The Interactive Joy List



There’s that theory that cats enjoy only free things. Felines briefly went up a notch while I pondered that philosophy, then I considered the other school of thought where cats already think they own everything anyway. However it works, cats definitely seem to find far more joy in a wayward spider than in a toy mouse purchased for their entertainment.

Is there some innocuous little thing that thrills you?  A good thrill, unlike a wayward spider thrill; I’m talking a sheet of bubble wrap; a phone call from an old friend; when your daughter cleans out her chocolate stash and bequeaths you the dark stuff because it is gross (you reluctantly agree to dispose of it properly). Something like a weed that pops up in your flower bed, then blooms so spectacularly that you accept it; the stray dog you rescue that considerately finagles its way into your Step-Dad’s heart; or when you benevolently agree to fold the clothes in the dryer and discover paper money mixed in (dryers are covered under the international waters/found treasure treaty).

My bud, Lady and I used to attend University lectures together. Authors, Chefs, Doctors, Environmentalists – it didn’t matter, we went to everything. The fun part was we weren’t students, just a couple of Moms sneaking in from the suburbs, and we never did get caught. (Oh, chill, sometimes we bought tickets!)  After attending a few lectures by Psychiatrists, whose topics ranged from self-esteem to personality development, we decided to drop those. Sitting in the back of the room it always went something like this. “OMg, I’ve got that!  I’m codependent, I think. I don’t know, what do you think?  Do you think I’m codependent?”   

We did pick up one thing from the psychiatric lectures that didn’t scar us though, and that was The Joy List. Simply put, what brings you joy?  The exercise we were given was to list 100 joys of any size. Clean sheets. Air-conditioning. Fireplaces. Even if life is rough around the edges or being mean right now, there is always something. It was a task in the theory that joy is not a lottery, but a choice. This is a philosophy that I suspect was invented by dogs, but that’s just my theory.

Just this week my Dentist insisted that I had to get a massage every month. Apparently your neck shouldn’t creak like trees in the wind when you turn it, it does if you write sixteen hours a day, but it shouldn’t. After extracting (pun) my promise that I’d comply, he followed it up with the suggestion that I gain a few pounds. Guys like this can almost explain polygamy. I said almost. At any rate this is what I added to my joy list this week.

            74. My Dentist.

            75. Free chapsticks that my Dentist gives away free (yes, free).

            76. A 4’10” masseuse named Mary with hands like a Merchant Marine
                  (it’s my list).

            77.  Dandelions. Yellow is beautiful. Deal with it.

            78. Critiques consisting of 2,388 words.          

Could go on and on, you’ve probably never noticed that before, but I really could. This is to be an Interactive Joy List though, so I need your help. Feel free to borrow from my list, I’ll even share my Dentist, and I’m very generous with the dandelions, been sharing them with my neighbors for years. Will you share some of what's on your joy list?   

Bait and Switch - The Dark Side of Fishing



Elle was driving in the conversion van she’d nicknamed The Dumpster. It is amazing the amount of fallout a handful of kids can leave behind: soccer balls, cleats, dirty socks, petrified chicken nuggets. A buzzing drone sounded from the back of the van and she worried it was a hornet. It was loud. Glancing back she saw the biggest, fattest insect she’d ever seen, sorta flying towards her. It approached unnaturally slow and jerky, dropping in altitude before struggling upwards, slowly making its way to the front of the van.

Using a piece of junk mail, Elle easily batted it into the passenger window. The bug’s exoskeleton cracked against the glass and it fell to the seat, dead. It was an enormous fly. Gross. At the next traffic light, the sound again came from the back of the van. During Elle’s entire drive she swatted mutant flies to their death. Once home she conducted an impromptu archaeological dig and discovered a cardboard box marked BAIT. It was mislabeled, because what it now contained was actually - hatching bait.

BFF called me today, woke me from a sound sleep to snap into the phone, “Thought you said you tell the truth in your writing.”  I’m summarizing here, but the gist of it went like this. “Why’d you write a fishing blog like you just did?  Tell the truth. Tell the Dark Side of Fishing! Remember when I was expecting, and opened that Tupperware container in the fridge, and it was full of fish eggs?!  Do you remember what happened?  I sure do!”  Oh yeah, I sure do too. I also remember the time my son left worms in the pockets of his pants, course he was little then, now it’s just hooks and sinkers that wind up wedged in the washer or dryer (which is far better than bullets, but that’s hunting season and I digress). Once the dog knocked over a bucket of minnows and rolled in it. We didn’t know until it was far too late for the minnows. Actually we didn’t know until the beagle came proudly strutting across the yard with bits of silvery fish sticking to his hide.

