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.

'Tis Grand



Finished an edit that cost me my posture, occasionally my sense of humor, and the last dregs of the social life I’d been trying to hang onto. Note to self:  When you write a five book series, don’t write the first book last. It’s kind of like painting yourself into a corner of a football stadium (pretend like they have corners, mine does). Good thing I’m flexible because I had to climb walls to get out. You know how awkwardly the whole Star Wars saga progressed, as technology moved forward, but the plot moved back?  My dilemma was exactly like that; except that it was a book and not a movie, and the book has nothing to do with outer-space, AND nobody was paying me write it. We obey the muse around here. Anyway, the point is that moving backwards in story-land is a bit of a quagmire. I didn’t dare do anything that would require major plot changes in the other four books. It felt like yoga without ever leaving my desk chair. Write tight my eye. It will make an interesting final edit; moving commas could have a ripple effect in more than one universe. I’ll be up for it; I just have to walk erect for a couple of days first.

Kind of makes me consider outlining next time… nah. Where’s the fun in that?

Was a bit apprehensive about finally clambering out of my desk chair (after months of writing 16 hours a day) to hike the Grand Canyon. My BFF always puts things into perspective. She pointed out that getting rescued from the floor of the canyon, by the rescue helicopter, really ought to be on my bucket list anyway. Hmmm. I wonder if the same guys work it, who work ski patrol rescue?  That was kind of fun. It’s all good fodder for The Glitter Globe though. So I tossed random, sparkly hiking stuff into a box and sent it ahead. I keep trying to outfox the whole lost-luggage scenario. Briefly considered wearing everything onto the plane, but can’t get hiking poles and crampons through security. At least I don’t think I can, hmmm. The question then becomes do I want to add strip search to my bucket list? 

Ten Ways to Get a Telemarketer to HANG UP ON YOU

There is a landline phone in the editing cave, and I have reason to suspect that it is the last landline phone on the continent accessible to telemarketers. As always, employ any techniques you pick up from The Glitter Globe at your own risk. Heads up - make sure it is a telemarketer. It really backfires on you when the call turns out to be, hypothetically let’s say, a government representative returning your call.

10. Answer the phone in another language. My personal favorite is Charlie Brown’s parent’s language. Wah wah.

  9. Play a musical tune on your keypad. Surely you know the numbers for, “On Top of Old Smokey” or at least, “Mary had a Little Lamb”. For extra points, sing along. Prepare for an encore, in case it is requested.

  8. Politely request that they, “Please hold”. Put the phone on speaker while you go back to your writing/whatever you were doing. If you are so inclined you could lightly sing a bit. I recommend Copacabana by Barry Manilow.  “Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl – With yellow feathers in her hair and a dress cut down to there….”

 7. Transfer them to your supervisor. If there is a toddler in the house, promote her (temporarily). Any pet will suffice, I give my frog extra pellets for this job. There is also the option of being your own supervisor (just like customer support does, right?).

 6. You know how they sometimes launch right into their spiel?  You must cut this off with an authoritative, “EXCUSE ME?  EXCUSE ME?!  Why do you keep calling me and asking what I’m wearing?  It’s none of your business what I’m wearing!”  Then in an aside to your pet frog, “SNAKE!  It’s that guy calling again!  The one who always asks what I’m wearing!”

 5. Then there is the ever popular, best defense is a good offense strategy. Politely. “What’ya say your name was?”  Ask it repeatedly until they answer, and follow it up with, “That’s my favorite name…  What’re you wearing?”

 4. Taking it a bit farther, I’d also recommend using all your favorite clichéd pick-up lines. You might want to take notes for research purposes. “Do you come here often?” “What’s your sign?” “Have we met?  You look familiar….”

 3. Launch into your best soulless, empty, fake-polite voice:  “Please hold. Your call is important to us; it will be answered by the next available operator. Estimated wait time is approximately… 50 minutes.”  Rinse and repeat.

