camping

The Lady Who Ate a Baby

September 7, 2010 By heather 9 Comments

On one of our camping trips last year, I convinced two little boys I was a blue alien (named Abema from the planet of Zircoff). This year, another little boy called me The Lady Who Ate a Baby.

How else would a baby get in my tummy?

Other highlights from this weekend’s camping trip:

Our camping group consisted of a Russian, a Frenchwoman (the Russian and French are married), a South African couple, and another guy from North America. And their kids. At any given moment, you’d hear Afrikaans, French, Russian, or English. Usually yelled very loudly.
Because of the myriad of languages, some of the kids wanted to learn phrases from one of the languages they didn’t know. The most popular phrase this weekend: "I am a vampire" closely followed by "I am a zombie." Yelled loudly while chasing each other at 10:00 at night. My apologies to surrounding campers.
The Russian is a born storyteller. Add to that, he was a truck driver for years (and now owns a truck driving business). Russian flare + truck-driving stories = entertainment for hours.
After I shared some of my dreams (that I’ve been chased by a serial killer, chasing a serial killer, exploring
the psychological problems of a serial killer, solving the murder by a
serial killer who killed by giving students in a scientific study
genetic-altering pills that caused them to murder, protected my family [in a shoot-out] from a serial killer, and been a serial killer) and my husband revealed to the group that my favorite musical is Sweeney Todd and one of my current TV shows is Dexter, the Russian (who was also at one time a street fighter) steered clear of me. If you can scare a Russian street-fighting truck driver, you know you’ve got chops.
All tires remained in tact.
Invisible bridges connect all paintings in the world. I discovered this while my young friend Etienne and I told each other stories while hiking. In one of the stories I told (not my best work, I admit), a girl had to pop into a painting to save her friend (a girl from a painting) who had been kidnapped by a wizard and taken into another painting. Like I said, not my best story ever, but the discovery that all paintings are connected if you can find the bridge at the edge made it worth it.
Camping while pregnant has two disadvantages: (1) you can’t drink, meaning no evening glass of wine while star-gazing, and (2) you have to pee often, which can be an advantage if you think of the extra exercise you get practicing the yoga chair pose every time. I had no problems with the 6-mile hike, though, thank you very much.

Beats sitting in front of a TV every time.

Filed Under: camping, imagination, pregnancy

The Pilgrimage Home: A Short Story Told (Mostly) in Pictures

June 3, 2010 By heather 4 Comments

I slouched back into the seat, feet propped on the dashboard (don’t tell my dad), book in hand. I felt dirty, but relaxed.

We’d been camping.

The water bottle in the cup holder started rattling. My husband turned down the radio.

“Do you hear that?”

Th-thump, th-thump, th-thump. The car kept time in a syncopated rhythm to our drive home. Still driving, on the highway, though half pulled over onto the shoulder, my husband opened his door and looked at the back tire.

“I think it’s flat,” he said. He closed the door and parked on a stretch of highway between Evant, TX (population 371) and the greater metropolitan area of Hamilton (population 2,922).

Or, we stopped between two cemeteries.

On our left, the Pilgrim’s Rest, for weary souls such as ours:

On our right, a rest for other wearied travelers:

Chris got out of the car, inspected the offending tire, and returned to confirm his initial diagnosis.

“It’s flat,” he said.

Naturally, we first made sandwiches.

Side note: If you ever need to have a ripped tire, do so when mostly stocked with leftovers from the camping trip. (I always buy too much.)

After a repast of ham and turkey on organic multi-grain bread (with omega-3s and unbleached flour), topped with cheddar cheese and Dijon mustard, and finished off with orange creme and cherry vanilla sodas (also organic), my husband got out to change the tire.

“Funny thing,” I said. “I never learned how to change a spare.” I’m sure my dad tried to teach me and I decided to play with my imaginary friends instead.

“Good time to learn.”

I grabbed our Nikon. “Je suis artiste,” I said.

Events like these need documenting. Now, if we were both heaving and hefting, who would take the pictures?

Big, strong, sexy man changing tire-gone-wild

I snapped photos as he unloaded the camping gear from the trunk.

“You’re a big help,” he told me.

Chris soon had the spare on, and we were ready to head toward Hamilton to search out a tire store brave enough to be open on Memorial Day.

