Wild About Books is about reading good books and sharing how they impact your life. I’ll guide you in our monthly book selection, but there will also be references to many other books in the weekly posts.
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This summer was busy. But not my normal busy. I had two more grandchildren, Henry Poe and Roan Honey. I lost a friend and spent a lot of the summer supporting my good friend, his wife. The backpacking trips were few but good, and included different people. Through all of this, I knew the first weekend in September I would be spending two nights in Granite Chalet in Glacier National Park.
The crew included Carol, Other Lisa, Debbie, and me. Our room was for six. Debbie obtained the permit and invited her daughter-in-law, Mandi, and her friend, Tiffany.
The logistics were mostly worked out, and not really worked out. It was a challenge for me, who prefers excel spreadsheets, timelines, and itineraries. I was traveling with three people I didn’t even know, Debbie, Mandi, and Tiffany; I felt like I was hiking with the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders. They were far from that image, and they were the three who were packing pistols and knew how to use them. Yes, you can pack a gun in a national park. I was packing bear spray, which I did not know how to use, and normally don’t pack except in Glacier National Park.
Carol, Other Lisa, Debbie, and I spent the first night in Hungry Horse at a locally owned motel. We found an amazing place to eat, The Sunflower Cafe and BBQ, an outdoor pavilion located in a campground. I had the Jamaican Jerk Tofu bowl which came with black beans, rice, and fried plantains. Yum. I highly recommend The Sunflower Cafe and BBQ located on highway 2 between Hungry Horse and the west entrance to Glacier National Park.
That night, we decided we’d like to see the sunrise at Logan Pass, which was also the High Line trailhead to Granite Chalet. Up at 5:00 a.m., some more packing and repacking of our backpacks, a quick breakfast and hot drinks, and we were through the entrance at 6:00. It was still dark. We arrived at the Logan Pass parking lot and visitor center at 7:00 a.m. AND the parking lot was full. The whole world decided to see the sunrise at Logan Pass. There was humanity everywhere. Port-a-pots with lines, cars circling for an open parking spot, this was not the experience I had imagined. Debbie got out of the car to take photos. Other Lisa got out to puke. Carol and I went back the way we came to see if there were any open spots in the overflow lot.
We found a spot and walked back to Logan Pass to retrieve the others and stand in the port-a-pot line. We all walked back to the car to get our backpacks on, but other Lisa was still feeling sick, so we hung out by the car for her to feel better before we started our 7.5-mile hike. By 8:30 we put on our backpacks, locked up the car, and headed to the trail cut-off to the actual trail. The trail cut-off turned out to not be a trail. There were ropes and multiple signs saying not to use the cut-off. Carol didn’t care. She was done walking the road with all of the traffic. I said I’m walking the road. Debbie agreed. Other Lisa was in a conundrum. I told Carol she was going to end up in federal prison. They all followed me up the road to the real trailhead for The Highline Trail.
The trail was amazing. The views and the geographical features were outstanding. The number of people out hiking this trail on a beautiful sunny Saturday in September was mind-blowing. The trail runners were on their way back, the day hikers were perfumed and freshly groomed. There were lots of passing people on the trail, and everyone was polite. We got to know the groups that we kept hopscotching with along the way. Carol and Other Lisa don’t know a stranger and struck up conversations with them all. Other Lisa was starting to feel better. We were in no hurry.
We arrived at the Chalet and once again, there were people fucking everywhere. The smell from the pit toilet was strong from all of the usage and the heat of the day. The chalet was on a stunning vista and is over 100 years old. There is no electricity or running water. We were given a tour of our room by the chalet worker, directions to the water source a quarter-mile walk from the chalet, and told where to keep our food in the community kitchen. We had to sign up for a cooking time, and were informed that the kitchen opened back up at 7:00 the next morning. Debbie asked if we could use our backpacking stoves, and they said yes, but only outside. Quiet time was from 10:00 to 7:00, and the walls were thin. More like they were built to hear everything, from your snoring neighbors to the cards being shuffled two doors down, or what sounded like a bowling alley full of drunks from the dining area.
There were three bunk beds in our room; it was tight quarters when all six of us were in the room.
We ate our backpacking meals outside, the crowd lessened as the evening wore on, and the day hikers trekked back to their cars. Forty-four people were staying at the chalet that night. The sunset was stellar, there were lots of photos, but nothing captures actually being there “for real life,” as my granddaughter likes to say. Carol, Debbie, and Other Lisa went to bed, and I stayed up for the moon rise. This was the night before the full moon. It rose perfectly in the V formed by two mountains. Absolutely NO picture captures the magic of the moon rising with it’s own light silhouetting the mountains that form the western continental divide. I took one last trip to the outhouse in hopes of not having to get up in the night. I had my headlamp and bear spray; the chalet grounds were nearly empty now, and the headlamp was only required for inside the outhouse.
I was up early the next morning, and I’d already packed my day pack with my backpacking stove, fuel, tea, mug, breakfast, my chair, and my titanium long-handled spork. I set up on the picnic table as other early risers joined me for breakfast and tea.
We prepped for our morning day hike to the Swift Current Fire Lookout, trekked to the fresh water, packed snacks and some warm clothes in anticipation of the cooler high elevation. And that’s when we saw the grizzlies. A momma and two cubs were playing on the hillside, just above the chalet. The people piled out of the chalet as word spread of the grizzly sighting. Once the workers heard of the bears, they came outside with metal pots and pans, banging and yelling, “hey bear.” They didn’t want the bears to think this was a safe place to play or look for food. It took a while, but the momma finally got the picture and scooted her cubs along.
The Swift Current Fire Lookout gave another stunning view. We looked down on the chalet, could see the trail we came in on, and looked down into Many Glacier in the east entrance of the Park. We could also see the trail to our chosen afternoon hike to Grinnell Glacier Overlook. There were no other people on our morning hike, and we had a nice rest at the lookout as we ate our snacks. Carol picked up rocks to take home. I told her she can’t take stuff out of a national park; she’d end up in federal prison. Carol replaced the rocks.
The afternoon hike was much more popular. We had people join us who enjoyed our pace and the conversation with Other Lisa and Carol. We passed people who were coming back down and gave us words of encouragement, telling us we were almost there.
“We must really look old,” said Other Lisa.
“I mean, you and Carol are both great-grandmothers,” I replied.
