I can be a pretty spontaneous person. I am by nature a very disorganized fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants type of girl. Recently my husband and I were on a road trip and were were playing "Chat Pack," which is just a set of card that asks you questions like, "what would your epitaph read?" or "if you could have 50 lbs. of anything other than money, what would you want?" I drew one that asked, "what would be the title of your autobiography, ten words or less?"
imaginative. creative. MESS.
That was my title, and he was a little taken aback by it. I didn't understand what the problem was; Greg lives with me and would be first to agree that that is who I am (in my private life, at least). But he didn't like the "MESS" part and was sad that I thought my life was a mess. It was a little odd that I had to explain that I embrace the MESS. It has its downsides and I often get frustrated with myself, but mostly I like MESS. I am the MESS.
I make decisions in a flash and think about them later. I travel on the fly. I can be reckless with my physical self and money and others' feelings. I look for adventure everywhere and often create my own when none is to be found (I can be bratty and a bit of a drama queen). I take leaps of faith and honestly believe that things will all work out for me.
And I've come to believe all of these things, like a story that's been told so many times that it's unquestionably true.
But when it comes to the biggest leap of faith of all, I am frozen in place, unable or unwilling to jump. I am reduced to lists of pros and cons that mean nothing to a person like me who can't comprehend actually making a real decision based on a piece of paper rather than a sudden outpouring of emotion or an urge or just even a vague feeling.
But that won't work here. Because this decision will take time and money and possibly health and science and travel and it will involve not just a yes or a no, but a series of decisions, all of which must be answered the same way, and even after answering, no guarantees that you'll get what you decided you wanted in the first place.
If anyone knows what I'm talking about by reading the words I can't yet write, tell me how you made the leap.
11.26.2008
10.06.2008
Spirsie's Spheroid
So my wonderful, sweet little dog Spiro is not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree. He's kind of like the bulb that blinks twice and then goes out for good. Much sweetness, not much smartness. My other dog, Oscar, is half border collie. Border collies are usually considered the smartest dog breed, and Oscar is no exception. He has a vocabulary of almost 100 words, and several spellings (W-A-L-K and C-A-R and R-I-D-E are among his favorites.).
Oscar is an exceedingly spoiled dog and he has numerous stuffed toys, all of which he knows by name. Spiro has had a tough life. We're not sure of his whole story, as he has only lived with us for about two years, but clearly his first nine years included beatings, being kicked, water deprivation, and lack of attention. You get the feeling that he was the kind of dog who'd never seen a toy before he came to our house. At nine years old, he was already a little old for learning to play with toys. In a way it's good, because Oscar is quite enamored with all of his toys, and never eager to share. Indeed, if his toys happen to act disloyal (by letting someone else play with them, for instance), they get a severe thrashing, possibly including limb amputations if the digression was especially egregious.
The one toy Oscar has never found particularly fun is ball. (Not enough limbs to tear off, perhaps.) Spiro LOVES ball. LOVES it. He doesn't play with it, he just carries it around everywhere. He adores ball.
Not long ago, we were talking to our next door neighbors in the front yard, and we left the front door open. Oscar wanted to play, so we sent him inside to find his beaver, a toy we knew was in a difficult location (we did it to shut him up). Several minutes later he trotted out with the beaver, and our neighbor was so impressed with him. So we began showing off, sending him inside for his squirrel, his piggy, his hog, his rope bone. He happily retrieved all of them (he was not so happy when we declined his vociferous invitations to play with each toy).
So I decided to teach Spiro a new word, so he can hold his own in canine intelligence in our house. Instead of ball, I now command Spiro to 'get his spheroid.' And he does. It's so cute. I'm pretty sure he is reacting to the words 'go get' rather than spheroid, but it still makes me laugh.
Spirsie and his spheroid. It just has a nice ring to it. Also, I'm a total nerd.
Oscar is an exceedingly spoiled dog and he has numerous stuffed toys, all of which he knows by name. Spiro has had a tough life. We're not sure of his whole story, as he has only lived with us for about two years, but clearly his first nine years included beatings, being kicked, water deprivation, and lack of attention. You get the feeling that he was the kind of dog who'd never seen a toy before he came to our house. At nine years old, he was already a little old for learning to play with toys. In a way it's good, because Oscar is quite enamored with all of his toys, and never eager to share. Indeed, if his toys happen to act disloyal (by letting someone else play with them, for instance), they get a severe thrashing, possibly including limb amputations if the digression was especially egregious.
The one toy Oscar has never found particularly fun is ball. (Not enough limbs to tear off, perhaps.) Spiro LOVES ball. LOVES it. He doesn't play with it, he just carries it around everywhere. He adores ball.
Not long ago, we were talking to our next door neighbors in the front yard, and we left the front door open. Oscar wanted to play, so we sent him inside to find his beaver, a toy we knew was in a difficult location (we did it to shut him up). Several minutes later he trotted out with the beaver, and our neighbor was so impressed with him. So we began showing off, sending him inside for his squirrel, his piggy, his hog, his rope bone. He happily retrieved all of them (he was not so happy when we declined his vociferous invitations to play with each toy).
So I decided to teach Spiro a new word, so he can hold his own in canine intelligence in our house. Instead of ball, I now command Spiro to 'get his spheroid.' And he does. It's so cute. I'm pretty sure he is reacting to the words 'go get' rather than spheroid, but it still makes me laugh.
Spirsie and his spheroid. It just has a nice ring to it. Also, I'm a total nerd.
8.21.2008
The Maass Family Travel Journal Vol. 253: Lessons Learned with a Bozeman Buttkicking (cont'd)
When we left off, I had just happily fallen asleep in the tent after almost two days of being continually awake. It was around 2 a.m... and we had just returned from spending the evening at Storyhill Fest, which was wonderful all around.
I awoke the next morning. I wasn't sure what time it was, but it was not early. Greg was not in the tent. I assumed he was either in the outhouse or taking a little walk outside. It was very warm and cozy in the tent. I just laid there for awhile, enjoying the warmth. Then I heard a noise. A grunt. A startlingly nearby grunt. A gross grunt. Then panting. HUMAN panting, it sounded like. The next campsite was much too far away for these noises to be coming from there. These noises sounded like someone was doing something....unpleasant....RIGHT OUTSIDE MY TENT! I sat up and peered outside. Granted, my vision without my contact lenses is roughly three feet in front of my face, but I saw nothing. I lay back down, a little freaked out. There it was again. More grunting, more panting. I sat up again. Nothing. More panting. More grunts. Then Greg's voice, 'Hey, man. Can I give you a hand up?' Another voice, 'Oh yes, thank you so much. This is too steep for my 80-year-old legs to make it..' And he hauled up this poor old guy from the STEEP cliff right in front of our tent. Apparently, this guy had gone down (a different way) to fish, but decided it was too steep and then couldn't quite make it back up. He was literally on his hands and knees clinging to the steep bank of Hyalite Reservoir for dear life while I was laying cozy and warm in my sleeping bag just a couple feet away! Lesson learned: when hear disturbing noises outside of tent, especially if is daylight, maybe investigate. Probably is not mountain lion or grizzly bear or pervert, and if some poor, old fisherman fell to his death right outside tent, would feel really, REALLY bad. And possibly not enjoy rest of trip.
So, after that excitement, we had to decide how to spend the rest of the trip. We could pack up and go to Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, about a three hour drive away. We could pack up and go up to the Whitefish/Glacier National Park area, where my brother lives. We could stay in the Bozeman area for the remainder of the days, and try to find campsites on the fly. After a little discussion, we decided on option three. It was already almost 11am, and we had run across a little book, 'Bozeman's Best Day Hikes' at the festival the night before. It detailed many good hikes in the area, including one 10+ miler that was supposedly 'the premier hike in the Bozeman area.' I found that description very compelling, for some reason.
Having decided to stay in Bozeman, we ran around to find a campsite for the night. We were lucky to snag one in the lower campground, which was not quite as pretty as the previous night's site, but was right along Hyalite Creek and had the added bonus of being at lower elevation, so hopefully not *quite* so cold at night. We set up camp and decided to run into town to have lunch at McKenzie River Pizza Company, a Montana tradition for us, where we would happily dine on lodgepoles and Flathead pizza and plan the remainder of the vacation.
We gorged ourselves and planned a short hike for the rest of that day, a river rafting trip down the Gallatin River the next day, and the Hyalite Peak hike (premier hike in the Bozeman area) for our last day. Well, we were feeling pretty satisfied with ourselves at this point. That's when I decided to take advantage of the indoor plumbing at the restaurant. But in order to go to the restroom, I needed to retrieve and put on my shoes, which I had apparently removed soon after sitting down. I reached down awkwardly under the booth, and IT happened. A big twinge in my lower back. I knew what that twinge meant. It meant that all of our newly and carefully laid plans were now nothing. Because within a few hours I would have the range of motion of your average vegetable. I have an old back injury from when I fell down a marble staircase when I was 21. It flares up every now and then, about once or twice a year, and it.is.HORRIBLE. Lesson learned: keep shoes on in public places. act like civilized human being. especially if are continually lecturing niece about keeping HER shoes on in public places. really should listen to own advice. don't be hypocrite. will just hurt that much worse.