 2. Repeat everything they say in a mumble. See how well you can shadow.

 1. Put them on speaker and just keep working. Interrupt only when you need something. “HEY?!  What rhymes with orange?” “HEY?! What’s another word for contagion?” “Are antelope and zebras both found in the Serengeti?”                      

This blog is dedicated to Raj, who inspired me with the idea in the first place.

Villains, Vampires and Vitriol



What makes a villain?  The dictionary description is rather succinct: “a cruelly malicious person involved/devoted to wickedness or crime”. Such cooperation!  Where would fiction be without this devoted, heartless wickedness?  Did you ever see that children’s book The True Story of the Three Little Pigs by Jon Scieszka?  It is written from the Wolf’s perspective. How about Gregory Maguire’s book Wicked, told from the POV (Point of View) of the Wicked Witch?  You know, everyone has their perspective.

Do you want to know the Bad Guy’s motivation in a story?  It helps from a writing perspective to understand an antagonist’s background, even if all the reader ever sees is a classic villain, existing only to make the hero’s life a nightmare. Frankly I think learning a bit of the villain’s history adds depth to the story, for the reader. We all knew some of Voldemort’s background, it hardly made him more sympathetic; in fact it made him worse. Didn’t our hero, Harry, overcome a similar past, without becoming evil?    

Dare I admit publicly that I not only enjoyed reading Twilight I thought that turning a classic bad guy, good, was positively refreshing. Everyone luvs a guy who could be bad, but won’t. (Chocolate, to the first one to identify that sorta quote.)  Then the villain in that story ended up being a vampire who did embrace his dark side. Someone should write a story about a classic good guy gone bad… hmmmm, like an ANGEL!  Wait, I think I read that book. Oh my gosh, it’s a true story too. Well, I don’t think we’re gonna top that bestseller.

Then there are villains who, with a dying breath, repent – aka Darth Vader – gotta love those. How about those unfeeling villains, where resistance is futile as in the Borg? Terminator?  You’re not going to sway them (well, except that one episode in TNG/and the second terminator movie – but other than those).

How about those Villains you love to hate? Jane Eyre’s Aunt, cousins, everyone who ran the Lowood School; Captain Bligh – and he got away with it, which just makes it even worse (or better if you were the writer); Cruella DeVil; All Evil Step-Mothers/Sisters/Cats and Uncle Scar in The Lion King. How about you, are there any evil geniuses you’re still holding a grudge against?

My favorite villain off-hand would have to be Professor Moriarty. Why?  Because he was apparently modeled, at least physically, after a teacher that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle had, and at that same school there were two boys named Moriarty. Coincidence?  But of course!  Those things happen, and I just happen to delight in them.

It's ALWAYS Mom's Fault

There are really only two house rules. The first being to clean up your offal; the second is simply that no one NO ONE touches my scissors or scotch tape. I’m not kidding. I’ll cut you (okay, yes, it’s an empty threat, but I always say it like I mean it). Besides, even if I did mean it, it’s not like I ever can find the scissors – because nobody follows the house rules. Including moi – we’re just a houseful of born violators I suppose.

Speaking of violators, did I ever tell you about the time I got a ticket for NOT setting the woods on fire for the third time?  Non?  

Ooh la la, let me first tell you that I have trouble figuring out how to light a lighter, whoever decided to childproof them is so not my friend. Matches might work, you would think, but they have a shelf life AND if you keep them beside the sink – for some inexplicable reason – they don’t like to light. My point being, I am fire-lighting challenged. BFF and I used to go camping together and we’d buy those Duraflame logs. BFF would strike the match, hold it to the edge of the paper and Voila - we’d have a roaring, one log campfire; and I’d be thrilled if I managed to catch a marshmallow on fire. (We’re more resort girls, but often have to work with a camping budget.)

