Morning dawned the same as previous ones, cloud-free and blue-skied, deer and cute furry rodents abounding, and the half horse chestnut on the ground outside the fire ring. Before hitting Estes Park we found a pull-off with reliable cell coverage, so family connections were made and directions given. Family was three hours away, so there was time to use touring the park.
First destination was the alluvial fan, left when that natural dam in the park gave way in 1976. Maria was finally impressed by the size of the boulders moved by the rush of water. The memorial down canyon was suddenly more significant, as was the force of the water causing the flood.
But it was time to wander leisurely up to Sprague Lake, taking pictures, enjoying the scenery, and try to figure out how to find relatives when nobody had seen each other for something like 25 years when everybody forgot to mention what their vehicle looked like in their phone conversations.
We took the handicap parking spot, since they had enough backing out room for the RV and the ranger we'd talked to at HQ didn't find fault with that idea. The staff were working on repairing the railings on the bridge across the creek to the lake. When I say railings, I'm talking tree trunks, de-branched, de-barked, and being cut, notched, fitted, sealed, and whatever else was needed. We stopped on the bridge, attached polarizers, and took pictures of the fish in the water, the water running over the beaver dam, and later the fly fishermen out in the lake and the duck families moving around its perimeter. Again, Paul took the camera for a full hike and I took the camcorder and moved from bench to bench.
Once we returned to the RV, we waited while Maria stood outside smoking and scoured each incoming vehicle to try to determine whether they were family. Wrong state license plate: not them. Wrong numbers and types of family members: not them. I had offered to cook lunch, figuring on three more adults, and decided to start the process because we were getting famished waiting. We could reheat mac & cheese and hotdog pennies when they showed up if they were that late. I was making a double batch, and it was taking double time, anyway.
Eventually we came up with AN IDEA: We'd find a sheet of blank paper, write the family name "Brundy" in bold black caps, and use some of our supply of duct tape to fasten it to the outside of the RV facing the driving lane. If they were unable to see that, well...
It was done, we had lunch, I excused myself to hit the restroom. When I came back, there was a whole crowd of folks gathered around the back of the RV. I had expected the three adults, but nobody mentioned the four kids! Luckily, they had stopped and eaten on the way up. What we had would not possibly stretch. Their family retired to a picnic table nearby, now dry after an earlier shower had passed through. Paul and I enjoyed a reading break in the RV. Matt had to be back in Denver by 6:00 to work, so they left just as the next shower came through.
Returning to camp for an earlier campfire than the previous night, so we could enjoy it longer, we had plans to just relax a bit. Like all plans, this had a hitch.
It started with neighbor watching. The couple across from our site and down one had a huge three-room tent. They carried something silver out of the tent to the car, unfolded it, got out a pump, and started inflating a queen size double height airbed. Once full, both lay on it, sprawled out in their driveway, in no hurry to move it into their tent. We started speculating that they might not actually be able to get it into their tent in its full state, and wondered if they were planning on sleeping under the stars tonight, or otherwise providing us entertainment. Eventually they did move it to the back of the tent and presumably inside the door.
New neighbors arrived next door, and after setting up, came over for a visit. We had just been sitting chatting with them around our fire, exchanging those we've-been-there-you-too? travelogues, pretty much ignoring the weather, when somebody noticed that the raincloud passing off to our south wasn't exactly staying to the south. In fact, it seemed to be moving closer each time we looked. The wind picked up and suddenly the tent was no longer exactly where it had been set up! Much flatter as well, and folded over besides. Three of us straightened it out, restaked it, this time adding the rope tie stakes that came with it to help hold it in place despite the weather. My contribution was to stand holding the center pole more or less vertical while Paul and Maria hustled around. Steve took a jug of water and put out the fire that was now blowing sparks towards the tent. About twenty minutes and ten drops of rain later, the storm fulfilled its earlier promise of skirting to the south of us.
So far as I know, nobody overtly laughed at us over the tent.
But we did have a small chuckle over a pair of young boys heading up to the bathroom building. A pair of deer had been coming down the road, heard the boys coming up, and stepped a few feet into the grass by a tree, and froze in place. Oblivious, the chatting boys came on, until one was even with the deer, looked up, and, "WHOA!" Now it was the boys' turn to freeze in place, and watch the deer slowly amble off.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Trip: Day Three
If I got to cook, Maria got to do dishes. Breakfasts turned out to be things like pancakes (with bacon pieces, or pre-soaked craisins and orange peel bits) or scrambled eggs, and always with cocoa or mocha, depending on who liked coffee, so there were dishes. The first morning in RMNP Maria reported a mule deer doe walked right past her while she was scrubbing away. We started to almost expect them to amble through the campgrounds, so often did we see them. Mostly does, though an occasional young buck.
On the north side of us was a rise with a picnic table at the top, along with a tent site. Although the signs always said the campgrounds were full, this one was never occupied during our stay, possibly due to the tiny parking space. We figured it was for motorcycle campers or something. Our first morning there, Steve climbed up to have a quiet smoke on his pipe and enjoy the valley spread out below with mountains rising in the distance. After breakfast, I tried it also, with Paul coming along later, borrowing my camera trying to capture forest critters.
We decided to head to Horseshoe Meadows, to the place where the Bighorn sheep came down to Sheep Lake for a drink and a salt lick. They are not very predictable, so you keep trying to be there when they are. In several visits, I had seen them once, "them" being several mothers with babies. Today we were in luck. One momma and baby were there, wandering around in and out of camera view. We stayed a while, Paul even climbing to the roof of the RV to get some shots over the heads of all the others folks crowding around for their own views.