It was BAD, there is no other way to say it. Hiking that day was out. We hung around town for awhile, and we heard about a concert that night, Shawn Colvin with Justin Roth opening. That seemed like an acceptable activity for an invalid such as myself to attempt. We purchased a walking stick (cane) at a little souvenir shop downtown, and I hobbled around with that for the rest of the day. Even though I have a lot of experience with this injury, it always amazes me how much of everyday motion involves the back. When this injury flares, I literally can't do the simplest things. It was pretty disappointing, because this was likely the only vacation we'd have this summer, and I didn't drive a thousand miles to sit on my ass and just look at the mountains. Still, we went to the concert that night, which was pretty fun, and tried to make the best of things. As we settled into our sleeping bags that night, I was hopeful that after sleeping on it for a night, I would be good to go the next day. I knew in my heart the chances of this were extremely slim, and I'm sure Greg knew it, too, but I went to sleep that night hopeful, anyway.
I felt *a little* better the next morning. It did seem like sleeping (i.e.: NOT moving) had helped a bit, but I definitely couldn't go river rafting. A HUGE disappointment. I still hoped I could maybe go hiking later in the day. But it wasn't meant to be. I got worse as the day went on and I moved more. We basically sat around our campsite and talked all day. I laid down on the picnic table for awhile, because that seemed to be good for my back, until a big, nasty pine beetle fell out of the tree above me and landed on my back. I hate those things! It was decidedly NOT the vacation either of us had hoped for, although the scenery was pretty and the weather was nice. I went to bed again that night hoping for some kind of a miracle the next day.
We woke up early the next morning, because we hoped to see the sunrise. Again, my back felt *a little* better after a night of limited motion. The promising thing was that I could now stand up totally straight and walk straight with the help of my stick. I figured this meant that I was good to go for hiking. Hyalite Peak, here we come. It might seem like Hyalite Peak, an 11 or 12 mile round-trip hike might be a bit much to bite off for someone who could not even stand up straight the day before. BUT, Hyalite Peak offered eleven waterfalls along the way, then an alpine lake, and then finally the peak. Most people who hike the trail only go to the first one or two waterfalls. So we would just go as far as I felt I could, and at least we could get to see some scenery. Greg agreed this was a good trail for just this reason. I secretly hoped I would make it all the way to the top of the peak, though.
We started out a little before 7am. There were hardly any other cars at the trailhead, which had been overflowing the day before. There were no signs or postings on what to expect, just a small map. We took off and things were going okay for the first mile or so. We didn't stop at the first waterfall, deciding instead to hit it on the way back. Soon after that, I began to wonder how far I could actually make it. It's just that it was SO HARD to move without completely jarring my back. But I guess there was just something in that scenery and that cool mountain air that just made me keep walking. It really was beautiful. We took several pictures along the way. Soon we were a few miles in. We came to a *small* snowpatch along the trail. I was thrilled, as I had been secretly hoping to see snow somewhere along the trail. You could definitely see snow at the higher elevations, but I wasn't sure we would get to see any. I was extremely happy at this development, and found new energy to keep moving up the trail.
Soon, there was a lot of snow. It was everywhere. We felt a little silly for taking pictures of the tiny snow patch earlier. It was deep, too. Then, it began appearing ON THE TRAIL. Which was slippery. We slowed our pace a bit. I'm not sure when or how it happened, but soon there really was no more real trail that we could see. It was all snow. Deep snow. Rotten, deep snow, that sometimes caused us to fall through all the way to our knees or even hips. We were postholing every few steps. The sudden, jerky movements couldn't have been good for my back, but I don't really remember feeling it that much. We hiked on and on in the snow. It was pretty fun, just because it was novel, something we hadn't done before.
Then we came to a large, STEEP, snow-covered hill. We determined that this was the portion of the trail that was supposed to be 10 switchbacks, but it was under several feet of snow, so there was no other way to go but to climb up the snowfield. Looking back on it, I can't imagine what made us even attempt it. It was so steep, covered with the same slick, rotten snow that we'd been hiking in for the last couple hours. We kicked toeholds in the snow and began to slowly make our way up this around 200 foot climb. It was really tiring, because it was so steep, and we had to watch our steps so carefully. I remember resting every thirty steps, telling myself that 'you can do anything for thirty steps.' Before we knew it, although it had to be 20 or 30 minutes later, we were at the top. We turned around to admire the view. Which was gorgeous, don't get me wrong. But it was impossible not to look down at what we had just traversed and be a little, okay a lot worried about just how exactly we were ever going to GET BACK DOWN IT! Because, in many cases, going down something steep is much more difficult, albeit faster, than going up. But especially if that surface is covered in snow and is steep enough as to require switchbacks in the first place.
We decided to worry about it later, and continue onward. But soon we could no longer determine where the trail would have been, and the snow was becoming even more rotten and dangerous. We decided to turn around, probably very close to the alpine lake and maybe a mile or so away from the top of the peak.
We began making our way downward. It was SLOW going. At one point I was trying to decide on footing, when the snow totally gave way and I fell through. I no longer had to make the footing decision, but I wrenched my back terribly. We made it to the steep snowfield, and Greg began to descend. I was about 20 feet back from him. I love my husband for several reasons, one of which is his wicked sense of humor that all too often, only I get to see. But picking this time to begin making his patented snide remarks and having a running dialogue with his leg muscles was a poor choice, as our lives were literally in the balance. One false step and we would fall over a hundred feet down into a field of pine trees, or veer off a bit to the right and fall into Hyalite Creek, which was no creek at all, but a humongous, hell-roaring river with a 50 foot waterfall right THERE. Not to mention the other 10 waterfall scattered throughout. He was making me laugh too hard, so I had to stay even farther back from him, maybe 30 or so feet, so I could concentrate on coming down it one piece. This would turn out to be very significant later on.
I really can't begin to describe how steep this pass was, and how slippery the snow, and how small the heelholds we were able to kick in were. We were about halfway down, and things were going well, but all of a sudden I was falling down the mountain. It happened so quickly I don't even know what happened. I felt my considerable mass making me accelerate at an alarming rate, and I tried to dig in my feet, my hands, anything, to no avail. Luckily Greg turned around, braced himself in his inch-long toehold, and readied himself to catch me. There was obviously a good chance that, if he couldn't stop me and I knocked him over as well, that we would both end up down in the pine trees with several broken bones (at this point ending up in Hyalite Creek was not as much of a possibility b/c of the way we were facing). But he caught me, and slowed me enough so that I could get my hands and feet dug in and stand up. Looking back, I had only slid 30-40 feet, but it was scary. The good part was, it was 30-40 feet of painstaking descent that I now wouldn't have to traverse. I can't imagine it was good for my back, but I wasn't feeling much pain at that point, due to simple adrenaline, I think.
So out we hiked. And we hiked. And we hiked. It took FOREVER because of the painstakingly slow pace at which we had to take the snow-covered downhill portions. I was beginning to kind of hate the snow. As the adrenaline began to wear off, my back was hurting badly. Also my feet (I have plantar fascitis). We hadn't eaten in hours, and that was only an oatmeal creme pie back at the trailhead. It was really hard. Whenever we turned another corner and saw even more snow I wanted to cry. I knew that even once the snow disappeared, we would still have a couple miles to go, but at least those would be quick miles. It was decidedly *not fun* at this point. We just wanted to be done. But Greg said he was so proud of me, that he couldn't believe how far I'd made it that day and how hard it was for him, he couldn't even imagine what it was like for me with my injury. It was the only time in twelve years he has ever said he was proud of me.
Later we would find out that we were one of only three groups that made it to the bottom of the steep snowfield. One of the groups didn't make it up, we made it up and a little farther, and the last group, a Scandinavian couple, made it a bit farther, to the alpine lake, which was frozen solid and not particularly scenic. We met so many groups along the way that had to turn back, and NOBODY knew what the conditions were on this trail. A note at the trailhead would have been really helpful. Because nobody seemed to know how terrible the conditions were.
Once we got to the trailhead, I hastily peeled off my boots. I was hoping to god that Greg wouldn't want to drive all the way to Billings for the night, as I just wanted to crawl into a bed in Bozeman and pass out. We were shocked to find out that it was after 5pm. We'd been on the trail for an alarming ten hours! For 10 miles! That is not a good pace, people. Traversing all that snow really had taken forever, not just felt like it!
We drove into Bozeman, and stopped at the C'mon Inn. I really wanted a king sized bed. Greg wanted a room with a bathtub, to soak his sore muscles. That sounded dreamy to me at that point. We got a nice room with a king-sized bed and a big bathtub. I peeled off my socks, and pants, called it good, and crawled into bed still wearing my disgusting shirt and my legs caked with mud. I immediately fell into a blissful sleep. I think that was almost my favorite part of the hike, how easily I fell asleep afterward, knowing I had pushed myself to that point where there was just no other option. I'm a horrid sleeper, so being able to sleep easily was like a dream.