The Grinnell Glacier Overlook hike felt way more intense, but perhaps it was due to the order in which we hiked them.
Both days were hot and smoky. Forest fire smoke had settled into the park. You could smell it, feel it in your lungs. We were excited for the chance of rain the next day.
Back at the chalet, a couple was watching an NFL football game on their phone with no earphones. The service was barely there, but it was there. The sound of the announcers calling the game took away from the wilderness experience. There was an amazing number of all-women groups in the chalet that night. One group had set up on a picnic table and was determined not to pack out all of the alcoholic beverages they had packed in. Just before dinner time, I heard the sound of pots and pans being banged upon. You would think people would seek shelter when they knew that a grizzly was in the area. No. We grabbed our phones and head to the excitement. This male grizzly was basically at the chalet. He was so close that when the pots and pans and yelling did not invoke any response, one of the workers suggested throwing rocks at him. That’s how close he was. He was busy chowing down on something and gave us zero attention. The Fish Wildlife and parks guy, Hank had left the day before. He was patrolling the area with his uniform and shotgun when we arrived. The grizzlies clearly recognized him and stayed away while he walked the grounds. The work’s called out to the grizzly, “Don’t make me call Hank.”
The maintenance woman who worked at the chalet said she had some flares she could shoot off. They sent the rest of us into the chalet, as no one knew which way the bear would run once the flare was shot. It took three loud flares to scare this massive grizzly down the mountain. He slowly perused the trail that we would take out the next morning.
It rained hard that night and into the morning. I was excited for the rain to clear out the smoke for our hike out. Once again, I woke up first, but I was in a conundrum now. Where would I have my early breakfast? It was raining and cold. I decided I could bundle up and set up on the patio downstairs which was covered by the deck on the upper level. As I reached the downstairs, I realized it rained right through the deck and there weren’t any dry spots outside. I knew the front door was open from going in the day before to get my food out of the kitchen. I set up on one of the long dining room tables with my headlamp and book, and I wanted a hot cup of tea. The kitchen didn’t open for another 45 minutes. I took out my self contained backpacking stove, a Jetboil, poured water into the insulated container, attached it to the heating element, then attached it to the small fuel container. I took out the lighter, rolled my thumb across the small grooved wheel with one hand, and turned the fuel knob with the other hand. Even with the rain pounding outside, the sound of the stove was a distinct and loud “whoosh” in the large empty dining room. Within half of a second of lighting the stove, a door opened and there stood a man in his underwear, hair disheveled, “You can’t use that in here!” I turned it off. Fuck, I’m going to federal prison I thought.
“This building is over one hundred years old,” he explained as he went back to his room and shut the door.
I’m a rule follower. Now I was going to feel bad about this for the rest of the day. This is always what happens. Breaking a rule has never ever worked out for me. I’m always just half a second away from a man standing in his underwear calling me out.
The rain was slowing, the smoke had cleared, and the clouds hung low on the mountains. We walked out on the Loop Trail, which was how Mandi and Tiffany had come in. A four-mile, downhill, huckleberry-filled walk out. The closer we got to the car, the more people appeared. There was a plethora of group photos as we stopped everyone going up to take another. As if we could freeze the moment forever, as if the experience would be forgotten or was surreal. The photo never actually caught my guilt for using the stove inside. Although, probably catching my impatience with the number of group photos for which I was being asked to smile.
Would I do it again? I was grateful for the experience, the views, the sunsets, and the moon rises. I’m grateful this majestic natural wonder is accessible for so many people to enjoy and feel ownership and responsibility. I’m grateful for my friends, the great-grandmothers, for including me in this adventure. I’m grateful Carol and I did not end up in federal prison. I’m even grateful for the group photos. Would I do it again? Yep.
More adventures, as well as book recommendations, can be found at Wild About Books.
AdMo is short for Adventure Mom. She’s the one who joins us on a lot of our backpacking and white-water rafting trips. She is a substitute warm lap for when my mom is busy setting up her tent, brushing her teeth, or collecting water for dinner. I’m always looking for a warm lap. I run cold, but I’m just a nine-pound Yorkshire terrier.
AdMo was the first person to walk through the door that morning whom I knew. I sighed with relief when she walked into the bedroom. I was lying on my dad on the bedroom floor. I was trying to keep him warm for a change. He was cold. My mom was sad. She cried so much. The windows were wide open. The breeze was strong, blowing through the bedroom windows. The room was chilly from the cool morning breeze. I tried not to shiver. The willows outside the windows were rustling in the wind, but mostly the sounds came from mom that morning.
The morning started with crying and confusion. It was not our typical Saturday morning. Strangers with uniforms were in and out of the house. I was glad when they put my dad on the floor so I could lie with him. Two of the strangers pushed on his chest and shoved a tube down his throat. It was chaotic for a bit, and then they left. The other two uniformed men stayed all morning.
I knew what was happening. My goofy sister, the Labrador retriever, did not. She was running around the house like a crazy ass lab does, greeting all of these strangers as if she knew them and they were here to see her. I was staying out of the way. It’s easy to step on a Yorkie.
This was my adopted family. I had been through this before with my original human mom. I spent hours in her lap at the nursing home facility. I was there when she died, too.
I remember being removed from my original mom’s lap and carried by this big, big, strong man, my new dad. Did he know he could crush me with those hands of his? I was not happy about changing families. My life was slow and comfortable in the nursing home. I was placed in a large truck with a hyperactive yellow lab and this big man who drove with wild abandon, passing on double lines, honking, complaining about the other drivers. What was I going to? We arrived at my new house, where I found my new mom and took to her lap, where I felt safe. They took me in and treated me like a part of the family. I was happy. I transformed from nursing home Yorkie to adventure Yorkie, including my own life jacket, puffy coat, and even a dry suit. It didn’t take long to love my new life and my new family.
My dad was communicating with me, just like my original mom had when she died. The communication is so much better in spirit form. It put me at ease with both of their deaths. My mom was too devastated to communicate with him. I wished I could help her. She was so sad.