Later the "kids" had a horseback riding appointment next to our campground. We still had a bit of time before they needed to be there, especially if we were to have lunch right in their parking lot while waiting for their ride to start, so we decided to head over to the Headquarters Visitor Center. Steve and I bought matching hats, the kind with floppy brims all around the bottom, shading from sun and - more importantly - hiding bad hair that wouldn't be washed for three days until we had showers again.
At this point I made a critical mistake, although it wouldn't be explained to me for two more days. I handed my pocketbook to Maria, asking her to hide it in the RV for me. Now to this point, my pocketbook had ridden in the front center console pocket for easy use in paying for gas (very visible there), or when we were out of the RV or sleeping, in one of the cupboards over the dining table. I thought Maria had observed this and knew what I was talking about.
This was slightly outside the entrance booth for the park, and as were were approaching the booth to show proof of payment for re-entry, I noticed that the flags were flying half-staff. I had a sudden dread about what this might mean. I recalled clearly hearing someone talk about vacationing along the Appalachian Train one September, completely out of contact with the world, as we now were, and returning to find a newspaper headline, "Bush Declares War!" It was a relief to find the flags were for a dead Senator and nothing more serious.
Once at the horseback riding area, I took a nap while the "kids" were gone, then read a bit, enjoying the shade from a tree in their parking lot and gentle breeze going through the RV. Steve was tolerant, taking some time to enjoy his pipe again. He also tried to delete a bad picture from his camera, hit the wrong button, and deleted everything he'd taken to that point!
Once they were back, we drove up to Bear Lake. Or rather, reading the warning signs, pulled into the park-and-ride lot and took the shuttle bus up to Bear Lake. Paul took the camera around the lake, while Steve, Maria and I walked a bit one way to the benches, and then a bit the other way to benches, taking a few pictures of our own. (I had also packed the camcorder/camera, so was not bereft of shooting equipment.) We had agreed to meet back at the park-and-ride lot, so each could take the return shuttle of our choice and timing. Maria decided she was sore from riding, and had no ambition to walk the whole lake.
Paul found much friendlier ground squirrels here than at our campsite, and returned with much better pictures than his morning batch. It turned out that we all made the same shuttle, our sitting equaling Paul's walking time. The driver pointed out the road to Sprague Lake on our way back, and recommended it for more photography. I had decided that if the bus could manage the road, our RV could as well, and I'd drive up there the next day. It had picnic facilities, and would be a great place for a family reunion.
One of the ongoing themes of the trip was trying to find places where cell phones had coverage. Steve and Maria were trying to connect with family on four occasions on our trip, and the first of these was with Denver family, meeting in RMNP. Steve's father remarried late in life, after Steve's mother died, and he has very young half-siblings, barely older than his own kids. This was the Denver family. Problem was, the "sweet spot" for coverage was tiny and mobile. A cell would ring sitting on a shelf and the connection broken in picking the phone up. If you connected in one location, the sweet spot would move in a minute. Now that we had decided on a lovely place to meet up, we needed somehow to communicate that to the relatives.
It was decided that a drive to Estes Park the next morning was in order for the call to be made.
Supper that night was a repeat of the night before, everybody assuring me that this choice was just fine. I suspect Maria would have said so anyway since it meant no dishes to wash. We watched a young buck walk right between our fire and the picnic table next site over.
On the north side of us was a rise with a picnic table at the top, along with a tent site. Although the signs always said the campgrounds were full, this one was never occupied during our stay, possibly due to the tiny parking space. We figured it was for motorcycle campers or something. Our first morning there, Steve climbed up to have a quiet smoke on his pipe and enjoy the valley spread out below with mountains rising in the distance. After breakfast, I tried it also, with Paul coming along later, borrowing my camera trying to capture forest critters.
We decided to head to Horseshoe Meadows, to the place where the Bighorn sheep came down to Sheep Lake for a drink and a salt lick. They are not very predictable, so you keep trying to be there when they are. In several visits, I had seen them once, "them" being several mothers with babies. Today we were in luck. One momma and baby were there, wandering around in and out of camera view. We stayed a while, Paul even climbing to the roof of the RV to get some shots over the heads of all the others folks crowding around for their own views.
Later the "kids" had a horseback riding appointment next to our campground. We still had a bit of time before they needed to be there, especially if we were to have lunch right in their parking lot while waiting for their ride to start, so we decided to head over to the Headquarters Visitor Center. Steve and I bought matching hats, the kind with floppy brims all around the bottom, shading from sun and - more importantly - hiding bad hair that wouldn't be washed for three days until we had showers again.
At this point I made a critical mistake, although it wouldn't be explained to me for two more days. I handed my pocketbook to Maria, asking her to hide it in the RV for me. Now to this point, my pocketbook had ridden in the front center console pocket for easy use in paying for gas (very visible there), or when we were out of the RV or sleeping, in one of the cupboards over the dining table. I thought Maria had observed this and knew what I was talking about.
This was slightly outside the entrance booth for the park, and as were were approaching the booth to show proof of payment for re-entry, I noticed that the flags were flying half-staff. I had a sudden dread about what this might mean. I recalled clearly hearing someone talk about vacationing along the Appalachian Train one September, completely out of contact with the world, as we now were, and returning to find a newspaper headline, "Bush Declares War!" It was a relief to find the flags were for a dead Senator and nothing more serious.
