Helpless Female

Helpless Female Scouts for Elk

September 4, 2015 by Laura Blodgett 1 Comment

[box] There is a podcast audio below, reading this text. There is also a video below that, with some “highlights” of the excursion.[/box]

This scan of the horizon for possibilities usually makes me nervous.

People rarely go hunting with my husband twice. I have vaguely understood this, knowing that he is often a frightening combination of explorer and extreme stamina. When other people say, “Oh, I wish I had lived in the pioneer days!” I say, “Oh, God, thank you that we live in the day and age of cars and indoor plumbing.” When my husband enters “Wild Greg” mode, I easily envision what my life would have been like in that time period. You would probably be reading about my “noble and valiant struggle” in some historical record with false longing from the comfort of your couch. When the world of “future space exploration” is contemplated by arm chair adventurers, I think, “I am so glad we are limited to this earth!” I can enjoy the summer camping, even in the remote spots he thrives in, but I always want to come home to my modern conveniences, such as ice cream. If “the final frontier” was involved, I doubt we would make it home.

Getting the hang of grabbing grass clumps for balance and security.

I suppose that if I didn’t know any different, I would be fine. If my life involved strenuous nomadic travel or predators howling outside my cabin door on dark winter nights, I could deal with it. I have a generally adaptive nature. Like I adapted to waking up on the morning of our 33^rd wedding anniversary and finding out we were going to climb up the side of a mountain. For fun.

Visit Idaho Wood Sheds to find out more about having a tiny cabin built. — Visit the Idaho Wood Sheds website to find out more about having a tiny cabin built.

Now, I had offered to take him camping for our anniversary. So many times, it is the husband who is expected to make the wife feel special on an anniversary. This time, I decided to surprise him. I also can’t complain, because when the option of staying in my sister’s tiny cabin came up, he said he thought it would be nice. This was several steps up from our standard tent camping, especially when it came to the flush toilets and hot showers just 50 feet from the cabin. When we arrived, he merely commented on how close together everyone was, but since we saw few signs of life, there was little to complain about. Apparently our anniversary falls at the thin edges of camping season, even with large, fully stocked, and heated RV’s at their disposal.

And I haven’t been married to him for this long without expecting some adventurous hiking if we visit the mountains. Or anywhere. But it is usually hiking that at least starts out on a trail. It certainly has never been straight up a mountain before. I guess he felt I was ready? He was glad to hear I had brought some enclosed moccasins for any potentially challenging hiking conditions. (You can find my moccasins of choice in the RunAMoc ad in the sidebar to the right. Mine are called “Moc3”). I was pretty sure long pants were a wise choice, too.

I have heard snippets of hunting tales. Some of them he waited 10 years to tell me, being concerned I might tend to worry. Like the time he was out after pitch dark and almost walked off a cliff. He had noticed just in time and stopped because “something just didn’t feel right.” Still, he has never taken me hiking at night. Sure, we have been for nighttime walks, like the time he was showing me how bats respond by throwing a rock up in the air, but miscalculated the trajectory of the rock. I only screamed slightly when the rock and bat appeared within inches of my nose at the same time, but I have decent reflexes. However, being on the cautious side myself, I was observing his preparations for this particular hike with both regular interest and clues for what to expect. He doesn’t like a lot of questions.

Thus it was that when he put the flashlight into his back pack, I spoke up. “How long ARE we going to be out there?” He chuckled. He “just” wanted to be prepared, which is actually odd, since it is not uncommon for him to say I don’t need water or snacks if the hike will be less than 6 hours. This time, he even packed emergency food. Well, peanut M&M’s, but from his history, this was quite a concession. And a signal. Of Something. He really didn’t seem to want to volunteer any more information, so I went with trust.

I DO trust him. I know that he cares about me. I know he will take full responsibility for any mishaps and bear the physical brunt of any real difficulty. Plus, it really is an unspoken indication of love that he would want to spend time with me in an activity that he craves for “alone time.” I buried any thoughts of this together-alone time extending into the middle of the night and got myself a bottle of water.

As I followed him out the tiny cabin door, I was expecting to head toward one of the mountains that surrounded us and the campground. Instead, he got in the car. When I asked, he said he was looking for “a mountain he remembered from hunting in the area about 20 years ago.” Huh. Okay. So we drove up the highway, past the gate that is often closed due to snow and landslides, towards the region of a certain lake.

