Thursday, November 13, 2014

5,000 Feet of Pressure

Yesterday I made the official decision to change our clocks to Sputnik Standard Time.  It gets dark way too early, and our batteries can only provide so much light and furnace-power before bed time, so I set our clocks forward two hours and adjusted meal times and bed time accordingly.  If we were to follow Pacific Standard Time, we would be eating dinner at 3:30 and going to bed at six, which would officially make us old people.  In an attempt to regain our youth, Sputnik Standard Time is instated, and our internal clocks agree completely.  

Morning dawns pale and cold.  We huddle under the blankets and watch the sun creep slowly down the hill toward our trailer.  We are mostly in shade here until late afternoon, so our battery is low enough that we can't turn the furnace on yet.  There is nothing to do but wait.  

Finally, there is enough heat to venture out of doors, and Hubs sits in the sunshine and reads while I try my hand at watercolor painting.  My first attempt is a masterpiece of what not to do when using watercolors.  It consists of a large, dark tree trunk in the center of my picture.  Because, you know, the tree trunk is the support for the leaves and branches, so I had better paint it first or my leaves will all fall down.  Sadly, no amount of layering with leaves makes it any less prominent, so I scrap that attempt and start over, afraid to use any bold colors at all.  My new painting looks like a lot of green ghost trees hovering on a blue ghost background.  

Murray recharges his batteries in the sun too.
Maybe I should do some research before attempting a third.

I bet you thought once we left Oregon, you wouldn't have to hear about mushrooms any more, but Hubs spots a few clumps that are interesting.

These look like the perfect woodland mushroom.  It is hard to judge scale from a photo, so I put my shoe next to them.

When they age, the bells recede, get slimy, and drip.

When making dinner tonight, I pull a jar of BBQ sauce out of the fridge and open it.


The lid explodes from the jar, splattering sauce all over me and the inside of the Airstream.  

The last time I opened this jar, we were at sea level: now we are at 5,000 feet.  

The air pressure has been building inside that bottle with each inclined foot we drove, culminating in BBQ sauce in my hair.

While mopping up I make a mental note to beware the ketchup tomorrow morning, and notice that the air-tight packets of seaweed snacks look as though they have explosive potential too.  

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