BFF has been happily married as long as I have; it’s just super easy to forget the happily part during fishing season. She’s mentioned more than once that her terrific hubby has only one chink in his armor - the lady who runs the local bait shop. BFF said DH would dump her like hatched bait for that 104 year old woman, just for access to unlimited, free bait. I don’t believe that. There’s plenty of room in his heart for both of them.

So here’s the naked truth when you marry a fisherman.

There will be boxes of live crickets that come in the mail and your mail carrier will laugh every time she sees you. There will be piles of real worms gathered on rainy spring nights, by the light of the moon, and your spouse will have at least one child in tow, both wearing those Nerd-Headlights (your neighbors will be afraid to ask). Your cat will get inside the worm box and generously bring you a pile to share. On the carpet.

When your in-laws visit, you will find a big box of feathers next to the guest room bed. For years you will try to not think of why, but eventually you’ll realize that it was a fly-tying kit. Family photos will often involve at least one great big fish. You will know so much about the life cycle of insects, that you will be able to identify what type of larvae are produced by what type of beetle. Eventually you’ll even realize that there is far more to fishing than just tossing a hook into some water.

Of course you will fish with your Sweetie. Love does crazy things to you. You will find out that it is possible to be violently seasick for every second a boat is on the sea. You will not eat Codfish for ten years after deep-sea fishing off the coast of Gloucester. Twenty years later you will still remember the smell. Ocean fishing with your in-laws you will discover that shrimp is used as bait. You will also discover that live shrimp looks exactly like it does in a shrimp cocktail, minus little black eyes and some whiskery-appendages. You will not eat shrimp for ten years. At some point you will have to admit that there is a difference between enjoying and enduring. At some point you will suspect fishing won’t be your thing unless a fishing gene is located, and it is spliced into your DNA. At another point you will realize that your Sweetie is a fisherman, not just a man. If you’re super lucky, you’ll have a BFF to commiserate with.

Ten Reasons I Luv Fishing Season



1.      All night write!  To music.  As loud as I want it.  (My neighbors hate me/Speakers are an excellent birthday gift.)

2.      Ice-cream for dinner.  Every single night. 

3.      A spotlessly, neat, clean house with all the laundry done.  If you haven’t married a hunter/raised children/homeschooled/ran a business/did all your own paperwork to save money – you might not really understand just how intoxicatingly attractive this can be.

4.      Working out at midnight.  Running the vacuum at midnight.  Going to the supermarket at midnight. 

5.      Calling your night-owl friends/different time-zone friends in the middle of the night and talking until dawn. It’s almost like having a social life.

6.      Taking a little “nap” from noon ‘til six, because you forgot to sleep since Sunday.  Wait, what day is it? 

7.      Going to a late night movie on a Tuesday night by yourself.  The one nobody else wants to see.  The one you will never admit to having gone to see.

8.      Electric blanket, entire bed, one dozen books, your Kindle, and a box of crackers.  Morning, noon, or night, who cares?  Ooooh, Baby.

9.      1/3 of this week’s grocery budget spent at a touristy, lake-side restaurant where you treat yourself to lunch, and you order only off the appetizer and dessert menu.  Caprese Salad, Crab Cake, Dark Chocolate Raspberry Torte.

10.  When your fisherman returns and says how lucky he is to have such an understanding and supportive wife, and you say, “Anytime Sweetheart.  You deserve a break!” And you both really mean it. 

Just Shoot for the Stars



Do you ever finish up a meal, think to yourself that you may never want to eat again, and then suddenly something random like S’mores pops into your head?  'Mmmm S’mores', something very base within you will say. Must. Have. This idea will be very powerful. So powerful in fact that you are torn between two impulses:  1) There are rice cakes, carob chips and tofu in the fridge – this is the closest thing you have to the makings of a S’more, BUT you consider it however briefly. 2) If it happens to be 3:00 a.m., the fact that you COULD plow the drive, and drive your car through a blizzard to go fetch the actual ingredients also enters your mind. If you have some self restraint you might satisfy yourself with googling different S’more recipes and wait. The idea does not go away though, oh no, it does not. It lingers in your head like that song by Maroon 5 that will take brain surgery to get out. (Cause two hours of White Stripes on full blast, until you killed your last speaker didn’t wipe it, and you know it is there ‘til your dying day with the moves like Jagger.) Just like the craving for S’mores, it isn’t going anywhere.