(We found one–a John Deere sales and repair/used tire sales/vehicle sales shop. I think there may have been a candy shop on the side. We drove in accompanied by Reba’s “The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter” on their radio.)

Mr. Motorcycle Man waves goodbye to us

The End

Filed Under: camping, flat tires, photography, pilgrimage

My Silver Purple Shoes and the Taj Mahal

May 28, 2010 By heather Leave a Comment

We have camping buddies. We rarely camp without Patty and Charl, although they camp more often than we do. They have set the rhythm of our routine, though I’d like to believe we’ve added a syncopation here and there. They taught us things like the best camping breakfast is Nutella on croissants.

A word about Patty and Charl: when they immigrated here from South Africa and had to pare down to the essentials in packing, they made room for their good hiking boots. When they splurge, it’s for a pair of Keens.

The Hiking Shoes

Chris and I started camping with Patty and Charl before we got married, before they had their second child. On our first trip, I packed a pair of old running shoes. I had acquired these shoes on some crazy sale, and they had run their last track. They had been delegated to the camping pile. And so, when the time for our hike came, I donned the crazy-sale running shoes.

"Those are some shoes," Charl said.

A word about the shoes: They are mostly silver, glistening silver, with a swatch of plum down the hull and tongue.

"We won’t lose you," Chris said.

On our second trip, Patty called to talk food arrangements.

A word about our food arrangements: We like to think of ourselves as gourmet campers. We pack salmon and steak, wine, and air mattresses.

At the end of our conversation, she said, "Make sure you bring those shoes!"

So pack the shoes I did.

Every trip since then, those shoes, less silvery and less glistening, get packed along with my hiking clothes, sunscreen, and water bottle.

The Tent

Last year, a tear near the zipper of our tent rendered it unusable. Sure, if I were the hearty sewing type, I could buy a new zipper, thrust a heavy-duty needle through the canvas, and fix the tent.

I am not the hearty sewing type.

Also, my husband seized the opportunity for a new tent. He shopped online; he shopped REI; he shopped Academy. When it comes to new toys, my husband is thorough. At last, he found what he wanted at (what he told me was) a good price.

One particular weekend closely following the procurement of said new tent, Patty and Charl rung us up.

"Time to go camping," they said.

I would be out of town the weekend they had in mind, so Chris went without me. (The nerve of him!) And he set up the new tent.

"Looks like you’ve got the Taj Mahal there, brother," Charl said. (Charl calls his male friends "brother" often. He’s like Desmond in that way. Thirty-second break to mourn the end of LOST.)

Today I spend my afternoon cleaning our camping accoutrements, shopping for our gourmet foods and wines, and packing the silver purple shoes and the Taj Mahal.

Filed Under: camping

Colossians and Creation

May 7, 2008 By heather 7 Comments

The sunlight sparkles on the water, speckles the path, and dances with the trees. I sit on a log bench and meditate on the memory verse for my Bible study:

He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation, for all things in heaven and on earth were created by him – all things,
whether visible or invisible, whether thrones or dominions, whether principalities or powers – all things were created through him and for him. He himself is before all things and all things are held together in him.

All of this has been created by him, through him, and for him.

I look up and study the textures surrounding me: the bark–some large plates, others small slivers, the leaves–some wide mittens, others pine needles, the fish–some transparent, others spotted. Flowers border my feet–purple and yellow and white.

By him, through him, for him.

The Creator became creation and brought light into the darkness. What does it mean to sparkle with his light? The Church, a body–a body of water reflecting the son? Each of us–our lives, our art, our work–reflecting him.

We walk along the path, my companions and I, sometimes silent, sometimes in laughter. We stop and inspect roots and dragonflies and turtles.

Back at the camp, we find our places of solitude. But it is not silent. The space is filled with the warble of a cardinal, the drumming of a wood pecker, the shushing of the breeze. All creation praises him. After all, it has been created by him, through him, and for him.

In these moments, grace fills the space. Hope of the future, of a creation in perfect harmony, sneaks into the present. In these moments, my life and my art mean nothing and everything. In
these moments, the dark night of the soul awakens into a Dvorak
morning.

These are the moments of my retreat, the moments that God refreshed body, soul, and mind, the moments that my emotions overflow with rejoicing in the Creator.

By him, through him, for him.

Note: This post is part of a group writing project with The High Calling blogs. For other retreat posts, go to Success Creeations.