Right about mile marker ____ (I am sworn to secrecy), there was a small, gravel area that allowed him to park far enough off the road so as to be well out of the way of traffic. It was right by The mountain he thought he recognized. To me, it looked like many of the other peaks in that region of the Sawtooth Mountains, but fortunately was not one of the jagged cliff faces.

There was an energetic creek flowing along that side of the road, too, but with a little reconnaissance, we found the road followed a bridge over the creek about a 100 yards away. It meant walking on the narrow winding road with a few cars and trucks going by, in a place they could hardly expect to run across pedestrians. Pun intended. It seemed like a good trade off at the time, because the creek was just deep and fast enough to be challenging to cross. Plus, I didn’t like the idea of getting wet right at the beginning of a hike of unknown length.

There was no easing into the climb. Right from the base of the road, the slope went up in front of my face. I mean, like there I was standing and the next part of it was in my face. Not vertical, but I was going to develop some new skills and problem solving quickly. I almost immediately had to get over my aversion to touching the plants with my hands. Not only do I have sensitive skin, with a tendency to allergic reactions to plants, but I KNEW there were bugs in every plant. That was simple to verify, as a great many of the creatures were slithering and hopping all around. But I couldn’t very well give up right at the start. So, I started grabbing clumps of grass and pulling myself slowly up the mountainside.

I say “slowly,” because the husband, who was now fully in Wild Greg mode, was gliding quickly up the side like he had some sort of anti-gravity apparatus. Every 50 feet or so, he would stop and wait, and call down encouraging things. I, on the other hand, was grasping full hands of grass, thinking how ironic it was that when weeding in my garden I curse the tenacity of grass roots, but here I was immensely thankful. There really was nothing else to hold onto and the dirt-rock mix was constantly sliding away under my feet like a bad dream.

A couple of quick looks down to see if I was making progress convinced me I shouldn’t look down. It made me dizzy and off-balance. The road looked like an aerial view of Google maps. I mentioned to Wild Greg that I was feeling a high degree of risk, but he said if I fell I “wouldn’t fall very far.” He elaborated that once a friend of his had fallen and had been stopped by some (sharp) sticks after a relatively short roll. Deep breath. It was meant to help me not worry. I asked him if we could find another way down, to which he happily informed me that we wouldn’t be able to find this route if we wanted to! Great.

I didn’t bother keeping track of time or distance. We were in another dimension, a Wild Greg Zone. I soon learned to appreciate the young aspen saplings that became available as hand holds. More on that for the trip down.

It wasn’t too long before we began to come across game trails. I have seen game trails before, but not in an area that was so obviously devoid of human trails. The network of paths was impressive. The ground of the trails was dented and churned everywhere by hoof marks. Some trails ran sideways. Others went more vertical, giving evidence that there is great meaning to descriptions such as “leap like a deer.” As I struggled where they obviously pranced, I spoke to Wild Greg about the fact that deer and elk always have two feet on the ground.

Finally, we entered a comparatively gently sloping meadow. Here, the myriad of tightly packed grass clumps were matted down, like animals had recently slept there. There were lots of elk droppings, and we even saw bear scat. I was assured that it was probably only from shy black bears. The meadows began to occur more frequently and there were often rivulets of water running through them, probably the head waters of some major river down below. I thought about building a cabin and settling down. Then, I remembered winter.

We never walked along one of the game trails for very long. I suppose because 1) they didn’t go straight up the mountain, and 2) there was no point since we were exploring potential hiding and hangout places. I still couldn’t help but feel a twinge of disappointment every time we left a trail, even if it was made by animals. There was a familiar comfort to the idea of being on a trail. However, as we pushed our way through thickets of shrubs and small trees, I compared it to our traipse through the elephant grass in Africa and was felt glad we were unlikely to be hunted by aggressive Black Mambas or trampled by elephants (that didn’t happen there, but there was the potential). By comparison, a wolf or bear was sounding tame, or at least I told myself so and tried to think intimidating thoughts.

It was me who spotted the only live elk we saw. It was small, probably a female or a youngster. Either way, it was on the move and was gone before Wild Greg came over. He was perfectly happy to have me be the only one to see it. He would be back.

There is always one more peak tempting him.

Wild Greg chose one particular large meadow to mark on his GPS for future reference. Then, he suggested that we “just” go to the top of the ridge we could see and find out if it was really the top or only a false peak. I could imagine us chasing down the top of the mountain until the edge of tomorrow. It might be a shame to get that far and not stand on the top of the 7000 foot pinnacle, however I didn’t want to become “one with the mountain” in another more permanent way, either.

