The Adventure Continues

Terror. Sheer Terror.

I have to do something to keep from crawling out of my skin as we continue on to the next camp, Appaloosa Springs. If I crawl out of my skin, there is nowhere to go but straight down.

Lamaze. I'll try Lamaze breathing. It was useless to me in in labor, so I might as well find a use for it now. It will give me something to concentrate on.

"Mom! You sound like Darth Vador!"

"Good! That means I'm still behind you. Keep moving and taking pictures for me. If it gets quiet, remember I love you and I want to be sainted for this."

Lobos, my trusty steed for this week, has temper issues. He doesn't like being crowded and pins his ears and kicks. This means that two of his four feet leave the ground for an instant while I am on his back at 7200 feet. Not good. Lobos is going to have a come to Jesus meeting with me when I am on flat ground.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.

Eleven miles and some serious ibuprofen later, I slide out of the saddle with as much grace as I can muster.

I knew what it would take to get in riding fit form for this. I used to competitively show horses in the hunter/jumper world. I fox hunted on occasion. You can laugh if you want and think that getting on a horse involves said equine doing all the work for two. Anyone who has spent more than an hour in the saddle, especially men with their extra padding, discovers that there is more than one purpose for a maxi pad.

Ibuprofen. Pharmaceutical grade. Walk casually around the camp trying not to look like Festus. I cannot sit down until we get the tent set up because I know that getting up again will yield a comedy routine from my sons imitating me.

Never let them see you sweat.

The horses have been picketed and we have set up our tents. The steel pack boxes and coolers have been unpacked yielding a cook tent, cook, hors d'oeuvres and water filtered from the river babbling behind us. Nothing has ever tasted so good.

My sons are filling the feed bags and helping feed the horses. My daughter has her perpetual sketch pad out and is working in pencil, creating another stunning scene. With no cell phones, internet, gadgets and ipods, we are sitting around the fire watching steaks sizzle to perfection. The aroma is almost as heavenly as the scent of the wildflowers that surround us. Up on the ridge, about a half mile away, a black bear is digging up roots. The binoculars bring him close enough and he is fortunately not interested in introductions.

The kids have made a swing out of the bear box ropes and are busy spinning each other around and laughing hysterically.

We are actually all talking and laughing. My son is doing his imitation of a dog hanging out the window of a car that has us in stitches. Do it again, Trev, do it again. He willingly complies. Cheeks flapping merrily. I don't have to check his Facebook page to see what is going on.

This is magic. This collection of moments. Moments that have become to rare in our normal world. I take notice and store this memory in my heart.

Our tent, my husband's and mine, is right next to the river. We fall asleep to its song. The tent is cozy and warm and the sleeping pad alleviates most of the lumps. When we wake up, there is frost on the outside.

This ain't so bad.

The weather is perfect and sunny and we have the day to do what we want. We get to amuse ourselves. The rest of my family gets a fly fishing lesson from Mike. I retreat with my books, camera, journal, and the courage of my convictions.

Because I realize what this trip has done for me.

Somewhere on one of those high ridges, I lost my inner critic. The one that keeps telling me my writing is substandard and not worthy of review. You know what? I think I pushed her off the cliff.

It was a mercy killing.

And I begin to write. And I find the joy within my writing. I find the value of my words and the gift of my ability to phrase unique statements and bring a smile to others. I will allow my experiences and my offbeat sense of humor to meld and bring pleasure to others who seek it out.

In being still, movement comes.

Tomorrow, we come off this adventure. I am very sad to see it end. I know there will be some reversion. One can only expect teenagers to be sans gadgets for a finite period of time. But in the time we have been out here together, we have rediscovered each other in a new way. The heart connection is renewed and the joy of being a part of this unique clan is well documented in photos and stories. Momma still don't camp. But my kids have given me the 2010 Good Sport award.

I'll take it.

But I still expect beatification at some point.

Mamma Don't Camp

I am sitting by a campfire in North Yellowstone, right on the Montana/Wyoming border. My family and I are waiting for dinner to be cooked and served to us. We have ridden approximately six hours covering nine miles of up and down. Now, the four hooved team of thirteen who were drafted to cart our gear and our bodies around for five days are filling their bellies with lush green grass. A wafting of the sweet smell of it blows my way. It distracts me momentarily from inhaling the scent of the sage bushes that surround us. The Gold Cache river runs along our camp site not yielding any secrets from the days of the gold rush before Yellowstone was a park.

These were not exactly my thought three hours ago.

Three hours ago, I was on a narrow (and I do mean NARROW) trail very near a steep ravine's edge. When I could force myself to look, I was looking straight down about 700 feet to the river that is so innocently close to me now.

I kept chanting my spontaneous mantra, "I trust God and I trust this horse."

I was praying the horse was not an atheist.

Why? Because momma don't camp. That's why.

These were not even my thoughts this morning as we drove into Yellowstone to meet the highly experienced expeditioners at the trailhead. I was, with growing apprehension, thinking, "How did I get myself into this one?" I knew there was no turning back from that moment until next Friday. Five days.

Momma don't camp.

I used to. Really, I did. Two incidents did me in on the whole one-with-nature, finer adventures of camping.