So one summer Hubby and I had good sized party: thousands of water balloons, seemingly hundreds of children, two pigs (one was the main course, the other was just a neighbor guy in costume) and if I remember correctly – one live calf (someone brought that calf in their van, I think it needed fed frequently – this is life in the country). Somebody else brought fireworks (which was against the rules). I think it was my Father-in-law (so if the statue of limitations is still active, go arrest him, please). The whole gathering was a mother’s nightmare, I expected… well, let’s just say praying really works.

The next day my Dear Hubby bribed the neighbor kids to go outside and gather up all the trash that was spread from one end of Spooky Hill to the other. There is a huge pit dug in a bare, swampy area at the edge of the woods; and the neighborhood guys gathered around it that evening and lit the trash on fire. (They decided to do it at night, so no one would notice and worry. I kid you not.) To this day the guys claim that they didn’t realize there were live fireworks in that trash, until it started to catch and shoot roman candles towards the woods. Getting a visual? Whoever called the fire department that time surely did it because of the orange glow lighting the night sky, punctuated with an occasional M80. It was all under control though, no problemo.

So a tradition was born, both with the summer party and the next day bonfire. (Though I did ban fireworks, and I tried to ban FIL, but he came anyway.)  Are you familiar with the theory of pack mentality?  You know when you get a bunch of – deal with it – guys together and one of them lights a fire and another says, “Hey, I’ve got an old couch I need to get rid of, I’m going to throw it on there.”  Cue me, standing outside, shuffling children away and doing a brilliant fishwife rant. Cue my beloved Father-in-law telling me to just go inside, because he’s been a volunteer fireman for 145 years and everything was under control.

Cue me telling my kids to just ignore the sirens going off down at the fire station; while bits of flaming foam rubber are drifting over the top of the barn, glowing orange in front of green treetops. I calmly sat the kids down in front of the piano where they happily kept playing, even as fire trucks circled Spooky Hill, trying to find the Secret Entrance. Eventually they found it, but the fire was out by then, thanks either to FIL’s 145 years on the department, or to the extremely long hoses that now stretched to the pit, either way, only the scent of scorched foam rubber remained by the time the fire department got here.

So, as the fates would have it, a few weeks after the couch-bonfire; a little boy came running up to my house, telling me that my woods were on fire. It was a windy day and visions of that flaming couch began to dance in my head, so of course I called 911 before going to investigate. Then I grabbed a couple of fire extinguishers and raced for the trees with this kid. The woods weren’t on fire, the kid had tried to burn a cardboard box inside aforementioned fire pit, and the wind blew it out. Thankfully the entire area is a swamp, but we used the fire extinguishers just to be safe; and I gave him a lecture that would have done my Bohemian Gram proud. The terrified kid hid when the fire trucks arrived – and arrive they did. All of them. My driveway can fit several btw; and as a side note fire trucks are extremely heavy and actually sink a bit on blacktop.

After assuring the firemen that there was no fire, they investigated the safety of the fire pit and recited burn rules and gave me the exact lecture I’d just given the culprit. Then the residents of Spooky Hill gathered for a good visit with each other, and the entire fire department. THEN the Fire Chief gave me a ticket. He said, “Your fire was contained, and no laws were broken; but you DO HAVE A RECORD for SETTING FIRES up here, and AS THIS IS YOUR THIRD OFFENSE I’m going to have to cite you.”  My third offense?  Mine?  The bonfire lighting neighbors had scattered at this point, and that little kid was cowering somewhere in the swamp. Yes, I considered ratting him out, but really?  I seriously doubt they would have believed me what with MY record and all. So I just sucked it up and took it like a Mom. Such is our lot in life.

The Editing Cave

Yes, I am so deep into the editing cave that you can't get there from here. You need to carry your laptop, keep it out of the water, and crawl on your belly from here on in. Don't worry about getting lost, you can follow the blood trail out (provided you ever finish).

It is beautiful in here, but no matter how deep I go my cries are audible to those on the outside. Caves echo terribly. Besides, please don't think I'm getting paranoid, but betas are following me with red pens. How am I ever going to finish if they keep editing my work? (Dear Betas, Please ignore my whining - I know you will - and just keep stabbing me with those red pens. Thank you. xoxo)

Someday I will finish.  Someday I'll gollum my way right out of this cave, blinking into the sunlight with My Precious clutched tightly in my hands. I have big plans for that day. I think I'll take down the Christmas tree.