AdMo would come and go from the room, meeting people who came to help, making phone calls to Dad’s relatives. She would sit with my mom on the floor next to my dad. That was when the hyper lab would join us. AdMo must have given the lab some stability, as she would lie up next to AdMo, and Mom would cry. Mom would touch Dad. You could see he was cold, as his lips had lost their color. Mom cried that she would never see him again. “How could this be happening?” she would repeat. “How can I go on without him?” Her heart was breaking. She was in shock. We all were really. There had been no sign that this was coming. He had died in his sleep. A perfectly healthy man on the surface. An active, physically fit, full of life, happy, fifty-three year old man.
Eventually, another man in a uniform came into the room. He said he needed to take pictures if we could walk out of the room for a bit. I stayed. He took the blanket off that I was lying on. I hopped off, but stayed by Dad’s side as the bald man with a compassionate face took photos. He took the tube out of Dad’s mouth, the stickers off of his chest, and covered him back up with the quilt from the bed. I jumped back up on him; he was colder, the color gone from his face now, but still so peaceful looking. I couldn’t get over how peaceful he looked this whole time. It gave me comfort. I wish it gave my mom comfort. She couldn’t walk more than ten steps without collapsing onto the ground. Her friends stayed by her side, held her, and gave her words of encouragement. There were moments I was with Dad alone, and Mom would go blow her nose or talk to the bald man with the compassionate face, but I never left.
The next strangers to show up were not in uniform. They looked more like they were going out to dinner, except that it was 8:30 in the morning. He wore a collared shirt and slacks; she wore a skirt and blouse. Their faces were solemn, professionally solemn. Mom and AdMo stayed as Mom kept saying this was the last time she would see him. AdMo told her it was not him. He is with you now; that is not him. AdMo helped mom stand up and walked her out of the bedroom. I stayed and was nudged off the blanket for the last time. The solemn-faced people and the bald compassionate man managed to move my Dad onto a wheeled bed. I remembered the same thing happening to my original mom. They covered him with a new blanket and wheeled him out of the bedroom. I followed. No one noticed me, that is my super power, but also how I get stepped on a lot. Mom came in from the back deck to see him as they wheeled him through the kitchen. Dad’s friends moved some furniture and they took him out the front door. Mom collapsed again in the kitchen.
Now that Dad was gone, I had to stay with Mom. That’s what Dad had told me in the bedroom. Mom still has a warm lap. Mom went out the front door before the van left with Dad. She wanted to see him one more time. The well-dressed, solemn-faced man opened the door for her to have one more look.
Somehow, we all ended up in the living room. Mom, AdMo, Dad’s two friends, me, and the lab. We were spent. Mom’s lap was finally available for me, and I took my familiar spot. She put my fleece jacket on me. I felt my Dad join us on the recliner. Mom did not notice. It would be a while before she felt his presence. I would help her get there.
There is a good chance you have forgotten about my yellow lab, Molly, and her handicap. I wrote about it in January 2024. It has been a minute. If you recently read my new book “Montana Wild Woman,” you will be more in tune with Molly and her fibrocartilage embolism, FCE.
You can buy my book on Amazon or click this link to read the blog post about what happened to Molly. (Yes, I’m going to plug my book whenever I can, as I’m not very good at promoting or self-aggrandizing. If you buy the book, please leave a review on Amazon. Thanks.)
Molly can walk using all four of her legs. It is not pretty, it is not efficient, and she does get open wounds from dragging the bad leg on dirt or pavement. We still have yoga mat pathways on our hardwood floors to keep her from losing her footing as easily. She still loves to swim. Swimming is her best activity for not feeling handicapped. She can not run. Okay, she can run, but she mostly runs with her massively strong front legs dragging her backend which is trying with all its effort to unsuccessfully keep up. She chases chipmunks at high speed in this manner. She will excitedly come to say hi to you in the same fashion. It makes everyone think we should amputate the bad leg. But they only see excited Molly trying to run. They don’t see Molly walk on her own for a mile on the soft flat trail by the river in Hamilton. They don’t see her walk out on the driveway every morning and keep watch as Brett takes a hot tub. The leg does work, just not 100%, maybe not even 50%, but it does work. As long as I see it attempting to work, I will not amputate.
It’s been exactly 19 months since her spinal stroke. I wish I had a Garmin on her wheelchair. I would like to clock how many miles she has put on it. I have a feeling the manufacturer never intended their dog carts to go on forest trails or fat tire biking in the snow. The cart has been welded, screwed and jury-rigged back to working multiple times. We’ve ordered replacement parts. The company was shocked to hear the parts had worn out. Brett has greased and repacked the wheel bearings several times. Molly takes it in the river to get a drink. It is probably time for a new one.
The fat tire biking was a mistake as her wheelbase was wider than the trail. She flipped in the cart on a downhill, and we had to stop and get her back upright. Picture a turtle on its back, but a panicked turtle who is fighting to right herself.
Molly still goes to a chiropractor, a new one. Brett can also do spinal adjustments on her now. He does PT on her every night. She still uses her ramp to get in and out of the car. She still has a ramp at both of her dog doors. Our bed is on the floor with no bed frame and no box springs. She can easily get into bed with us. Everyone who sees her and doesn’t know her just assumes she is an old dog. She is six.
I follow an FCE support group on Facebook. I’m hoping to see a new treatment, medicine, or PT that will help her get better faster.
I backpacked to the magical camping spot on Big Creek and talked to the large tamarack trees, asking them to communicate with their friends and send their healing magic to Molly. She has been walking better since that trip.
I would love to take her backpacking again. Nerve damage takes time. She will get better; she might not backpack, but she will get better.
What book am I going to recommend for this Wild About Books blog? Currently, I’m reading “Parable of the Sower” by Octavia Butler for my book club. I’m also reading “The Awakened Brain: The New Science of Spirituality and Our Quest for an Inspired Life” by Lisa Miller. Both books touch on a “new age” thought process. “Parable” is a dystopian book in which the protagonist is writing her own Bible as she goes through the destruction of a world that has gone rogue through dishonest, greedy politicians. The Bible and the religion of her preacher father don’t give her what she needs. The book is every man for himself and your best protection is a gun, but as the book progresses you realize that the best protection is a community of people who are willing to look out for each other.
“Awakened Brain” is about how spirituality(not religion) is an innate desire in everyone and should be explored and not suppressed. The book encourages seeking out serendipitous events, believing in intuition, feelings and believing that the universe has your back. To believe that people enter and leave your life for a reason not by chance. Things will work out in the end. I find that it would be difficult to live in this world without that belief. If you believe the world is out to get you, you’ll always be on the defense, always expecting the worst. This would be depressing. This is the basis of the book, that spirituality is the gateway to curing depression. It is the gateway to believing that your energetic young lab is unable to run with her friends and there must be a reason, a lesson to be learned by all.