Update: I’m an idiot. A fact my readers well know. I forgot to tell you all this cool information about this post! The fact is that Laity Lodge is sponsoring this contest. If you can write a post today about retreats, you’ll be entered into a drawing for a free, yes, free retreat at Laity Lodge.

For those who write a blog (but don’t win), you can 50% off at Laity Lodge.

For my readers, 25% OFF FOR YOUR READERS – Anyone who reads your blog
can register for 25% off. When they call to register, they need to ask
for “the HighCallingBlogs.com discount.”

For more info, go to Chris Cree’s blog, Success Creeations.

Please, no comment from the peanut gallery.

Filed Under: camping, creation, nature, retreat, solitude

Camping 101

October 29, 2007 By heather Leave a Comment

What I learned from camping:

It’s best to spoil yourself
when camping: steak and salmon for dinners and the like. It helps if
you pack a Master Chef with you for just such an occasion. This is why
I take my husband with me.

Coffee tastes better percolated outside.

Full moons are just as bright as the dawn.

Also bring with you a pyro. They make the best campfires (um, my husband again).

Watching a lake shimmer in the sun is better than DVR.

Fires are hypnotic.

If lit on fire, marshmallows are excellent carriers of fire and can easily ignite other items such as sweatshirts and chairs.

The only time hot dogs taste good is cooked on an open fire.

You
get a lot of exercise just doing everyday things, like walking up to
the bathrooms, taking out the trash, and hiking, so packing things like
chips, hot chocolate, and the makings for s’mores is okay.

I can get dressed laying down.

At
night, that walk up to the bathrooms can’t be bothered with. Squatting
behind the tent is fine. Pack toilet paper and hand sanitizer.

No
matter how clean the showers are and if they get hot water, nothing
will feel so good as a steamy shower in your own bathroom when you get
home (followed by a good night’s sleep in your bed rather than an air
mattress that you suspect is losing air).

The Creator God
must really love us to give us these trees and water and deer nibbling
by and yellow and blue and orange butterflies fluttering this way and
that and grasshoppers playing along the path.

The last one I’ll tell you in another post. I will tell you this: it has to do with fire.

Filed Under: camping, life lessons, nature

Share and Share Alike (And Other Platitudes I Dislike)

May 17, 2007 By heather Leave a Comment

Camping Story #2—Another Pot Story
So the next morning a representative from Xena’s site comes over to ours.
“Hey, you guys got anything to boil eggs in?” he asks.
Chris jumps up. “Sure. Will a coffee pot work?”
What? My coffee pot? The one I just bought two days before? My first actual camping coffee pot? And let me reiterate—COFFEE pot! Coffee, people. Do you know how much I treasure this? But I smile.
“Uh, you guys smoke?”
We shake our heads no.
“Your friends?” He gestures to Patty and Charl.
Another no.
“Cuz we could do a trade.”
And become the next Wandering Lady of Turner Falls? I don’t think so.
“Don’t worry about it,” Chris says.
“I’ll have it back in an hour.”
It takes an hour to boil eggs? I set my mental stopwatch.
An hour passes.
“Babe, do you think we’ll see our coffee pot again?” I really like that coffee pot. Sentimental value. My first camping coffee pot.
Chris shrugs. “Probably. But if not, oh well.”
But we’re poor! Whadya mean, oh well? Still, I smile.
Another hour passes. I want my coffee pot.
Not too much longer after that, the guy from Xena’s campsite returns the coffee pot. “Thanks. Sorry about the mess. I didn’t have anything to clean it with.”
Still smiling, I wait until he leaves before examining said mess. I open the lid. A thick layer of red grease bubbles on the top. Since when do eggs have red grease? I remove the inside percolating devices. Black, burnt food sticks to the bottom. I take it over to the river, rinse it as best as I can, then grab a spoon and start scraping.
My new coffee pot. Chris isn’t worried. It’s still usable. Get off what we can. It’ll still boil water.
But it’s my new coffee pot. I scrub, and I scrub, and I scrub.
If a man asks for your cloak, give him your tunic as well.
Man, sometimes I dislike being a Christian. I like my tunic. Chris seems to get this no problem, Bob. He’s the most generous man I know.
Clink-clink, goes the spoon against the bottom. More burnt food (who knows what food) gathers in the water swishing in the pot.
Me, I get sentimentality attached to things. So-and-so made this tunic for me, or I wore this tunic when I first met Chris. But share I must.
I examine my pot. About two-thirds gone.
Share and share alike.
Hey, the guy was willing to share with us too.
So back at home, some of the burnings remain after cleaning and cleaning, but maybe these burnings can be the scars that remind me to share my tunic.

