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A Repository for all things related to Andre's Banana Bar shenanigans |
Fort Worden State Historical Park, Washington There are miles of buried tunnels, dead ends, and old rooms beneath Fort Worden Historical State Park, a former military base that’s now a campground 60 miles north of Seattle. They say this site is haunted. Tell us what you and Andre encounter while exploring. A few weeks after those ill-fated outings at Camp Wuck-a-muck, I decide to take to the road. I need some away time so I head west to Washington. I’d heard about this state park that might be haunted. I need some fodder for stories. A haunted park might just give me some needed inspiration. Someone told me about Fort Worden in Washington state. This old military installation has buried tunnels and old rooms beneath the actual fort. Sounds like fun. I wonder what stories lie buried. As I pull into the fort parking area. As I unpack the Subaru, out jumps Andre. “What in the world!” He gave me a big kiss then went to a tree to whizz big. “Where’ve you been hiding?” I checked the back of the car. No mess. “I stopped overnight in Missoula to see Kåre เลียม Enga  . You’ve been in here without a peep? What’s the deal?” “ASdk fjlsd. Asd knf!” He grabbed a small backpack hidden behind my cooler. “What kind of pills? From Chuck? Hand them over. No more pills, buddy.” A pill bottle sailed over my head and landed in a bush behind me. I retrieved them, but not until getting some good thorn scratches. “I’ll keep these until we get home, mister. No more funny business.” I unloaded the camping gear, got us set up at the campsite. I could see and smell the ocean. What a break from that ocean of trees at the camp. Andre took off to the water. Soon I could see him jumping over waves. I laid down on a sleeping bag, dozed off for a moment or so when suddenly a cold gust of air woke me. Floating above in a mist were two army men and Andre dressed in army fatigues. But just as I focused on the apparition it disappeared and a salt sea breeze took its place. I crawled out of the tent, jumped up, scanned the sea. There was Andre, floating in the surf. Splashing his hairy arms and legs. I waved him in. Andre splashed and jumped and galloped over to me, dripping over sunbathers along the way. “Were you just in the tent? Hovering over me?” Silly question now that I think about it. “Asldjf hj wooer!” He pointed to the ocean, pointed to his wrinkled more than usual feet and hands, then ran to the tent and hopped on the sleeping bag. I followed him running and jumping over people. “Off, off now! You’re sopping wet!” Rummaging in my pack, I found a towel, threw it at him. The pill bottle I confiscated earlier fell out. “For pity sake, dry off.” Andre spied the bottle, picked it up. “Aseo? Werwls sdjfkl sdkfjl!” “No, no I did NOT take any of those.” He counted the pills. “1, 2, 3, 29, 45, 289, 100, 2, 3, 29, 60, 45, 1%.” “You don’t even know how to count. Give me that.” I grabbed the bottle, put it back in the pack. “This trip is over. The fun is gone. Ghosts and pills. I’ve had enough.” We took down the tent, packed everything in the car. Andre had to sit up front on a plastic tarp, strapped in where I could see him. No more monkeyshines. So much for exploring a haunted fort. W/C 549      |
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