It appeared out of nowhere. It's here to stay.

(Originally this was an E-mail exchange between me and an Internet Buddy named Desert Girl. I'd like to dedicate this to her.)

Some ten years ago now, we bought a 1986 Bronco II 4x4 and we drove it all over the place.

We'd been exploring in a 1989 Escort, so the prospect of being able to really get back into the Cuyamacas, the Cleveland National Forest and the Anza Borrego was a thrill.

First trip, we'd intended to explore Bear Valley, which is south of I-8 at the Pine Valley off-ramp. It was closed due to snow, though, so we ended up cruising down Old 80, getting down to Bankhead Springs, checking out the old buildings there, but disappointed we couldn't get off the pavement.

There was a road to the west of Bankhead, on the south side of the highway. We cruised down this and got to punch it into four-wheel, easing down into this gorgeous stand of oaks, coming underneath them as the sky grew dark and cold with perhaps more snow.

It must have been a party spot for the local kids, because it was trashed and filthy. Considering how beautiful the creek is, that was a shame. We parked, got out and started exploring, when I saw a box that, apparently, someone had set up as a target. A bullseye had been drawn on one side, and the box was riddled with .22 bullet holes. After exploring some more, noting the beer of choice for the revelers was Brown Derby, I went back to the box, and noticed that, besides being heavy, it was taped shut, as if someone had intended to mail it somewhere.

All addresses had been meticulously cut off, but the box itself was from Cabella's, a popular catalogue Army/Navy surplus store.

I pulled out my pocketknife, cut the box open, and inside there were three pairs of wool pants, the military kind with ample pockets, and a gray wool blanket.

I don't know how the armies of the world operate, but if you watch the surplus stores and the catalogues, you'll suddenly see Dutch Army Canvas Tents on sale in all of them or French Army Wine Casks. Now there's one that tells you a lot. Apparently the French Army has, or had, a wine ration for its troops, and they were shipped out in fifty liter stainless steel, air tight containers with spigots at the base, and ya' gotta wonder, red wine or white, or both?

Now, at this time, I'd noticed that the catalogues were selling Dutch Army Wool BDU trousers, and they weren't cheap, not at all. You have to wear long johns with them, or you'll itch to death, but figure, ten years ago, these things were selling for twenty dollars a piece.

And then another weird thing. Though the box was thoroughly shot up, the wool items inside were unharmed. Now, either that means that wool heals itself, or someone took the box, shot it up, then stuck all those items back in the box and re-sealed it. I tell ya', there was some serious drinking going on here.
The blanket might have been a part of a bigger piece, which would make it one big blanket. One corner of it is ragged, cut poorly, a notch in one corner, and not perfectly square. So I had sixty dollars worth of trousers and a 6x8 blanket, probably worth fifteen bucks or thereabouts. We threw it in the truck, and took off.

You know, wool is a fascinating natural fabric. Even wet, it retains warmth, it just weighs a ton. This blanket is really thin, yet it's difficult to penetrate it.

Dutch soldiers must be short little guys, because I'm going to have to wait for my son to grow into these pants, but the blanket has become a necessary fixture in the 4x4. Someone gets stuck in the snow or mud, throw the blanket under the power tire. It goes under much easier than rocks or wood, and so far, no one's ever torn it.

If the wife falls asleep after us exploring Painted Gorge or the Badlands, I just throw the blanket over her. When Alex was still in a car seat, he'd fall asleep while we were off-roading, and I'd worry about his head flopping around, until the wife would tuck the wool blanket loosely around his neck, just to give it a little support.

I remember one of the first times we went out to Moon Valley, actually the valley before Moon Valley, we made the mistake of taking the first camping spot into the valley, a great place for all our buddies that were with us to set up targets and target shoot. The thing is, there's no protection from the wind, and the wind came howling down on us. We put the truck crossways to the tent, but the wind whipped underneath the truck, almost seeming to pick up speed. My buddy, Thirteen Letters, had me run one of the outside tires over a corner of the blanket, then slammed the door on the other end, then we threw rocks down, pinning the blanket so that it blocked the high clearance of the Bronco. I don't know for sure if it made a difference, but the tent didn't break or blow away.

Since then, we've used it so many times as a wind break that duct tape has become my main tool for patching it into a spot.

The first time we took the baby to Moon Valley, he was about a year old, the wind came up and it was so strong, the tent sat down on top of us. It was a miracle the poles didn't break. Morning came, and with rain clouds boiling towards and over us, it was time to get out of there. The baby was still asleep, so the wife and I piled out of the tent into the wind to start loading the truck.