Filed Under: camping

Oh, What a Beautiful Morning

May 15, 2007 By heather Leave a Comment

This weekend we went to O-O-O-O-Oklahoma where the wind comes sweepin’ down the plain. We camped at Turner Falls, and for those of you who camp, I would suggest trying this area. The front area (more day trippers—I’m just full of songs today) was more commercialized, but the fall itself was magnificent. Swimming areas, a small stretch of sandy beach, and of course, a castle. Why not have a castle in O-K-L-A-H-O-M-A Oklahoma, yeah? Apparently, in the thirties an English professor at Oklahoma University built it modeled on middle ages English castles. It was his summer home. I guess profs made a bunch more back then. The tent camping area is more secluded. We found a spot right on the rushing river. You don’t really see the other campers. And you don’t see any lights except for the stars, which explode in the sky after the sun goes skinny dipping.
Saturday night, after dark, long after dark, a girl appears by our campfire. The guys were off to the side I think cleaning up something, maybe tying up the trash bags because of the raccoons. This girl, with eyes that didn’t focus anywhere just stands there until my friend Patty asks, “Are you okay?” with her South African accent.
“I’m looking for Xena. Is Xena here?” the girl draws in a breath of cancer from her cigarette.
As in the warrior princess?
“No,” Patty says, “Sorry.”
“I must be at the wrong campsite.”
Ya think?
She wanders away with a dim flashlight. The guys return, and we relate the story. Patty’s reaction: I hope she’s okay. If she’s lost, she’ll be lost all night.
My reaction: maybe she’s the Wandering Lady of Turner Falls searching for Xena’s campsite from the 1930s. The castle-professor had fallen in love with her, but she did not return the emotion, and now she’s doomed to search for Xena forever (because Xena saved her from his clutches in the 30s, or course).
My sweet, caring husband, upon seeing her flashlight again, goes out to help her.
Scenario number two: It’s a ploy. A trap. She lures away the men in the camp to torture them. Meanwhile, others come in and kidnap the women and children. I start praying. Please return my sweet, caring husband to me. And I don’t even watch sci-fi. (Although you should have seen my nightmare last night. Bruce Willis was my father, and he was not a good guy.)
Chris returns. What’s the story? we ask.
“She’s stoned,” he starts. We got that. “I asked her where she came from [cotton-eyed Joe, to keep up the songs]. ‘You know that area where you’re not supposed to drive?’ she said.”
We nod. We know.
Chris continues. “‘We drove there.’ I knew exactly where she was cause I saw that truck earlier. She said Xena—not the warrior princess—did you actually ask her that?” Chris asks me. I hadn’t. She must have come up with it all on her own in her drugged stupor. “Xena the Russian-” okay “-was with a group that jump started our car today and now we’re the best of friends and camping together.”
And they probably had a stash of something.
“When we got to this tiny stream, she turned her flashlight off, told me she knew where she was, and didn’t go any further until I had turned around,” Chris says.
I jump in. “So if it was scenario number one with the Wandering Lady of Turner Falls, she knew that anyone who crossed the tiny stream (River Styx?) with her would be doomed to Hades. If scenario number two, then she grew to like you because you were caring and didn’t try any hokey-pokey business and so she decided to let you go and return to the camp unharmed and in time to save us.” Of course, Patty’s husband, Charl, was still there to prevent aforementioned kidnappings.
Rolled eyes on all sides.
So back to the beautiful morning, Lisa Samson started it all, Mary DeMuth emailed me—along with several others—about it, fellow Misfit Michelle participated, and Robin participated then tagged me. Wshoo. That’s a lotta links, folks, especially considering the pic-in-a-post, too. Morning faces. Pure morning. And I took the picture. Second morning of our camping excursion. Pre-coffee. Unwashed hair. The whole business. But, I can’t bring myself to post it. It would take out the intrigue, and I need just a little mystery (for those of you who do know what I look like, just pretend). So here’s me enjoying the falls. Note: hair is unwashed and unfixed and in an awkward growing-out stage. And I rarely wear make-up anyways, so can this count? And pic was still taken pre-coffee.