Because it sure is surreal sometimes

Because it sure is surreal sometimes

Friday, October 10, 2014

Women to Match My Mountains, Part 2

When last we met, I had just spent the first night of my weekend alone in my mountain cabin, mostly reading, writing, and trying to keep up with my hound’s extreme neediness, including sleeping in the exact center of the bed and needing to go outside in the pitch blackness to pee.

8:00 a.m., second day: Determined to stick with my new workout regimen even at the cabin, I scavenge around looking for something to serve as a dumbbell. I settle for a cast-iron Dutch oven. After my lunges, tricep raises and bicep curls, I make a mental note to brag to my friends about how dedicated I am. And so here that is.

9:00: I decide to see what my faux beau, Kit Carson is up to, and so I grab “Blood and Thunder” and saddle up my horse (press the start button on the quad).

9:10: Down at the lakeside, I stretch out on a rock as my thoughts drift back to a simpler time and place, though by now I am pretty convinced that it doesn’t get much simpler than the edge of the lake on a warm summer morning with a book, a dog and a motorized vehicle.

11:30: After traipsing across the Rocky Mountains with Kit, and making our way down to Monterey to see what the Mexicans are up to, I grow weary of his vagabond ways and decide to take my leave of him and the horse he rode in on. Plus, I’m thirsty. I decide to ride back to camp and tend to my afternoon chores (find a shady spot on the deck). Mountain woman life is exhausting.

Noon: After much strenuous activity (hosing off the deck of pollen and errant pine needles), I find that my sarsaparilla (beer) rations are depleted, so I make a plan to go the store to replenish my provisions. Glancing in the mirror before leaving, it comes as a bit of surprise to me that despite my morning beauty routine of rolling out of bed and slapping on a ball cap, and then sweating in the sun for two hours, my hair is, in fact, “pert’ near” perfect, as Kit is fond of saying.

12:30: Back at the cabin, I’m feeling just right about my negotiations with the proprietor of the trading post, and lay out my haul of beer and pistachios. I’ll miss those fine beaver pelts, but that four-pack of tallboys was just too good of a deal to pass up.

1:00: A neighbor from over yonder stops by for a spell, and I am obliged to share with her the chuck wagon special that I am enjoying. We catch up on the hectic weekend we’ve had so far and lament the distance between ourselves and our loved ones back home. Not really.

1:30: The neighbor, before taking her leave, invites me to visit her camp come nightfall, for some fellowship. I kindly accept her gracious invitation and turn back to my writing to catch up on this here blog. But first, a muse. Flipping through my CDs, I take care not to select something too upbeat, which could encourage another beer, or too sad, which could encourage a tenth. I opt for Willie Nelson.

1:35: Alas, my trusty companion (laptop) is dead. Scouring the cabin for artifacts that might help me with my plight, I locate a bundle of thin, flat, dry white material and a tubular tool that appears to contain a reservoir of black liquid. I commence the ancient art of handwriting.

4:30: Three hours, two beers and one nap later, I prepare to call on my neighbor. But first, I must assess my countenance. Upon close inspection, I confirm an earlier suspicion that one side of my hair around my face is longer than the other. Finding a pair of utility shears, I commence self-barbering.

10:30: Six hours, two bottles of wine and zero food later, I return to my cabin for the night. Before retiring, I pack my belongings in order to get an early start. In the morning, I must bid my summer encampment farewell…at least for now.

Day 3:
7 a.m.: Westward, ho!

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