The top was an illusion, but it had to be up there somewhere. As Wild Greg contemplated trying one more time to find the top, I had to tell him that my legs were getting very tired. I wasn’t sure if the “hike” down would be easier or harder. Regardless, I was pretty sure that I would regret going further before turning around. He agreed and took a reading of the car’s position with his GPS. We needed to head slightly to the north, but basically down.

When Wild Greg told me how he and one of the rare repeat hunting partners usually would run down such hills, I was dubious. Surely he was exaggerating. Then, he proceeded to run part way down the hill. Again, he would stop and wait, telling me to utilize the saplings and “just” swing down parts. I had been using them some, and was pleasantly surprised to see that the skin on my palms was NOT being shredded. I attempted to be a bit more free with gravity, but only confirmed that my upper body strength was not up to any Tarzan and Jane maneuvers. I was able to use the saplings enough to brace myself against a few precipitous slides. Somewhere along here, we saw a fawn skitter away.

When I tried to cross one of the logs we encountered, barely controlled sliding ensued and soon turned into me doing an unintentional modified version of the splits. I had positioned my lower leg to take a step over the armored log. I say armored, because the perimeter of the log was a mine field of sharp protuberances. These former branches were not just broken, but were dried and stiffly pointed. When I tried to take the step over, the dirt under my lower leg gave way and moved that foot a couple of feet downward. I was carefully holding onto one of the short, sharp knobs, which helped me to avoid going even farther, but then the space between my feet was so great as to make lifting either leg unlikely. Not only was my pelvis stretched to the limit, but the tension on my jeans was inhibiting. A brief rest and some mental concentration made me realize there was no other choice. I managed a modified ninja step while the lower leg slid just a bit more. However, I made it over the log without perforating my thighs.

At one point, we found ourselves going through a tangle of forest that was much taller than our heads. There was no way around it within sight and we could hear the creek below. He suggested I needed to go through this section of forest jungle backwards, which made sense and made it easier, since at that point all I cared about was getting down. I made sure that any branches I put my weight on showed significant signs of being green and living. It was also necessary to watch out for sharp dead branches that would flip up under me like swords in a sacred, guarded tomb set to deter intruders. I may have been moving at the speed of a sloth, but I was getting places. I think I can now say I have “rappelled” down a mountain rope-less.

Struggling with the reality that there is no good way to get upstream.

Arriving at the creek was supposed to be a relief. It wasn’t. We arrived where it was rushing over some largish underwater boulders, with no option for stepping stones or logs. There was a log bridge taunting us about 50 yards up stream, but there was nothing resembling passage to get there. Wild Greg attempted some rock climbing interspersed with wading, but in his tennis shoes. I decided it was time to go barefoot and turned to balance so I could to take off my moccasins. When I turned back around, he was already on the other side of the creek. I was distressed. I could tell the force of the water was going to severely test my remaining leg strength.

For a few minutes, I despondently inspected the slanted, densely shrubbed shoreline. To get to the log, I would have had to go back up the hill. I turned to stare down at the creek, both gearing myself up for the inevitable and trying to make a good plan. No good plans were forthcoming. I inhaled solidly and stepped into the icy, fast flowing water.

I made it to the middle of the creek before my legs rebelled. Then, there I stood with my lower legs and feet going painfully numb, holding me up against the deceptively beautiful force of the flood, but still sending emphatic messages to my brain that if I lifted one of them that the other would give way. It was only about two feet of water, but I pictured myself smashing against the rocks and being knocked down stream for an undetermined length of time. In retrospect, I should have just sat down and scooted across. It was only a few more minutes up the other side and to the car, but at that moment, I was crossing a raging river that was threatening to break my bones. I started to cry as I sputtered out to Wild Greg that I couldn’t do it.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he was back in the creek, reaching out his hand to mine and balancing me while I took the steps needed to make it to dry land. He then gave me a minute to recuperate while he entertained me with his cheerful perspective on dealing with such choices in trail-less hiking. He wasn’t impatient with me at all.

The car is in sight - — The car is in sight –

It was only about 20 feet up to the road. We didn’t end up right where the car was, but it was in sight. I wobbled to it with enthusiasm, thinking of the hot springs pool and lunch. I recalled that he would be taking me dancing the next evening. I also noted that he was actually talking (more than one word sentences) about how much fun he had had on the elk scouting hike. I think I did the right thing. Happy anniversary, you crazy man.