I was so excited by Molly’s progress that I took her for a walk without her cart. She started poorly and then got worse. She drank from the river, and her bandage got wet and fell off on the way back. She dragged the leg, and her wound opened. I tried to wrap up her bleeding wound with the wrecked bandage, but it came off. This is how we hobbled back to the car, rewrapping, rewrapping, rewrapping. Her paw was trashed.
I’m an idiot. I’ve done this before. Had major optimistic feelings of her progress and healing, only to have been over-enthusiastic. One step forward, two steps back. Should I amputate? Could she learn to run on three legs and get to be an energetic lab again? Is the other leg strong enough from the injury to carry the weight of her back end? Fuck.
I’m watching impatiently for a serendipitous event.
More great adventures and book recommendations can be found on my blog “Wild About Books.” Hit the follow button.
My friend Allison is in 4th grade. She told her mom, who replaced me as the business manager at Darby Public School, that Lisa couldn’t retire. Her mom asked her why not. Allison said Lisa bikes, skis, snowboards, hikes, and in Allison’s eyes, this was not what “retirement” meant.
I’d planned it this way. I would be done when I turned 60, and I could collect my public employee’s retirement. And when it worked, I was in shock.
Here I am. Not in an office, not answering phones, not dealing with passwords, a multitude of software upgrades and changes, computers, internet, sickness, and people coming and going. I stayed for the pension. And now here it is.
I have ginormous plans. I have not stopped. I own four bikes: a road bike, a mountain bike, a gravel bike, and now a fat tire bike. I’m lifting heavier weights at the gym, finally increasing my weights. I have a season pass to Lost Trail Powder Mountain. I mean, I did. What?
When I turned 18 years old, it was legal to drink alcohol. While I was 18 they changed the age to 19. When I turned 19 I was legal to drink. While I was 19 they changed the drinking age to 21. When I turned 60 I was able to get a discounted golden age season pass at Lost Trail Powder Mountain. While I was 60, they changed the age for the golden age pass to 65. UGH! I can’t win. Yes, I had a season pass, but now I don’t. I mean, I AM retired, on a fixed income and all.
It has been a learning curve to realize I don’t have to plan everything for the weekend. It has been a learning curve to stop rushing, to slow down. But I’m there. I’ve planned my first backpack of the season.
I’m able to ride bikes with Carol and all of her retired friends. The great-grandmothers. Yes, Carol and other Lisa are both great-grandmothers and they are also the two strongest riders in the group. There are men in the group too. This is not a pavement-pounding kind of group. They enjoy sharing the adventure, sharing the outdoors, and sharing the camaraderie. You never know who might show up for the ride. There is a core group of about 10 people whose average age is probably 70. It is my dream now to be as strong as they are. To be able to keep up. For now, I’m at the back of the pack. Maybe one day, when I’m a great-grandmother, I’ll be able to lead.
I have two part-time retirement jobs to supplement my income and pay for massages with Kaylee. I’m the Adult Education director at Darby Public School, and I’m the Adult Programming Director at the Darby Public Library. The library groups that I attend include drawing, knitting, writing, and book club. My couch in the living room is more of a large seat of activities. Sketch book, ink pens, pencils, yarn, books and a tea mug. I love retirement.
I am also able to read a lot. OK, not as much as you think, because of my new hobby of drawing, mostly pencil drawings, some ink too. I was just in an art show for beginning artists.
My mom gave me a bunch of inserts from her 100 Lipton Tea Bags box which neatly divide the tea bags into organized sections and also make great bookmarks. One side is slick paper and is perfect for my ink pens. I made bookmarks to give away at the art show.
I drew my dog Molly too.
But yes, I am still reading. I lead the library book club. Last month, we read a book I had not only already read, but I had also already recommended it on Wild About Books. For the first time ever, I’m recommending a repeat.
I highly recommend reading or re-reading “City of Thieves” by David Benioff. It may be the first book in which everyone in the book club gave the book two thumbs up.
More great book recommendations and retirement adventures can be found at Wild About Books. You can also find the compiled adventures in my new self-published book “Montana Wild Woman,” available on Amazon.
My self published book, “Montana Wild Woman,” has an accumulated four-point-five star review on Amazon and one verbal review! Thanks, Carol.
Big shout out to all of my blog followers and Facebook followers for supporting me on my journey as an author. As of today I’ve sold 32 copies of my new book “Montana Wild Woman.” I want to apologize to all of my book readers for the typos and grammar errors that you have had to work through as you read. You’ll be happy to know, after making my many corrections, I have learned how to spell noise.
With the help of my adventure friend who happens to be the daughter of an English teacher and who may have found her new calling as a proofreader, I have corrected most of the errors and published the second edition. I know it seems backwards. I know I still feel impostor syndrome. I know my art teacher shakes her head in frustration when I say something negative about my creative endeavors.
You will now be proud to purchase this book as a gift for Father’s Day, birthdays or any other day that may require gift-giving.
You can share blog posts such as this one, with friends and family. You can even get on Amazon and write a review. Be like Carol.
Maybe you want to read more of my writing. You can always follow my blog Wild About Books. I’m also excited to self-publish my novel “Lucida Sans.” This time I’ll have Heidi proofread BEFORE I publish it.
I wrote “Lucida Sans” while experiencing the adventure known as perimenopause and was able to write all night instead of sleeping. I would have NPR news playing as background noise as I long-hand wrote in spiral notebooks. My characters guided my hand to tell their story. I filled up four notebooks before re-reading what I’d written.
The book is about a family growing up while fumbling through the unwritten rules of society. This family is not always aware of those rules. Life hits them with some upsetting realities and major bumps in the road as we experience how they navigate those bumps. Lucida Sans, better known as Luci, is the protagonist and narrator. We see the world through her eyes as she grows up with her older brother Times New Roman and little sister, Century Gothic. Their father, an author, named his children after fonts. The book deals with emotional health, racism, religion, homophobia and gun violence.
Once I have all of this off my plate, I will continue with my next novel.