I slept for about two hours, then Greg woke me. Our tradition after a long, hard hike is to go out for a big, nice dinner as soon as we get back to civilization. Greg was very excited for this, and wanted me to shower so we could eat. Although I had eaten 120 calories and burned probably 10,000 or more that day, I wasn't hungry at all. I felt like my body had shut down to the point of not even wanting to eat or drink, just sleep. But I didn't want to disappoint Greg, so I painfully made my way to the shower, got cleaned up, and we headed across the street to a steakhouse. I don't eat steak, but since I wasn't hungry anyway, I suggested it would be good because I knew Greg would like it. We ordered fried mushrooms for an appetizer, which maybe sounds gross but tasted HEAVENLY!!!!! I had a garden salad and a bowl of clam chowder and I swear I have NEVER eaten such good food in my entire life! I'm sure it wasn't really as good as it seemed....it was just one of those pleasures that seem *so incredible* after a long, physical day of pushing yourself to the limit.
Next year we hope to make it all the way to the top of Hyalite Peak. Like Minnesota, Montana received a huge amount of spring snowfall this year, and much of it was still around in July. Barring another abnormal spring, we should be able to make it up there in July. But I'm glad we got to go this year, too. It was really a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Lessons learned: too many to count.
*A disclaimer for CAM, who is the only person who read all that, I'm sure. I wrote that story a while ago, then when I went to post it, it ended up in internet nowhereland. So I hastily re-created it, and I can just tell it totally sucks. So maybe I will write something a little better (I have some good ideas) and send it your way using snail mail
I awoke the next morning. I wasn't sure what time it was, but it was not early. Greg was not in the tent. I assumed he was either in the outhouse or taking a little walk outside. It was very warm and cozy in the tent. I just laid there for awhile, enjoying the warmth. Then I heard a noise. A grunt. A startlingly nearby grunt. A gross grunt. Then panting. HUMAN panting, it sounded like. The next campsite was much too far away for these noises to be coming from there. These noises sounded like someone was doing something....unpleasant....RIGHT OUTSIDE MY TENT! I sat up and peered outside. Granted, my vision without my contact lenses is roughly three feet in front of my face, but I saw nothing. I lay back down, a little freaked out. There it was again. More grunting, more panting. I sat up again. Nothing. More panting. More grunts. Then Greg's voice, 'Hey, man. Can I give you a hand up?' Another voice, 'Oh yes, thank you so much. This is too steep for my 80-year-old legs to make it..' And he hauled up this poor old guy from the STEEP cliff right in front of our tent. Apparently, this guy had gone down (a different way) to fish, but decided it was too steep and then couldn't quite make it back up. He was literally on his hands and knees clinging to the steep bank of Hyalite Reservoir for dear life while I was laying cozy and warm in my sleeping bag just a couple feet away! Lesson learned: when hear disturbing noises outside of tent, especially if is daylight, maybe investigate. Probably is not mountain lion or grizzly bear or pervert, and if some poor, old fisherman fell to his death right outside tent, would feel really, REALLY bad. And possibly not enjoy rest of trip.
So, after that excitement, we had to decide how to spend the rest of the trip. We could pack up and go to Grand Teton National Park in Wyoming, about a three hour drive away. We could pack up and go up to the Whitefish/Glacier National Park area, where my brother lives. We could stay in the Bozeman area for the remainder of the days, and try to find campsites on the fly. After a little discussion, we decided on option three. It was already almost 11am, and we had run across a little book, 'Bozeman's Best Day Hikes' at the festival the night before. It detailed many good hikes in the area, including one 10+ miler that was supposedly 'the premier hike in the Bozeman area.' I found that description very compelling, for some reason.
Having decided to stay in Bozeman, we ran around to find a campsite for the night. We were lucky to snag one in the lower campground, which was not quite as pretty as the previous night's site, but was right along Hyalite Creek and had the added bonus of being at lower elevation, so hopefully not *quite* so cold at night. We set up camp and decided to run into town to have lunch at McKenzie River Pizza Company, a Montana tradition for us, where we would happily dine on lodgepoles and Flathead pizza and plan the remainder of the vacation.
We gorged ourselves and planned a short hike for the rest of that day, a river rafting trip down the Gallatin River the next day, and the Hyalite Peak hike (premier hike in the Bozeman area) for our last day. Well, we were feeling pretty satisfied with ourselves at this point. That's when I decided to take advantage of the indoor plumbing at the restaurant. But in order to go to the restroom, I needed to retrieve and put on my shoes, which I had apparently removed soon after sitting down. I reached down awkwardly under the booth, and IT happened. A big twinge in my lower back. I knew what that twinge meant. It meant that all of our newly and carefully laid plans were now nothing. Because within a few hours I would have the range of motion of your average vegetable. I have an old back injury from when I fell down a marble staircase when I was 21. It flares up every now and then, about once or twice a year, and it.is.HORRIBLE. Lesson learned: keep shoes on in public places. act like civilized human being. especially if are continually lecturing niece about keeping HER shoes on in public places. really should listen to own advice. don't be hypocrite. will just hurt that much worse.
It was BAD, there is no other way to say it. Hiking that day was out. We hung around town for awhile, and we heard about a concert that night, Shawn Colvin with Justin Roth opening. That seemed like an acceptable activity for an invalid such as myself to attempt. We purchased a walking stick (cane) at a little souvenir shop downtown, and I hobbled around with that for the rest of the day. Even though I have a lot of experience with this injury, it always amazes me how much of everyday motion involves the back. When this injury flares, I literally can't do the simplest things. It was pretty disappointing, because this was likely the only vacation we'd have this summer, and I didn't drive a thousand miles to sit on my ass and just look at the mountains. Still, we went to the concert that night, which was pretty fun, and tried to make the best of things. As we settled into our sleeping bags that night, I was hopeful that after sleeping on it for a night, I would be good to go the next day. I knew in my heart the chances of this were extremely slim, and I'm sure Greg knew it, too, but I went to sleep that night hopeful, anyway.
I felt *a little* better the next morning. It did seem like sleeping (i.e.: NOT moving) had helped a bit, but I definitely couldn't go river rafting. A HUGE disappointment. I still hoped I could maybe go hiking later in the day. But it wasn't meant to be. I got worse as the day went on and I moved more. We basically sat around our campsite and talked all day. I laid down on the picnic table for awhile, because that seemed to be good for my back, until a big, nasty pine beetle fell out of the tree above me and landed on my back. I hate those things! It was decidedly NOT the vacation either of us had hoped for, although the scenery was pretty and the weather was nice. I went to bed again that night hoping for some kind of a miracle the next day.
We woke up early the next morning, because we hoped to see the sunrise. Again, my back felt *a little* better after a night of limited motion. The promising thing was that I could now stand up totally straight and walk straight with the help of my stick. I figured this meant that I was good to go for hiking. Hyalite Peak, here we come. It might seem like Hyalite Peak, an 11 or 12 mile round-trip hike might be a bit much to bite off for someone who could not even stand up straight the day before. BUT, Hyalite Peak offered eleven waterfalls along the way, then an alpine lake, and then finally the peak. Most people who hike the trail only go to the first one or two waterfalls. So we would just go as far as I felt I could, and at least we could get to see some scenery. Greg agreed this was a good trail for just this reason. I secretly hoped I would make it all the way to the top of the peak, though.
We started out a little before 7am. There were hardly any other cars at the trailhead, which had been overflowing the day before. There were no signs or postings on what to expect, just a small map. We took off and things were going okay for the first mile or so. We didn't stop at the first waterfall, deciding instead to hit it on the way back. Soon after that, I began to wonder how far I could actually make it. It's just that it was SO HARD to move without completely jarring my back. But I guess there was just something in that scenery and that cool mountain air that just made me keep walking. It really was beautiful. We took several pictures along the way. Soon we were a few miles in. We came to a *small* snowpatch along the trail. I was thrilled, as I had been secretly hoping to see snow somewhere along the trail. You could definitely see snow at the higher elevations, but I wasn't sure we would get to see any. I was extremely happy at this development, and found new energy to keep moving up the trail.
Soon, there was a lot of snow. It was everywhere. We felt a little silly for taking pictures of the tiny snow patch earlier. It was deep, too. Then, it began appearing ON THE TRAIL. Which was slippery. We slowed our pace a bit. I'm not sure when or how it happened, but soon there really was no more real trail that we could see. It was all snow. Deep snow. Rotten, deep snow, that sometimes caused us to fall through all the way to our knees or even hips. We were postholing every few steps. The sudden, jerky movements couldn't have been good for my back, but I don't really remember feeling it that much. We hiked on and on in the snow. It was pretty fun, just because it was novel, something we hadn't done before.
