Meeting Brenda

Listening in the distance, I hear a creek roaring, echoing through the forest. I am sitting at a picnic table, enjoying the wind and the mountains. The clouds are dark and stormy. Hopefully, my small tent can bear the weather. I’ve placed rocks around it to hold it down and I am praying to the sky to be nice to me tonight.

I lost my wallet backcountry camping through Yellowstone National Park. It must have fallen out when I was taking a number two in a hole behind a rock. Nasty, I know. I love the wild, but having to carry all of my necessary resources in a pack on my back is not my favorite detail. One can easily lose things, as I have, and it is also quite painful at times to carry all that weight.

Due to my disappearing wallet, I snuck into this campsite, hoping not to get caught. Shortly after I set up my tent the camp host drives to my site in a red 2001 Chevy Silverado that reeks of diesel, and the engine roars like a starving mountain lion. I nervously stand up and contemplate whether I should lie or tell the truth.

A woman steps out of the truck. Her dirty blonde hair is effortlessly pulled back into a ponytail. She is wearing a sleeveless white striped flannel with sky-blue knee-high jean shorts. Her brown hiking boots seem like they’ve just lost a war with the terrain.

In a calming tone, she says, “Is it past 4 p.m. yet?” I look at the time on my phone; it’s 3:48 p.m. “It’s close,” I respond. “Have you paid yet?” she asks. “No, I haven’t.” I take a deep breath. “I lost my wallet backcountry camping at Yellowstone National Park. I have no money and no identification.”

“Oh, my goodness. That’s horrible,” she says. “Well, you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need. I’ll pay your camp fee.” I am amazed as this is an unexpected reaction. “Thank you so much.” “You are welcome,” she responds. “My name is Brenda. Please let me know if you need anything.” She backs up the vehicle and drives away. I am at peace and I feel immense gratitude. I have a place to stay tonight.

An hour later I am still sitting at the picnic table. Brenda, the camp host, approaches me again. “Have you had dinner yet?” she asks. “No, I haven’t, but I have food that I’ll be making shortly.” “Are you vegetarian?” “No, I am not.” “Well, then come over for dinner, I have made some food for you.” I am speechless. She is incredibly generous. “Okay, thank you.” “Come over in about fifteen minutes,” she says, then drives away.

Fifteen minutes later I walk over to Brenda’s campsite. She is walking outside, patrolling the campground. As soon as she sees me her right hand strikes up waving hello. “Let me get a plate ready for you!” she exclaims. With a slight limp, she walks inside her camper; I sit down at a picnic table on her site.

The campsite was surrounded by flourishing nature. On the site, there is a lawnmower, a shed, and a rusty white camper. I take a moment to appreciate the silence and flowing trees.

Brenda walks out with a contagious smile on her face and a plate full of food on her hands. “Here you go; I hope you like it.” She serves me a plate of pasta with mixed grilled vegetables and sausages. Graciously, I say, “Thank you. This looks delicious.”

As soon as I start eating she begins sharing life stories. She asks me what I am doing and where I came from. I tell her about hiking the Yellowstone River Trail and how I am trying to head home to Florida because I have no money and no identification.

Brenda talks about her passion for rap music and how she considers herself a gangster. “Listen to this.” Brenda plays her choice of rap songs. Eagerly, she says, “Listen, this is good, this part is so good.” She has an undeniable passion for rap music. Rappers like Kid Cudi, Kendrick Lamar, and Snoop Dog are some of her favorites.

Not to stereotype Brenda, but she is a retired white lady, someone I would not expect to be a rap fan. But I am amazed at her love for the music genre. She continues and at one point she says, “ You know, I’m a rapper.” This is far from what I was expecting but I am intrigued.

“Oh, really?” “Yes!” she responds. “My rapper name is Brenda Benda B. I have released one song and I have a music video on YouTube. Would you like to see it?” Without hesitation, I say yes.

She quickly plays a video titled “You Don’t Know Me — Brenda Benda B.” It is seven minutes long. The beginning is a comedy sketch about her wanting to spit her rhymes and gathering the necessary talent to do so. “I hate this part,” she says. “The producer forced me to do this to make it funny, but I’m not funny; I’m a gangster!”

We continue watching and halfway through the video the song starts. I am filled with wonder and excitement. The song is beautifully written and executed. The beat is captivating and the backup singer is phenomenal. In the video, Brenda is wearing an oversized white t-shirt, matching white pants, a graphic bandana, dark sunglasses, and she is holding the biggest handgun I have ever seen. She is an absolute badass.

Once the video was over I complement Brenda. “Wow, that was good.” She smiles and continues talking about her love for rap and the gangster life. Hours go by and the evening passes on laughing and conversing.

The more I learn about Brenda the more I realize that I have never met anyone like her. I feel fortunate to be in her presence. She is so full of love and passion.

After a while I see the sun is setting. “It’s getting late, I think I’m going to head out.” I shake Brenda’s hand, thank her for dinner, and say goodbye. As I walk away I turn around and wave to her. “Thank you for playing with me,” she says. “That was fun.” I smile back at her. “That was fun!” I yell as I walk back into reality.

I never saw Brenda again but I think about her often. Feel free to watch her video so you know this story is 100% true. You do not know Brenda (as she says in her song), but I would love for you to meet her.