Once at the horseback riding area, I took a nap while the "kids" were gone, then read a bit, enjoying the shade from a tree in their parking lot and gentle breeze going through the RV. Steve was tolerant, taking some time to enjoy his pipe again. He also tried to delete a bad picture from his camera, hit the wrong button, and deleted everything he'd taken to that point!
Once they were back, we drove up to Bear Lake. Or rather, reading the warning signs, pulled into the park-and-ride lot and took the shuttle bus up to Bear Lake. Paul took the camera around the lake, while Steve, Maria and I walked a bit one way to the benches, and then a bit the other way to benches, taking a few pictures of our own. (I had also packed the camcorder/camera, so was not bereft of shooting equipment.) We had agreed to meet back at the park-and-ride lot, so each could take the return shuttle of our choice and timing. Maria decided she was sore from riding, and had no ambition to walk the whole lake.
Paul found much friendlier ground squirrels here than at our campsite, and returned with much better pictures than his morning batch. It turned out that we all made the same shuttle, our sitting equaling Paul's walking time. The driver pointed out the road to Sprague Lake on our way back, and recommended it for more photography. I had decided that if the bus could manage the road, our RV could as well, and I'd drive up there the next day. It had picnic facilities, and would be a great place for a family reunion.
One of the ongoing themes of the trip was trying to find places where cell phones had coverage. Steve and Maria were trying to connect with family on four occasions on our trip, and the first of these was with Denver family, meeting in RMNP. Steve's father remarried late in life, after Steve's mother died, and he has very young half-siblings, barely older than his own kids. This was the Denver family. Problem was, the "sweet spot" for coverage was tiny and mobile. A cell would ring sitting on a shelf and the connection broken in picking the phone up. If you connected in one location, the sweet spot would move in a minute. Now that we had decided on a lovely place to meet up, we needed somehow to communicate that to the relatives.
It was decided that a drive to Estes Park the next morning was in order for the call to be made.
Supper that night was a repeat of the night before, everybody assuring me that this choice was just fine. I suspect Maria would have said so anyway since it meant no dishes to wash. We watched a young buck walk right between our fire and the picnic table next site over.
Trip: Day Two
This was the day where things started to change. The plan was to end up in Rocky Mountain National Park by midafternoon and leisurely set up for a three night stay, start hauling out the cameras, and have what is my idea of a fun vacation.
You know what they say about the best laid plans. I'm neither a mouse nor a man, but the saying dies have its merit. Our trip was about to try turning into An Adventure. (And not for the last time!)
We were on the freeway about 9 miles out of and approaching Ogalalla, mostly relaxed, looking at nothing in particular, Paul driving, when...
WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP!
The relaxed part of the trip disappeared instantly. Paul pulled over to the shoulder - luckily nobody was close behind us - and stopped to see what had happened. He quickly reported that one of our rear tires was losing its tread. The good news was that it was the inner tire on a two-wheel rear side of the axle. We could continue to drive on it, slowly. The bad news was that it was the inner tire, and we weren't sure we could, much less wanted to try to fix it, especially on the freeway. Consensus was to proceed slowly. Ogalalla should be a big enough town that we could get it fixed, right? So we picked up speed and WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP...silence. There was a chunk of tread on the road behind us, rapidly dwindling in the rear view mirror. We relaxed a bit, then WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP (need I repeat all 45 times?) and again silence. Another piece of tread retreating in the distance. Again relaxing, and yet again WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP ( you get the picture). A third and final piece (I won't keep you in suspense) dwindles behind us, and we continue into town. The first thing we see is a truck stop with service bays, so we maneuver over to it and ask The Question: Can they fix it (quickly)?
I'll give them credit: they didn't quite laugh us out of the place. They did, however, put us firmly in our place as being so small as to be beneath their notice, or their capacity to have tools to do the job. Hey! it seemed like a very big truck to us! But I received very good instructions through town to the Firestone tire place, and backup instructions to the other place if we needed them (two blocks further down the street from Firestone).
This was now noon. Firestone told us quite firmly that they might get us in at 3:30, more likely at 4, as we hadn't had the foresight to make an appointment with them. Our need to make RMNP made no difference to them. If we liked, however, we could try the other place. They were the ones who sold B F Goodrich tires.
We liked. They told us they could likely get us in by 1:30 or 2, possibly even out on the road again by 2. Paul started taking off the hundred or so rope knots he'd used to tie the spare tire onto the top of the RV, and dropped the tire down for use.
Now this tire has its own story. The RV has the usual spare on its own wheel stored under the belly. But just a couple months earlier, the previous owner dropped by with an extra tire he'd bought years earlier and forgotten he'd stored in his garage. Spring cleaning brought it to light, and he thought we might find a use for it. We did.
The upset had put us off our feed until this point. Relieved, we loaded ourselves into the tire store waiting room (4 chairs in a corner, with a table stacked with magazines) along with crackers and EZ Cheeze, and proceeded to munch. We'd hardly finished when the guy came and told us he'd had a delay in another customer's tire delivery, and ours was finished! $20 please.
Whew!
Steve had hoped we could drive around Greeley for a bit, visiting his old house and stomping grounds, but agreed after the delay to forgo the pleasure. By the time we got near Greeley, he'd decided it wouldn't have been a pleasure after all. The town was way built up from what he remembered, unrecognizable for the most part, and had a completely alien feel to it. It just wasn't home.