Helpless Female Scouts for Elk – part 1:

Helpless Female Scouts for Elk – part 2:

Video highlights (with some commentary not included in the text):

Helpless Female Hikes to Six Lakes Basin with Wild Greg and His Minions

August 6, 2015 by Laura Blodgett 1 Comment

[box]For my sister, who prefers to listen to stories rather than read them, there is a podcast below.[/box]

If it took 5 hours to hike 8 miles, you know the terrain was technically challenging. I can run 8 miles comfortably well inside of 80 minutes nowadays, on the routes around home. That would be either barefoot or wearing my Luna sandals, depending on the current level and distance on roughness I have adapted to. It even includes hills sometimes, and all at an elevation near 3000 feet above sea level. I had run 8 miles the morning we left for camping. This may have been an error in judgement.

Part way up the mountain, there was a sign posted for Six Lakes Basin at a fork in the trail that looked suspiciously like a grave site.

The hike to Six Lakes Basin was presented to me as a short morning hike to see some pretty lakes. The signs and map said 4 miles in. I would make it to the first lake in the basin, but not without moaning and pain. True, some of it was psychological pain. I hate being last, but when it comes to doing things with Wild Greg and his minions, keeping up is an illusion at best. On this trip he only took 3 minions, the 3 youngest daughters, ages 19 – 24. They have been calling themselves minions well before it was popularized, because of the use of the word in books they have read.

Sometimes all of them would wait for me with the irritating cheerfulness of people who never seem to get out of breath. Other times they would say well-meaning things such as, “You’re in great shape! You can do it!” As anyone who is feeling oxygen deprivation loves to hear. Meanwhile, my legs were cramping or I was doing a wobbly dance over loose shale that was part of a slide on the 60° slope. (click on any photo to enlarge)

It all started back at Black Lake, a remote lake in Idaho, about 40 miles northwest of Council, Idaho. This is not a straight 40 miles. The first few miles are on a paved back country highway, which is lined with an odd assortment of non-official signs declaring that it is NOT Highway 95. Highway 95 exits Council in the other direction.

We had to wonder why said equipment driver would be so foolish as to enter the road without looking - — We had to wonder why said equipment driver would be so foolish as to enter the road without looking –

This road is Moser Road, but then a right turn and a left turn get you onto Council Cuprum Road, which follows Hornet Creek. This soon devolves into a 25 mph gravel road passing through a rural neighborhood of mixed character. Several of the landowners chose to build their houses about 3 feet from the road and are apparently going for the hilly-billy-shoot-them-if-they-look-at-you-cross-eyed atmosphere. One sign says something like “GRANDMA HAS HER OWN WAY OF DEALING WITH SPEEDING.” The caps were in the original. When we smiled and waved, going by at the speed limit, our greeting was received with a scowl. One could suppose that they don’t know what 25 mph hour looks like; or they want to make passersby feel as unwelcome (and nervous) as possible.

Okay. It all may have started way before Black Lake. The trip started getting significantly more stressful after we passed through the Signs of Intimidation, and turned onto the Road Not Recommended for Passenger Cars.” I contend that what they meant to say was “Not Recommended for Passengers.” The narrow, rutted, rocky road was so frequently on the edge of a precipitous drop that the minions were banned from saying the word “cliff” anymore. On more than one occasion, we would drive up a rise in the road and not be able to tell if and where the road went next. I knew it was extreme when Wild Greg would stop the vehicle and try to peer over the dashboard to determine if there was a turn at the dip.

There was some comic relief when we began to have to stop every mile or so to pick up a piece of someone’s camping gear from the middle of the road. We left the first item, a small tent in a bag, not really understanding what was going on. However, 2 large red sleeping bags, 1 hardshell case with a spendy bow and arrows, and a couple of thick bike cables later, we were hoping they would notice their loss soon. Our Suburban had already been packed floor to ceiling before those additions. We left behind the chunks of firewood that they were leaving as bread crumbs, but fortunately not any so big as to make our progression any more difficult.

I will say that at this point in the cliff-hanger, having 6 pillows piled on my lap was comforting. The minions in the back seat were well padded with the orphaned sleeping bags, albeit now prematurely covered with camping dirt. Wild Greg watched the road carefully for panicked campers returning on the one lane road in the opposite direction.

A view of Black Lake from the mountains above it.

When we were nearly to the Black Lake campground, a red pick-up truck with scary-big tires came tearing into view with a cloud of dust. They seemed to be motioning for us to get out of their way, but Wild Greg calmly stopped the car and stepped into the road between the vehicles, while motioning for them to approach. We made the transfer of goods with less thanks than I would have expected. They may still have been highly focused on finding the tent.