The next book has no title at this time. The book is about an elderly woman who lives alone in the mountains of rural Montana. She has several male friends whom she has known most of her life. They are all widowed and are dealing with their offspring who are trying to get them to move to retirement communities. Life is very routine for them until a white cargo van with Idaho plates pulls up beside the woman as she is cross-country skiing from her friend’s house back to her house. Two men pull her into the van and demand that she give them all of her opioids. She doesn’t have any. The men don’t believe her. “All old people have opioids.” They take a baseball bat to her knees and drive her to the emergency room. “Come out with some opioids,” they demand. We see how the protagonist now lives life as a supplier of opioids to a drug ring, but can’t tell anyone for fear of being forced to move into a retirement home.
Writing has always been a dream of mine. My blog has given me an outlet to write and share my writing. This past spring Brett and I were doing a deep cleaning in our outside shed. We needed more room for the six bikes. While cleaning I came across papers I had written while in school that my mom had saved. I found two different autobiographies. One was written probably in sixth grade and one was written as a sophomore in high school. Both biographies ended with the desire to write books and be an author. I did not recall that this had been a lifelong dream until reading these old papers.
Also, if you need a great proofreader for your writing or websites, let me know. I’ll connect you with Heidi.
Published my book. It is available on Amazon. An ebook or a paperback.
WHAT?!!!!!
Yeah; I was really nervous about hitting the “publish” button on Kindle Direct Publishing. It felt so vulnerable. Like I was standing naked on the street.
Right off the bat I fucked up.
Version 1.0.0
I read my introduction as an ebook sample and the very first sentence is missing a coma. I would have never seen this in my draft. This was why I was nervous. What have I missed? What have I misspelled? And now I’m going to expose these mistakes to the whole world. I’M A FRAUD. I’M A PRETEND WRITER.
I couldn’t re-read the stories one more time. I didn’t see the glaring mistakes anymore.
I’m suddenly back in Algebra I class with Mrs. Idol at Western Guilford High School.
I’m sure I was an undiagnosed, on the spectrum, dyslexic. Luckily, I was given credit for doing the algebra problems correctly even though I rarely got the right answer. My numbers would get transposed along the way. I’d get a D and then get to take geometry. Theorems. Another D. Algebra II. It would have been better for me to fail the class and take it over than to be moved on to a more advanced class. My math books took a severe beating through the years resulting in hefty damage fees. My SAT scores were so bad in math that I was accepted to college only if I signed up for the remedial math classes. Vulnerability.
I knew the dyslexia existed when I worked my job at Bi-Rite Grocery store during my high school years. I would ring up a buggy full of groceries and say $89.67. The customer would look at the register and say $98.67. There it would be. Right in my face. I saw the correct numbers and totally said the wrong numbers. I heard myself say them. I’m an idiot. What is wrong with me?
Vulnerability. I would walk off the bus and into the high school while Andrew Martineau would walk right behind me quietly chanting “ug…ly…..ug….ly…….ug….ly…….”.
It took me three tries to pass my driver’s test to get a driver’s license. My mom took me. My dad took me. I think my dad’s wife took me the final time. I could drive. I could not drive with the driver’s exam person in the car.
My dad’s wife thought I might be gay since I didn’t have any dates in high school. She said it as if being gay were a fault, to be whispered about and kept tabs on. I didn’t play softball because I didn’t want people to think I might be gay, I had enough going against me already. I did play tennis my senior year of high school. An acceptable girl sport with no sexual labels. We had 12 girls on the team and I was ranked number 12. Kind of like my seat in band. Seat number 1 was the best. I had the last seat and pretended to play my clarinet for a whole year, then quit.
In my younger twenties, drinking alcohol and flashing my tits was a game changer. I would yell hooters, lift my shirt and was instantly the “fun girl”. I preformed and perfected the act of the full flesh flash for years. To this day, I can full flesh flash on my bike while riding no handed. I did not want to be known as “Lisa with the big nose and weak chin” as I had read on my chart at the orthodontist office while getting my braces tightened and rubber bands installed. I wanted to be known as “Lisa with the great tits”. It’s all about getting your arms up while you lift your shirt; everything else goes up too. It’s a great move.
Vulnerability. I’m better. Ever since I became a mom. Ever since I moved to Montana. But clearly it is in my skin, embedded. I think most people I know now would be shocked to hear of my insecurities.
I fear hitting the “publish” button. I could…… just not do it. No one would know I’m just a “writer want to be” who can’t spell.
Then there were the signs.
Yeah.
Literally signs.
I drove into Darby and there on the Bitterroot Community Federal Credit Union digital sign it said; “Believe in yourself”. I drive by that sign once or twice a day and it keeps telling me to believe in myself.
Then I went to my adult ed beginner drawing class at the Darby High School. The dated art room has a chalk board. On the chalk board was written in chalk; “Creativity Takes Courage!!! Henri Matissse”
I went home and hit “publish”.
I’ve been recommending books for over ten years on this blog and I am proud to recommend “Montana Wild Woman” by Lisa Poe as the book for this post. It may not be perfect. It might need some corrections. But I will lift my arms up high as everything else rises up. Thanks.
More great book recommendations and adventures can be found at Wild About Books.
Do you remember the end of the book “The Grinch Who Stole Christmas”? The part where the Grinch has stolen all of the presents, all of the decorations and lights. Yet when the people of Whoville woke up, they still celebrated Christmas. This is how I feel about the results of the last election.
Don’t get mad. Don’t get revengeful. And certainly don’t think to behave as a bully. We will gather hands and join for the common good of all people. This is what keeps me hopeful. Unity and love for our fellow citizen.
Here’s my story of Carl.
Carl works out at my gym in Darby. The Right to Bare Arms gym. Carl likes to visit. He told me of his journey nearly a year ago, of joining the gym, changing his diet and losing lots of weight. He eats only orgnaic and has cut oil out of his diet. I’m not one to chat much at the gym, or ever.
Most mornings I would hear Carl talking to others. He told the owner Dana that there was a winter storm warning. He told her he wished Montana had harsh bitterly cold winters like he had when he was a kid; “that would run the Democrats off”.
Wait! What?
I shook my head disgusted with this mentality that seems to prevail and is the majority of thinking where I live. People don’t think twice about wearing shirts that say things like “Black Guns Matter” as if the whole world agreed with them.