After years of intensive scientific research I’ve discovered the root cause of invasive and random junk cravings. (By scientific I mean the idea drifted through The Glitter Globe once, it was so sparkly I grabbed it and held on.)  Those wayward desires that you fight to master, are actually the demands of a desperate and dying fat cell. Somewhere in my body at this very moment is a latent fat cell that is still constructed of marshmallow, graham cracker, and Hershey bar. Even if it hasn’t been fed since I was a Girl Scout that is irrelevant. Fat cells don’t have much on their mind beyond what created them. They lurk inside you thinking about the day they were born, “Oooooh, Baby, marshmallow-marshmallow-marshmallow….”  You get the idea. If all they could do was dream, there would be no need for fat pants. Problem is they slipped your blood some sugar during the whole birthday celebration years ago. Yes, your blood made a deal with the devil that you are forever paying for.

The nanosecond a fat cell feels in danger of shrinking, it calls in that old favor. “Take a message to the brain STAT. YOU OWE ME.”  The messages we are all familiar with. (Pizza-Pizza-Pizza. Butter-Butter-Butter. Sugar-Sugar-Sugar.)  But knowledge is power. There is hope. The cycle can be interrupted. Now there are two ways to halt the self-destruct sequence. I wish it were as simple as sunlight and garlic, but it isn’t. 1) Weaken the witching fat cell with activity. I suggest cranking up your tunes and jumping on the bed for a bit (for the love of light please use caution when choosing your music). This causes the fat cell to faint. 2) Attempt to kill the fat cell. This is a complicated procedure involving avoiding every ingredient in whatever that dude is pestering you for. If done properly, the fat cell will shut up in terror. All the other fat cells in the body are telling him to SHUT IT, because now they’re all losing territory. Peer pressure works. Warning:  Fat cells never completely die, they just go dormant. Be sure to keep your iPod on stun and use caution obeying the voices.  Words to live by there.

Bad Reputation



It was today, when I was stopped for not shop-lifting that got me thinking about stereotypes and misconceptions. It’s a busy world and if you don’t jump to conclusions now and then, you’re probably wasting a whole lot of time. Shopping at Target once with my daughter, she was stopped several times and asked to help other customers. Why?  She was wearing khaki pants and a red shirt. She was about eleven years old, but it didn’t matter, she was wearing the uniform.

We all know that there is some serious profiling going on at airports. I know this because I fit one of the demographics. You know those full body scanners with the embarrassing visual probes that are sprouting up in airports all over the world?  I object. Am I being modest?  Actually, no; if there was a way to speed the security process, I’d be one of those annoying people willing to give up the freedom of standing in line for an hour and a half. Yet I’ve noticed a disturbing pattern. When I go through a full body scanner, I am pulled aside. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. Would you please step over here for a pat down?”  And every single time they pat down only my calves. They give me various explanations, my favorite is, “We are checking the hems of your pants.”  Then why are you patting just my calves and ignoring my dangerous hem?  I have unnaturally large calves. They don’t fit awesome fashion boots, much to my eternal dismay. They dream about skinny jeans that they will never wear. I blame it on the fact that I run, but the truth is, they’ve always been like that. My hubby lovingly calls them my “Thor” legs, isn’t that romantic?  So on behalf of bulky-calved disproportionate women everywhere, can I just ask what the heck do you think I’m packing in my calves anyway?

Recently I accompanied my buddy, Comrade, to the doctor’s. Now Comrade is a generation or two ahead of me, but we go together like peas and carrots. We approach most everything as an awesome adventure, so we just ran with it when everyone from the Receptionist to the Nurses and Physicians stereotyped us and addressed me, instead of her. It was blatant Ageism. They talked really loud and slow (she insisted that was for my benefit, not hers). I, of course, ran with it and repeated things back to her and explained all those complex medical gadgets, “This is a scale. You will be charged per pound.” 



Now some misconceptions can be rather pleasant. My little niece loves that I’m a writer. She is now old enough that she has stopped picking up random books and asking if I wrote this one, or that one, but now she wants to know how much money I made writing my last novel. “None,” I explained. “I have to sell it first.”  She found this a bit disappointing and pressed, until I finally confessed I had just sold a little story and earned enough for two boxes of Dilly Bars from Dairy Queen. “WOW. Are you famous?” she asked. “Have you ever heard of me?” I replied. To which I got the response, “WOW. That is so cool.”  I wish she could just stay at this age for years. I really like being someone’s idea of cool.