After all the desolate driving, not seeing anyone else other than a father and son on an ATV, we were surprised to find a very established campground full of people at the lake. One could easily imagine how rumors of elves in the woods get started. Except these “elves” had pick-up trucks and dogs. Wild Greg said that was quite a change from when he had seen it 20 years ago. Still, he and his minions managed to scout out a private camp site on the other side of the lake, by traversing an even more questionable road. The rest of us got out to walk, so as to make the car as light as possible for Wild Greg to maneuver. It was a much nicer location than the side-by-side campsites, and particularly nicer than the last available spot next to the outhouse.

Some pre-prepared hot potato soup and a good night’s sleep helped replenish me. I slept soundly all night, except for when Wild Greg’s snoring sounded like a bear growling, first in my dreams, then as I lay in the dark trying to figure out if something was trying to get into the tent. Bears had been mentioned when we had passed signs to the likes of Huckleberry Campground and Bear Creek the day before.

The sign at the trail head gives the erroneous air of a well marked and somewhat groomed trail.

The next morning, having not been eaten by a bear after all (although one was seen up close by a minion the next day), I finished my fried egg and ham on an English muffin as I listened to Wild Greg and his minions discuss where to hike that day. They passed the forest service map around and I heard comments about mileages and elevations. They reached a consensus, deciding to hike to Six Lakes Basin.

I have hiked many places in my life, having been introduced to back packing at around the age of 10. In all those subsequent 44 years, no one has asked me to be in charge of a hike. I suspect this may have something to do with my poor sense of direction. Still, I know a lot about trails and have certain expectations. Whoever blazed this trail broke several rules. For one thing, the trail predominantly went straight up the side of the first mountain. By the end of the first mile, I was repenting any bad attitude I had ever had about switchbacks. Switchbacks are your friends. Temporary though it may be, they often provide a little space of semi-flatness. The incline on this trail was steep enough that the back muscles of one leg were tightening in an ominous way.

One of the less challenging parts of the trail.

When the trail had some level areas, it was often an awkward narrow trench between two walls of weeds, weeds that started at knee level and reached to my armpits. Or, it was loose sharp rock in the middle of a rock slide waiting to continue to happen. If I hadn’t had the balance and foot flexibility afforded by my Luna sandals, I would have been in more distress. I kept trying to remember what my sister had said just before I left for camping: “Remember. Camping is fun!” I wondered what she does when camping.

One place where the trail was ambiguous and we went the wrong way for a while.

Things started getting better when Wild Greg stopped leaving me behind. Being last always leaves me with some, though probably irrational, fears of being lost. This trail was not always clearly marked, and when the 4 of them would disappear around a corner, my heart rate would spike. I try not to feel sorry for myself, but you try hiking with 3 athletic minions, and a man with the genetically endowed lung capacity of a race horse! He hadn’t even been exercising much lately. Even though the altitude had started at 6600 feet and gone up, I seemed to be the only one who had been forced to notice.

There were quite a few of these butterflies in this one spot, casually flitting around in some patches of wild flowers.

But, as I was saying, things got adjusted. Wild Greg hung back with me after setting up rendezvous details with the minions. The upside of this was I no longer had to strain my compromised leg to keep up. I even stopped and enjoyed some of the wild flowers for a few seconds here and there. Wild Greg put on a good show of patience with my pace, and he even initiated some of the botany observations.

Wild Greg's minions waiting for me at the first summit pass. — Wild Greg’s minions waiting for me at the first summit pass.

The downside was that the minions would rest in some shade until I caught up. Then, we would ALL keep going. And going. Over one summit, across the side of another mountain, and through another summit pass.

Looking down at the slightly charred Six Lakes Basin from the summit pass.

At last, we arrived at Six Lakes Basin. You could tell because there were several small lakes all right next to each other. It was a little disappointing that fire had destroyed many of the surrounding trees, however, if the trees had been green, we probably wouldn’t have been able to see all the lakes as well. As it was, I saw 5 of them right away coming over that last summit. We proceeded down another slippery rock, loose dirt path, with me trying not to do a face plant. Two of the light-footed minions were wearing the same model of sandals as me, so I knew faster was possible. I attribute at least part of their speed to lack of life injuries. Wild Greg just doesn’t care about blood and pain and scars.