We did, however, stop at the memorial partway up Big Thompson Canyon to honor the officers who lost their lives in 1976 warning the residents of the dam failure up in the park and the impending flood through the canyon. Many lives were saved that day, although many were also lost. Partly the stop was to start acclimating us by walking around to the high elevations we would be experiencing for the next few days. I've found that walking when one reaches 7000 feet does help give the body a nudge toward adaptation. Maria had never been in altitude so we didn't know for sure that she would be able to take it. (She was fine.)
It was late afternoon when we finally checked into the campground (Morraine) and got our promised handicap site (sticker displayed) right next to the toilet building. Beautiful distance views in three directions, including snow covered peaks, pines everywhere, room for the tent right behind the RV and a picnic table and fire ring a step lower behind that, wide gently-sloped ramps connecting everything. Least chipmunks, golden mantled ground squirrels, and some blonde/grey rodents were all over the place. We, of course, were properly attentive to the rules not to feed them. But cameras came out.
When the campfire was lit, we roasted hot dogs, corn on the cob, and had s'mores for dessert. My corn was the least roasted ear, and I couldn't finish it, so I threw it in the fire to burn up. Or so I thought. It was found the next morning, dragged out of the fire pit, several more kernels chewed off that I'd managed to eat. Next to it was also a half horse chestnut left by previous campers. Both got tossed back in for next night's fire. (We did succeed in burning the corn, but the horse chestnut kept reappearing from out of the fire pit every morning.)
This was a nonelectric site, so when dark came, we retired to bed. For some reason, the internal lights in the RV failed to work, in spite of the new internal battery I'd bought just before we set out. No biggie, we'd gained an hour, had significant stress, and were tired.
You know what they say about the best laid plans. I'm neither a mouse nor a man, but the saying dies have its merit. Our trip was about to try turning into An Adventure. (And not for the last time!)
We were on the freeway about 9 miles out of and approaching Ogalalla, mostly relaxed, looking at nothing in particular, Paul driving, when...
WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP!
The relaxed part of the trip disappeared instantly. Paul pulled over to the shoulder - luckily nobody was close behind us - and stopped to see what had happened. He quickly reported that one of our rear tires was losing its tread. The good news was that it was the inner tire on a two-wheel rear side of the axle. We could continue to drive on it, slowly. The bad news was that it was the inner tire, and we weren't sure we could, much less wanted to try to fix it, especially on the freeway. Consensus was to proceed slowly. Ogalalla should be a big enough town that we could get it fixed, right? So we picked up speed and WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP...silence. There was a chunk of tread on the road behind us, rapidly dwindling in the rear view mirror. We relaxed a bit, then WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP (need I repeat all 45 times?) and again silence. Another piece of tread retreating in the distance. Again relaxing, and yet again WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP ( you get the picture). A third and final piece (I won't keep you in suspense) dwindles behind us, and we continue into town. The first thing we see is a truck stop with service bays, so we maneuver over to it and ask The Question: Can they fix it (quickly)?
I'll give them credit: they didn't quite laugh us out of the place. They did, however, put us firmly in our place as being so small as to be beneath their notice, or their capacity to have tools to do the job. Hey! it seemed like a very big truck to us! But I received very good instructions through town to the Firestone tire place, and backup instructions to the other place if we needed them (two blocks further down the street from Firestone).
This was now noon. Firestone told us quite firmly that they might get us in at 3:30, more likely at 4, as we hadn't had the foresight to make an appointment with them. Our need to make RMNP made no difference to them. If we liked, however, we could try the other place. They were the ones who sold B F Goodrich tires.
We liked. They told us they could likely get us in by 1:30 or 2, possibly even out on the road again by 2. Paul started taking off the hundred or so rope knots he'd used to tie the spare tire onto the top of the RV, and dropped the tire down for use.
Now this tire has its own story. The RV has the usual spare on its own wheel stored under the belly. But just a couple months earlier, the previous owner dropped by with an extra tire he'd bought years earlier and forgotten he'd stored in his garage. Spring cleaning brought it to light, and he thought we might find a use for it. We did.
The upset had put us off our feed until this point. Relieved, we loaded ourselves into the tire store waiting room (4 chairs in a corner, with a table stacked with magazines) along with crackers and EZ Cheeze, and proceeded to munch. We'd hardly finished when the guy came and told us he'd had a delay in another customer's tire delivery, and ours was finished! $20 please.
Whew!
Steve had hoped we could drive around Greeley for a bit, visiting his old house and stomping grounds, but agreed after the delay to forgo the pleasure. By the time we got near Greeley, he'd decided it wouldn't have been a pleasure after all. The town was way built up from what he remembered, unrecognizable for the most part, and had a completely alien feel to it. It just wasn't home.
We did, however, stop at the memorial partway up Big Thompson Canyon to honor the officers who lost their lives in 1976 warning the residents of the dam failure up in the park and the impending flood through the canyon. Many lives were saved that day, although many were also lost. Partly the stop was to start acclimating us by walking around to the high elevations we would be experiencing for the next few days. I've found that walking when one reaches 7000 feet does help give the body a nudge toward adaptation. Maria had never been in altitude so we didn't know for sure that she would be able to take it. (She was fine.)
