I arise at 6:30 a.m. to start the day. We are headed off today for a vacation of camping in a yurt by Hooker Lake in far northern Minnesota. The yurt is located right on the edge of the Boundary Waters Canoe Area (BWCA) so our hope is to also make a day trip by canoe into the BWCA. My hubby loves the solitude of the wilderness.
“Moo, moo” is the sound that reaches my ears as I exit the house. “Why, little one, are you standing in that pasture all by yourself?” I question the wayward bovine out loud. I sigh! I am in my pajamas, and this is how the day begins. I scan the fence line but do not see any wire on the ground – just a calf stuck on the wrong side. I shuffle out into the pasture, drop down the fence opening and shoo the wayward animal back to the others. I call to Claire, the dog, to get her to continue on with me to the barn to feed the cattle but she just sits on the sidewalk and gazes after me. Oh well, she will have to do her business at the kennel.
A ping and a plunk echoes through the air as we pull away from the garage, on time, no less. What was that? I step out to investigate. The tennis ball that dangles from a cord and descends when the garage door opens has caught on the bike rack on the back of the car. It has been catapulted across the garage as the cord popped with the tension. This is not the first time this has happened, but all is well otherwise and we are off.
Our drive to Grand Marias up Hwy 52, then I35, and State 61 goes without incident. We arrive around 3 p.m. We turn north on the Gunflint Trail and wind our way 28 miles until we arrive at Lime Grade Drive, a narrow gravel road through the forest. After a couple of miles, the GPS tells us to turn right on Little Ollie Drive. I thought we were already on it. After wandering onward for a few more miles down this shale path, we arrive at Little Ollie Bed & Breakfast tucked back in a pine and birch forest. It reminds me of the enchanted forest with trails coursing through the yard. We approach an enclosed porch that seems unoccupied, and our knock goes unanswered. Since silence is the only response we receive, the front door of the Bed & Breakfast seems like it might be a better choice. At least it has a doorbell. I push the button a couple of times before I hear a soft sound of footsteps.
A slightly bowed elderly lady pushes open the door, “If you had come around to the back it would have been so much easier,” she says.
There wasn’t any sign directing customers to the back and I would never have guessed that I was supposed to go down the hill and around the back of the house but OK. She leads us through the first level of the house and slowly down the basement stairs into the company office.
“I have no help this year,” she shares, “and I can’t afford to hire anyone with Covid shutting us down last year. We have no money, and my husband had a stroke recently. But you don’t need to know all that,” she finishes.
What a bummer! I am perplexed. Why is this elderly woman trying to run a Boundary Waters Canoe outfitting company in this situation especially when the internet advertising seems to indicate a host of services available? It just seems rather sad. It is a good thing we didn’t plan on hiring a guide to accompany us on our adventure into the Boundary Waters. Oh well! Our primary goal is to rent her yurt in the woods by Hooker Lake and we were hoping, maybe, to have her haul a canoe for us – not guide or supply us for a BWCA venture.
After we settle our bill, discuss weather, and plans, we climb back into our Subaru and head out to the yurt. A yurt is a round canvas structure much like a tent but large enough to stand up in and move around comfortably. It was often used as a primary residence by nomads in Mongolia, Russia, and Turkey.
“I don’t know if you can drive to the yurt,” she informs us. “It’s really rocky and muddy since we had lots of rain.”
Hmmm… I really don’t want to walk in and out a ½ mile every time we want to leave.
“I will take you and your things with the pickup, and you can see what you think,” she continues.
We follow the diminutive lady who can hardly see over the steering wheel in her pickup with our car as we turn down a beaten path. It doesn’t look so bad to me – a little rough, a few rocks to dodge – that’s all. Finally, she pulls over at a bend in the path.
“I think we should stop here and see what you think.” As she and I stroll along the barren wheel track path with foot high grass growing in the middle, she points out the mud puddles, the rocks and the rough terrain. It only looks like a normal farm field drive to me, but we agree to ride in with her to test it out. She seems so worried for us. The old battered pickup bounces over the obstacles and we are jerked this way and that. Soon through the trees, we spy a small wood shack that is identified as the sauna. Just a little farther in tucked into the birch and pines is the yurt. And to the southwest just visible in the distance is Hooker Lake.
Our guide gives Dave some instructions on firing the woodstove for heat, lighting the gas cooking stove, and the use of the water and then she roars away in her pickup that has seen better days. I am getting the very distinct feeling that she is not really prepared for us to be using the facilities.
“I’m going to walk out and get the car,” I holler to hubby. My walk provides a chance to survey the rocky route up close. I am pretty confident that I can traverse this with limited difficulty. My car has a smaller wheelbase than her truck allowing for sneaking between some of the rocks that she has been bouncing over. I think I maybe have some better springs and shocks as well as the road is not nearly as rough in my vehicle and soon, I am back at the yurt. That was a piece of cake!
Our temporary home has two sets of bunk beds and a futon with a bunk over it along one circular side. There is a table and chairs in the middle of the structure. The wood cast iron stove, the gas cook stove, and a stainless-steel cart for holding water containers and dishes lines the other ½ circular side. The center top sports a clear dome through which the sky is visible, and the lighting always seems to give the impression that the light is on.
Soon, it is time for supper. The menu is brats and mashed potatoes rehydrated from dry flakes. Neither one of us is into making a fire outside tonight so we decide to heat things on the stove. Dave turns on the gas to the burner marked RF and holds a match over the circle. Several matches burn themselves out or try to burn his fingers without the burner lighting. All of a sudden, there is a huge whoosh and a ball of flame shoots up. Both of us jump back startled.
“Are you OK? The back burner just lit,” I repeat several times to Dave.
“It couldn’t have,” he keeps reiterating.
Finally, he decides to test my theory and turns the handle marked RF but holds the match over the back burner. It lights instantly. He does the reverse with the RR and the front burner lights. Well, that’s a wee bit of a safety hazard.
The wind dies down to a perfect calm by 9 p.m. A loon’s call echoes in the distance. In the stillness, we read by the light of the lantern.
“Should I make whoopie pies for you for Christmas?” questioned my husband.
My mouth began to water before I could even answer. “I would love that.” My mother made these special treats for us at Christmas time while growing up in Pennsylvania. Here in Minnesota if one mentions Whoopie pies, he is met with quizzical looks. So, what is a whoopie pie? It is two round mound-shaped pieces of cake with a sweet cream filling sandwiched between them. According to “What’s Cooking America?”, they have their origins with the Amish in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. This dessert springs from my Pennsylvania Dutch heritage.
