King Bro Gnar

Ever heard of a "Bro Gnar"? Even if you haven't heard the term, you probably know one. Mr. Bro Gnar (BG) is cooler than you, and certainly cooler than your lame ass friends. BG can be a skate rat, a climber punk, or, and this is probably preferred terrain, a ski douche. BG's name is derived from his mode of speech, in which indecipherable slang is tossed around with reckless abandon. These lingo bombs hit their targets and leave little for the CSI team to go on.
"Bro, that pow was SICK!"
"Yo man, dope!"
And so on. Even typing these fake quotes makes me hate English. You get the point. A BG sucks, and everyone knows it but him and his BG friends. Alas.

The trouble starts when BG's words and/or actions begin to affect me.

Kate and I headed up to Independence Pass after she did a triathlon on Saturday. It was going to be a reasonably mellow camping/climbing trip, and we were hoping to stay along Lincoln Creek just above Aspen. There is a string of about 25 free sites that the Forest Service has staked out, all of which overlook a picturesque creek and snowcapped mountains. I'd say go for yourself to see, but you may run into the King Bro Gnar, a bastard from Crested Butte.

After some afternoon climbing, Kate and I headed up the creek to search for a site. We weren't surprised to find the first several taken, although we commented that it looked like a terrible WalMart convention given all the cut off T-shirts, Bud Light cans, and heavy metal mellifluously flowing from souped up Bronco II's. We drove past site after site, and were discouraged by all of the traffic that seemed to be inundating our quiet back road. Sure, it wasn't our road, but we were there to enjoy nature. All these other jack wieners just wanted to get bombed and tear it up in 4 low. When Kate and I finally found an open site, we had driven for close to an hour, and were just happy that the ordeal had ended. Premature tent unrolling.

We were pulling out various camping implements; tent, stove, sleeping bag, when a VW campervan drove up with a Dodge 2500 Diesel just behind. For some reason, they saw our site and decided to park exactly where our tent was destined. When BG emerged from his van, I heard something remarkably stupid come out of his mouth. "You guys mind if we share your site?" His friend stood by his Dodge nodding in quiet agreement. After all, they had each arrived in their individual vehicles. Their dog pissed near Kate's front wheel.
Well, yes, I did mind. As a show of courtesy (to BG? to Kate? to Fido?) I walked back to the car and asked Kate if she wanted to share the site. I might as well have asked if she'd like to eat dirt for dinner.
When I returned to BG, I calmly explained that we weren't keen on sharing, and I was sorry, but they'd have to go.
"Nah Brah. This is Forest Service camping. You didn't even pay for it. We're sticking around."
I'll admit, this possibility never crossed my mind. I figured that any decent human would realize that they were being an ass, and kindly drive along. Add interpersonal insouciance to the BG's qualifications.
Every man likes to think of the bad ass shit they'd say, do, or roundhouse kick when some dipshit does something like steal a campsite from under their Therm-a-rest. I just stood there, chuckling at the nerve and shaking my head in disbelief. Kate and I met back at the car under the banner of her stare that read: "Are these morons serious?" and quickly decided on the only reasonable conclusion: pack up and find a new site. We sure weren't going to share a campfire with these guys.
"So, I wanna make another S'more. Oh, by the way, since I have no choice but to rescind my objection to your existence, could you pass the marshmallows? Sick!"

Kate and I found a new site further along the Pass, only a few minutes after seeing two hulking SUV's smash mirrors when both drivers misjudged the width of their Goliaths. What the hell is happening to that place?