It was late afternoon when we finally checked into the campground (Morraine) and got our promised handicap site (sticker displayed) right next to the toilet building. Beautiful distance views in three directions, including snow covered peaks, pines everywhere, room for the tent right behind the RV and a picnic table and fire ring a step lower behind that, wide gently-sloped ramps connecting everything. Least chipmunks, golden mantled ground squirrels, and some blonde/grey rodents were all over the place. We, of course, were properly attentive to the rules not to feed them. But cameras came out.
When the campfire was lit, we roasted hot dogs, corn on the cob, and had s'mores for dessert. My corn was the least roasted ear, and I couldn't finish it, so I threw it in the fire to burn up. Or so I thought. It was found the next morning, dragged out of the fire pit, several more kernels chewed off that I'd managed to eat. Next to it was also a half horse chestnut left by previous campers. Both got tossed back in for next night's fire. (We did succeed in burning the corn, but the horse chestnut kept reappearing from out of the fire pit every morning.)
This was a nonelectric site, so when dark came, we retired to bed. For some reason, the internal lights in the RV failed to work, in spite of the new internal battery I'd bought just before we set out. No biggie, we'd gained an hour, had significant stress, and were tired.
Trip: Day One
I was seriously tempted to write this blog entry before we even left. I figured it would be totally predictable: drive drive drive drive drive sleep.
That was, in fact, pretty much it. Start at 6AM from home, keep feeding gas into the machine, head down 35 to Des Moines, pick up 80 to Grand Island, cameras left packed, pay, pitch the tent, crash.
Except....
Walking into the KOA, I was greeted by the smell of pizza. It seems after a hard day of driving, you can order it delivered from their office to your campsite. It was tempting, but we were on a budget, and I thought it would be a bad precedent to set. There was plenty of food in the RV just waiting to be cooked and eaten, or sometimes not even needing cooking. But pizza was just one of the ways they get things right there. They also get the pool right too. It's warm, shaded on the western side by tall trees so you can swim after arriving without worrying about sunburn for as long as you wish. Even more important, it has steps to get in and out, rather than ladders. That never occurred to me to be important when I was a kid, but I found out the hard way later in the trip that it was vital. When you are done swimming, you can walk a few steps to the hot tub, in its own small room with clear instructions on how to remove the lid. Yes it's hot, and yes it feels great. We slept well that night.
Having asked for sites near the pool and showers/bathrooms, we were well accommodated. Everything was clean, accessible, and pleasant. The final nice touch was a bucketful of fireflies darting about after dusk.
That was, in fact, pretty much it. Start at 6AM from home, keep feeding gas into the machine, head down 35 to Des Moines, pick up 80 to Grand Island, cameras left packed, pay, pitch the tent, crash.
Except....
Walking into the KOA, I was greeted by the smell of pizza. It seems after a hard day of driving, you can order it delivered from their office to your campsite. It was tempting, but we were on a budget, and I thought it would be a bad precedent to set. There was plenty of food in the RV just waiting to be cooked and eaten, or sometimes not even needing cooking. But pizza was just one of the ways they get things right there. They also get the pool right too. It's warm, shaded on the western side by tall trees so you can swim after arriving without worrying about sunburn for as long as you wish. Even more important, it has steps to get in and out, rather than ladders. That never occurred to me to be important when I was a kid, but I found out the hard way later in the trip that it was vital. When you are done swimming, you can walk a few steps to the hot tub, in its own small room with clear instructions on how to remove the lid. Yes it's hot, and yes it feels great. We slept well that night.
Having asked for sites near the pool and showers/bathrooms, we were well accommodated. Everything was clean, accessible, and pleasant. The final nice touch was a bucketful of fireflies darting about after dusk.
Home Again
It's pretty weird being home again. It's not that I wasn't already prepping myself to step back into my "real" shoes as the final miles of the trip ticked away. I was making another of those mental lists, reminding myself of what I'd completely shed for two weeks: check mail, mine & Daddy's, pay bills, go through the personal care details, think about grass height in the yard and having Paul mow, what's needed for work (checking uniforms, charge the Nextel, fill car tank, prep for brown-bagging lunches), check on Saturday auction time, wonder about weather, changing bed, unpacking, what are the flowers/fruits/birds doing? It almost was like falling back upwards through the rabbit hole.
Cell communication was rare - at least for me. I kept the phone off except to call out, and didn't always have a signal in the mountains. Certain others of the group ran out of battery early on and needed to wait for an electrical hook-up to recharge, but I won't name names. Let's just say I didn't need to keep in constant touch with my mother and friends. Other communications were cut off as well. For me, the news and politics junkie, it was a complete break from that. I have no reason to assume the RV radio does not work. It just never got tried. I had to ask at the park headquarters why the flags were flying at half staff. Otherwise, no outside information at all, except the humdrum details from home. It was great!
And of course, there were the how-do-I-blog-about-the-trip questions. I'm thinking about chronologically, but it could be done by topic, like a critique of showers each place we stopped, or wildlife sightings, or scenery. Add pictures as I go? Or come back in later? I have about 16 gigs of pics, especially since the camera was on motordrive setting - or that's what it would have been called back in the bad-old film days. Plus Paul was getting pretty good at taking the camera and doing his own shooting with it. I'd ask for a particular shot on occasion so I wouldn't have to abuse my knees any more than necessary (and necessary was quite a lot!) and he'd see a flower or chase chipmunks and ground squirrels. There's a whole lot to sort out. I have not begun to start.