Hubby was trying to explain this foreign delight to his employee, Alex, just a few days before Christmas. But an explanation of its goodness does not begin to compare with the actual taste of the completed dessert. “Can you spare a whoopie pie to give to Alex?” he questioned.
“Of course!” I packaged one up to be delivered to him on Christmas Eve.
Alex decided that he would save the scrumptious sweet to share with his wife at home. However, his just-turned-three-year-old son and six-year-old daughter needed to be picked up from Grandma and Grandpas before heading for home. And then the questions began, “Dad, what’s that?”, “Can we eat it?
Alex scrambled to come up with a plan that would leave the whoopie pie for him and his wife to enjoy. A brilliant idea occurred to him. It was Christmas Eve after all.
“How about we save the whoopie pie to put out for Santa Claus tonight?” He encouraged the young ones with a laugh.
As bedtime approached, Son and Daughter excitedly helped carry the whoopie pie, some other cookies, and a glass of milk to the coffee table by the Christmas tree.
“Time for bed. Santa can’t come until you are asleep.”
Both excited children were soon tucked in bed and the adults sat talking in the kitchen. As the minutes ticked by, Alex realized that his young son had not appeared in the doorway as was the ritual that occurred on other nights. That’s strange. I better go check on him.
The room was quiet as he approached it. Peeking into the dimly lit room, he noticed Son perched in the corner of the room with his feet tucked under him. Brown crumbs stuck to his cheeks and littered the floor around him.
“Did you eat the Whoopie pie?”
A vigorous shaking of the head back and forth followed the question. “No, I didn’t eat it.”
But the evidence said it all and Alex knew he needed to have a discussion with the child about not telling the truth. A smile was poking at the corner of his lips, though, and he needed to escape the room. His wife would have to have this discussion. He had an overwhelming desire to laugh. How his son had gotten the goodie, he did not know. What he did know was his well laid plans for Santa and a taste of the whoopie pie had been derailed by a small child.
I am always looking
for new books to read. I especially love non-fiction novels about the lives of
others. I want to know how they dealt with the experiences in their lives and
how it worked out for them. I came across a book entitled “Educated” by Tara
Westover. It is a New York Times best seller. My curiosity was triggered, and I
bought the book.
It is a story about Tara
Westover’s life growing up in a Mormon family in Idaho. Even by Mormon
standards, her father especially, is an outsider in his own faith tradition.
Eccentric might be another term that one would use. Tara and some of her other
younger siblings are never sent to school and their so-called “homeschooling”
is basically no schooling. Her father believes school will contaminate his
children to the world- a world in which he sees himself as God’s prophet.
There are so many
psychological and religious issues in this story that I can relate to on so
many levels from my own personal experience. Although, I grew up Mennonite and
not Mormon and the religious beliefs are different, the cultural dynamics are
First, Tara grows up in a family where the father is the ruler and women are seen as needing to always be submissive to men. This is a standard Mormon belief as well as one of many evangelical Christians, but her father uses that belief to control and to manipulate his family into a separate kind of lifestyle ruled by paranoia of everything “out there”, religious superiority, and an expectation of family loyalty. He does this through demanding an adherence to a distorted preaching of his faith as the one and true faith, by shaming his children if they so much as show any interest in how others live and attempt to copy that behavior. I couldn’t help but make that connection to my own father. Though my father was not nearly as off-center as Mr. Westover, I recognized the same behavior from my childhood. The result is the child feels alone and unable to connect with anyone often for life.
Tara finds herself
alienated from everyone in her world except her family. She sits alone in
Sunday School and of course, she has no friends for two reasons. She feels
different from everyone else and her father makes sure that she has no time or
opportunity to cultivate friendships with others. He stresses that girls she
meets are not good enough for her. Her father uses his faith to condemn them as
not living the way a person of God should live. She, therefore, feels guilty
for even wanting to associate with such “wicked” people.
Tara, even after she
leaves home and goes to college, finds herself unable to fit in and at odds
with pretty much everyone. I don’t think she, for many years, recognizes that
this is a result of the socialization or lack thereof from her home life. It is
deeply and complexly rooted in the emotional, psychological, religious, and
cultural dynamics of her early years. I find it interesting that she titles the
book, “Educated,” as if obtaining an education is what moves her to a place in
society that she is accepted as “normal” by others. The lack of education is a
handicap and with certainty will keep her a captive in her father’s strange
world, but it is not what makes her feel alone, strange, and like she doesn’t
belong in the new world that she explores. Getting educated will not fix what
is broken inside of her from her childhood. It only gives her a better platform
from which the self can say, “Now I am somebody.” I did the same thing. I went
to school and got a master’s degree and a job that is viewed with respect and
awe. And while working in it, I feel strong, accepted, and like I have worth. But
outside of it, I still feel friendless and different from everyone else. I
watch Tara as the story progresses feeling this total alienation from others
and struggling with it. From my own experience, I have learned the feeling
never goes away. One simply has to learn to be comfortable with being alone and
knowing that this is who I am.
A part of her psychic also does the same thing that I did with my family even after leaving. It longs for the love of one’s parents and siblings. Tara, like me, keeps coming back to the family trying to convince them of reality and what is right. Even though on a logical level, one comes to understand that one’s family is mentally unhealthy, there is this deep seated need to stay connected to them. Afterall, if those who bore you and nurtured you in childhood don’t love you, then why would anyone else especially God. Tara loses herself and becomes mentally unstable for a year after she realizes that her family does not want to know the truth that one son has been viciously abusing other members. Her parents are not interested in addressing the problems in the family and the highest value of loyalty makes everyone choose to accept “the delusion that they are one big happy family” which will allow them to remain part of the family. Tara realizes that the family “truth” and loyalty are more important than loving her. This is devastating to her.
What really destroys her is that her mother betrays
her in this battle to expose evil. Her mother one minute acknowledges to Tara
that she knows about and will speak to her father about Shawn’s unacceptable
behavior. But when there is an actual confrontation, her mother turns against
her and sides with her father. Her mother tries to destroy Tara’s reputation
and character. For the mother to stand
against the patriarch of the family requires too high of a price. It reminds me
so much of my own mother who swung from seemingly being rational to total denial
and perpetrating vicious attacks on my character. It leaves one very confused
and in the case of Tara, she cannot concentrate enough to even study. She falls
into a deep depression. She had this deep-seated hope that her family would
change because of her speaking the truth. But her family, like mine, was
incapable of changing. Denial is a powerful substance that keeps the system
stable no matter how dysfunctional. Only the individual has the power to change
and often doesn’t because of these pressures from different aspects of society
to conform, especially the family of origin and one’s religious community.