Apparently leaving the mall with the same amount of goods you walked in with is a sign of a shoplifter. Either that or hanging around the shoe department and just taking pictures of shoes is. At any rate as I was exiting the 'maul', a security guard bellowed at me, “Don’t you want to check-out before you leave?!” The thing is, when I turned around to look at him, he simply said, “Oh, never mind. Sorry.” And he walked away. So apparently I only look like a thief from the back. I’m thinking that it was probably my awesome, gangster, Pleather jacket. I was all Joan Jett until I turned around. Well, at least he didn’t pat down my calves.

Dazzling Kathy



Does your bucket list include anything you don’t actually want to do?  I made a deal to put something on my bucket list. I promised to kiss a baby lamb in exchange for a free book. I’m cheap like that, but I’m big on follow through.  So last week I went stalking hiking around a monastery where monks raise sheep, skulking around the pastures and keeping an eye out for a cooperative looking bambino. Turned out it was a bit early for lambing season; the sheep were still wearing their winter coats. Those puppies are huge, with skinny little stick legs that look like they could snap and the whole sofa sized wooly beast might drop right to the ground at any moment. Not to mention that the fence is electric, and they’re guarded by both attack llamas and donkeys. Monks do not put up with lamb kissers in these parts.

There is no deadline for kissing that lamb, but I don’t like to leave things uncrossed on lists. Considered cheating, and looked for a white-chocolate lamb, I’d enjoy kissing that sweetie. So I hunted up and down the ‘Seasonal’ aisles at Super Walmart on Good Friday. The poor guy working the aisle seemed so crestfallen by my request. You almost need binoculars to see all the way down that candy aisle, the selection was mind-boggling, but no, this chick wants a white-chocolate lamb. They didn’t have any, and he even called in the cavalry to search. I witnessed things getting a little heated over the last box of purple peeps, so I opted for the safer and honorable path in my quest.

Back to the monastery I went, it’s been a week, I thought maybe the lambs were in. Besides I needed some peace after the holiday shopping expedition. I felt a bit creeper, checking out those ewes, like those fish that follow Mama Guppy around the bowl, you know?  There was a baby donkey, baby donkeys are rather large by the way, you don’t want no part of that. I hiked around the fields and ridges for hours. The rams are not a friendly looking bunch. They’re just waiting for me to try to jump that fence and plant a smooch on one of their offspring. The word on the hill is that those sweet baby lambs will start hatching around next week. I really hope that they are clean and fluffy, and that they smell a whole lot better than their parents, but a deal's a deal. Picked up a new chap-stick at Super Walmart, so I’m ready, and no worries Little Lambie, this won’t hurt a bit.  

http://kathyhepinstall.wordpress.com/?s=lamb

The Tiara Trap (After Ella lost her Cinder) Flash Fiction

Everyone said the wedding was fairytale perfect. The entire kingdom showed up, except for Ella’s Step-Mother and Step-Sisters, of course. They were now aboard the HMS Enquirer bound for the Big City, where Step-Mother planned to found a magazine devoted entirely to sharing the minute details of royal life with the common people.

Since the entire Kingdom consisted of Charming’s friends, the Bride’s side of the church was completely empty. Not even Fairy G. Mother came, though at the reception Ella found her benefactor had sent an enormous pumpkin and a very nice card. The pumpkin was misshapen and blue; it stood out next to gifts of crystal and fine china. Ella didn’t think she was imagining the cool looks shot her way by her new Mother-in-law, the Queen. She wished she was imagining the King sipping champagne out of her glass slippers, and the way he slurred his words through fruity punch-infused breath. When the King started to bellow instructions on the proper way to bump and grind to the harp music, she managed to lose him in miles of ballroom draperies.

Ella’s wedding dress was spectacular. It took a dozen bridesmaids to help her carry the diamond and silver encrusted fabric through the reception; sadly it was too wide to fit through the door of the Ladies Room. Charming was barely able to reach her waist, through miles of silk and satin, for their big dance together. He seemed out of sorts, and when pressed, admitted that he was missing the first day of dragon hunting season for the big to-do; that he wasn’t much for princely occasions, nor did he care a whit for dancing. As soon as the sensational, flowery frosting-infused, twenty-layer wedding cake was cut, and their picture taken, Charming slipped away to sharpen his sword and pack for his interrupted dragon hunt.

With the help of several chambermaids, and the properly placed boot of a royal footman, Ella managed to force her gown through the chamber door. All she found of her Prince was a trail of his dirty clothes, from socks to unmentionables, lining the floor of their castle tower. Handmaidens adorned Ella in bedclothes of itchy gossamer, and clouds of scented powder wafted through the apartment. Exhausted and scratching, Ella collapsed on her bed, to spend her wedding night sneezing.