Then we came to a large, STEEP, snow-covered hill. We determined that this was the portion of the trail that was supposed to be 10 switchbacks, but it was under several feet of snow, so there was no other way to go but to climb up the snowfield. Looking back on it, I can't imagine what made us even attempt it. It was so steep, covered with the same slick, rotten snow that we'd been hiking in for the last couple hours. We kicked toeholds in the snow and began to slowly make our way up this around 200 foot climb. It was really tiring, because it was so steep, and we had to watch our steps so carefully. I remember resting every thirty steps, telling myself that 'you can do anything for thirty steps.' Before we knew it, although it had to be 20 or 30 minutes later, we were at the top. We turned around to admire the view. Which was gorgeous, don't get me wrong. But it was impossible not to look down at what we had just traversed and be a little, okay a lot worried about just how exactly we were ever going to GET BACK DOWN IT! Because, in many cases, going down something steep is much more difficult, albeit faster, than going up. But especially if that surface is covered in snow and is steep enough as to require switchbacks in the first place.
We decided to worry about it later, and continue onward. But soon we could no longer determine where the trail would have been, and the snow was becoming even more rotten and dangerous. We decided to turn around, probably very close to the alpine lake and maybe a mile or so away from the top of the peak.
We began making our way downward. It was SLOW going. At one point I was trying to decide on footing, when the snow totally gave way and I fell through. I no longer had to make the footing decision, but I wrenched my back terribly. We made it to the steep snowfield, and Greg began to descend. I was about 20 feet back from him. I love my husband for several reasons, one of which is his wicked sense of humor that all too often, only I get to see. But picking this time to begin making his patented snide remarks and having a running dialogue with his leg muscles was a poor choice, as our lives were literally in the balance. One false step and we would fall over a hundred feet down into a field of pine trees, or veer off a bit to the right and fall into Hyalite Creek, which was no creek at all, but a humongous, hell-roaring river with a 50 foot waterfall right THERE. Not to mention the other 10 waterfall scattered throughout. He was making me laugh too hard, so I had to stay even farther back from him, maybe 30 or so feet, so I could concentrate on coming down it one piece. This would turn out to be very significant later on.
I really can't begin to describe how steep this pass was, and how slippery the snow, and how small the heelholds we were able to kick in were. We were about halfway down, and things were going well, but all of a sudden I was falling down the mountain. It happened so quickly I don't even know what happened. I felt my considerable mass making me accelerate at an alarming rate, and I tried to dig in my feet, my hands, anything, to no avail. Luckily Greg turned around, braced himself in his inch-long toehold, and readied himself to catch me. There was obviously a good chance that, if he couldn't stop me and I knocked him over as well, that we would both end up down in the pine trees with several broken bones (at this point ending up in Hyalite Creek was not as much of a possibility b/c of the way we were facing). But he caught me, and slowed me enough so that I could get my hands and feet dug in and stand up. Looking back, I had only slid 30-40 feet, but it was scary. The good part was, it was 30-40 feet of painstaking descent that I now wouldn't have to traverse. I can't imagine it was good for my back, but I wasn't feeling much pain at that point, due to simple adrenaline, I think.
So out we hiked. And we hiked. And we hiked. It took FOREVER because of the painstakingly slow pace at which we had to take the snow-covered downhill portions. I was beginning to kind of hate the snow. As the adrenaline began to wear off, my back was hurting badly. Also my feet (I have plantar fascitis). We hadn't eaten in hours, and that was only an oatmeal creme pie back at the trailhead. It was really hard. Whenever we turned another corner and saw even more snow I wanted to cry. I knew that even once the snow disappeared, we would still have a couple miles to go, but at least those would be quick miles. It was decidedly *not fun* at this point. We just wanted to be done. But Greg said he was so proud of me, that he couldn't believe how far I'd made it that day and how hard it was for him, he couldn't even imagine what it was like for me with my injury. It was the only time in twelve years he has ever said he was proud of me.
Later we would find out that we were one of only three groups that made it to the bottom of the steep snowfield. One of the groups didn't make it up, we made it up and a little farther, and the last group, a Scandinavian couple, made it a bit farther, to the alpine lake, which was frozen solid and not particularly scenic. We met so many groups along the way that had to turn back, and NOBODY knew what the conditions were on this trail. A note at the trailhead would have been really helpful. Because nobody seemed to know how terrible the conditions were.
Once we got to the trailhead, I hastily peeled off my boots. I was hoping to god that Greg wouldn't want to drive all the way to Billings for the night, as I just wanted to crawl into a bed in Bozeman and pass out. We were shocked to find out that it was after 5pm. We'd been on the trail for an alarming ten hours! For 10 miles! That is not a good pace, people. Traversing all that snow really had taken forever, not just felt like it!
We drove into Bozeman, and stopped at the C'mon Inn. I really wanted a king sized bed. Greg wanted a room with a bathtub, to soak his sore muscles. That sounded dreamy to me at that point. We got a nice room with a king-sized bed and a big bathtub. I peeled off my socks, and pants, called it good, and crawled into bed still wearing my disgusting shirt and my legs caked with mud. I immediately fell into a blissful sleep. I think that was almost my favorite part of the hike, how easily I fell asleep afterward, knowing I had pushed myself to that point where there was just no other option. I'm a horrid sleeper, so being able to sleep easily was like a dream.
I slept for about two hours, then Greg woke me. Our tradition after a long, hard hike is to go out for a big, nice dinner as soon as we get back to civilization. Greg was very excited for this, and wanted me to shower so we could eat. Although I had eaten 120 calories and burned probably 10,000 or more that day, I wasn't hungry at all. I felt like my body had shut down to the point of not even wanting to eat or drink, just sleep. But I didn't want to disappoint Greg, so I painfully made my way to the shower, got cleaned up, and we headed across the street to a steakhouse. I don't eat steak, but since I wasn't hungry anyway, I suggested it would be good because I knew Greg would like it. We ordered fried mushrooms for an appetizer, which maybe sounds gross but tasted HEAVENLY!!!!! I had a garden salad and a bowl of clam chowder and I swear I have NEVER eaten such good food in my entire life! I'm sure it wasn't really as good as it seemed....it was just one of those pleasures that seem *so incredible* after a long, physical day of pushing yourself to the limit.
Next year we hope to make it all the way to the top of Hyalite Peak. Like Minnesota, Montana received a huge amount of spring snowfall this year, and much of it was still around in July. Barring another abnormal spring, we should be able to make it up there in July. But I'm glad we got to go this year, too. It was really a once-in-a-lifetime experience.
Lessons learned: too many to count.
*A disclaimer for CAM, who is the only person who read all that, I'm sure. I wrote that story a while ago, then when I went to post it, it ended up in internet nowhereland. So I hastily re-created it, and I can just tell it totally sucks. So maybe I will write something a little better (I have some good ideas) and send it your way using snail mail
7.22.2008
The Maass Family Travel Journal Volume 252: Lessons Learned with a Bozeman Butt-Kicking
So, we here at the Maass Family Travel Journal (me, Greg, Long-Legs Bunny, and Goldy the Grand Am) recently returned from our annual summer trip to Big Sky Country. Due to time and financial constraints, our trip this year was a little abbreviated, and very hastily planned (I'm using that word "planned" very loosely). We decided to go about four days before we left, so it really was a fly-by-the-seats-of-our-pants kind of adventure. Lesson Learned: when planning to travel ANYWHERE over the 4th of July, SOME advanced planning might be nice, even necessary. if want to sleep somewhere other than car, that is.
My brother lives in Montana and we go almost every year, so Montana is nothing new to us. The first time we went to Montana, over ten years ago now, we almost killed ourselves when we went off the highway in a blizzard right outside of Bozeman. Lesson learned: do not drive 70mph on curvy mountain roads in blizzard. no, not even if are young and stupid and hoping to make it to Portland for the night. Although the people were extremely nice and helpful and the town is a college town and seemed fun, I kind of soured on Bozeman for several years after that. For years we never went back except to drive through on our way somewhere else. In 2006 my favorite band held a little, rustic music festival just outside of Bozeman, so we went for that, and we have gone for the festival every year since. But we've never spent much time in Bozeman itself; we've just enjoyed the music and hightailed it out of there. This year we decided to stay in the Bozeman area after the music ended and see what it had to offer. And it soon became clear: even after ten years of becoming older and presumably wiser (??!?), Bozeman can still kick our collective ass like nobody's business!
We planned to leave Tuesday afternoon, after Greg was done with work. It was therefore up to me to get most things ready to go and to bring the dogs up to Hinckley where my mom would meet us and take them to her house. I couldn't get to sleep on Monday night, so I decided to sleep in a bit Tuesday morning. I woke up and had to scramble to get the dogs in the car with all their stuff and drive about 85mph up to Hinckley. I was disgusting and hadn't showered, but I figured, "Mom has known me for 30 years and has surely seen me in a more revolting state at some point in time," so that's how I justified it. I met mom (on time!!!!) in Hinckley, and we decided to get some lunch at Subway. So we ate in the back of her SUV while my dogs sat in my car, RIGHT NEXT TO US. We talked for awhile, even though I was painfully aware that NOTHING was ready to go at home. Finally, we went our separate ways. I turned south on interstate 35, and got ready to cruise home on the open highway. I set the cruise to about 65….and nothing happened. I glanced down. Hmmmm, the plastic bottom of the cruise control mechanism was hanging by a little plastic thread. This had my dog Spiro written all over it. I could almost see his big, black, clumsy paws clawing the mechanism to pieces. Oh well, it was only A THOUSAND MILES to Gallatin National Forest, and this would make it SO MUCH MORE FUN!!!! Lesson learned: do not leave destructive beasts alone in car to entertain themselves, especially when said beasts have previously eaten an air conditioning vent in your other car, ESPECIALLY when you are about to spend 15+ hours in the vehicle, no matter what condition it happens to be in.