If you enjoy exploring the complex dynamics of
families, “Educated” is a compelling read. My books “If You Leave This Farm”
and “No Longer a Child of Promise” also explore many of the same dynamics. My
third book, “Once An Insider, Now Without a Church Home” explores the same
dynamics and pressures within the evangelical church as found within the
family. One is only a friend and a member as long as one follows the dictated
expected behavior and norms.
I appreciate all those who have the courage to write
their stories. It helps me to know that I am really not alone and that I don’t
need to be ashamed to share my own story.
I love camping but putting up a tent and sleeping on the ground is good more for groans than a fun time when one reaches 60 years old. So I get brave and ask a friend if we can borrow their tent camper for this year.
have to tell you the lights don’t work,” she informs me.
a problem,” I declare, “Do you care if my husband fixes it for you?”
would be fine.”
pick up the camper on a Sunday afternoon a couple of weeks before our planned
trip in order to have time to make the repairs and test out our pop-up tent
raising ability. Our friends and Hubby struggle to get the camper trailer
hitched to the truck. The latch doesn’t want to drop over the ball hitch and as
stated, the lights don’t work – not even one of them. But the hitch finally cooperates
and snaps into place.
home, my Hubby who is wearing a neck brace after obtaining a C4 fracture from
falling down a customer’s stairs, has the privilege of backing the camper up by
the shed. He accomplishes this with ease in spite of not being able to turn his
head. That little camera on the tailgate in back of the truck is a nifty
addition to the backing up task. But when we go to unhook and crank the stand
down, the hitch has no intention of releasing the ball on the truck.
about a little WD40?” I suggest.
after a soaking in the magical fluid, the hitch remains tightly locked. Looks
like we are going to be attached to this truck from this day forward.
if I drive the truck ahead a little,” is Hubby’s thought.
coasts the truck a few inches. With a snap, the hitch rotates down and the ball
releases. Oh Wow! It might have worked better if we had thought of that sooner.
couple of days later, we decide to make sure we know how to put up the camper
before we set out on our journey. My hubby gets out his electrical handyman –
his voltage tester. All the electrical connections test out as working and when
we put the connections together, all the lights work except the right rear one.
What was wrong with it? Maybe the connections were a little corroded from
sitting around and that WD40 did its magic there too. At least there doesn’t
seem to be a significant problem.
start the process of cranking up the popup top. We make quite the pair. My
hubby in his neck brace and stiff me trying to crawl around under the bed ends
to insert the stabilizers and under the camper to put the feet down. I peer
inside the camper as the roof moves skyward. A small rivulet slides down the
inside screen and pools on the kitchen counter. A larger pool gushes off of the
expanding canvas into the front bed.
I holler, “We need to catch the leaks.”
up all the unwelcome water with 2 blankets close by. Still, the dampness meets
my hand as I touch the bed surface. The same dampness is present underneath the
mattress. Time to set up the fans and dry out the interior. We are not really
sure where the water actually came in. This could be a rude awakening if it
drips on us in the middle of the night. We are hoping it just came from the
unsecured opening in the top. At least our excursion has resulted in us feeling
proudly confident in our ability to set this thing up even as cripples.
next order of business is to change the hitch on the truck that we will be
using to one that allows the camper to tow more levelly. It soon becomes
apparent that the current hitch has been on the truck far too long. It is
rusted into place. The WD40 can is emptied and the hammer is swung over and
over. The hitch does not budge. I craw under the truck and try to hammer from
the backside. Soon I am covered in rust stains and WD40 spatters. Light beige
colored pants really are not a good choice for this job. Hubby soon goes off to town to buy another
can of WD40 and we begin our efforts again. Was that a little movement that I
see? After over an hour of spraying and hammering, the hitch begins to move
with each bang of the hammer. “Hurrah!” I cheer. “You have done it.” Now we are
ready to camp.
July 11, 2019
We get up at the usual time of 6:30 am. Hubby makes a trip downtown with instructions for his help and I feed the cat, move the calves around, and get the rest of our stuff together.
We have no problems with hooking the camper and soon are on our way. I think I have done well this time, but I am sure there is something that I have forgotten. Even with his neck brace, Hubby feels he can drive with a little assistance from me. We do have to stop at the shop and pick up his sunglasses.
We make several stops during our travels and realize that the camper trailer lights only work sporadically. Oh well! It pulls well with the pickup with being able to use the truck trailer braking system. The last time we towed a popup camper with our Toyota RAV 4, it made us extremely light in the front end and difficult to handle. That time we had to stop and move our bicycles to the top of the car to distribute the weight more evenly.
We decide to stop at the Reiman Gardens in Ames, Iowa run by Iowa State University. We wander through flowers and vegetables and butterflies- paths that twist and turn amongst beautiful waterfalls. It is a warm day but not totally uncomfortable.
Around 3:30, we head for Ledges State Park by Boone, Iowa. We miss the entrance on our first pass through. I am expecting a well-kept, well-staffed entrance booth. The sign that points towards the “Park Office” seems misleading. It looks like a maintenance building, not what I think of as a park office. After realizing we have passed the park, we swing around in the middle of the road and head back again towards what I think looks like a park entrance building. It is the right place but there is no one staffing it. It seems to be a “register yourself” kind of thing. Well, we have reservations, so we decide to just go set up our campsite. And there is the green reservation card waiting for us.
Our trial run of setting up the camper at home pays off as we are efficient and competent. Starting our little Coleman camping stove does not turn out quite so efficient though. It has been probably five years or longer since we have used it and Hubby just can’t get it to light. He pumps and he pumps and he pumps but it just won’t light. Of course, when all else fails and it looks like there will be no supper, one should read the directions. Reading them slowly and carefully is helpful too. It says “turn lighting lever up, with a lighted match over main burner, open valve completely and light. After flame turn blue, turn lever down.” Clear as mud. Which is the light lever, and which is the valve? Hubby does vary his technique and at least we get flame- leaping dancing orange flame but it is flame, just not blue flame. After some more fiddling around, he finally gets the flame under control and supper is in the making.
And I now discover what I have forgotten – the water jug to carry our water. It wouldn’t be camping without a major forgotten item. I search through the camper and come up with a shiny blue covered cooking pot. That will work dandily.
We sit outdoors in the warm evening glow and enjoy the birds singing, the mosquitoes chomping on us, and the myriad sounds of nature. We do realize that the bathroom is quite a distance from us. Around the circle, down the road, turn right, walk another ¼ mile and circle again. Bummer. Don’t think I will be going over there in the middle of the night.