Early the next morning, the court’s wild-eyed physician trailed Ella’s low-fat breakfast into the apartment, waving a newspaper in one hand and a syringe in the other. “A wedding photo with a frown between your brows!  It won’t do!  The kingdom does not need to worry about what their Princess might be worried about!”  Ella frowned her last frown while Dr. Artifice injected Abracadabra Botox into her face. The scowling doctor assured her that serenity was her duty.

Expression-free, Ella used a half bottle of Windex to clean her glass slippers. She wrapped her sparkling shoes in tissue and put them in the back of the closet. Leaning out the tower window, she saw Charming and his friends racing their trusty stallions over a distant hillside, in pursuit of dragons. A footman informed her The Prince wouldn’t be back until the entire land had been rid of the scourge of dragons. While she scrubbed her good scissors clean, certain that Charming hadn’t meant to use them to trim his toenails, Ella pondered the fact that she'd never seen a dragon in her life.

The first day of Princess Life was an interesting one. Her royal duties included dressing like a Princess, smiling demurely, waving to the commoners, and – most importantly – a dainty feminine sound of amusement, not as ribald as a laugh, that she was to emit only upon a secret signal given to her by the Queen. That was it. The Queen told her brusquely, her duties did not include discussing her dodgy past as a chimney sweep, aging, nor public opinions beyond championing stray kittens and puppies.  Ella excelled at her obligations for two solid hours, until the changing of the guard, whereupon she escaped.

On a balcony overlooking the courtyard, Ella sat perched on a satin cushion. The masses had endured her professional waves out of the corners of their eyes, as they speculated hotly on the odds of Charming procuring a dragon. Ella simply slid down and out the bottom of her gown, leaving her tiara perched on the top of the high collar. In her petticoats she managed to secure a pair of Charming’s trousers, and made her way through the back stairwells of the castle. She had to duck into the ballroom to dodge the King. He was in the main corridor, pleading with the scullery maids to teach him freak dancing.

Darting through the ballroom, still sparkling with wedding décor and piles of gifts, Ella paused to nab the gnarly blue pumpkin her Godmother had sent her. She slipped out an archway into the gardens. A Guard was engaged in a heated argument with a Steward. He doubted the existence of dragons and estimated the intelligence of their Prince quite low. Ella stole his horse.

Stopping at a brook on the outskirts of the kingdom, Ella dismounted. Cold and tired, she built a fire. Resting on her pumpkin she contemplated her future. Ella bellowed a most unladylike protest when she was suddenly tossed into the air. She landed wrong side-up, and from inside her pumpkin, a blue dragon snaked towards her. The creature roared angrily. Nabbing a tree branch from the forest floor, Ella rolled to her feet and pointed it at the beast.

Suddenly Charming was there. He raced gallantly to her side and hugged her. “Ella!  You found a blue one!  Will you teach me how to find them?”

Using her branch to shovel hot coals into the dragon’s hungry mouth, Ella began to teach her Prince about how to train a dragon. And they lived happily ever after, though you couldn’t tell that until the Abracadabra-Botox wore off.

I'll Be Bach - Hiking Out of the Grand Canyon

Heading out in dawn’s early light, ten miles of up, awaited.

Hitting the trail at a good pace, we scurried across The Colorado River, chatting up our adventure. It was still dark in the corners of the canyon when we came upon an Australian family. They were leisurely strolling along, and we hurried to pass them. When what to our wondering eyes should appear, but twin little girls, about five or six years. Holey-moley we said. Good luck with that. The entire family greeted us with a chipper, “G’day.”  We scurried ahead marveling that they’d gotten those little ladies into the canyon, but more importantly, we wondered how on earth they were going to get those girls out of the canyon.

Going up struck me as easier than down and we made excellent time to the halfway point, hitting it easily in just three hours. The mule deer were thick, and the canyon was gorgeous and at that moment in time, there was no place else we wanted to be. When we stopped to rest, we took off our packs, refilled our water, and took some pictures. Then suddenly little girl voices sounded in our wake. Are you kidding me?  It was the Australian family with the Barbie Twins in tow!  Well, we joked, we wouldn’t have to call for the rescue copter when we reached the top after all.

