The campground around us seemed almost empty with a few campers in tents far from our site. This morning, however, we heard the lonely sound of a horn that came from somewhere in the woods. The notes seemed to be perfect and blended in with the soul of the green forest and the song of the river. Later, after dark we heard the sound again, and we discovered that the musician was just a hundred yards away in the next campsite. He told us that he used to be a French Horn player with a Los Angeles symphony and became discouraged with his career. He later moved to the Northwest and became a wood worker where he created his own Alp Horn.
I casually mentioned that I used to play a trumpet in my high school in an effort to impress the man as being a fellow musician. He handed me the instrument’s mouth to examine. It was made of wood and closely resembled the mouth piece of trumpets, trombones, and other brass instruments. Unfortunately, my hint didn’t have the intended result, and I was not invited to try the big, wooden horn.
After we returned from the Alpenhorn camp, as our own fire was dying, Sheila played a few Irish airs, also appropriate for this kind of wilderness. Two mule deer appeared just across the road from our camp, only a few yards away ears pitched forward as if trying to understand the music drifting toward them like a mystery. After a few minutes the deer went back to grazing on the grass and slowly sauntered away.
This was the place we were looking for.