April 27: Against all odds, Beth and Melanie actually arrive at Camp Bonneville
Friday evening, I texted Beth about the 8:30 arrival time on Saturday morning. “So I looked at the directions, and I think maybe I was panicking when I said I’d pick you up at 7 am.”
Beth agreed that yes, I was panicking. She felt that 8:00 was a reasonable time to arrive. If anybody else was driving, it would have been.
Luckily, I got a bad feeling in my stomach before we veered too far off course. (To clarify: I got a bad feeling after I got done playing funny videos on my phone for Beth. I give you: The Trip To Range Day Theme Song and That’s My Desire.)
Siri led us through a twist of high-end neighborhoods, directing us through random direction changes, until we finally popped out of the upscale shute and landed on a road way out in the country. We passed a lot of farms. And then suddenly, we saw a “dead end” sign.
“Um. . .” I said. “Dead end?”
But then we saw a short line of vehicles parked at the dead end, and realized that we were looking at fellow Camp Bonneville visitors. We’d arrived!
Kasey was moving from car to car, asking people to sign in. She was in jeans and a black jacket, and her hair fell in loose waves even with a baseball cap shoved over it. I signed my name and forgot to pass the clipboard to Beth. Technically, I think that means she snuck into Camp Bonneville.
“Why does Kasey always look glamorous?” I demanded.
Beth agreed that it was disgusting. We watched the gate for a few seconds. Then she said, “I finished an absolutely filthy book yesterday. It was called ‘That Time I Got Drunk and Saved a Demon.’”
She went on to explain that the book was so trashy that she stopped after a few chapters and skipped to the last chapter.
“I’m guessing the end was a complete shock?” I said.
“They got married,” Beth said.
“She married the demon?”
“I’m sure there were lots of trials and tribulations along the way. But yes.”
Interesting things to know about “That Time I Got Drunk and Saved a Demon”:
- The demon is seven feet tall and has ram’s horns.
- The demon’s name is “Fallon” (Which I assume is pronounced “fallen.”)
- The demon gets angry and bursts into flame, which burns all his clothes off. But he can magic himself new clothes.
- The demon attempts to eat the heroine in the first chapter.
- The heroine’s family runs a cinnamon farm.
- The heroine is also named “Cinnamon,” or, “Cin” for short (I sense a theme.)
- The heroine meets the demon because she is getting drunk at a festival, leaves the festival to find her friend, is disappointed because the friend is working, makes peace with the friend’s absence because the festival will last several days, then chases a troublemaking child into the woods.
- The heroine uses cinnamon bark to make the demon not want to eat her. I think. I was a bit lost by this point in the explanation.
Then it was time for the Camp Bonneville gates to open.
We drove through the open gates and past a sign that declared, “Camp Bonneville: Danger: No Trespassing: Possible Unexploded Military Munitions.” This was definitely the right place.
We faced an expanse of shaggy lawn short enough to suggest that somebody mowed it now and again. The actual site was a three-mile drive from the gates, along a dirt road punctuated with potholes that the white Jeep in front of me drove around. I avoided them, too; I figured that a pothole nasty enough to make a Jeep driver wary would be too much for my 2016 Kia hatchback. Which was, by the way, the smallest car in the wagon train by an order of magnitude. There were so many spotless trucks and SUVs, I was like a scholarship student in a school full of rich kids.
We crossed a little bridge and went up a hill, and the scenery changed from woodland meadow to actual forest, old-growth cedars with tangles of sparse-leafed bushes underneath. About three quarters of the way there, we saw the remains of the original military base, white wooden boxes peeling away to nothing. Beyond that was a sign that said, in red block letters, “FBI Shooting Range.” And then we turned a corner, and entered a parking lot about the size of a roundabout. It was not enough for all those massive vehicles.
I nudged my hatchback up next to a shed and felt smug, knowing I’d be one of the first ones out of the lot.
To one side of the lot were two one-story buildings in an L shape, with a covered walkway between. At the end of the lot was the army green love child of a truck and a tank. Imagine the Incredible Hulk as an SUV, and you’d have the gist.
Normally I type notes during these classes, but my Chromebook seemed impractical in this place. I put my phone and a few other things in a fanny pack and began following the stream of humans toward the pass-through. Then I went back to my car for a notebook and pen.
There were folding tables against one side of the pass through, loaded with flat boxes of individually wrapped danish and muffins, as well as carafes of coffee and stuff to doctor it with.
Beth chose a blueberry muffin. I tried not to dwell on the danish. The Sheriff’s Office did not have anything gluten or dairy free. Or anyone.
We emerged from the pass through into another open field, this one with a buzz cut and parallel lines of cement paths with targets at one end. There was some kind of small building on stilts near the main room; I never did figure out what it was for. Outside the bigger building were more folding tables covered in things like ear protection headsets, fluorescent yellow arm bands, things that looked like mockups for actual pistols, and random unidentified small objects. And also a big box of ammo.
Beyond the building and tables was a white, wooden mini-maze. It was designed so you could see inside the doorway and, if you looked to your right, the first turn. Nothing after that. The maze screamed “active shooter training.” And in fact, that’s what it was. More on that later.
We were shepherded into a small room with more folding tables and chairs, and white boards at both ends. At the back of the room, the white board had a green Sharpie grid listing the names and titles of every instructor. The board at the front was clear.
Commander Barsness stood at the front of the room, in police uniform. All the instructors were in uniform, although a couple of them weren’t wearing vests. One of the two was Sergeant Kevin Schmidt. The other was Sergeant Linda Hayes.
About Sergeant Hayes: she had short brown hair with a lot of blond highlighting, red-brown skin, a kind smile, and a huge heart. And she is not, not, not somebody to mess with.
Commander Barsness welcomed us and reminded us that the day was about learning the philosophy behind use-of-force. He also introduced everyone, a pointless exercise in my case as I do not possess a capacity to remember names provided via introductions. Then he counted us off (A-B-C) to divide us into groups. This put Beth and me into different groups, so I ignored it and stuck with her. (I did ask Sergeant Schmidt if this was okay. He gave me a panicked look, held up both hands and told me he had no idea what was going on. Fair enough.)
Nobody cared that Beth and I were in the same group.
Everybody got five minutes to mill around and use the restroom (I used the time to take photos of the cartank) and then Group A, with one unauthorized additional member, settled at the tables to watch the presentation on use-of-force.
Our instructor was Sergeant Sofianos. AKA Sergeant Handsomer. I should add here that Beth and I have very different taste in unattainable men. She really likes Commander Barsness. I really wish Commander Barsness was my dad. To each her own.
Sergeant Sofianos was shortish, with dark hair and a slight bald spot, a strong jaw, dark eyes and the sort of arm muscles men get when they regularly lift Toyotas. He had a tattoo and a stare that blended gentleness and cynicism, and he planned to teach us to the best of his ability even though he was pretty sure half the people he was talking to would never understand the material in any meaningful way.
Sergeant Sofianos was a street cop, worked search and rescue, worked with a riot team, was a street crimes detective, worked on the drug task force, and spent about eleven years on the SWAT team before promoting to sergeant and supervising the drug task force. Last year, he took a position as a TAC (Training, Advising and Counseling) officer at the Vancouver Police Academy.
Sergeant Sofianos also told us that they are shortly going to open a Corrections Academy in Vancouver. He said this as if it was more interesting than his career. Or his muscles.
And then he turned the projector on, and we spent the next hour and some going over all the reasons Melanie could never be a cop.
Next up: Use of force!