Plowing on, we passed mules heading down to the ranch; they have the right of way. You flatten yourself against the canyon wall, when the mules pass you, and tuck your toes in. We were enthusiastic when we reached the base of The Wall, as it is called. It was straight up from there to the top of the canyon, and it got colder as we headed up. That felt like a perk, jogging uphill. After a couple hours we began to peel layers off, and stopped to catch our breath, rearrange our packs, check the water situation and eat more granola.

“Do you hear that?” Hubby asked with a grin.

“What?”

He leaned over the ledge, to peer at the path right below us. “It’s those little girls, they’re right down there.”

“You have got to be kidding me.”  I peeked over and sure enough, there they were, just wisping along, wandering over the path like cats with no particular place to go. I grabbed my backpack. “Hook me up. I am so not letting those little girls beat me out of this canyon.”

At this point we were beginning to pass people heading down into the canyon. Uphill hikers have the right of way, and as the hours ticked away, the reason for that was obvious. If you stopped, you lost your steam. I decided it was time to break out the spare mojo, and hooked up the iPod. I find that music makes me faster when I run, it’s magic like that. So I had packed it in case I needed that extra kick to get me up that wall. When I paused to secure my ear-buds, I spotted two teens sprawled in a crevice, like they’d melted in there. They looked up pathetically and asked, “Are you hiking down?”

“Nope, I’m heading up from Phantom Ranch.”

“What?!”  They sat up, “So are we!”

I hadn’t even gotten the playlist going when they hopped up and rushed up the trail. They could not let this Mom beat them out of the canyon.

“Cool, Hon!” I told my Hubby, “We’re their Terminator Twins.”

“Speaking of which…” he pointed to the switchback below, laughing.

Really?  What kind of genetic experiments are they doing on kids in Australia? 

We did eventually dust those Princesses, after we hit the ice. We didn’t see them again after we clapped on the Crampons and dug in. The last few miles were long and tough, and when we hit the top it was with a feeling of great accomplishment. I found the experience comparable to labor, insomuch as by the time you realize what you’re in for, it is too late to escape your fate. I’d do it again in a minute.   

Good Times

Some people ride mules into The Grand Canyon. It’s fun to watch the way they walk the day after that. I tried really hard to find a video to insert of a mule ride down that didn’t have swearing in it. This is the best I could do, there aren’t any PG versions. I apologize for the last three seconds. Don’t watch it or listen if it will offend you. It’s not my video. I walked, remember?  And I was praying, not cussing.

I want to know how those mule riders slept that night. Every time you start to drift off, after hiking down, your brain screams, “DON’T GO NEAR THE EDGE!” and you jerk awake. Cannot fathom what your brain says after a day skimming over the edge of the trails perched on the back of a giant mule. Those mules walk on the razor’s edge of the trail; as a matter of fact I think they like to do it on two legs, judging by their footprints, looks like there are times when even one will suffice. Of course while I watched the mule rider’s rodeo-walk the morning after, I was sidling along like a crab trying desperately not to further inflame beleaguered muscles or step down for any purpose.

One of the hikers in our group had gotten sick the night before the hike down. Let’s call him Dusty. Dusty was dehydrated before we even met at the trailhead to hike down. Fortunately he managed to secure a room at the top of the canyon (since he had to stay on the rim to bark at the ants) while the rest of us headed heartlessly down to Phantom Ranch without him. “We’ll take pictures, Dusty!  Get well soon!”  We missed him, but all agreed it was better for Dusty to stay up top and live another day and he was in no condition to argue. So imagine our surprise, when on our first day at the ranch, a woman came running into camp and shouted that Dusty was on the bridge over the Colorado River and it didn’t look like he was going to make it. Amazing how no matter how much it hurts, you can run when you have to. That’s what his real friends did, but I did toss them a bottle of water to take, before continuing to write out my mule delivered post-cards.

Dusty had decided that he was hiking that canyon by George, and he did. He took a shorter, steeper trail down, a meaner one, one with no water or shade, and he only had two liters of water on him. I wish I had some of his pictures to post, where he’s lying against a canyon wall all by himself looking so wretched and homeless. The rest of us had plenty of water on our hike down, and on top of that we had an experienced canyon hiker with us. Let’s call him Saul. Saul lives in Arizona, he knows how to survive in the desert, he knew how much water we needed, he shared his snacks, and he put up with all the grief we gave him the whole hike down. “Are we there yet?  What do you mean that was only one mile?!  How much longer?”  Poor Dusty did not have luxury of Saul’s expertise, cheerful coaching, or even enough water. Dusty didn’t even have the camaraderie of a group to cheer him along. I really think he should get an, “I hiked the Grand Canyon ON MY OWN tattoo”.

