The Tale of the Raccoons: A Love in Tandem True Story

If you’ve read my author’s note in Love in Tandem, then you already know the story was inspired by a similar trip my husband and I took years ago on a tandem bike down the Natchez Trace. A reader at a recent library event wanted to know more about the raccoon story I reference in the acknowledgments section to my husband. That was one of those experiences that didn’t make it into Love in Tandem, but certainly made it onto the pages of my journal when we got back from our seven-day trip and I started writing about all our adventures.

I thought you might like to hear the story too. And you know what else I thought? Why not share the story exactly (minus a few boring details) as I wrote it down fourteen years ago?

So here you go, friends. The Tale of the Raccoons, straight from the pages of Becca’s journal entry written on July 19, 2010.

Love in Tandem, published in 2024, sitting on top of one of the journal entries I wrote in 2010 about our tandem bicycle trip.

Alright, I believe we were coming into the evening of day two. We stayed at an actual state park camping site that night. The park ranger’s office was already closed when we got there at about six in the evening. We spent a little time trying to find him, but finally gave up when we stumbled across a posting that explained what to do in the event of arriving after the office is closed.

The campground had a bathhouse, and I can assure you that the shower felt beyond wonderful. We set up our tent on a lot towards the end of a long row of camping sites where everyone else had parked their RVs. All the camp sites bordered a small lake, where we did see a few people canoeing before it got too dark.

We ate some snacks at our picnic table, including one of Dave’s favorites—Twix bars smeared with pb—then hit the tent for a peaceful night of slumber, not knowing then like I do now that there really is no such thing as a peaceful night of slumber in a tent.

I fell asleep quickly and was surprised to hear Dave coming into the tent later since I didn’t recall him leaving the tent. I asked him what he was doing. He said, “You didn’t hear that?”

“No,” I said.

“A raccoon was trying to get into our bags. I resecured them and put the rain covers on. They should be okay now.”

“Oh okay, that soundszzzzz—” I was back asleep.

About an hour later I was very much awake when I heard the sounds of a fierce rabid battle taking place outside our tent. I tapped Dave on the shoulder and said, “I think there’s something outside our tent.”

“Oh, there’s something out there, alright,” he said.

I stayed bunkered down in my sleeping bag with no intention of ever leaving the tent again. Dave, however, grabbed the flashlight, unzipped the tent and poked his head out to take a look. His words were not reassuring. “Oh jeeze,” he groaned. Then he climbed out and I heard him walk over toward the bike.

I immediately rezipped the tent, bunkered down in my sleeping bag and estimated the cost of damage an army of raccoons could do to a tandem. I imagined they’d disassembled the bike, eaten a tire or two, and were now using the chain to tie up Dave and hold him hostage for food.

Or perhaps the bike was just a decoy so they could get to me in the tent. I was afraid to look out the vent in the tent, convinced I’d for sure see two glowing eyes staring back at me before a long claw sliced through the fabric. Apparently the raccoon I was imaging was not only demon possessed but also part mountain lion.

I honestly couldn’t believe Dave had gone out there. With no shirt on to boot! He acted so nonchalant about it, I’m pretty sure I found him to be the bravest man in the world at that moment.

After 15 minutes or so he came back into the tent. I braced myself and said, “Well . . .?”

“There was only one raccoon, but I’m afraid it’s pretty bad.”

I could tell Dave was trying to hold it together for my sake. “It’s okay. You can tell me,” I said.

He sighed, and with a small quiver in his voice, he said, “He got the Fig Newtons.”

Do I even need to describe the sense of mourning one experiences at such a loss? Perhaps I do. For me it was zilch. Nada. For Dave it was . . . well, let’s just say that raccoon might as well have just kicked him in the balls.

Oh well, such is life.

Dave put our food in the bath house for the rest of the night, and thankfully, we never had any more runs-ins with raccoons that night or the remainder of the trip.