Tripping



So tell me what you think of this brilliant idea. When an airline loses your luggage I think they need to suck it up and admit they messed up. Publicly. What I’d like to see them do is give you a t-shirt for starters – you know so you at least have pajamas or something to wear to your sister’s wedding. Now if they’re a fun airline it could say something awesome like, “I don’t normally dress like this, but JET BLUE lost my luggage!”  If they really want to make customers happy the back of the shirt could say “I’m getting frequent flier miles for every mile my luggage travels WITHOUT ME!  GO JET BLUE!”  Face it, you’d want your luggage to take the long way home.

A complimentary toiletry bag would be super nice too – deodorant, toothbrush and paste, a comb. Surely a great marketing plan could be hatched to provide samples of new products, while supplying travelers with some basics necessities for when they end up on the other coast at 3:00 a.m. with only the clothes on their back. Maybe the airlines could even have one or two meetings with the Fed Ex people and get some pointers on, “When it absolutely has to be there overnight.”  Right?

Really I’m not down on air travel at all, it rocks. Of course there are inevitable delays, storms and volcanoes do exactly what they want and we deal. Yes, I’d prefer a Stargate or being Beamed Up, but in the meantime, I’ll take flying even if my luggage goes inexplicably to Tampa when I’m flying from NYC to the west coast.

As a random Being, I enjoy the beauty of precision, and there is a whole lot of air traffic getting where it needs to go and I find that impressive. I adore Jet Blue too – that extra leg room is priceless. Even sans luggage I’d fly them on any long flight. Once, on a USAir red-eye with seats the size of kindergarten chairs, I slept physically wedged between a corporate attorney on one side (he clutched his folder of legal briefs all night) and some guy who snored on my shoulder (he had onions for dinner), on the other. The tall guy behind me literally put his legs under my seat and they were jutting out below it, so I kept trying to stealthily move my legs into my seat-mates airspace. None of us spoke a word to each other the entire trip, and when we finally landed we all avoided eye contact but I felt like I should probably go to confession or something.

There is that saying, "Life is a journey, not a destination..." ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson/Aerosmith. I don't think that it necessarily applies to airline travel - face it, would you want to fly the airline that adopted that motto? However, it is pretty much the journeys that stick in my head.  Why is that?

Life is Good



After rolling out of bed in the morning I always put on my workout clothes, this tells me that I will be running today. I believe me, but I’m gullible. Sitting in my editing cave in January, moving fingers over a keyboard is apparently not the type of workout those clothes were designed for. Eventually a pair of warm socks, an odd scarf and one of hubby’s cozy hunting shirts completes the wayward ensemble. My husband told me I looked like a writer today. I’ll leave out the preceding adjectives and take that as a compliment thank you very much.

Then he bent to kiss me goodbye and pulled back. “What’s all over your face?”

“Sunscreen.”

“It’s January. There’s an ice-storm outside. You haven’t left this cave for a week.”

“It’s a preemptive strike against premature aging. Your shirt doesn’t match those pants. You look like an engineer.”

Instead of a kiss I got the stink eye. Despite that I still plan to protect him from wolves when we hike The Grand Canyon, mostly because according to Wikipedia there aren’t any. This edit slogs on, and I’m truthfully not complaining, I’m doing exactly what I want to be doing as I sit here hunched over the keyboard with a wicked stitch between my shoulder blades. Repairing fragmented sentences, rearranging commas until I completely forget all grammar rules and have to go look everything up again. Deleting scenes, adding scenes, reading and rereading, flossing my teeth a whole lot – I’m kind of OCD about flossing. Chasing family members down, cornering/tackling them (that counts as running, right?) and reading them the scenes with emphasis on the new comma placement. Yep. Life is good.