Do you recall the young mother of twins who hiked down with us?  Let’s call her…  Sassy (I’m really excellent at disguising names.). Remember she’s the full-time college student/full-time job/full-time Momma of little twins?  She BROUGHT HER HOMEWORK WITH HER. Yes, she carried her Biology book in her backpack, in and out of The Grand Canyon. Surely that is worth extra credit. She spent her free day doing homework in the great outdoors, enjoying the sounds of nature. Personally I think the sounds of nature were protesting homework on vacation, but that’s just my opinion.



You're Going Down! Hiking Into The Grand Canyon



The Grand Canyon/S.R. Karfelt

Hiking the Grand Canyon was not originally on my bucket list, but when the opportunity dropped in my lap I ran with it. All experience is useful in the writing world, including the painful stuff. That is how I found myself in early March, at the trailhead of a ten mile path to the bottom of The Grand Canyon. The view was daunting, but backing out was no longer an option, it was on the bucket list by then. In pen.

Now I’ve hiked formidable paths before. There are places in the Canadian Wilderness where I’ve duct taped my gloves to my sleeves to keep swarms of insects from crawling in. Places where a head-net is all that separates you from black clouds of bugs as they whip around like something out of a Stephen King novel. Hikes where you slip and slide over boulders and trudge through swamp like a 70’s war movie.

The Grand Canyon was more of a marathon hike. I’m a runner and that was pretty much meaningless when it came to the first part of the hike. If you know of a way to train for a hike that starts out with ten miles of DOWN HILL, I’d be happy to hear about it. Let me sum it up (I don’t dare be completely irreverent about it, it can be a dangerous hike): You’ve got altitude, the South Rim is 7000 feet above sea level; it is so dry if you sneeze all that comes out is a cloud of mummy dust; you might want to rub that chap-stick all over your entire face, and you will need to carry at least three liters of water, water is heavy and your gear and supplies will be on your back too; the floor of the canyon is about twenty-five degrees hotter than the top, I hiked it in winter, so that was not an issue, if you hike it in summer, good luck with that.

In March The Wall of The Grand Canyon was a fluctuating mess of solid ice, snow, slush, slippery red mud, and rocky dirt. The path is just inches wide in places, and while there is a canyon wall going up one side of you, there is a ledge leading down to a fate of coyote chow on the other. Did I ever mention that I have chronic vertigo?  I failed to mention it to my fellow hikers until we were a half hour into the hike. I try not to let my vertigo stop me from doing wildly stupid things, besides if I’d told them, they might not have invited me along.

S. R. Karfelt

At times I found the descent like walking an icy balance beam inside a panoramic 360 degree IMAX theatre. Fortunately for me my hiking companions were a terrific bunch:

·        Three Engineers (Engineers are awesome additions to any adventure. They can use a shoelace to repair anything. Give them some duct tape and they’ll repair your spaceship).

·        One Delightful Young Single Mother of Twins who also goes to college full-time and works full-time, so of course hiking The Grand Canyon was just a way for her to relax on any given weekend. (She’d probably climb Everest on a three-day weekend if she could get a sitter.)

·        One Lovely, Fun Horsewoman trained in search and rescue was also part of our group—but sadly she didn’t bring her horse. (Still, it was very reassuring to have her there—just in case someone were to need rescued—luckily we didn’t have to find out if she’d just have said, “It’s my day off.”)

·        Me—A Writer—Besides vertigo I brought to the table, um, words. Just in case somebody forgot to pack their thesaurus, and needed another word for charley-horse in the middle of the hike.

Most of the canyon path was switchbacks, trails that zigzag impossibly down the sides of cliffs. The scenery is breathtaking. The scope of The Grand Canyon cannot be conveyed in photographs. The enormity can barely be perceived; it is a mile deep, 277 miles long, and varies to 18 miles across. There are no roads down into the canyon, there are rugged paths.

Inside the canyon you get a close up look at the geology; layers of rock stripe their way from floor to the top in glorious colors. You don’t see any of that as you hike. You see your feet. It took me seven hours to hike the ten miles down the canyon. As stated earlier, the fact that I run every day meant zip when it came to walking downhill for ten miles. Those muscles protested like two-year olds at Disney. There is this interesting little “Canyon Shuffle” walk you see everyone doing at the bottom of the canyon. It is sometimes accompanied by whimpers and whining sounds, and for those forced to go down stairs, I’m sorry to report, some expletives.