Best part of being home: my own bed again. I know that RVing sounds luxurious. It can be, for those with a huge budget. For example, I've seen the inside of Steve's brother's Cougar. It has a full bedroom on one end, a set of 4 bunk beds on the other for their 4 kids, and a nice kitchen/dining/living area in the middle. They don't have to convert a table to a bed, or a sofa to a bed with uneven cushions so you're always falling downhill, leaving about a 5" aisle to maneuver through. There's a full bathroom in theirs with an actual tub! And a microwave and TV!
By contrast, what we actually do have is a 1986 Ford Honey RV. For all I know, it could be the oldest RV still on the road! The front several feet of its 26 foot total length are engine and seats for the driver and passenger. The bathroom - which pretty much everybody but me refused to use- is teeny. Try this: sit on your toilet. enclose yourself in imaginary walls two inches to each side - that's before you spread your legs to do anything useful like wiping - and two inches in front of your knees. Try to stand up without leaning forward enough to pop open the door: are your thighs and calves strong enough? Really? If (when!) you do have to slide forward to wipe behind, it's a case of apologizing to your fellow travelers and asking them to please be polite and look elsewhere. Once you stand and adjust your clothing, it's a case of turning around, pulling the lever halfway to add water, then fully forward to flush by opening the little trap door. If it starts to splash back before you get that door shut it's close to time to empty your blackwater tank.
The size is not really the worst inconvenience. To enter the toilet, one has to step down, step up again at a right angle and over a lip, lift the lid and hope you're level enough it stays up until you sit, and level enough that the outer door stays open or shut as you desire. In the middle of the night, add fighting out of your sleeping bag ( no biggie if the zipper doesn't get caught), getting your legs one at a time down to the floor into that 5" aisle space with your feet twisted in the direction of travel, stepping on the tiny rocks your shoes have all dragged in (I have a tiny hole in the ball of my foot from one) , and sliding out from between the beds. With all that, pray you get there in time. If your bladder is full enough to wake you from a sound sleep....
TMI.
Needless to say, it's a bit hard on the knees. As silent as it usually is in the middle of the night, the grinding sounds are startlingly loud. So the 2nd best thing about being home is the recliner, sitting with my feet up. In fact, it's calling to me now.
Cell communication was rare - at least for me. I kept the phone off except to call out, and didn't always have a signal in the mountains. Certain others of the group ran out of battery early on and needed to wait for an electrical hook-up to recharge, but I won't name names. Let's just say I didn't need to keep in constant touch with my mother and friends. Other communications were cut off as well. For me, the news and politics junkie, it was a complete break from that. I have no reason to assume the RV radio does not work. It just never got tried. I had to ask at the park headquarters why the flags were flying at half staff. Otherwise, no outside information at all, except the humdrum details from home. It was great!
And of course, there were the how-do-I-blog-about-the-trip questions. I'm thinking about chronologically, but it could be done by topic, like a critique of showers each place we stopped, or wildlife sightings, or scenery. Add pictures as I go? Or come back in later? I have about 16 gigs of pics, especially since the camera was on motordrive setting - or that's what it would have been called back in the bad-old film days. Plus Paul was getting pretty good at taking the camera and doing his own shooting with it. I'd ask for a particular shot on occasion so I wouldn't have to abuse my knees any more than necessary (and necessary was quite a lot!) and he'd see a flower or chase chipmunks and ground squirrels. There's a whole lot to sort out. I have not begun to start.
Best part of being home: my own bed again. I know that RVing sounds luxurious. It can be, for those with a huge budget. For example, I've seen the inside of Steve's brother's Cougar. It has a full bedroom on one end, a set of 4 bunk beds on the other for their 4 kids, and a nice kitchen/dining/living area in the middle. They don't have to convert a table to a bed, or a sofa to a bed with uneven cushions so you're always falling downhill, leaving about a 5" aisle to maneuver through. There's a full bathroom in theirs with an actual tub! And a microwave and TV!
By contrast, what we actually do have is a 1986 Ford Honey RV. For all I know, it could be the oldest RV still on the road! The front several feet of its 26 foot total length are engine and seats for the driver and passenger. The bathroom - which pretty much everybody but me refused to use- is teeny. Try this: sit on your toilet. enclose yourself in imaginary walls two inches to each side - that's before you spread your legs to do anything useful like wiping - and two inches in front of your knees. Try to stand up without leaning forward enough to pop open the door: are your thighs and calves strong enough? Really? If (when!) you do have to slide forward to wipe behind, it's a case of apologizing to your fellow travelers and asking them to please be polite and look elsewhere. Once you stand and adjust your clothing, it's a case of turning around, pulling the lever halfway to add water, then fully forward to flush by opening the little trap door. If it starts to splash back before you get that door shut it's close to time to empty your blackwater tank.
The size is not really the worst inconvenience. To enter the toilet, one has to step down, step up again at a right angle and over a lip, lift the lid and hope you're level enough it stays up until you sit, and level enough that the outer door stays open or shut as you desire. In the middle of the night, add fighting out of your sleeping bag ( no biggie if the zipper doesn't get caught), getting your legs one at a time down to the floor into that 5" aisle space with your feet twisted in the direction of travel, stepping on the tiny rocks your shoes have all dragged in (I have a tiny hole in the ball of my foot from one) , and sliding out from between the beds. With all that, pray you get there in time. If your bladder is full enough to wake you from a sound sleep....