We heard something, looked back, and the tent, and baby, without our weight in it to keep it pinned down, was scooting through camp, headed for the fire ring. Last time I don't stake the tent.

Okay, that wasn't about the blanket. Still, the blanket was there.

Whenever I go backpacking, I always wrap my self-inflating mattress in the wool blanket. Yeah, it's heavy, but Cholla needles and Wait-A-Minute Brush can't get through the wool and ruin my mattress. I lay the blanket underneath the mattress, guaranteeing the sharp rock I missed doesn't do what the cholla couldn't, and its one more layer away from the cold ground. I've discovered it itches like crazy when you're warm, but it doesn't bother me at all when it's cold out.

Last Easter we were camped in Rodriguez Canyon, and on Easter Eve, it snowed all night. We woke up, and the tent was full of water. We floated over it on our air mattresses. Still, I threw the wool blanket over my family, knowing that even if it got wet, we'd be warm. That was probably the most spiritual Easter I've had since my mother died.

Once we were going to a DCM Match at the South Bay Rod and Gun Club in Dulzura, and just before town, 94 gets really twisty. A big Mexican diesel truck, probably out of Tecate, lost control coming down the mountain and plowed into the embankment. It must have been just seconds before we were on the scene.

It was gruesome. Not seat-belted in, the driver had launched out the windshield. Already a volunteer fireman was leaning over the driver. A pile of Marines going to the match marched out to help him. God, I'll never get used to how young these Marines are looking these days. The fireman asked if anyone had a blanket, and my wife came up with the gray wool blanket.

"Don't move him," the fireman orders.

We hear something gurgling, and look toward the truck. A torrent of diesel fuel is flowing down the ditch from the truck, the ditch the driver is lying in.

"Move him," the fireman orders.

Like they'd practiced this maneuver a thousand times, the Marines slip the wool blanket underneath the body, and heave him up and across the road, as all the cars downhill are getting the contents of the truck's fuel tank dumped over their passenger-side tires.

The cops never did show while we were there. A pile of other volunteer firemen arrived from Dulzura, the road was opened and they started getting traffic moving again. The last time I saw the blanket, the Marines were tucking it around the prone body. I certainly never expected to see it again, and what did I care? I didn't pay for it. God knows that driver needed it more than I did.

We get to the match. I shoot well until the last round. I always forget to compensate for the three hundred-yard sections.

Suddenly, the Marines appear. They solemnly step up to my wife, and hand her the gray wool blanket, neatly folded, though soaked in blood.

"Thought you might want this back, Ma'am, " the tallest Marine intoned.

"Thank you," my wife murmured.

"He died," another Marine said.

"Yes," my wife answered, "I thought he might."

We washed it thoroughly. It didn't shrink or fade.

Recently, in the Yuha Desert at the well, the blanket performed its most sublime function. The wife laid it out in the shade of the old tin-roofed structure over the well, and we all sat down and had a picnic. It seems right that a gray wool blanket be the picnic blanket in the desert. No fancy colors, no ornate attempt at civility, just functionality. I've got pictures of my son and wife on that blanket at Moon Valley, Table Mountain, Dos Cabezas, the Badlands, Oriflamme Canyon, eating my son's favorite meal of Ritz crackers, salami and cheese.

Then just this week, my son and I headed out for a camping trip to Dos Cabezas, along the old railroad line that snakes through Carrizo Gorge.

Two months before our family was blessed with twins, and my six-year old has been a champ, a real help. We perceived this trip as a reward to him. He even picked the spot. He wanted to walk the track.
But as we set up camp, disaster! I'd successfully walked out the door without the backpack with our spare clothes, but especially all our warm clothes, knit hats and gloves.

The temperature can drop below freezing in the Anza Borrego, and the day had been cool enough for me to think about that.

"Well, guess we have to head home," my son said, his lower chin trembling.

I did a quick inventory. Besides his pants and T-shirt, we had heavy jackets, some space blankets and the old wool blanket.

"Let's stay," I said. "You don't need PJs. We'll rough it."

My son's face lit with joy.

That night, I put the blanket over his chair, so that when he sat down I could wrap him in it, and when we went to bed and crawled into the huge Coleman family sleeping bag, I threw the wool blanket over the top, and we hugged each other, and though it dropped to 38 degrees, we were never cold.

The spot where we found the box full of pants and the wool blanket has been cut off. Big tall telephone stubs guarantee you're not driving down there any more. No more partying.

I've gotta walk down there some time, though, just to see the spot.