The first was Camp Happy Hollow, which should be noted, was neither. Wisconsin. Girl Scout troop 239 in fourth grade. It was one of the longest weekends in my life, beginning with the lot of us trying to make sure all the spiders were exterminated. Scary stories around the campfire were not fun to me at all. I totally bought into whatever horror was being chronicled. This was due, in no small part to an older brother who had an especially twisted sense of humor and a hobby called scare the kid sister.

Then there was the latrine duty. We managed this by standing outside and spraying and entire can of disinfectant in the door. In the middle of the night, I had to walk my friend, Melanie, to this all natural commode because she was more scared than I was. The scout leader's son, dragged along for the experience, accidentally walked in on Melanie, scarring her for life. The weekend ended with a "nature" hike in a swamp where we nearly died of exsanguination.

The second adventure was during college. I was allegedly in love with nature boy during the era of John Denver and the perpetual "Rocky Mountain High". My friends still refer to him as "THAT loser". He was going to teach me to camp and rock climb. My long dormant fear of heights became manifest and I got my hair tangled in the carabiner dangling about twenty feet below and drifting in the breeze. All Jerry could think to do was go run off and try to find a scissors! With what spare hand was I going to snip my locks?

Another fraternity brother, along on the trip and a champion wrestler to boot, calmly talked me back from hysteria as he winched me back up to solid ground. Jerry appeared at that moment with the scissors and proceeded to lecture me about what a disappointment I was.

I left him at the campsite.

There have been enough camp moves about these types of experiences. The basis in truth was enough for me.

Momma don't camp.

However, my daughter was back from an amazing first year at college, where she is blazing a trail. My sons are about to be freshman in high school. The orbits around the sun are accelerating at an alarming rate. While planning and coordinating this summer's schedule, my husband and I both realized that the number of opportunities for family vacations and outings were dwindling and empty nesting looms somewhere out on the horizon.

While we are okay with that next, impending phase of our life journey, we want this phase to go out with a bang. Last year, it was Disneyworld. This summer why not an adventure?

I believe in signs and the flow of things.

Our neighbors have saved this recovering band of city slickers from the perils of South Dakota winters and teenage hubris more than once. Kind souls that they are, they accept nothing in return but our gratitude and the odd bottle of libation.

During one gratitude delivery, it came up in our conversation. A cousin runs an expedition outfit during the summers. They guide, cook, set up camp and clean up.

Hmmm. Throw in a pedicure and we can call this spa camping.

Maybe this wasn't camping. After all, I didn't have to cook for a week as part of the bargain. We've lived here five years now and haven't yet gotten around to Yellowstone.

Okay, maybe this once Momma WILL camp.

And get outfitted with a sleeping bag and pad.

And bear spray. Just a precaution, we were assured.

!??!?!?!?!

To be continued......

I am NOT making this UP!

About a month ago, we were invited to a very elegant wedding in Wilmington, North Carolina. Since we have dear friends in Raleigh, we decided to land there and visit with them before heading to the coast for all the social soirees surrounding the happy occasion.

Our visit was wonderful and we set out on a hot sunny afternoon for the two hour drive. Our rental car came with satellite radio but we rather quickly grew bored with the selections and decided to listen to something local.

We warped into the twilight zone.

There is a stretch of Highway 40 south that takes you through some very rural back country. And it is here, between Spivey's Corner and Rocky Point that we discovered WEGG radio. All gospel, all the time.

Which was fine. They were playing hymns that I hadn't heard since I was a small child and I was amazed at how quickly the words came back to me. The DJ had a very strong rural North Carolinian accent.

With which she began to read the local obituaries.

Here are a couple of examples. I took notes so I wouldn't forget them.

"Mr. Devour Brown was called softly to the Lawd (Lord) last Wednesday. The funeral will be this Saturday at 10 a.m. at the Mission View Baptist Church in Faison with "burl" (burial) to follow. Family will be receiving at the church."

"Mrs. Letitia Green was called softly to the Lawd Friday at St. Helena Hospital. The funeral will take place this Sunday afternoon at 2 p.m. Burl to follow at the Mission View Baptist Church in Willard with the family receiving after the burl at Mrs. Green's former residence on 123 Main Street in Willard."

"Mr. Jebediah Johnson was called softly to the Lawd Tuesday evening at his home in Burgaw. The funeral will be this Friday at 1 p.m. at the Missionary View Baptist Church in Burgaw with burl to follow immediately."

This went on for at least 45 minutes and then she launched into the advertisements:

"Have you recently lost a loved one? Well you need to call Mr. Jakes Funeral Home and Cosmetic Supply Store. Be sure and asks for the economy package and he will give you a 10% discount on cosmetics. Mr. Jakes will take your loved one and fix them right up and put them away right good."

"If you are going to be blessed by the Best this Sunday, be sure and stop by Miss Maybelle's "Blessed by the Best" dress shop in Burgaw. She sells church hats and church suits as well as ladies church dresses. She will fix you up to be fit for the Lawd. Right now, she is having a sale on short sleeved leisure suits. (!!!) But don't go callin there on Satiday. Miss Maybelle done lost her sister to the Lawd last week and she will be funeralizing her Satiday mornin'."

We considered stopping to see, exactly, what a short sleeved leisure suit looked like. It was tempting since I remember how bad the long sleeved versions were.

It is amazing to have heard this with my own ears. It truly was an alternative reality, albeit a righteous one providing a community service.

Quite the experience.

America. What a country.