TMI.
Needless to say, it's a bit hard on the knees. As silent as it usually is in the middle of the night, the grinding sounds are startlingly loud. So the 2nd best thing about being home is the recliner, sitting with my feet up. In fact, it's calling to me now.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
"Saving Grace"
I've been a fan of that series from the very first show. But perhaps not why you'd think.
Earl was everything I've been brought up to believe an angel wasn't. So, a little mind-stretching is good: it's why I enjoy select science fiction/fantasy. It's that genre enjoyment that allowed me to enjoy this show without actually believing in angels or an actively interfering deity.
I finally am a fan of Holly Hunter. I didn't appreciate her earlier stuff, but this was different, and her acting skills were up to the part. Grace was hard to like at times, but the complications in the plot and the dogged pursuit of the bad guys kept me interested. Mystery/crime fiction is my other favorite genre. But I learned to care about her character, whether or not I approved of what she was doing in her personal life. I came to appreciate the change, however hard-fought-against, in what she believed.
I watched the two-hour finale last night, and it kept me from sleeping well all night. I knew it would as soon as I hit "off". It still rides with me, hitching along behind my thoughts as I go through my day, popping up in "mind-free" moments. The thing is, I can see why it ended the way it did, why she made the choice she did, why the writers had to finish it that way. Sometimes the ultimate sacrifice is the only way to achieve your goal, and Grace was shown that when she gave up and took a breath under water. So, in order to kill the personification of evil, she had to allow herself to be killed as well. (Hey, did anybody else notice that the bags of letters survived the explosion intact?)
It was the final moments, where each character saluted her body as it was carried by, that told the story of what was happening to each of them. That usually has me in tears, but not last night. Last night I was struck by the last moment, when Ham threw away the ring, and Earl just watched. This is what I kept reviewing in my sleep. I still haven't decided why it ended just that way. Or why that particular moment sticks with me the way it does. But it does.
Earl was everything I've been brought up to believe an angel wasn't. So, a little mind-stretching is good: it's why I enjoy select science fiction/fantasy. It's that genre enjoyment that allowed me to enjoy this show without actually believing in angels or an actively interfering deity.
I finally am a fan of Holly Hunter. I didn't appreciate her earlier stuff, but this was different, and her acting skills were up to the part. Grace was hard to like at times, but the complications in the plot and the dogged pursuit of the bad guys kept me interested. Mystery/crime fiction is my other favorite genre. But I learned to care about her character, whether or not I approved of what she was doing in her personal life. I came to appreciate the change, however hard-fought-against, in what she believed.
I watched the two-hour finale last night, and it kept me from sleeping well all night. I knew it would as soon as I hit "off". It still rides with me, hitching along behind my thoughts as I go through my day, popping up in "mind-free" moments. The thing is, I can see why it ended the way it did, why she made the choice she did, why the writers had to finish it that way. Sometimes the ultimate sacrifice is the only way to achieve your goal, and Grace was shown that when she gave up and took a breath under water. So, in order to kill the personification of evil, she had to allow herself to be killed as well. (Hey, did anybody else notice that the bags of letters survived the explosion intact?)
It was the final moments, where each character saluted her body as it was carried by, that told the story of what was happening to each of them. That usually has me in tears, but not last night. Last night I was struck by the last moment, when Ham threw away the ring, and Earl just watched. This is what I kept reviewing in my sleep. I still haven't decided why it ended just that way. Or why that particular moment sticks with me the way it does. But it does.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Storm Damage
Were I a superstitious person, I might think that saying the following would jinx it, and the string of good luck would be over. However, I'm going to say it anyway: we live in a relatively storm-free zone. In 19 years here, I've watched storms go north of us, south of us, stay west of us, or head east into Wisconsin. I'm not saying we never get any, but the biggest, rainiest, lightningest, heaviest hail producing storms go around us.
I blame the heat island effect. Since most storms come out of the southwest, and the metro area lies along that path before they get here, they seem to either get diverted or weakened before they arrive. I'm not sure how that makes everything go elsewhere than up here, but it's a handy excuse.
In a way, it's a disappointment. I love storms. Favorite memories involve watching storms from a place of safety. I built a screen house attached to my house with a west view so I could sit outside/inside and watch them roll in. That screen house has even helped my granddaughter get over her mother's fear of storms. Yes, I said that right. When she first started visitation with me, Jordan was afraid of storms, particularly lightning, not from any personal bad experience but because her mother fears them. On one drive up here, a storm overtook us and she was huddled scared in the back seat. Since I was driving, I couldn't stop and comfort her, so I devised a little game instead. I asked her to watch the lightning (since I had to drive and couldn't do it myself) and tell me what color each flash was: yellow? green? purple? She quickly grew interested, and once up here, spent time in the screen house during various storms with me checking out lightning colors. I still go out there to watch storms roll through. Or, more often, roll past.
Last Thursday this state had a line of tornadic super cells move through, stretching from Lake of the Woods to Albert Lea. They of course split and weakened once they hit the metro and came past us. But the weird thing was, once the skies had cleared, the tornado sirens went off. We were actually watching live TV at the time, keeping track of the weather, and there was absolutely no reason we could see for the alert. Nothing mentioned on the weather crawl at the bottom of the screen, no colored section of the state near us.