July 12, 2019
Scritch, scratch, scratch, scratch… I am awakened in the dark of night. What is that scurrying in the grass outside of our camper? Hubby is awake too and hands me the flashlight. I press the light against the screen of our sleeping area. Two sets of shadowy eyes glare back at me from the top of the picnic table. Ugh… I had left one empty package from our supper on the picnic table as I forgot to take it away with the garbage. It was weighed down with the water kettle. But those little bandits have found it and are busily chewing away on the smell of chicken and noodles. At least it is not a boogie man.
The night cools off and the air becomes deliciously cool. We snuggle down in our sleeping bags, but I still have a hard time sleeping. Hubby rolls over every hour or so, rocking the camper like a ship on the wavy sea. I briefly wonder if those cheap metal poles designed for holding up this extended sleeping end of the camper really are strong enough. I have visions of us awaking looking at the ground.
We finally slide out of our bed around 7 am and begin the routine for the day. Our breakfast consists of fried sunny-side-up eggs cooked over our gas stove. This morning, the lighting of it goes much more smoothly. Hot chocolate, Italian bread, and donuts complete our meal. After cleanup, we are soon on the road to the Boone and Scenic Valley Railroad in Boone. We have tickets for the 11 am train ride. Or at least, that is what I thought. The gentleman at the desk looks at me and says, “Do you have reservations for the 1 pm train?”
I pause. “No, we have reservations for the 11 am train.”
there is no train at 11 am on Friday. Your reservation is for Saturday.”
stare at the ticket and then I stare at my watch and back at the ticket. “Ah
man. I must be mixed up. I thought today was Saturday.” Anyway, its nothing new
to me to be confused. OK, I guess we will come back tomorrow.
and I wander around the museum for a while and then decide to head out and
explore. One of the items of interest that I had come across on the internet
and in travel brochures was the Kate Skelly Memorial Train Bridge. I could not
find an address for it and one person who had commented said that he had to
travel some country roads to find it. Google had marked it on a map for me as
being east of Boone at about U Ave off 190th St. We leave town
driving east. I do like the coolness of the truck in the 90-degree heat but as
we drive along, Hubby questions our direction. “We have to go down to the
river. There is nothing but flat farmland here. There would be no reason to
build a railroad bridge here.”
I pull out a bicycle map Hubby has picked up and study it. Maybe our underlying
information is wrong. The Des Moines River runs west of Boone and for the
railroad track to cross it, the bridge needs to be on the west side of the
city. We turn around and head west. There are no signs anywhere indicating
where this bridge might be. First, we follow a major route west from Boone.
Once we cross the Des Moines River with no sign of the bridge, we realize we
have gone too far. Time to turn around again. I remember a road that we passed
earlier that indicated it was a dead end. Maybe that is the one that goes along
the tracks and will give us a view of the famous bridge. As we drive along, the
road gets curvier and rougher. We bounce down the hill over rocks and washouts
until we reach the end of the road.
that was a waste of time,” remarks Hubby.
Look,” I point through the trees. “There it is.”
sure enough, the tall stately bridge is visible in the distance through the
trees. We tiptoe through the flood ravaged backwaters to the edge of the De
Moines River. What a magnificent view! We are only wishing that a train would
come over the bridge about now and Hubby would have the perfect photographic opportunity.
But it is a hot day and the mosquitoes think we are tasty, so we do not linger
long. We make our way back up the rock-strewn path and turn down another washed
up road that has the potential to take us maybe to the other side of the bridge
further downstream. This road does take us over the double railroad tracks on
our path downward to the river. “Look for Trains,” says a big sign on a
trailer. There are none to be seen.
This gravel road does give us a different vantage point, but the bridge seems further away, and we soon retreat to the coolness of the truck. As we drive back up and make the turn to again cross the tracks, I state the obvious, “Look for the train.” The words are no sooner out of my mouth and whoosh, an engine whizzes by followed by a second one just a few seconds later on the second track. Together the trains hurdle towards the Kate Skelley Bridge. “Ah Man! I wasn’t ready for that one,” blurts Hubby.
It is obvious that this tourist attraction is not advertised and only accessible to those who seek diligently. Hunger and heat soon drive us back to the campgrounds though, where we throw together a lunch of spam sandwiches, chips, and Oreo cookies. Then it is nap time.
We spend the afternoon driving around checking out Madrid and many back-country roads. We locate another high bridge, the High Trestle Trail Bridge, just out of Madrid that is used for a bike trail. The easiest access is a mile walk from the parking lot to the bridge. We shake our head that no, we do not want to walk a mile in 90-degree heat. We will come back later this evening when the sun is going down and it is getting cooler.
Later in the day, the sky has clouded over, so we decide to leave the campsite around 8:25 pm for the drive to the bridge parking lot. The sun is orange in the sky and sinking toward the horizon. We will be too late for a sunset picture at the bridge, but we are hoping with it now being cloudy that it will not be so hot. The trail slopes gently downward through the trees- not a hard walk. Even so, the sweat bubbles out on my brow and soon is making rivulets down my back. The mosquitoes decide to check us out as well and we soon slather more Deet on our already coated arms and face. Hubby keeps saying, “I don’t know if I can do this.”
you glad we didn’t try to walk this at 2 pm this afternoon?” is my comeback. It
is only a .4-mile hike to the actual bike trail. There we are met by masses of
people moving rhythmically toward the bridge – like worshippers drawn to the
object of adoration. We melt into the flowing crowd. Bicycles with lights and
loud music blast past us while the slower walking people meander along. Now
that we have reached the trail, it is only another .5 miles to the bridge. However,
with sweat running places you don’t want to know about, it calls for fortitude
and the persistence of putting one foot ahead of the other. The air is still
and hangs heavy in the slowly darkening sky. The moon sits high in the sky and
thrusts lengthening shadows for the silhouettes now moving on the path.
near the bridge, we can see the white light that illuminates the entrance
pillars. The bridge itself is another .5 miles in length as it spans the Des
Moines River from 130 feet in the air. Part way across, it is lit by blue LED
lights. This is the spectacle we have come to see. It provides a photo
opportunity for my hubby’s hobby. Below us, the river flows lazily along
illuminated by the light of the moon. We spend about a ½ hour on the bridge and
then turn to trudge our way slowly back to the parking lot on the now dark path
through the maze of ambling people and speeding bicycles. A moonlight walk on a
hot July night does hold some romantic essence to it.