Another day I heard Carl explaining to someone else how the government had controlled the weather and caused deadly hurricanes in swing states.
I told you, since the election, I have been emboldened to have the conversation with people. Not in a fake insincere way, ha……… if you know me, fake and insincere are not part of my makeup.
The next time I went into the gym I went out of my way to say not just “hi” to Carl, but to ask him if he lifts everyday. To chat. Smile. I know Carl had forgotten my name as we talked.
The next day he looked up when I came in and yelled “Hey Lisa”.
As he was leaving he asked what else I had planned for the day. I told him about purchasing a used Fat Tire Bike. He was intrigued. I told him I was going to go ride up Skalkaho, start at the gate, see if I could get to the falls.
The next time I saw him he asked how the bike ride went.
We have not and probably will not talk about politics. I’m a minority and don’t usually advertise my political leaning anyway. Although I did just buy a new sweatshirt that says “Denali”.
I was setting up to do a shoulder workout, Carl asked me if I’d seen the NOAA weather for January. “No”, I said. “Above average snow fall and two weeks of below zero temps”, he said. “Yes!” I replied. “I’m excited”.
“Right” he said. “Maybe that will run off all the …………”
Oh jeez, I thought. Here it comes. How am I going to reply to what is coming, I’ll just tell him. I’ll fess up that we don’t see eye to eye politically. I won’t let this determine our friendship. Hopefully he feels the same.
But what did he say this time?
“Right”, he said. “Maybe that will run off all the people not used to the cold and snow.”
“Yes, it probably will” I agreed.
And why are the political signs still up in Ravalli County. You won. Let’s be neighbors and take down the signs. They didn’t work anyway. I didn’t change my mind no matter how many signs we posted, or full color flyers I received in my mailbox, or hateful TV advertisements I saw. Want to change my mind, show some love and compassion for all humans.
In the last post about politics I recommended the book “Good Reasonable People” by Keith Payne. Since that recommendation, I have applied and received a grant from Humanities Montana to purchase 10 copies of this book for a book club in my community. I hope to attract people in and out of my bubble to read and attend this discussion.
I figured out where Carl lives and have walked by his house several times before without knowing who lived there. He has a sign on his front fence that says “Black Cows Matter”. He also has a full size confederate flag on his barn. There are no political signs, commercials, or flyers that set me off as much as seeing a confederate flag. To me that is a clear symbol of white supremacy, racism, a system of hierarchy. These are not acceptable to me. Now what do I do? Do I pretend like Carl is my gym buddy and return his fist bump? Do I ask him what that flag on his barn represents to him? Ugh. Maybe I invite him to the book club.
My book recommendation is “Democracy Awaking Notes on the State of America” by political historian Heather Cox Richardson. This book was published in 2023. The book gives you the history and background leading up to where we are now. This book may help you understand people who vote differently from you.
“But Trump had done his work too well. His propaganda, cruelty, and demonstrations of dominance had empowered his followers and made his leadership central to their identity.”
This is not a book that I would use in a public book club. This is a book for people who are bamboozled by the fact that people would vote for a convicted felon for president. I challenge any of you who follow this blog who voted for Trump to read this book.
When you are backpacking there needs to be a plan. Finding a flat, open campsite that has access to water is non-negotiable.
‘Can’t you just stop and camp anywhere?’; people will assume.
Um…… No. Twice this summer I hiked well into dinner time looking for the flat open spot with access to water. On our Tin Cup to Boulder 55 mile hike we missed the outfitter camp we planned to stay at on day two. It was off the main trail and this was our first time doing this particular hike. We will know next time.
It had been a long day, a big climb, hot, smokey from the numerous forest fires. We were ready for dinner. We almost camped on a large moss covered rock, large, as in football field large. Everywhere else was too brushy. We continued until we found a place next to the creek, sort of flat, and maybe a little bit not too brushy, but mostly too brushy; uneven. The trek down to the water was treacherous in our camp sandals. Luckily, Heidi had brought the backpacking solar shower for a handwashing station which we ended up using as our gravity fed water source which resulted in fewer fewer trips to the creek.
There was too much brush to build a fire but it was a warm night so we were good.
A campfire is more than a source of warmth. A campfire gives you a reason to hang out. It gives you a focus when the conversation wanes. Watch a group of people sitting in the forest without a fire and the waning conversation results in an awkwardness that sends everyone to bed early. I have a fire pit in my yard. The home fire pit was like adding a room to the house. An evening by the home campfire is a signal that my granddaughter will get to eat marshmallows until the bag is empty. It limits the screen time by all being out by the campfire. It connects you to the earth and the trees and each other. It is like a cozy comforter or a warm matcha latte. Setting up camp in a brushy area is not conducive to a campfire. We went to bed early.
On another trip we had hiked in for an overnight. It was a very warm morning. The breeze felt like we were at the beach instead of in the Rocky Mountains. When we were only a mile from our camp at Elk Lake we started hearing loud crashing. Was it thunder? Were boulders dislodging and crashing through boulder fields? It was random. Distinct yet unknown. We were distracted by the huge ripe huckleberries, picking, eating, hiking, distant crashing.
We got to camp and found a flat, open, well used camp with a rock fire ring. But where was the water. We need water to drink, to rehydrate our backpacking meals, for evening tea and morning tea, and even; wait for it………..even to rehydrate our dehydrate toilet paper. Yep. The best invention ever. Toilet paper tabs. Gone are the days of hauling half rolls of TP, stuffing all of the hollow spots in your pack with ass wipe, always questioning if you have brought the correct amount. My poop kit is now a small bag with an aluminum trowel with serrated edges for roots, my toilet paper tabs and mycelium tabs to speed up the composting process in the cat hole. Small and light. Game changer.
We walked around the lake trying to find a better spot closer to water. What we did find was a forest fire. It was up on the ridge. We could see the flames as they torched entire trees. The smoke was rolling into our camp, you could smell it in the air. We did not find a better camp. We came back to the original spot, filled up the solar shower and called it good. We did question if we should go back due to the fire. We were eleven miles from the trailhead. Then it started to rain. It sprinkled for the next 30 minutes as we set up our tents, sleeping pads, sleeping bags, pillows. The rain stopped, there was a slight breeze but it stopped too. We made a campfire and laughed at Juno the yellow lab as she dragged Ernie the Yorkie around camp by her warm vest until the said vest was ultimately removed, like a magician on stage, from Ernie. Juno drug Ernie all through the forest and they’d come running back; Ernie naked and Juno so proud of removing Ernie’s outfit, prancing up to Scott with the dog vest in her mouth.