I found out later there was a sighting up in Rush City, at the far opposite end of the county. Nothing further was said about it, with Albert Lea and Wadena rightly getting all the attention. I nearly forgot about "our" storm for a couple days, until Steve called me. He'd planned on going fishing from Franconia Landing, where last week he'd parked his car on a sandbar along the shore of the St. Croix and pulled in several small bass to toss back. Friday the river was much higher and his spot and the way to it were under a foot or two of water. Somebody upstream had obviously gotten a lot of rain.
I knew just who to ask about upstream rainfall. My friend Lynn lives just outside of Grantsburg, WI, about 30 miles north and a hair east of me. So I called her today to ask how her weather had been last Thursday. Did they get a lot of rain?
She said they had, then casually mentioned she was sore all over. Of course I asked why. It seems she and her husband along with some neighbors had spent a long weekend cutting up trees. That tornado that skimmed the northern bit of our county crossed Hwy. 70 as it went on into Wisconsin, aiming itself just to the north of Grantsburg, and incidentally through much of the back of Lynn's ten-acre wooded lot, before heading over to Crex Meadows wildlife refuge. By her count, 50 trees had been felled and/or ripped apart on their land, and as of the end of the weekend they had managed to cut up five of them. One of them had been a 100-foot oak.
Luckily their buildings had all been missed, one by just ten feet. (Thank goodness for the fickleness of tornadoes!) She and Dave had huddled with the dog in their house's central hallway listening to the house shake as the twister passed. They just got inside in time to find that amount of shelter, and not enough to try to locate the cat. It seems they had been watching the storm roll in, since their power had gone out earlier. As far out of town as they are, no sirens are audible, but one of the neighbors had a better view than they did and took a few pictures.
Lynn tells me that Dave is generally reluctant to share the wood he cuts up, since they use it for bonfires in their back yard for entertaining company. He has just now started informing friends that they are welcome to what they cut. In light of last week's events, Dave now has decided to get a NOAA weather radio for next time.
Oh, and the cat's fine, thanks for asking.
I blame the heat island effect. Since most storms come out of the southwest, and the metro area lies along that path before they get here, they seem to either get diverted or weakened before they arrive. I'm not sure how that makes everything go elsewhere than up here, but it's a handy excuse.
In a way, it's a disappointment. I love storms. Favorite memories involve watching storms from a place of safety. I built a screen house attached to my house with a west view so I could sit outside/inside and watch them roll in. That screen house has even helped my granddaughter get over her mother's fear of storms. Yes, I said that right. When she first started visitation with me, Jordan was afraid of storms, particularly lightning, not from any personal bad experience but because her mother fears them. On one drive up here, a storm overtook us and she was huddled scared in the back seat. Since I was driving, I couldn't stop and comfort her, so I devised a little game instead. I asked her to watch the lightning (since I had to drive and couldn't do it myself) and tell me what color each flash was: yellow? green? purple? She quickly grew interested, and once up here, spent time in the screen house during various storms with me checking out lightning colors. I still go out there to watch storms roll through. Or, more often, roll past.
Last Thursday this state had a line of tornadic super cells move through, stretching from Lake of the Woods to Albert Lea. They of course split and weakened once they hit the metro and came past us. But the weird thing was, once the skies had cleared, the tornado sirens went off. We were actually watching live TV at the time, keeping track of the weather, and there was absolutely no reason we could see for the alert. Nothing mentioned on the weather crawl at the bottom of the screen, no colored section of the state near us.
I found out later there was a sighting up in Rush City, at the far opposite end of the county. Nothing further was said about it, with Albert Lea and Wadena rightly getting all the attention. I nearly forgot about "our" storm for a couple days, until Steve called me. He'd planned on going fishing from Franconia Landing, where last week he'd parked his car on a sandbar along the shore of the St. Croix and pulled in several small bass to toss back. Friday the river was much higher and his spot and the way to it were under a foot or two of water. Somebody upstream had obviously gotten a lot of rain.
I knew just who to ask about upstream rainfall. My friend Lynn lives just outside of Grantsburg, WI, about 30 miles north and a hair east of me. So I called her today to ask how her weather had been last Thursday. Did they get a lot of rain?
She said they had, then casually mentioned she was sore all over. Of course I asked why. It seems she and her husband along with some neighbors had spent a long weekend cutting up trees. That tornado that skimmed the northern bit of our county crossed Hwy. 70 as it went on into Wisconsin, aiming itself just to the north of Grantsburg, and incidentally through much of the back of Lynn's ten-acre wooded lot, before heading over to Crex Meadows wildlife refuge. By her count, 50 trees had been felled and/or ripped apart on their land, and as of the end of the weekend they had managed to cut up five of them. One of them had been a 100-foot oak.
Luckily their buildings had all been missed, one by just ten feet. (Thank goodness for the fickleness of tornadoes!) She and Dave had huddled with the dog in their house's central hallway listening to the house shake as the twister passed. They just got inside in time to find that amount of shelter, and not enough to try to locate the cat. It seems they had been watching the storm roll in, since their power had gone out earlier. As far out of town as they are, no sirens are audible, but one of the neighbors had a better view than they did and took a few pictures.
Lynn tells me that Dave is generally reluctant to share the wood he cuts up, since they use it for bonfires in their back yard for entertaining company. He has just now started informing friends that they are welcome to what they cut. In light of last week's events, Dave now has decided to get a NOAA weather radio for next time.
Oh, and the cat's fine, thanks for asking.
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