July 13, 2019
The fans in the camper keep us cooled down enough to sleep. We get more rest than the first night. I awake to rain splotches on the canvas. But it doesn’t last long. The weather is cloudy providing some measure of relief from the heat. It is actually quite comfortable this morning. Hubby cooks some pancakes for breakfast and then we decide to head out to the Kate Skelly Bridge again to see if we can catch a picture with a train crossing the trestle. Rain drops splatter on our windshield as we drive, and we decide that we do not want to be drenched for our train ride later. Rather than going down by the river, we stop on top of the hill where the trains pass by before entering the trestle. Soon it stops raining. Then I notice the railroad signal has changed to green on one track and to red on the other.
“I bet there is a train coming on each track. One going one way and one going the other,” hubby deduces.
bet you wish we had gone down below,” I respond.
but it’s too late now.”
ten minutes, we are graced with a train horn and a speeding train. And then
another one. Bummer. We should have gone down to the river and waited. We have
missed the opportunity.
head back to Boone for our lunch train run at 11 am – the one I thought we were
supposed to do yesterday. It is an 11-mile trip to Wolf, IA and back in the
comfort of air-conditioned reconditioned train cars. For some reason we are the
next to last ones called to board and they need to ask us who we are.
have room for you. Don’t worry,” says the conductor.
are seated at our table, he brings us two tickets, “Here are your tickets.”
Hubby and I raise our eyebrows at each other and shrug. We already have tickets. Did we mess them up by picking up our tickets the previous day? We will never know.
ride is pleasant. It is hard for Hubby to turn to see out with his neck brace
and to top it off, he is the one going backward. They stop the train at the
trestle so that we can look out and take pictures. There are no guardrails on
the tracks. It is straight down from the railroad tracks to the valley below- a
little too freaky for this “afraid of heights” person. But the scenery is
magnificent and when we think we have been forgotten with the food; it arrives.
We have pulled pork sandwiches, baked beans, and scalloped potatoes. Our ride
ends around 2 pm and we head back to the campground for a nap.
our morning drive to Boone, we had discovered the canyon and sandstone cliffs
that are part of the campground. We decide to return in the afternoon. There
are several places where the water flows over the road and we need to drive
through it. This morning, no one was around but now there are crowds of people
picnicking and frolicking in the water. The sweat again pours out of us with
little exertion and to walk seems like a huge effort. But I am drawn to the
water and I take off my shoes and socks and go wading. I expect a shock from
the cold of the water, but it is warm like bathwater – hardly cool enough to
cool one off. But it does feel sweet to the feet. Then I remember I probably
should not be wading with my cell phone in my thigh pants pocket – just in case
I fall in.
Children line the sides of the road where the cars drive through the flowing water and cheer for each car, “Faster, Faster, Faster.” Many drivers comply but Hubby just smiles and waves at them. I wonder how many cars end up with flooded engines from this practice.
We head back to the campsite mainly because we are not tolerating the heat very well to relax some before our supper. We struggle with the camp stove again as we do at every meal. Beef stroganoff is the food on the menu followed by Smore’s. It is too hot for a fire, but one cannot go camping without roasting marshmallows over a fire and making finger licking smore’s. The fire is soon crackling away. We settle into our camp chairs to read until our one bundle of wood burns away and the mosquitos are urging us to “take it indoors.” I decide to leave the garbage on the table until we make a trip to the wash house before bed. Then we will go by the dumpster and dispose of it. We are only in the camper an hour before we decide to make our last trip to the bathroom and turn in. I pick up the garbage bag and realize it has two huge holes in it and the garbage is spewing out on the table. Son of a biscuit! In that hour, the racoons have stealthily made their visit. So much for delaying the delivery of the garbage to the proper place of disposal.
prepare to get ready for bed, we try to figure out how to get undressed and
redressed without flashing the community around us. We don’t have privacy
curtains. Last evening, there were no neighbors around but tonight, we have
neighbors on all sides. The solution we decide upon is to turn out the lights
and change in the dark. It really is not that dark as the moon is moving
towards full and there is light reflected from the adjacent campsite. I am
confidently washing up and feeling quite secure when out of the door of the
camper next to us comes a man with his flashlight. It hits me full in the face.
Really? This is annoying. And then he sits down or so it seems, and it
continues to shine into our camper. Is he watching? Is this entertainment? He
probably doesn’t even know that it is pointed our way. But I do. I end up
having to crouch down behind the stove to be insured that I am not providing a
July 14, 2019
We climb out of our bed around 7 am and Hubby cooks our breakfast of biscuits and gravy. Then it is time to tear down and head out. The temperature is already climbing, and rivers of water pour off of us. Our plan is to visit the Iowa Arboretum just south of the campground before heading home. The day is beautiful, and the flowers are magnificent, but Hubby and I move slower and slower. The heat has sucked all the energy out of us.
“I think I am going to throw up,” he says. Time to get ourselves to the cool truck and start our journey homeward.
make one last stop in Clear Lake, Iowa looking for the Guardian Wayside Chapel
which Hubby has seen advertised. The ad says it is located on South 24th
St. There is no house number. I type a random 620 into the GPS. We follow our
guide’s instructions to exit the freeway and take the second left. We drive
maybe a ¼ mile on 24th street and the GPS announces that we are at
620. No more than it has said that than Hubby declares, “There’s the sign.” I
don’t see any sign but good thing his eye caught it as it is weather beaten and
peeling. That was way too easy. Maybe it is the guardian angel that has led us
We walk back a grassy path into a secluded area of the woods in the middle of this city and there it is – a beautiful white chapel. It is quiet inside and peaceful and we spend a few minutes meditating as I read the story of the chapel’s history aloud.
Then it is time to find a place to satisfy our hunger and travel the remaining miles home. Our journey into nature has been successful. Our creaking not-quite-as-bendable bodies say, “thank you” to the popup camper and its owners for putting an extra few feet between them and the hard ground.
“Can we get together and do something, just the two of us, while you are home from college?” I plead of my daughter. She is in her first year of studying veterinary medicine at Iowa State University in Ames, Iowa and I don’t get to talk to her much, let alone see her.
“You can go with me to Ames on New Year’s Day to pay my lot rent if you would like,” she replies.
“I would love that.” I am excited about spending a day with my daughter. She and her husband have purchased a trailer in a mobile home park that lies just behind the vet school. She lives there during the school year and then she comes home to Minnesota during breaks from school to spend time with her husband.