The next morning we woke to wet ash stuck to our tents. We made our hot drinks, rehydrated our breakfast and TP, packed up and headed back down. This is where is got weird. We munched on fresh huckleberries for the first mile. So hard to pass up a juicy ripe huckleberry. As we got more into the forested part of the hike we had to get around a huge tree down in the trail. Scott commented that he did not remember this tree. We’d been super lucky going in with the lack of downed trees on the trail. We climbed over more trees, we hiked off the trail for the downed trees that were impossible to climb over. We crawled on hands and knees, we threw our packs over first in the tight fitting crawl throughs. The smell of pine was strong in the air. Giant trees hundreds of years old had been uprooted taking out everything around it as it had crashed to the ground. What the heck had happened? This was clearly the mysterious noise we had heard while hiking in. We must have been just in front of this wind storm. A wind storm that never reached our camp. People in the Bitterroot Valley lost power, lost trees, an event was canceled at the Marcus Daly mansion due to the destruction of the massive trees on the property. All while we were tucked in our little oasis.
Back to the Tin Cup Hike. We had planned to hike the 55 miles in 6 days. That was one day more than my max I’m able to pack for and carry on my back. I took my most light weight set up and still weighed in at 30.2 pounds; 5.2 pounds over my comfort level. On our second to the last night we camped on Canyon Creek on the Idaho side of the pass that leads into Boulder Creek. The camp was flat, a little over grown and next to the creek. Perfect. It had been a long day, the trail was not well used. There were trees down that may never be cleaned up it was such a maze. We set up camp, made a rock fire ring, collected dry firewood and congregated around the fire with our one pound chairs, jet boil stoves and dinners. That’s when the rain started. From 5:00 to 8:00 it rained like I’ve never seen rain before. At 6:00 Heidi yelled; “we’re going to eat in our tent”. When you set up the rain fly on your tent, it is designed to create a nice vestibule on both sides. I was able to heat water in the vestibule for my tea and dinner. The rain had also brought a considerable drop in temperature. I was in my sleeping bag, with my hat and gloves on reading “Of Mice and Men”. I was going to burn the pages of my book as I read this small paperback, making my pack lighter, but we had not had a fire since the first night and tonight’s fire was put out as soon as it was started. I read, ate dinner, drink several cups of tea. Could I pee in the vestibule? I think so. As I was thinking trough the logistics of peeing in the vestibule, the rain slowed. It slowed enough that I could hear the voices of Scott and Heidi. Oh wait. Let’s back up. I had two things going on that was frowned upon in this bear country we were camping in. One; I just ate in my tent. Two; I had not hung my bear bag that contained the rest of my food. With the slow down of the rain, I was able to put on my rain coat, rain pants and camp sandals and go outside for a pee and to hang my bear bag. Scott and Heidi were doing the same. My bear bag is an Ursack. A bag made of kevlar. You put your food in a smell proof inner bag, put that in the Ursack, hang it on a tree above a branch at a level that is reachable but above the ground. You use a square knot to tie up the bag and a figure eight knot to tie it to the tree. Done. Scott and Heidi hung their bag the old fashioned way, using a parachute cord and a rock, throwing the rock high up onto a branch, then pulling the bag up into the tree way above the ground and far enough out from the tree that it would not be reachable if a bear climbed the tree. The only trees available are pine trees and the pine trees at this elevation were thick with needles and the branches all tilted down. They were like giant tree gods wearing big god like robes. It was impossible. And a real study in marital relationships. They did finally manage to hang their food and have since bought an Ursack as well.
It rained all night and into the next morning. I ate breakfast in my tent. I was able to pack up everything while in the tent. Then, I disassembled the interior of the tent. I packed everything except the rainfly and tent poles, used the backpack as a back rest and sat in my shelter watching Scott and Heidi finish packing up their gear.
The trail was brushy, the brush was wet. We were soaked to the bone. It continued to rain. There was nothing dry. Parts of the trail were more like a creek than a trail. We climbed for two miles. Snow spit on us as we neared the summit. We’d experienced three seasons in this multiple day hike. The forest fire smoke had been replaced by low hanging clouds. We reached our camp for the night on the other side of the pass. The original plan was to camp at Pickle’s Puddle, a less then three mile day, more of a layover day. Then do a side hike to Boulder Lake. We blew right past that camp.
We’d been in contact with my husband for the whole trip using a Garmin Inreach to text him. We had plans A, B, and C in case the trail became impassable. The night before he informed us that the high temperature at Pickle’s Puddle would be 37 that day. We had already decided our last night would be at Boulder Falls with an easy five mile hike out on the final day. When we arrived at Boulder Falls our boots were squishy on the inside. Our rain gear had gone past its intended capabilities. Everything was more soaked than before. We never stopped, we were dehydrated from not drinking enough, we ate protein bars as we walked. Stopping was not an option because we would get cold. Making a fire was going to be virtually impossible as every piece of wood was saturated. When we got to Boulder Falls we texted Brett and told him we were coming out today. Could he pick us up at the trailhead in a few hours?
I call it a death march. We hiked two days in one day. We didn’t stop for a break. Scott and Heidi used their long, strong legs and and desire to be in warm, dry clothes to drive their pace. I was dragging behind. We were half a mile from the trailhead when I saw Brett coming my way.
“Why don’t you have your hood on?” he asked.
“It’s not raining”.
“It is raining”.
“Ok.”
Before we left for this expedition, I had asked Brett to bring us cold drinks and potato chips when he picked us up. Luckily Brett brought us hot camomile tea, mugs and chips. We climbed into the truck smelling like wet dogs. We blamed the dogs; but it was all of us.
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I will talk and I will listen about politics. I will no longer discourage the conversation. I will embrace the conversation, encourage the conversation, be curious not judgemental. Is it possible? It will take practice.
I’ve been a wreck. I’m so disillusioned. I’m questioning everything I believe in. I thought this election would ‘obviously’ turn out with the opposite results. I’m struggling to sleep. How do I not know my neighbors, my community, the issues that are important to people? I’m in my ‘bubble’. My bubble of ‘how could anyone vote for him’. Well, fuck; turns out lots of people want him as our president. Sixty-nine percent of the voters in my county voted for him.