My foot was sore by the time I arrived home in less than an hour and a half, which didn't bode well for all the driving we'd have to do later. Still, I had a lot of work to do, if we wanted to leave soon after Greg got home. When he arrived, our front lawn looked like an REI clearance sale gone bad. We tried our best to stuff the necessities into Goldy and hit the road at around 7:30p.m. Which was about four hours later than we'd planned….but still pretty good considering this is the Maass Family Travel Journal we're talking about.
We managed to make it through all of Minneapolis and several of the western suburbs before we stopped for the first time in Rogers. (Is Rogers a suburb? Or an exurb? I'm going with exurb.) Yes, that's right, we managed to get about 25 miles before stopping for gas and dinner at Culver's. So much for not wasting our miniscule travel funds on shitty road food, but we were pinched for time, and ravenous….par for the course on a Maass family trip. We then settled in for the long haul, talking and laughing and trying to outrun a thunderstorm somewhere near Fergus Falls. We arrived at the North Dakota border just before midnight, and then we switched drivers, so as to best make use of my insomniac tendencies. I was finding it excruciating to drive without the cruise and my sandals on, so I just drove with one shoe, and that seemed to make all the difference. We stopped in West Fargo for a cup of coffee. We drove around forever through the desolate streets in the whipping wind looking for a gas station, and when we finally found one, we couldn't get any service. I poured a cup of rat piss coffee and the kid working was smoking outside and couldn't be bothered to come in and take my money. So we just left it on the counter. It was the worst coffee ever, too. Lesson learned: don't ever stop in West Fargo. for anything. not worth it. and if coffee looks like rat piss, it will taste even worse. trust me.
Sufficiently hopped up on rat piss, I proceeded to drive across North Dakota at 55mph for the rest of the night. I have no problem staying up all night, but my night vision leaves much to be desired, so I just took my time. We got great gas mileage, but when the sun began to rise, we were still in North Dakota. We switched drivers again at the Montana border, and we actually were having fun driving through that desolate part of the country. We laughed at the local radio and genuinely enjoyed just being on the road.
We arrived in Bozeman around noon. I wasn't sure what time Storyhill Fest was starting, having neglected to commit that crucial piece of information to memory. Lesson learned: do not have internet access in car. or computer, for that matter. so should look up needed info at home and write down on paper. and bring paper with. then will be prepared. We drove out of Bozeman and up into Hyalite Canyon. Since we were only attending one day of the festival and not both days, we couldn't camp on site and had to find our own place to stay. Despite the fact that it was a Wednesday, most campsites at the three National Forest campgrounds were already spoken for. Still, we managed to find a great one right on Hyalite Reservoir for the night. We would have to move the next day, but at least we were set for the night. We set up camp and decided to hike about a mile or so down the gravel road to Storyhill Fest. It was about 85 degrees, sunny and beautiful. So Greg wore a t-shirt and shorts and I wore a t-shirt, longish skirt, jeans jacket, and sandals.
We arrived at the site of Storyhill Fest just as the music was about to begin. We realized we'd forgotten our camera back at the campsite, but we didn't want to miss any music, so we did without. The music was great this year, as was the food, the after-hours campfire performances, and just about everything about the Festival. Storyhill took the stage at about 8:30pm. Soon after that, the sun set. I pulled on my jacket. I wrapped Greg's sweatshirt around my legs. I was still cold. We stayed at the campfire until well after 1am, when Greg could no longer keep his eyes open and I was shivering uncontrollably. We now had to hike back to our campground in the pitch dark along a deserted gravel road in the freezing cold. Fun stuff. Lesson learned: when are going to be hiking after dark in shitty shoes along gravel road with precipitous drop-offs scattered throughout, perhaps should bring along a flashlight or two. might help. also, wear pants. maybe also hat and gloves. is mountains. gets cold at night.
Well, we managed to make it back to our campground without major incident. I was shivering so uncontrollably we decided to turn on the heat in the car and sit there for awhile, despite quiet hours having begun over three hours ago. After 10 or 15 minutes we ran to the tent and snuggled in. It had now been almost 48 hours since I'd slept. I was so tired. I just wanted to pass out. But I was so cold I couldn't sleep. Finally we zipped our sleeping bags together and I stole some of Greg's excess body warmth and fell into a deep and wonderful sleep. Lesson learned: mountain air, extreme tiredness, and a shared sleeping bag will make sleep like brick.
TO BE CONTINUED….
My brother lives in Montana and we go almost every year, so Montana is nothing new to us. The first time we went to Montana, over ten years ago now, we almost killed ourselves when we went off the highway in a blizzard right outside of Bozeman. Lesson learned: do not drive 70mph on curvy mountain roads in blizzard. no, not even if are young and stupid and hoping to make it to Portland for the night. Although the people were extremely nice and helpful and the town is a college town and seemed fun, I kind of soured on Bozeman for several years after that. For years we never went back except to drive through on our way somewhere else. In 2006 my favorite band held a little, rustic music festival just outside of Bozeman, so we went for that, and we have gone for the festival every year since. But we've never spent much time in Bozeman itself; we've just enjoyed the music and hightailed it out of there. This year we decided to stay in the Bozeman area after the music ended and see what it had to offer. And it soon became clear: even after ten years of becoming older and presumably wiser (??!?), Bozeman can still kick our collective ass like nobody's business!
We planned to leave Tuesday afternoon, after Greg was done with work. It was therefore up to me to get most things ready to go and to bring the dogs up to Hinckley where my mom would meet us and take them to her house. I couldn't get to sleep on Monday night, so I decided to sleep in a bit Tuesday morning. I woke up and had to scramble to get the dogs in the car with all their stuff and drive about 85mph up to Hinckley. I was disgusting and hadn't showered, but I figured, "Mom has known me for 30 years and has surely seen me in a more revolting state at some point in time," so that's how I justified it. I met mom (on time!!!!) in Hinckley, and we decided to get some lunch at Subway. So we ate in the back of her SUV while my dogs sat in my car, RIGHT NEXT TO US. We talked for awhile, even though I was painfully aware that NOTHING was ready to go at home. Finally, we went our separate ways. I turned south on interstate 35, and got ready to cruise home on the open highway. I set the cruise to about 65….and nothing happened. I glanced down. Hmmmm, the plastic bottom of the cruise control mechanism was hanging by a little plastic thread. This had my dog Spiro written all over it. I could almost see his big, black, clumsy paws clawing the mechanism to pieces. Oh well, it was only A THOUSAND MILES to Gallatin National Forest, and this would make it SO MUCH MORE FUN!!!! Lesson learned: do not leave destructive beasts alone in car to entertain themselves, especially when said beasts have previously eaten an air conditioning vent in your other car, ESPECIALLY when you are about to spend 15+ hours in the vehicle, no matter what condition it happens to be in.
My foot was sore by the time I arrived home in less than an hour and a half, which didn't bode well for all the driving we'd have to do later. Still, I had a lot of work to do, if we wanted to leave soon after Greg got home. When he arrived, our front lawn looked like an REI clearance sale gone bad. We tried our best to stuff the necessities into Goldy and hit the road at around 7:30p.m. Which was about four hours later than we'd planned….but still pretty good considering this is the Maass Family Travel Journal we're talking about.
We managed to make it through all of Minneapolis and several of the western suburbs before we stopped for the first time in Rogers. (Is Rogers a suburb? Or an exurb? I'm going with exurb.) Yes, that's right, we managed to get about 25 miles before stopping for gas and dinner at Culver's. So much for not wasting our miniscule travel funds on shitty road food, but we were pinched for time, and ravenous….par for the course on a Maass family trip. We then settled in for the long haul, talking and laughing and trying to outrun a thunderstorm somewhere near Fergus Falls. We arrived at the North Dakota border just before midnight, and then we switched drivers, so as to best make use of my insomniac tendencies. I was finding it excruciating to drive without the cruise and my sandals on, so I just drove with one shoe, and that seemed to make all the difference. We stopped in West Fargo for a cup of coffee. We drove around forever through the desolate streets in the whipping wind looking for a gas station, and when we finally found one, we couldn't get any service. I poured a cup of rat piss coffee and the kid working was smoking outside and couldn't be bothered to come in and take my money. So we just left it on the counter. It was the worst coffee ever, too. Lesson learned: don't ever stop in West Fargo. for anything. not worth it. and if coffee looks like rat piss, it will taste even worse. trust me.
