Monday, July 7, 2014

What is Waiting in the Dark

June 26

Today is slated for work, so not much adventuring happens.  Our riverside home is cold, and frequent but brief downpours are the only respite from the mosquitos.  

I don't think I can properly explain how terrible the mosquitos are here.  We have seen many campers come into this site, start to set up, then throw everything back in their Subaru hurriedly, swatting and stamping, never to return.  

Tent camping would be unbearable here at this time of year.  Hundreds of mosquitos land on our screens, jabbing their hungry proboscises through the holes in hopes of extracting blood.  Otis sees it as a game and lunges at any that come into the Airstream.  Murray can only be spurred to action if they fly too close to his ears or bite him.

From our screened haven, we watch cranes fly low overhead making their desiccated squawk, or pelicans standing in a line waiting for a fish to pass and gossiping amongst themselves.  A family of otters is out for a day of river fun as they slide and twist effortlessly in the current.   

I do not report the following for pity, but rather to give an accurate perspective of life on the road.

At about three in the morning, I wake with terrible stomach pains.  I can feel that I am about to lose my dinner, and the idea of walking back and forth to the unlit outhouse in pitch black in very active grizzly country does not appeal to me.  I refuse to barf in the trailer.  Hubs decides to drive me to the lodge just down the road, but as I am walking out into the dark, fear suddenly grips me in a way I have only experienced once before, incidentally on the day we entered Yellowstone.  I am paralyzed and panicked with irrational terror of the night, of bears, wolves, mosquitos, Sasquatch.  You name it, I am, for the moment, petrified of it.  

Hubs helps me into the car and I sit, feeling hot and cold all at once, trying not to be sick, waiting for him to come back from locking the trailer.

We get to the lodge where I can see a large stone fireplace with a blazing fire beckoning to me.  But there is an unidentifiable box outside, possibly a bug zapper but more likely a Dalek, emitting pastel light. 


My dear husband reassures me that the box isn't moving and as long as I leave it alone, it will leave me alone.  

It is in this delirious stupor that I tell Hubs that I want to quit.  I want off the road.  I want a house with plumbing and a big fireplace far from anything remotely exciting or adventurous.  Knowing that I am obviously off my nut, he hugs me and tells me that tomorrow I will be ready for adventure again. 

We sit in front of the fire for a couple of hours as I make trips between the couch and restroom.  

Being sick on the road is one of the least fun activities I can think of.  Besides maybe being a bear-spray tester.  But life goes on and by morning I am feeling much better and recant all of my drivel about wanting to quit and get our old house back. 

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