On a quiet morning in my gym as I was doing my shoulder workout, a fellow gym rat was excited for the upcoming cold front. He told the gym owner; “I wish we had Montana winters like we had when I was a kid. That would run the democrats off”. I should have asked him what that means. I ignored him. Kept lifting. Why did I not have the conversation? I love a cold Montana winter. Lots of snow. Cross country skiing from my back door. All that snow makes for a better summer too. Why does he think democrats are warm weather people? And is that a bad thing? Another day the same guy was telling the front desk worker, all about how the government created the hurricanes. He talked for a long time on that one. It’s probably better that I NOT join in on that conversation. But next time I will. I want to know. I will listen. Maybe even get the guy to go “huh, I never thought of it like that”. Maybe.
I’m going to look for opportunities. Not to debate or argue. But to discuss. It’s so hard. How do I talk with someone who believes the election is rigged; unless their side won; then it is fair? I lean to this one sided thinking on my part; again. I struggle to have an open mind. This is why I need to talk. I need to listen.
I need to write a thank you note to Kamala. I was really excited about her running for president. She had enthusiasm, joy, experience; is articulate, educated, inclusive. I was really excited. Now I feel so defeated. So scared. So disconnected. I don’t want to live in a country based on hate and dehumanization. A country that is not inclusive. A country that is more interested in building walls and deporting people than being a global neighbor and helping others. I thought writing this would help. Writing is therapeutic. I feel worse.
And when I tell myself to relax, sit back, it can’t be that bad………he appoints a Fox news host as the leader of the military, the national defense, the Pentagon. What?! Am I in some reality TV show? Am I reading a dystopian novel? No. This is the real deal. But it is ok. Remember, this is what the majority of voters wanted. We followed the democratic process of choosing a president. I am an anomaly. Maybe I’ll become a republican. My husband and I are both white working class, non college educated; we fit the current profile. I could pretend to be a Trump fan, believe the government controls the weather, believe in Jesus, I mean, I am pro life, that’s why I don’t own a gun. I’m pro choice, but who isn’t for life? But wait. I should own a gun too? Defend myself from all the immigrants. Like the women who work at my granddaughters daycare. The largest employer of immigrants in the state of Montana. Whose children play with my granddaughter everyday. Who rocked her to sleep when she was an infant. Them. Out. And no more books about a kid having two dads in the libraries. Yeah. And I want billionaires to run the country. Trump, Musk and that other guy who are going to clean up all the superfluous spending. These guys will make America great again. UGH!!!! I’m not feeling it. I’m just a cynical old bitch. This isn’t helping anyone.
First, listen to the podcast Assembly Required with Stacey Abrams, specifically the episode dated November 14 titled “Plotting Our Way Forward by Looking Back at History”. This is an action plan not a blaming or complaining conversation. Next read the book “Good Reasonable People” by Keith Payne. I just started it. This is a book about taking the steps to be “united” again, understanding what divides us, and how to have the conversation with each other. I challenge you to read this with me. All of you. All sides.
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I remember when I turned thirty. I was living in Sula, Montana in basically a single wide trailer built on a foundation. The front door was a hollow interior door and the wood stove had holes in the stove and the stove pipe. This was not a warm home. We had a birthday party with Mark and Mindy and Charlie and Darlene and Stu and Karen and their daughter and of course me, my husband at the time and my six year old and four year old. What I remember from that party was the next morning. I woke up to the phone ringing;
“hel-lo”.
“Hi, Lisa, it’s Bonnie at the school. Is Zach home sick today?”
“Um…..yep, yes he is. Zach is home sick today; sorry I forgot to call.”
I don’t remember if I drove Zach the 25 miles to school that day or not; the kid did love school.
When I turned forty, we were living in a log home in downtown Darby, Montana. The house was not chinked and you could see daylight through the logs. The wood stove was an amazing big old stove but the stove pipe had lots of holes making the whole set up inefficient. The front door to the house was a large hard to move sliding glass door. This house was not very warm in the winter and hot as an oven in the summer. There was a car jack in the crawl space holding up the floor joist under the bathroom. My sister had come to visit for my birthday. I’d been divorced for two years. We spend the evening with Richard and Bruce playing pool and drinking beer at the Elks Lodge in Hamilton.
When I turned fifty I lived just outside of Darby, Montana tucked in the woods. The front door was an actual insulated door for the outside. The windows were double paned. The wood stove was efficient and there were no holes in the stove pipe. This was a very very warm house. For my birthday I planned a party at the Bitterroot Brewery in the upstairs dining area. I invited my friends, everyone from my job at the school and some people from my old job when I worked for a crook. I spent the day of the party on the floor balled up in a fetal position only getting up to take more Advil, hoping to deaden the pain of the period cramps that would not let me stand upright. I managed to make it to my own birthday party but it was a struggle to enjoy myself and be sociable. I was able to stand upright after many doses of Advil.
Tomorrow, I turn sixty. I still live in my warm house built by my warm husband. My plan is to summit Ward Mountain tomorrow. It’s about a six mile hike with a 5100 foot climb. It’s a bitch. The weather will be perfect. My fast friends are giving me a 90 minute head start. I’ve been doing everything I can this past six weeks to get faster. I’ve increased my weights in the gym, I’ve increased my protein intake, I started running. I’ve been climbing Goat Mountain for training every chance I get. It takes me about 65 minutes to get to the top of Goat Mountain. My fast friends do it in 30 minutes. Maybe I should leave before the sun comes up tomorrow. There’s also a good chance I don’t go at all. Wednesday when I was doing my run/walk I hurt my ankle. I’m not 100%. I don’t want to make my injury worse by climbing Ward. What do I do? If I don’t summit Ward tomorrow I’ll go mountain biking, so either way it is a good day. But I wanted to do something big for sixty.
Honestly, I’m 59 today, sitting in the sun in my front yard after a two hour ride on my gravel bike, watching the birds eat my new grass seed, my cat sitting in a planter box and my handicapped dog laying in the grass waiting for her afternoon one mile walk and writing my blog. Tomorrow is also the official start of my retirement. I’m so grateful for all of it. The decades that led me to this very moment. This is the real summit I’ve climbed.
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