Sufficiently hopped up on rat piss, I proceeded to drive across North Dakota at 55mph for the rest of the night. I have no problem staying up all night, but my night vision leaves much to be desired, so I just took my time. We got great gas mileage, but when the sun began to rise, we were still in North Dakota. We switched drivers again at the Montana border, and we actually were having fun driving through that desolate part of the country. We laughed at the local radio and genuinely enjoyed just being on the road.
We arrived in Bozeman around noon. I wasn't sure what time Storyhill Fest was starting, having neglected to commit that crucial piece of information to memory. Lesson learned: do not have internet access in car. or computer, for that matter. so should look up needed info at home and write down on paper. and bring paper with. then will be prepared. We drove out of Bozeman and up into Hyalite Canyon. Since we were only attending one day of the festival and not both days, we couldn't camp on site and had to find our own place to stay. Despite the fact that it was a Wednesday, most campsites at the three National Forest campgrounds were already spoken for. Still, we managed to find a great one right on Hyalite Reservoir for the night. We would have to move the next day, but at least we were set for the night. We set up camp and decided to hike about a mile or so down the gravel road to Storyhill Fest. It was about 85 degrees, sunny and beautiful. So Greg wore a t-shirt and shorts and I wore a t-shirt, longish skirt, jeans jacket, and sandals.
We arrived at the site of Storyhill Fest just as the music was about to begin. We realized we'd forgotten our camera back at the campsite, but we didn't want to miss any music, so we did without. The music was great this year, as was the food, the after-hours campfire performances, and just about everything about the Festival. Storyhill took the stage at about 8:30pm. Soon after that, the sun set. I pulled on my jacket. I wrapped Greg's sweatshirt around my legs. I was still cold. We stayed at the campfire until well after 1am, when Greg could no longer keep his eyes open and I was shivering uncontrollably. We now had to hike back to our campground in the pitch dark along a deserted gravel road in the freezing cold. Fun stuff. Lesson learned: when are going to be hiking after dark in shitty shoes along gravel road with precipitous drop-offs scattered throughout, perhaps should bring along a flashlight or two. might help. also, wear pants. maybe also hat and gloves. is mountains. gets cold at night.
Well, we managed to make it back to our campground without major incident. I was shivering so uncontrollably we decided to turn on the heat in the car and sit there for awhile, despite quiet hours having begun over three hours ago. After 10 or 15 minutes we ran to the tent and snuggled in. It had now been almost 48 hours since I'd slept. I was so tired. I just wanted to pass out. But I was so cold I couldn't sleep. Finally we zipped our sleeping bags together and I stole some of Greg's excess body warmth and fell into a deep and wonderful sleep. Lesson learned: mountain air, extreme tiredness, and a shared sleeping bag will make sleep like brick.
TO BE CONTINUED….
6.27.2008
The Maass Family Travel Journal: Back to the Classics
Well, things have been pretty quiet here at the Maass Family Travel Journal for a while now. This has been due to the long winter, but mainly to a lack of funds, let's be honest. And the Maass Family Travel Journal is taking a ROCKIN' trip to Atlantic Canada in September, so we were thinking in the interest of savings (both $ and time off) for that trip, we might have to forgo our annual summer trek to Montana this year. However, compromise has never been a strength of ours when it comes to travel (compromising situations....that's a different story), and we have seemingly been able to scrape together the time off and dough to make a go of it in Montana again this summer. We are about 90% sure right now, with hopefully a green light by tomorrow, giving us about 72 hours of preparation time before we would leave.
72 hours to buy tickets, get campground reservations, pack up coolers and a car (probably Goldy, although if she punks out in Montana again, she just might be staying there for good), and figure out what to do with our dogs and plants while we're gone. Now this is going back to the classic Maass family road trip: little advance planning, driving through the night, finding adventure on the fly. Should be an interesting time.
Here is the plan so far:
Tuesday afternoon: Greg will work Tuesday, I will be working from home, getting everything ready. (Yeah, right....this step pretty much never goes according to plan, but since we're in the optimistic stage, let's just assume....)
Tuesday evening: Hit the road, Jack. Queue up the road trip playlist. Much laughing, joking, singing ensues. (Actually it is arguing, sniping, swearing about half the time, but again, let's be optimistic)
Tuesday night: Bean me, baby! I'm ready to go through the night. Wow, what nice weather! Visibility is great! There are NO pronghorn along the highway! All the deer are in the woods, way back from the road! This should be a breeze. Bean me more! More bean! Wow, I'm shaky! But awake.
Wednesday, EARLY morning: stop for car nap. find that small Grand Am is actually quite comfortable to sleep in (when you are this beat, anyway). Pronghorn, deer, other wildlife may now graze along highway or parade down the middle of it, for all I care. but FOR THE NEXT HOUR ONLY (I'm sure they will instinctually understand that this is for their own good.)
Wednesday, dawn: Bean me more! And feed me! Preferably fast food (which I normally detest, but happen to love on the road). Let's go!
Wednesday late morning: arrive at awesome (please?) campsite in Gallatin National Forest. Set up camp. Probably test the comfort of tent, ground pads, and sleeping bags for a few hours. Find comfort level acceptable (please?). Perhaps make side trip to MacKenzie River Pizza Co. for a Flathead pizza. Love that stuff! But no matter how good it sounds, will not try the Thai Pie. Have learned lesson.
Wednesday, 2-11pm: STORYHILL FEST!!!! and DINNER!!!! with wine and beer!!!! Of course, only will indulge in as many drinks as pronghorn seen on the highway the night before (and, as we have already established, we have an agreement, albeit an unspoken one. So will be staying relatively sober, I'm sure).
Thursday, 12:30am: arrive back at campsite after awesome Storyhill Fest campfire performances. Sleep like brick in the cool mountain air. (or like motionless pronghorn littering the expanse of I-90, you pick the imagery.)
Thursday-Saturday: Wow, haven't planned THAT far ahead! My last name is Maass, what were you expecting? Options include possible whitewater trip down Gallatin River, hiking in Bozeman/Gallatin NF area, trip up to Whitefish/Glacier NP area (which will undoubtedly include sleeping on my brother's floor....and I know his housekeeping habits....so kind of leaning against this), or trip down to Grand Teton National Park. Or a combo platter of these activities. We shall see.
Saturday night/Sunday/Sunday night: Marathon it back to MN. Pronghorn agreement is back in effect. Bring on the coffee and Neil Diamond!
I can't really see any holes in this plan, so I assume everything will go off without a hitch. We'll let you know.
72 hours to buy tickets, get campground reservations, pack up coolers and a car (probably Goldy, although if she punks out in Montana again, she just might be staying there for good), and figure out what to do with our dogs and plants while we're gone. Now this is going back to the classic Maass family road trip: little advance planning, driving through the night, finding adventure on the fly. Should be an interesting time.
Here is the plan so far:
Tuesday afternoon: Greg will work Tuesday, I will be working from home, getting everything ready. (Yeah, right....this step pretty much never goes according to plan, but since we're in the optimistic stage, let's just assume....)
Tuesday evening: Hit the road, Jack. Queue up the road trip playlist. Much laughing, joking, singing ensues. (Actually it is arguing, sniping, swearing about half the time, but again, let's be optimistic)
Tuesday night: Bean me, baby! I'm ready to go through the night. Wow, what nice weather! Visibility is great! There are NO pronghorn along the highway! All the deer are in the woods, way back from the road! This should be a breeze. Bean me more! More bean! Wow, I'm shaky! But awake.
Wednesday, EARLY morning: stop for car nap. find that small Grand Am is actually quite comfortable to sleep in (when you are this beat, anyway). Pronghorn, deer, other wildlife may now graze along highway or parade down the middle of it, for all I care. but FOR THE NEXT HOUR ONLY (I'm sure they will instinctually understand that this is for their own good.)
Wednesday, dawn: Bean me more! And feed me! Preferably fast food (which I normally detest, but happen to love on the road). Let's go!
Wednesday late morning: arrive at awesome (please?) campsite in Gallatin National Forest. Set up camp. Probably test the comfort of tent, ground pads, and sleeping bags for a few hours. Find comfort level acceptable (please?). Perhaps make side trip to MacKenzie River Pizza Co. for a Flathead pizza. Love that stuff! But no matter how good it sounds, will not try the Thai Pie. Have learned lesson.
Wednesday, 2-11pm: STORYHILL FEST!!!! and DINNER!!!! with wine and beer!!!! Of course, only will indulge in as many drinks as pronghorn seen on the highway the night before (and, as we have already established, we have an agreement, albeit an unspoken one. So will be staying relatively sober, I'm sure).
Thursday, 12:30am: arrive back at campsite after awesome Storyhill Fest campfire performances. Sleep like brick in the cool mountain air. (or like motionless pronghorn littering the expanse of I-90, you pick the imagery.)
Thursday-Saturday: Wow, haven't planned THAT far ahead! My last name is Maass, what were you expecting? Options include possible whitewater trip down Gallatin River, hiking in Bozeman/Gallatin NF area, trip up to Whitefish/Glacier NP area (which will undoubtedly include sleeping on my brother's floor....and I know his housekeeping habits....so kind of leaning against this), or trip down to Grand Teton National Park. Or a combo platter of these activities. We shall see.