We drive the 150 miles on a crisp sunny winter day. The temperature hovers around ten degrees. The cold has moved in after a week that began with 50-degree temperatures and ended with a cold front ushered in by rain and high winds. Glare ice on the road of the trailer park greets us as we make the last turn and park by the trailer. Questions of what we will find inside swirl through our minds. Daughter has only been gone two weeks, but her furnace has this habit of going out when the wind blows. We gingerly pick our way up the ice-covered steps and press the storm door handle button. It is covered with ice and does not respond to Daughter’s touch. Great, the door is froze shut. Even a couple of fist poundings does not loosen it. Do we have any de-icer in the car? No, we don’t. Time for a well-aimed kick. This causes it to let loose enough to spring open.
Freezing cold air greets us inside. Not good! The furnace is out. A few steps to the kitchen sink and a quick test of the faucet. Both faucets offer total resistance and will not turn. Oh dear! Not only has the furnace gone out but the water is also frozen. A quick check of the bathroom reveals that the sink there puts out a small trickle, the commode flushes, and the shower runs. So maybe, the situation is not as dire as it seems. The first order of business is to relight the furnace which Daughter has become quite adept at doing. Soon, it is pumping warm air back into the rooms.
“We are going to town to buy you some backup heaters,” is my decision that I share with Daughter. I am hoping that the freezing occurred just over this last night when it turned really cold and that it is not so complete that the pipes have cracked.
Soon, we have two electric space heaters cranking out their heat along with the furnace.
“Just let the water run if it is running at all,” is the advice of my hubby, “and it usually thaws out by itself.”
“The instructions with the space heater say ‘don’t leave unattended’,” I inform Hubby by phone, “and the whole reason we bought them was to leave them unattended. What should we do?”
“They are probably OK to leave if they have a high-limit shut off on them,” is his thought, “but you should probably shut off the water and open the faucets when you leave.”
“I don’t really want to crawl under the trailer looking for the water shut-off,” Daughter storms. “I have no idea where it is.” And it is cold and miserable.
Oh, the joys of owning a trailer. “I will help you.” Together, we venture outdoors to remove some of the skirting to allow Daughter to slither under the dark dank claustrophobic causing space. “I don’t see anything,” She finally informs me. Alright, give up on that idea.
As we relax and wait for the water to thaw, a light bulb goes on in Daughter’s memory. “When I was living with the other girls, their trailer water shut-off was in the closet.” This calls for a trip to the bedroom and a removal of the panel covering the water heater in the closet. Sure enough, there it is. Inside and accessible from the warmth of the bedroom.
A couple of hours later, we really need to head for home if we are to get home in a timely manner. The kitchen sink has thawed to the point that one can turn the faucets on and off and a slow trickle of water is emerging. We are making progress. We turn off the water, leave the faucets open, and leave the space heaters set at 60 degrees. Hopefully, when she comes back in another two weeks everything will be thawed out and back to normal without any issues.
“Safe in Ames. Trying to thaw the trailer,” reads the text two weeks later on her return to Ames, “Nothing has thawed. Kitchen has pencil width. The bathroom has drips.”
Not good! This doesn’t make any sense. The temperatures have been above freezing for most of the two weeks since our trip there and the heaters kept the trailer warm even though the furnace had gone out again. “Dad wants to know if you want us to come down tomorrow and check things over.”
It is a beautiful mid-January day when we pull up at the trailer in Ames. The eves are dripping water as the latest snow melts under the warmth of the sun. A hand turn of the kitchen faucet yields only a small trickle, not even a stream as big as what was running when we left it on New Year’s Day. And now the bathroom faucet has no flow either. How perplexing!
Hubby begins a thorough investigation. The water is definitely on. He crawls under the trailer and looks around. The pipes seem well protected in the floor. There is no water dripping or worse yet, flowing. He removes the panel behind the washer and dryer but can’t see anything. None of this adds up. The water should have thawed out long ago. “You are going to have to call a plumber tomorrow as I can’t find anything wrong,” is the verdict to Daughter.
Unwilling to give up and in desperation, Hubby begins to tear the kitchen faucet apart. Surprise of surprises, brown water pours out! He quickly screws off the little aerator that covers the opening on this and most faucets. It is packed with brown sediment. A bee line to the bathroom reveals the same brown sediment obstructing the faucet there. How silly! This whole time we have had it stuck in our heads that the water is still frozen, not even considering this simple solution to what seemed to be a continuing problem but is actually a different problem. The freezing and thawing have apparently stirred up a bunch of sediment in the pipes and deposited it in the aerators. A plumber would have been laughing all the way home with a tidy sum in his pocket from such a call.
I am reminded of how much of life is often like this. We are so focused on our preconceived ideas about various things that we can’t see the truth because we are stuck in one way of thinking.
At least our journey is not in vain. We get to enjoy the day with our daughter, and she gets to start her new semester with several problems in her trailer resolved. No pipes have burst, and all is well.
I have just a few minutes to brush my teeth before setting off for Rochester for my Chiropractor appointment in thirty minutes. I step into the bathroom and my heart does a flip flop. There lays my husband’s cell phone on top of the laundry basket. Great! He is supposed to be working 45 miles away today and I can just see him not discovering this until reaching the job site. My brain does a quick spin. How should I deal with this? I can’t call him to tell him of my discovery. Ah, I don’t think he has left yet. Maybe I can catch him. I swirl and try to hurtle down the stairs. But my speeding is not very smooth and coordinated anymore. It is more like having the brakes on in the car while pushing on the gas. Reaching the bottom, I surge out the house door to the garage just in time to see the overhead garage door touching down. Grr! A few more steps and out the side garage door I fly.
“Stop,” I scream towards the rear of the receding truck. Well, that is obviously not going to work. What now? The car keys. . . I can catch him with my turbo charged car. I plunk into the seat, slide into reverse, and rocket out of the garage. The stones fly as I speed down the driveway and up to the highway. I groan as I realize there is a pickup coming from the left. I have to stop if I don’t want to cause tiny pieces to go flying everywhere. Now to make matters worse, I have a law abiding vehicle between me and my target. Not to be deterred, I kick it up to 90 miles an hour and sail past the puzzled man in the obstructing vehicle.
“Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep,” I lean on the horn over and over and over again as I tailgate behind my husband. Apparently, not only does he not notice other people on the road with him, he can’t hear them either. The oncoming lane is now empty, so I ease up alongside my oblivious husband, finally catch his attention and wave him over. I hold up the phone and he rolls his eyes and lets out a sigh. “Thank you,” he says.
Though frustrated, I chuckle. There is no reason to be irritated with each other. These kinds of things have become the norm in our lives these days.