S. R. Karfelt

We spent a couple days on the canyon floor shuffling around in that pained gait and laughing at each other—and yes—hiking some more, just because something hurts is really no reason not to keep right on doing it, right? It was a great chance to see the canyon without worrying about falling off the ledge. Another very good reason to spend a couple days on the floor of the canyon is to get at least one good night’s sleep before hiking back up. You don’t want to spend the night you should be resting sobbing into your pillow over the thought of hiking back up. You will anyway, but at least you’ll have had one night to sleep. You in? Because once just isn't enough. I'm having that problem with my bucket list. You know, "do-overs". 

By the Time I Got to Phoenix



            “You’re going to hike the Grand Canyon?” 

There was no mistaking the pity in his eyes. My stomach dropped. It was one of those moments when I wondered who writes my bucket list, if there was any hope that she would ever employ restraint, and if I’d left enough notes on the series I was writing, so that in the event that the canyon ate me, my editor-friend could finish it.

Sitting in a Mexican restaurant, listening to my friend’s story of when he’d hiked the canyon, freaked me out enough that I decided to take my last minute training seriously. The advice that had stuck in my head after all my research was, “Eat twice as much as you normally would.”  Psych!  It didn’t say when to start, but those pitying looks of ‘You’re so gonna die’ inspired me to start right then and there with chips and guacamole. There were five meals standing between me and that canyon and I was going to make everyone of them count.

            “Uh, Hon?  What are you doing?” Hubby asked as I plopped into a booth at Chick-fil-A. “I thought you were just getting water and using the Ladies… it’s a four hour drive to the canyon from here. Don’t you want to get to the rim before dark?”

            “We missed breakfast!” Waffle-fries and a chicken sandwich would have to make-do as my make-up meal. Yes, I was eating meat - the whole vegetarian thing is more of a guideline when I’m under duress. I don’t like the taste of it, but I was in training you see?

            “Um, you ate breakfast two hours ago….”

            “Look, you’re supposed to eat TWICE as much as normal when you hike the canyon. I read it on the internet, so it must be true.”

He mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like “six times as much,” but since no living husband has ever said that out loud, I must have misunderstood. I couldn’t ask for clarification because I was trying to choke down the chicken.

We made it to the south rim of the canyon before dark and it was snowy, windy and quite cold. We found the trail we’d be hiking down in the morning. From the top it looked like an eight inch wide, solid-ice luge chute. I headed in the opposite direction.

            “Babe?  Don’t you want to take pictures?”

            “The restaurant in this El Tovar place is supposed to be fantastic. We might be able to get in without reservations since it’s so early.”

If it was going to be my last meal (not counting tomorrow’s breakfast), I was going to make it good. There is reason to suspect that I may possibly be a stress eater.



Sitting on a Cornflake Waiting for the Van to Come...

Standing in line waiting for the airport shuttle, a man tapped me on the shoulder. When I turned around, he used a hand to indicate his face, and asked, “Do I look all right?”

I live for these moments. Wanting to give him an honest answer, I focused. He looked like a mild-mannered, kindly father. “Yes.”

When he pointed to his nose, I leaned closer, squinting. There was a pretty nasty slice across it that had been expertly covered with make-up. “Oh. It’s hardly noticeable.”

“Good. I have a really important presentation to make.”

“I don’t think anybody will notice.”

Of course now that he’d pointed it out, I was not entirely sure that was true. I was starting to think about the really good Bare Mineral’s Bisque I had in my carry-on bag. Would it be too strange for me to fix this guy’s make-up?

“So my son got a puppy. An 85-pound Bull Mastiff.”

I love my life. I love that I have a face that says, “Tell me more.”

“Oh?”

“And I put a dog biscuit in my mouth.” He reenacts this for me as he speaks. I’m beside myself with joy. “And then I did this.” The guy pats his chest.

I drop my bags on the floor when I bend over laughing. I love my life. The shuttle has arrived by the time I collect myself and my belongings, and am upright again. We’re walking to the shuttle and he looks faintly wounded by my reaction.

“So you have that kind of a sense of humor?”

Really? I wonder what kind of reaction he usually got with this story. I drag my bags onto the Knight Bus unabashed; he might as well know what happens when you talk to strangers, right?

“I’m a writer, and I’m going to use that story.”

“Well. Go right ahead. I give it to you.”

“You should use it too, when you give the presentation. Just in case they notice your nose. It’s pretty good.”

“I’m going to,” he assured me. “I have a picture of the puppy in my slides. I sell organic eggs, blue ones.”

Are you kidding me? He is the Egg Man, goo goo g’joob! I LOVE my life, and I’m starting to love airports.