Saturday night/Sunday/Sunday night: Marathon it back to MN. Pronghorn agreement is back in effect. Bring on the coffee and Neil Diamond!
I can't really see any holes in this plan, so I assume everything will go off without a hitch. We'll let you know.
5.07.2008
klutz in the kitch
So today at around 3pm I happen to see the Buick pull up in front of our house. I know my dog Spiro loves to greet Greg off-leash as he exits the car, so I let him out of the house to run down to the street. Greg pats his head and starts to walk up the sidewalk. He stops dead and just stares at me. "What?" I ask him. He points down to my bare left foot, which granted, does look pretty disgusting. I'd sliced the big toe open when I caught it on the front door a few hours earlier, and it has some dried blood, and some fresh blood, because I cut it right on the "toe knuckle," so it breaks open again every time I flex my foot. "That looks like it really hurts," Greg says. "What were you making?" I don't understand at first, but after a few seconds I realize that he is ASSUMING that I sliced my foot open with a kitchen knife. Without even asking me, he just assumes this is what happened. I don't think this is a normal assumption, even when your wife has previously dropped kitchen knives on her feet twice in the last few months. Yes, I am an awful kitchen klutz, and Greg wonders why I insist on keeping the crappy old "brown" knives, when we have a set of really nice, sharp "black" knives (I am deathly afraid of these).
Not that slicing one's foot on the front door is much better, I guess. Now that it's barefoot weather, I prefer to go that way, which is actually pretty safe. It's when I don backless sandals or flipflops that I get clumsy. I absolutely cannot wear backless shoes without having to kind of hold them on and grip them with my toes to keep them on my feet. This sometimes causes tripping and stumbling and any number of klutzy moves. This is how I manged to cut my toe on the door today....by WEARING CRAPPY SHOES. I am continually amazed by people who can walk normally or even run in flipflops. My niece Britta is a pro at this.
So between my backless shoe blunders and my kitchen klutziness, I can sometimes look pretty beat up.
Not that slicing one's foot on the front door is much better, I guess. Now that it's barefoot weather, I prefer to go that way, which is actually pretty safe. It's when I don backless sandals or flipflops that I get clumsy. I absolutely cannot wear backless shoes without having to kind of hold them on and grip them with my toes to keep them on my feet. This sometimes causes tripping and stumbling and any number of klutzy moves. This is how I manged to cut my toe on the door today....by WEARING CRAPPY SHOES. I am continually amazed by people who can walk normally or even run in flipflops. My niece Britta is a pro at this.
So between my backless shoe blunders and my kitchen klutziness, I can sometimes look pretty beat up.
2.12.2008
just a house
I spent my first "night" here in early June, on the floor under the bay windows upstairs, freezing with only one down comforter and just a thin sheet between me and the freshly carpeted floor. We closed on this house in late May, two days later than we'd planned on, so we didn't even spend one night here before leaving on a three-week long vacation through Nevada and California. An extra day in San Francisco ensured that we'd have to marathon it back to Minnesota, where we arrived at our new home at 4:00 a.m., just wanting to collapse into bed. But there was no bed, no furniture at all, in fact. So we camped out under the curtain-less bay windows for two and a half hours, until I had to get up and go to work, where I promptly screwed up cefazolin and vancomycin IVs and generally tried to make my way through the day without killing anyone.
I remember sitting at Subway in Robbinsdale, poring over paint colors from the Sherwin Williams across the street, trying to decide between celery and celadon, and being so young and happy to be buying this house. We painted our bedroom light green (celery?), and the extra bedrooms yellow and blue. They are now known as the blue room and the yellow room. The downstairs bathroom is navy blue, and the paint is scratched off by the door....my dog Spiro clawed at it when he first came to live with us. There is a dent under the bay window in the living room where my other dog Oscar knocked a DVD player into the wall, and a big dent in the front door where a futon once fell down the stairs.
We frequented the unpainted furniture store when we first lived here. We were (mostly) done with cheap Target furniture, but real furniture was too expensive. Instead we bought relatively cheap, but beautiful, unfinished wood bookcases, tables, and even a desk. Our garage became a furniture-finishing studio, and now we have beautiful pieces, but if you look closely you can see inconsistencies in the desk and some drips down by the bottom of the bookcase. And if you were to look under our table you would see that it isn't finished on the underside, instead there are the barely legible words "Greg + Amanda," written by Stephanie and Miranda, two neighborhood girls, nine years old at the time, who saw us working on it out in the garage one autumn day and hung around to "help." I didn't finish over their work, thinking that maybe I would always like to remember that cool autumn day when the four of us worked on furniture and listened to the radio in the garage.
I always put marigolds out in little blue pots on the front porch railing, and hang the wildest-looking hanging basket I can find under the 779 in the spring. The porch is small, but just the right size for three chairs and maybe a dog bed for Schpeds. Oscar's chain is permanently attached to it, although I rarely bother to tie him up. There are a lot of snakes in the fall, but I don't really mind them. In fact, I'm kind of attached to them. The skinny tree out front has grown amazingly well these last few years, but you can still tell where part of it died during that first hard year. The silver maple across the street always has squirrels scampering through it. The very first day we lived here we stood upstairs by the bay windows and I looked out at that maple and declared that this was as good a view as any you could get living in the city. Every spring I sit out on the porch with my Osk and revel in the newly warm air, and read Barbara Kinsolver's "Small Wonder" and Anna Quindlen's essays, too. And I know that there is something beautiful and magic in that quiet neighborhood air, something that comes back every year.
We are arguing tonight, about the possibility of leaving this place, this life that has somehow become ours over the last five years. "I thought you were behind me on this," he says, and I am, but after eleven years he still doesn't understand that my heart loves best that which it can no longer have. And it's just a house, I know, but it's OUR house. You were the one who wanted a house in the first place, not me, and even though I cried for years when we drove past the old apartment, I grew to love this place, too. I look up and see the white hook in the ceiling....you hung it there as a surprise for me while I was at work so I would have a place for my absurdly huge bridal veil plant. And when I walked in I gawked, and you were so excited to surprise me, but I couldn't find the right words to say, and suddenly you knew that I hated it. I did hate it, but despite good intentions we never moved it, and now the plant has died and the hook just hangs there, empty. And I think if we were to leave I would miss looking up at it.
It's not just a house. It's a neighborhood, a dream, a piece of ourselves that isn't portable and never will be. It's who we were, and who we'll never be again. It's memories in every corner that will fade with time. It's the smell of the air in winter, in spring, and the feel of the concrete porch beneath our feet. The hook in the funny spot in the ceiling and the scratched out navy blue paint in the bathroom. The green carpet I picked out and the tan carpet we slept on that first night here. The yellow room and the blue room. Our room. Our life.
I remember sitting at Subway in Robbinsdale, poring over paint colors from the Sherwin Williams across the street, trying to decide between celery and celadon, and being so young and happy to be buying this house. We painted our bedroom light green (celery?), and the extra bedrooms yellow and blue. They are now known as the blue room and the yellow room. The downstairs bathroom is navy blue, and the paint is scratched off by the door....my dog Spiro clawed at it when he first came to live with us. There is a dent under the bay window in the living room where my other dog Oscar knocked a DVD player into the wall, and a big dent in the front door where a futon once fell down the stairs.
We frequented the unpainted furniture store when we first lived here. We were (mostly) done with cheap Target furniture, but real furniture was too expensive. Instead we bought relatively cheap, but beautiful, unfinished wood bookcases, tables, and even a desk. Our garage became a furniture-finishing studio, and now we have beautiful pieces, but if you look closely you can see inconsistencies in the desk and some drips down by the bottom of the bookcase. And if you were to look under our table you would see that it isn't finished on the underside, instead there are the barely legible words "Greg + Amanda," written by Stephanie and Miranda, two neighborhood girls, nine years old at the time, who saw us working on it out in the garage one autumn day and hung around to "help." I didn't finish over their work, thinking that maybe I would always like to remember that cool autumn day when the four of us worked on furniture and listened to the radio in the garage.
I always put marigolds out in little blue pots on the front porch railing, and hang the wildest-looking hanging basket I can find under the 779 in the spring. The porch is small, but just the right size for three chairs and maybe a dog bed for Schpeds. Oscar's chain is permanently attached to it, although I rarely bother to tie him up. There are a lot of snakes in the fall, but I don't really mind them. In fact, I'm kind of attached to them. The skinny tree out front has grown amazingly well these last few years, but you can still tell where part of it died during that first hard year. The silver maple across the street always has squirrels scampering through it. The very first day we lived here we stood upstairs by the bay windows and I looked out at that maple and declared that this was as good a view as any you could get living in the city. Every spring I sit out on the porch with my Osk and revel in the newly warm air, and read Barbara Kinsolver's "Small Wonder" and Anna Quindlen's essays, too. And I know that there is something beautiful and magic in that quiet neighborhood air, something that comes back every year.
