Tubing on the French Broad in Hot Springs. Unlike the Green river, Madison county still allows the ‘iced tea’ to go un-inspected. I shared my large inflatable baseball mitt with the cooler, and drank many shitty cans of beer. Mmmmm. There were several islands along our trip, spaced considerately about an hour apart from one another. Cigarette Island, Porn Snack Island, and the island of no name allowed our dogs to get out of their little rubber rafts and swim for a bit before running back out into the river and attempting to drown their owners.
Then we camped at the Hot Springs Campground. I’ve always been a little scared of the Hot Springs Campground. They have bike rallies there. It’s only 25 miles from Greeneville, Tennessee. A few reasons. But our campsite was lovely, with plenty of space for the 7 of us and 3 dogs. While we were singing camp songs around the fire, like good little lesbian campers, someone wandered over from the site next door. If you spell it like he said it, his name is Ark. He propositioned our guitarist, whose fiance was 1 seat over, then kept talking about how his wife gave great head.
He wandered off after 10 minutes or so, then brought his wife and Rusty over. Rusty didn’t talk. We sang some Joplin, some Cash, some Dylan. We descended into a fit of hysterical laughter after Ark, obviously smitten with the guitarist, sat down on the cooler next to her and tried to sway in time with her playing, but was unable to maintain the rhythm.
Eventually, they wandered off again, and we busted out the Indigo Girls to close the show. This morning we counted how many beers had been consumed and were amazed. And slightly ashamed.
