

Camping and the Law

by Evan L. Loeffler
Guest Editor

Since becoming a lawyer I have stopped going outside. My typical weekday consists of driving straight from my garage at home to the parking garage at work, and then back again at the end of the day. As a Seattle attorney, I'm not missing much weather-wise by staying indoors, but there are times when the sun comes out that remind me of time spent in the great outdoors. Upon reflection, I usually heave a sigh of relief that those days are long past, adjust the chain that shackles me to my desk, and resume my work.

With the arrival of warmer, drier weather, I am once again reminded of the last time I deliberately ventured outside. My then-girlfriend, Jennifer, and her wild animal, Casey, convinced me that my life would not be complete if I did not go camping. Initially, I had resisted Jennifer's arguments until she gave me an ultimatum: either go camping or spend the next several weeks in the hospital after being mauled by Casey.

"I'm not so sure," I said, weighing my options. "I could spend several weeks in the hospital anyway if I go camping."

"Yes, but that's not definite," Jennifer said. "Besides, even if you get out of the hospital in a week or two you'll be in physical therapy for months."

"True," I admitted. "But at least I won't be camping. The hospital room is inside and probably air-conditioned. Also, the hospital is bereft of anything that is likely to eat me."

"Grrrr," added Casey impatiently, baring her fangs and scratching a long furrow in the floor with her claws.

"Let me put it this way," Jennifer said. "If you won't come camping with us, Casey and I will visit you in the hospital every single day for the rest of your life."

"Camping it is," I said.

My idea of "roughing it" has always been to change the channels by hand instead of using the remote control. I have been known to perform manual labor on occasion, but these instances have always been by necessity or by mistake. My definition of hiking is "walking uphill so you can walk downhill later." The thought of hiking several miles while carrying a hundred pounds of camping gear on my back without there being some sort of goal or profit margin involved runs against my instincts.

Jennifer appointed herself in charge of our expedition and assigned me the task of carrying all the food, the cooking gear, the tent, two sleeping bags, and all our clothes. Jennifer was to hold the leash that kept Casey from biting me. Casey's job was to growl and bark at everything that moved other than Jennifer, and to piddle on anything and everything that resembled a tree.

The first day, Jennifer, Casey and I hiked up a mountain that apparently had no summit. Jennifer amused herself by pointing out scenery to divert my attention from the path. I did my best to keep in front of Casey, who nipped at me whenever she got close enough.

In the evening we pitched the tent. This involved Jennifer telling me to stand back and not to touch anything while she did it herself. By then it was getting dark and cold. Jennifer built a fire and prepared dinner while I looked for a light switch and a thermostat.

"This is barbaric!" I cried. " I can't find a single electrical outlet!"

Dinner consisted of warmed refried beans and a cookie. After this repast, we argued over who was allowed to sleep inside the tent. I felt that Casey would make an admirable watchdog and suggested tying her to a tree. Jennifer advanced the opinion that if I didn't want to sleep with the dog I could always sleep outside myself. I rejoined that while that was certainly an option, I hadn't intended to lug a tent up a mountain so it could be used as a doghouse. I further pointed out that if we were to share the tent with Casey we would both smell like dogs, which, considering the dearth of running water in the immediate vicinity, would be a problem. Jennifer ended the discussion by ordering me to "stop being such a weenie."

I spent the night alternately fighting off the hoards of bloodthirsty insects that freely entered the semi-porous fabric of the tent, and fighting off Casey, who felt it was my place, and not hers, to be sleeping at the foot of the tent. I must have fallen asleep eventually because Jennifer woke me up later.

"Do you hear something outside?" she asked.

"We are outside," I said. "Everything we hear is outside."

"Outside the tent, stupid."

"What could be making noise outside the tent?"

"Why don't you go outside and find out?"

"Are you nuts? There could be something dangerous out there! Why not send Casey?"

Casey entered the conversation at this point and made it clear she didn't intend to go anywhere: "Grrrrr."

"Evan," said Jennifer, "get out there and chase off whatever it is making noise."

"Why can't we send Casey?" I persisted. "She's an animal. Maybe she can speak its language and tell it to go away."

"Grrrrr."

"Why don't you chase it off?" I asked Jennifer. "You're in charge, so you have a legal responsibility to protect me."

"Here's a flashlight. Get out."

I stumbled outside and found myself facing the largest, fiercest-looking raccoon I had ever seen. Diabolically clever beasts, this one had found our stash of marshmallows, built a fire, and was toasting one on a stick.

"Get out of here!" I yelled.

The raccoon ignored me. I shined the flashlight on it, hoping to scare it away. The raccoon regarded me for a moment, put on my sunglasses (which it had stolen from my pack) and turned back to its cooking.

"Those are our marshmallows," I yelled. "If you haven't stolen my wallet yet I can show you the receipt. Now go away or I'll ask you to go away again!"

The raccoon continued to ignore me.

"Look," I negotiated. "Just don't eat the whole bag, OK? And try not to make too much noise. I'm trying to sleep."

In the morning, Jennifer woke me up to see something.

"Isn't it beautiful?" she asked, looking at the sky.

I looked up. "Oh my God!" I screamed. "What is that?"

"That's the sun, Evan," Jennifer said. "It's rising."

"Is it supposed to be there?"

"You know, you really should get outside more often."

Not a chance, I thought. I was starting to have withdrawal symptoms from being away from the office too long. I broke out in a cold sweat and started babbling about my cases just so I could bill the time later.

"Look at that rock in the path," I said. "Someone could trip over it. The Parks Department could be sued for negligence." My ranting caused Jennifer to "accidentally" lose her grip on Casey's leash. Eventually we returned to civilization so that I could go to the hospital for a tetanus shot.

Jennifer and I have since parted ways. I last saw her and Casey preparing to hunt moose with their bare hands. I returned to the relative safety of my office, where I have asked for an office without a window. Occasionally I still have flashbacks from that trip.

I later learned that the raccoon had, in fact, stolen my credit cards and bought himself 600 bags of marshmallows. If, while hiking in the Cascades, anyone happens to run into a very fat raccoon wearing sunglasses, I advise extreme caution.

Evan L. Loeffler is an associate at Harrison, Benis and Spence, LLP, and the editor of De Novo, the WYLD publication. He is the 29th District Representative (Washington and Oregon) of the American Bar Association Young Lawyers Division and a trustee with the King County Young Lawyers Division. He has no free time whatsoever and no hobbies.

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