I do a donut in the middle of the road and head back to the house to finish getting ready and grab the paper work I need for the day. That little adventure only took 7 minutes. Soon I am driving towards Rochester like a sane person. Suddenly, I realize that I didn’t get my long-distance glasses on for driving. Oh well, my computer glasses are just going to have to do – the world in front of me is a little blurred but distinguishable. I arrive at the chiropractor only two minutes late.
Having two litter boxes does not solve Clover’s peeing all over the house problem and several more weeks go by. I do finally take Clover to the veterinarian, just in case it is a bladder infection as some have suggested as a possibility. The vet’s conclusion is that she has little stones in her bladder and possibly a bladder infection. I am given a prescription for an oxalate lowering cat food diet and antibiotics that I am supposed to give every day for 14 days. Separating the cats for feeding is not much of a problem as we have already been doing that due to an inability of the felines to co-exist while eating. Giving antibiotics every day to a skittish cat who has no interest in being caught is a totally different matter. I ask the vet if they don’t have an extended activity antibiotic that they could give as a shot. “No,” he says, “they don’t.” Our daughter disagrees, “They do have a 14-day antibiotic that they can give to animals who are difficult to coral. It is just not the ideal one for this purpose but sometimes the only choice with uncooperative animals.”
“Will you get me some and help me give it to Clover,” I beg. I have only managed to administer 1 dose in of the prescribed oral medication.
“Alright,” she responds, “I will get it for you and help you give it.”
Daughter shows up at our door on Sunday evening. I was hopeful I could catch Clover before she came because Clover had decided in the last few weeks that I could be trusted in a limited way. She has begun coming every evening while I sit at my desk to be petted. Tonight, Clover senses something is amiss, and stays hidden behind the desk. Grrr!
How to catch her, is the question? My daughter and I both crawl under the heavy metal desk. I reach in one way while she reaches in the other. A ball of fur shoots by and Daughter is able to catch a leg. We hustle her into the bathroom in case she should attempt another escape, and the shot is soon delivered.
A spirit of hopeful anticipation prevails. Maybe this is the answer. After dumping gallons of Nature’s Miracle Enzyme formula on the soiled areas, putting down tin foil and plastic to discourage frequenting of those areas, we wait to see what the result will be of the latest changes. Maybe denial is the best psychological mechanism to deal with these issues as we convince ourselves that the situation has gotten better. Hubby reports more soiled litter in the litter box. The smell diminishes. Until one day. Willow, the puppy, is coming to stay for a week. I move the dog kennel over into the hallway in preparation, thinking that moving it away from the cat litter box will be helpful. The doorway to the kennel is left slightly ajar- after all, why should it matter if it is closed. A few minutes later, I spy Clover sitting in the kennel relieving herself. Seriously? She apparently hasn’t forgotten that this was her favorite place to pee after Bella died. A sense of utter defeat floods over me. I lock the kennel door but the cycle I thought I had broken begins again. Hubby and I both know that she is urinating somewhere other than the litter box, but where is the question? I try to tell myself that strong urine smell in the bathroom is my imagination as I can’t find the evidence. Just to cover my bases, I throw away the bathroom rugs, but the smell persists.
“Look where Clover is!” my husband draws my attention towards the area behind the couch and under the table where the baby cradle rests. “It looks to me like she is peeing.”
I can not quite believe my eyes. There squats Clover in the cradle happily relieving herself. As I inspect the cradle, it is obvious that this has been going on for some time. The whole bottom is wet and stained from the caustic fluid. That yellow stain at the end of the cradle in the blue light is truly the overflow of the waterfall. The good news is the mystery has been solved but the bad news is now I have reached the end of my rope. My hopefulness of ever solving this problem goes out the window.
The one litter box, some food, and some water are soon relocated into the bathroom and Clover has a new living arrangement. What am I going to do with her long term? I can’t put her outdoors as she is declawed in front. I can’t give her away as no one wants a cat that pees all over the house. I have already planned to pull up all the carpets to rid the house of enticing places to pee but peeing in and on the furniture is a different matter. All that is left is euthanasia. I do have a small soft spot in my heart for this cat so maybe one more trip to the vet just to make sure this is not a medical problem is in order.
I sit on the bench to wait in the veterinarian’s front office. The warm temperature of the room persuades me to take off my coat and tuck it beside me. I further decide to leave it there while I join the veterinarian in the back room to discuss the situation and decide what the next step should be. The decision is made to leave Clover there, so they can sedate her and do some more extensive testing. Daughter will take her home in the evening and keep her for a while to see if a change of environment and housemates will turn the behavior around. As I walk out, I pick up my coat from the bench. My fingers touch a very wet spot. Hmmm! My coat was dry when I left it on the bench. And is that a very distinct smell of cat pee? I look at the vet office cat sitting in the window eyeing me. How ironic? I am not sure if I should laugh or cry. I will take my pee covered coat and go home.
Bella has been gone a couple of months. It is time to let her go and move on. Or so I think. What I have not considered is that the two cats, Snowflake and Clover, also had a very close relationship with Bella. They slept snuggled up every night; one on each end of the dog. But they have never particularly liked each other. Now, they start to seek contact from us, the humans. Snowflake crawls up on Hubby’s chest in the evening and snuggles in right next to his face. She scratches on our bedroom door several times during each night, disrupting our sleep. How annoying! Our skittish Clover who never before would allow us to touch her has decided that I am her friend. She comes every evening to my desk when I come home from work and sprawls out on top of my papers. Meow! Meow! Then she rolls around and everything slides off onto the floor.
As several weeks have passed, I think we are settling into a new routine. Father’s Day brings the obtaining of a new puppy, Willow, by our daughter for their home. Occasionally, she brings the puppy over and oh what fun it is to torment the cats. One day, after Willow has gone home, I walk past the garbage can. Whew! What is that terrible smell? The strong odor of cat urine just about barrels me over. As I investigate further, I realize it is coming from the dog kennel. We have left Bella’s kennel in its place in the entryway with the door slightly ajar. That terrible odor is coming from inside. Has the untrained puppy been using that for her place of business? I wonder. I remove the soft pad from the bottom, wash it, and close the door after replacing it. A day later, I notice Clover clawing at the door trying to get in. Then the light goes on for me. It is Clover that has been using it as a litter box. Not thinking too much more about it, I comfort myself with the thought that now that the door is closed, she will have to go back to the litter box.