We are arguing tonight, about the possibility of leaving this place, this life that has somehow become ours over the last five years. "I thought you were behind me on this," he says, and I am, but after eleven years he still doesn't understand that my heart loves best that which it can no longer have. And it's just a house, I know, but it's OUR house. You were the one who wanted a house in the first place, not me, and even though I cried for years when we drove past the old apartment, I grew to love this place, too. I look up and see the white hook in the ceiling....you hung it there as a surprise for me while I was at work so I would have a place for my absurdly huge bridal veil plant. And when I walked in I gawked, and you were so excited to surprise me, but I couldn't find the right words to say, and suddenly you knew that I hated it. I did hate it, but despite good intentions we never moved it, and now the plant has died and the hook just hangs there, empty. And I think if we were to leave I would miss looking up at it.
It's not just a house. It's a neighborhood, a dream, a piece of ourselves that isn't portable and never will be. It's who we were, and who we'll never be again. It's memories in every corner that will fade with time. It's the smell of the air in winter, in spring, and the feel of the concrete porch beneath our feet. The hook in the funny spot in the ceiling and the scratched out navy blue paint in the bathroom. The green carpet I picked out and the tan carpet we slept on that first night here. The yellow room and the blue room. Our room. Our life.
1.28.2008
movie night in suburbia
For CAM eyes, mostly....
I went to the movies tonight. Because Paul couldn't come and fix the car and I felt too shitty to go to the gym. And it seemed a little sacreligious to go for those reasons, but it was the only movie I ever remember really wanting to see my whole life, and I know we should have seen it together, but I'm not going to Baltimore, you're not coming here, and meeting in Colorado really isn't the middle, after all.
I wore pearl earrings, fake, left over from Friday's job interview, and a Kansas City Royals baseball cap. Which is probably what I would have worn if it had been you and me going, and not me and him. It was warm out, unseasonably warm, and it was raining and smelled like spring even though the weatherpeople say that it will be below zero by tomorrow.
And I sit there in the old run-down place, very conscious that you are not next to me, and I am riveted, but not so much that I can't think. In my head I write a beautiful essay, all about the day you were born, which was the day I was born, and all of the April 1sts that I can remember. It makes me feel a little old to think that in two months it will be ten years since I spent your birthday snowed in in a shitty old motel room in Seligman, Arizona. I remember another time when it snowed and I took my new doll Molly over to my friend Lisa's house on your eleventh birthday, which was, of course, my eleventh birthday as well. Maybe someday I will write it for real, for your eyes only, or maybe just for mine. But I felt you there somehow, or maybe just felt you SOMEwhere, in a Baltimore hospital, maybe, or sleeping in your car.
I wonder if you saw the movie; I pictured you sitting in a theater like the old one I was in, in Maryland, or Boston, perhaps, Jasen beside you or maybe Jaime, too, or maybe just you alone. I watch those scenes on the big screen and think of the places we've been together, places that used to be ours, but are no longer, because I have been back to almost all of them with someone else. Except for Michigan, which will probably always be ours no matter who else I ever go there with, and I know I will. And you probably will, too, but I can't picture it and maybe I'll never believe it.
The movie ends and we walk outside, me carrying my coat. It's still warm. And he turns to me and I look away and we walk to the car and he follows me, of course, because this is how things are. And I'm glad, but I still make the conscious choice not to turn around. Sometimes life changes, or doesn't, because of a conscious choice not to turn around.
I try not to cry as we drive back to Saint Paul, through the suburbs and Minneapolis and Grand Avenue and along Lexington. And I am not sad because I regret any choices I've made, but just because sometimes the world is so beautiful and we have to leave some of it behind. And he understands and doesn't understand at the same time, and maybe that is why things have worked out the way they have.
I went to the movies tonight. Because Paul couldn't come and fix the car and I felt too shitty to go to the gym. And it seemed a little sacreligious to go for those reasons, but it was the only movie I ever remember really wanting to see my whole life, and I know we should have seen it together, but I'm not going to Baltimore, you're not coming here, and meeting in Colorado really isn't the middle, after all.
I wore pearl earrings, fake, left over from Friday's job interview, and a Kansas City Royals baseball cap. Which is probably what I would have worn if it had been you and me going, and not me and him. It was warm out, unseasonably warm, and it was raining and smelled like spring even though the weatherpeople say that it will be below zero by tomorrow.
And I sit there in the old run-down place, very conscious that you are not next to me, and I am riveted, but not so much that I can't think. In my head I write a beautiful essay, all about the day you were born, which was the day I was born, and all of the April 1sts that I can remember. It makes me feel a little old to think that in two months it will be ten years since I spent your birthday snowed in in a shitty old motel room in Seligman, Arizona. I remember another time when it snowed and I took my new doll Molly over to my friend Lisa's house on your eleventh birthday, which was, of course, my eleventh birthday as well. Maybe someday I will write it for real, for your eyes only, or maybe just for mine. But I felt you there somehow, or maybe just felt you SOMEwhere, in a Baltimore hospital, maybe, or sleeping in your car.
I wonder if you saw the movie; I pictured you sitting in a theater like the old one I was in, in Maryland, or Boston, perhaps, Jasen beside you or maybe Jaime, too, or maybe just you alone. I watch those scenes on the big screen and think of the places we've been together, places that used to be ours, but are no longer, because I have been back to almost all of them with someone else. Except for Michigan, which will probably always be ours no matter who else I ever go there with, and I know I will. And you probably will, too, but I can't picture it and maybe I'll never believe it.
The movie ends and we walk outside, me carrying my coat. It's still warm. And he turns to me and I look away and we walk to the car and he follows me, of course, because this is how things are. And I'm glad, but I still make the conscious choice not to turn around. Sometimes life changes, or doesn't, because of a conscious choice not to turn around.
I try not to cry as we drive back to Saint Paul, through the suburbs and Minneapolis and Grand Avenue and along Lexington. And I am not sad because I regret any choices I've made, but just because sometimes the world is so beautiful and we have to leave some of it behind. And he understands and doesn't understand at the same time, and maybe that is why things have worked out the way they have.
1.25.2008
kennel, anyone??
So my normally sweet dog Spiro, affectionately known as SpirShadow, has always had somewhat of a trash-surfing problem. But he's so sweet, and he really doesn't know he's doing anything wrong; he will happily show off his treasures of moldy cheese and half-chewed old toothbrushes with complete shamelessness. And poor Spirs has gone through some lean times before he lived with us, so we try to overlook his forays into the trash, after all, it's as much our fault for leaving trash where he could reach it as it is his.
But lately we have wised up a bit, closing bathroom doors when we leave the house and putting any other items of interest (as far as we can tell) up out of canine reach. This has frustrated the Spirs a bit, but apparently not deterred him at all. The following is a list of items the Spirs has consumed (or attempted to)over the past week:
-3 toothbrushes
-an entire loaf of bread
-2 remote controls
-1 bottle of Selsun Blue Shampoo (really, WTF??!?)
-2 kitchen knives
-2 boxes of rat treats
-a bag of rat chow
-half a pound of jelly beans
-a can of soup (can only)
-several Q-tips (the evidence is in his copious Spir-poos)
-several paper towels and tissues
-month-old rotten turkey salad (breaking a glass on the floor in that process)
-licorice herbal tea bags
-2 tupperware lids
-disposable razor (handle only, thanks for small favors)
-toilet paper roll
-salsa jar and lid (he gets into the recycling now, too)
-several bowls of Oscar's food and special enzyme pills
-probably more things that I haven't yet discovered and frankly don't even want to know about.
A certain brown SpirShadow is now going to be locked in a kennel whenever we leave the house in the future, as he has demonstrated a complete inability to behave when left to his own devices. And to think, this ISN'T the dog that we call "The Evil One."
But lately we have wised up a bit, closing bathroom doors when we leave the house and putting any other items of interest (as far as we can tell) up out of canine reach. This has frustrated the Spirs a bit, but apparently not deterred him at all. The following is a list of items the Spirs has consumed (or attempted to)over the past week:
-3 toothbrushes
-an entire loaf of bread
-2 remote controls
-1 bottle of Selsun Blue Shampoo (really, WTF??!?)
-2 kitchen knives
-2 boxes of rat treats
-a bag of rat chow
-half a pound of jelly beans
-a can of soup (can only)
-several Q-tips (the evidence is in his copious Spir-poos)
-several paper towels and tissues
-month-old rotten turkey salad (breaking a glass on the floor in that process)
-licorice herbal tea bags
-2 tupperware lids
-disposable razor (handle only, thanks for small favors)
-toilet paper roll
-salsa jar and lid (he gets into the recycling now, too)
-several bowls of Oscar's food and special enzyme pills
-probably more things that I haven't yet discovered and frankly don't even want to know about.
A certain brown SpirShadow is now going to be locked in a kennel whenever we leave the house in the future, as he has demonstrated a complete inability to behave when left to his own devices. And to think, this ISN'T the dog that we call "The Evil One."
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