If I only knew that I am so wrong. A few weeks later, our daughter informs me that the main floor bathroom now smells like cat pee. I don’t smell anything but then my smeller has been deficient for many years. As I sniff around the area and get closer to the hallway outside the downstairs bedrooms, the smell gets stronger and stronger. Great! Just great! After being blocked from using the kennel, she has moved on to using the carpet at the end of the hallway. About the same time, I get a whiff of this same smell when I step out of our bedroom door upstairs every morning. I try to convince myself that this isn’t true but after a couple of mornings, I realize that denial is no longer possible.
This situation is royally frustrating. I remember going to visit my husband’s aunt when she was still alive and always being repulsed by the strong odor of cat pee in her house. I was never going to have a house that smelled like that. Now, I have a house that reeks of cat pee. I have no idea what to do about this. I search my brain for what might be the cause of this sudden change in habits. Is it the arrival of the new puppy that torments them occasionally? Is it the loss of Bella? Is it a territory war? Is it a bladder infection as some have suggested? I have noticed the two cats having more frequent squabbles so that is the approach I decide to pursue. I buy another Litter Robot for the main floor and place it at the end of the hallway where the cat has been urinating. I also order a black light in the hopes of finding and cleaning all the areas she has been frequenting.
Even though I think I have all the bases covered, every time I sit in my recliner in the living room, I get waves of cat urine ammonia hitting my nose. There has to be another spot I am missing. Even the black light is not clarifying my suspicions. One evening while our daughter is visiting, we go on a journey around the house. Her conclusion is that the smell is coming out of the heat vent. At first, I do not believe her but the more I sniff, the more I am convinced that she is right. Peeing down the heat vent just adds to the aroma as every time the furnace runs, it gets distributed nicely around the house. Uggh!! I’m embarrassed to even think of having visitors.
I wash out the heat vent the best that I can and schedule for a carpet cleaner to come. Maybe, the best solution would be to rip up all the carpeting and put in hardwood floors. There seems to be less fur flying so maybe having 2 litter boxes is the solution. Daughter says one is supposed to have the same number of litter boxes as there are cats plus one. The automatic ones I love so well “only” cost $500 a piece. So what’s a little money to buy a third one if it permanently solves the problem? Better yet, who wants two cats?
“I am going to cook a special anniversary supper tonight,” exclaimed my hubby on his way to work on this day after our 26th wedding anniversary, Sept 15.
“That sounds great,” I reply.
I do not work on this Friday so that will work out wonderfully. My dear hubby cooks for me all the time. It is a service in our marriage that I especially appreciate as I hate to cook. He has already way outdone me in blessings for this anniversary of ours. A couple of nights ago, he made chocolate covered almond clusters while I was at work. Wow, are they delicious! The next night, I came home to find a huge bouquet of flowers on the table. Then, I felt really guilty as all I had done was leave him a card on his pickup seat on our actual anniversary. And yes, he had done that very thing for me too. I found his card on my car seat when I got in to go off to work.
“I bought a couple kinds of fish and crab and some vegetables to make for our special supper. I bought some asparagus too for you. I’ll make that separate because I don’t really care for it,” is the information given me about supper.
I love asparagus and find it to be a enjoyable change. An hour later, the food is set on the table and we are ready for a feast. I circulate the asparagus around in the bowl looking for the juicy heads I like so much but don’t see very many. I pick out a few stems that possibly look tender and push the rest away. I do not say anything. I learned a long time ago to not criticize any of my spouse’s cooking because I am just so happy that he cooks. I think we had been married 20 years before I finally told him I did not like rice.
“The asparagus isn’t very good,” says my hubby as he picks up on it that I am not eating very much asparagus. “I didn’t think it looked very good when I bought it.”
As we continue with our meal, a thought finally hits him. “I bet you aren’t supposed to eat the stems. I cut off all the heads and threw them away. I bet that is not what you are supposed to do.”
I laugh. I think he is joking. But I soon realize he is not. It strikes me that he must really hate asparagus. Then, we really begin to laugh. I dig out the plastic bag from the garbage that he has disposed of the scraps in and there nicely lying in the bag are the tender heads of the asparagus. Time to cook the correct ends.
I am off to the conference this morning at 7:15 for my breakfast before the meeting. I have yogurt with fruit and granola like at home. I leave class at 12:15 pm so that we can have time to eat lunch and get to the Glacier Rafting company in plenty of time. I did not wish to have a repeat of yesterday. We end up being about an hour early. We unload everything from our pockets and I reluctantly remove my hearing aid. The rafting company has lots of stuff to hold our glasses and caps on and they really want to sell it to us. Hubby buys a device to hold his cap and another device to secure his glasses. I decide to risk it. Right at 2:30 pm, we are loaded onto a school bus for our ride to the put-in site for the rafts. The guide talking to us on the bus is silly and entertains us while we wait to get by at another road work site. She counts us out for four different boats and goes through how to put our life vests on. Soon we are on our way again.
We pile out of the bus into the hot 90 degree Montana sun and are directed towards “our” raft. Derrick is to be our guide. He loads our raft from the front and then pushes it out further. Well, my shoes are wet before we even leave the beach. One person needs to sit in the middle and not row as there are an odd number of people. As the oldest and least interested in rowing, Hubby gets that seat. That leaves me in the back with the guide. He informs us that the people in the back are most likely to get pitched out while navigating rapids. Oh great!
We start out floating through some fairly calm water on our journey to the middle fork of the Flathead River. During this time, the guide gives us instructions on how to row together and how to respond if we end up in the water. There is an awful lot of emphasis on what to do if we end up in the water. Is this an omen? Maybe this is a really bad idea – too late now.
We make it through the first rapid with little problem. In the raft behind us, one man gets tossed out. The second rapid contains rougher water and in an effort to keep from ending up in the water myself, I grab the “chicken” rope that traverses the middle of the boat. I end up in the bottom of the boat but that is preferable to ending up over the side. Hubby grabs the lady beside him to keep her in the boat. She is terrified of ending up in the water. Once one gets the idea of riding with the waves, hanging on when necessary, and being prepared for getting soaked, this is quite fun. It’s a little bit like riding a horse. If you get the hang of riding with the motion, it’s simple.
By the time we land for supper 2 ½ hours later, I am completely soaked from mid-chest down but I have not taken any dunks. It is 5:30 pm and our guides grill chicken and steak for us at a picnic grounds by the river. I am hoping my clothes will dry in the warm heat. We feast on raw cauliflower, carrots, and chips with salsa. The meal is topped off with a small cheesecake. Then it is back on the bus and back to pick up our car. As we head for the hotel, we cap off the evening with a Dairy Queen treat. It has been a fun and daring day.