Before long, we were all dipping our feet in the cool lake water. I was fairly satisfied with the whole hike, until Wild Greg asked the minions, “Who wants to go explore the other lake?” It seemed I wasn’t even going to get a vote. I thought I might cry, but held my peace. I was relieved when Wild Greg mentioned something about one of them starting back to camp with me. I assured him that I could follow the trail by myself for about half way. He wanted to believe me, but I could see the skepticism in his blue eyes. Still, both of us could tell that none of the minions wanted to miss out on seeing the other lakes they had traveled so far to get close to. I added that if I didn’t know which way to go, I would stop and wait. Partially in response the lack of belief I saw in his expression (he is a man of few words), I modified that to admitting I would stop IF I noticed there were choices. I have a reputation for not noticing forks in the trail… In the end, he handed me his heretofore secret emergency whistle with attached compass, giving me a quick review on the sun’s relative position.

This is the path to begin my way back by myself.

I was feeling fairly cheered, again, until Wild Greg noted aloud that we had hiked 2 and 1/2 hours! With my legs already periodically trembling under their effort, the idea of another 2 and 1/2 hours was daunting. I tried to put it out of my mind and just take one step at a time.

Here, I am looking back at the second summit, which is the "V" in the mountains slightly left of upper center. The rocky path in the previous photo is on the other side of that pass. — Here, I am looking back at the second summit, which is the “V” in the mountains slightly left of upper center. The rocky path in the previous photo is on the other side of that pass.

As I walked along at my own tedious and embarrassingly slow pace, I entertained myself by attempting estimates of how many miniature grasshoppers were popping around me with each step. I wondered at the lack of directional aptitude of crickets, as the large, grotesque black bugs seemed to flail in mid air when they jumped. I contemplated my utter aloneness, being past the one summit and on the side of a mountain completely out of communication and no signs of other humans anywhere. I scanned the region for predators and hoped they were all taking their afternoon naps. I snapped a few photos of wild flowers and considered the possibility of giving them names I chose, instead of those in books.

Enjoying the beauty of a refreshingly purple flower amidst the mostly dry terrain.

Just as I was approaching the second summit, I was surprised to hear Wild Greg call out to me from a little ways below. He had left the minions far behind and was trotting energetically up (and I do mean UP) the mountain trail to find me. He sweetly said he had been worried about me. He commented that I looked relaxed. That was partly because I was going my own pace and was ahead of everyone. It was also because I was planning a short rest period at the top of this coming summit. I remembered that after that the trail would be much harder to follow and I thought they might arrive after a pleasant rest time for me.

I must have already appeared refreshed enough to him, because I had only been sitting on my small jagged rock for about 60 seconds when he told me I should get started on the next section. Phooey. When I expressed my concerns, he pointed out some landmarks below and said, “Just basically head that way.” So, I did.

I absolutely lost my way and there was no trail in sight by the time I was 2/3rds of the way down the mountain. Fortunately, I could still get glimpses of the points of interest enough to aim for Black Lake. I was getting very tired, though, and my gait was increasingly awkward and deteriorating. I tried to keep my muscles from cramping or pulling by walking as loosely as possible, which evolved into swinging my arms and legs from a hunched core unit. I may have looked like a zombie. In a baby pink Coco Beach baseball hat. Maybe the hat would soften the terrifying visual impact?

I was happy to see this familiar, though dead, tree trunk.

Finally, I entered one short portion of trail with a huge, dead tree trunk that I remembered. It was still standing upright. Its remaining branches curled off of the top and were decorated with wisps of drying green moss, like a bad perm. Someone had carved a whimsical square window in the trunk. It was too high to peep into, and made one wonder what was peeping out.

Walking in my Luna sandals, with no one to talk to, I was pretty quiet. So quiet that a resting ~~unicorn~~ mountain goat did not hear me coming until I was within about 20 feet of it. Since I did not know it was there in the shrubs either, it was a thrill in more than one way to see it spring up and run away into the woods. I was tempted to follow it, like any good princess lost in the fairy woods, but I wasn’t sure how magical the whistle was.

It wasn’t long until 2 of the minions found me, because apparently I actually was on the trail right then. In another short while, we 3 made it to camp and I collapsed into a chair. Wild Greg had run back to give moral support to the 3^rd minion, whose feet were slightly bruised after a period of extended running up the mountain. Poor minion, but they made it back and the minions celebrated victory in the camp.

I stayed in my chair almost exclusively for 4 hours. I was fed and offered liquids regularly. In the background, I could hear Wild Greg and his minions planning a hike for the next day, but I ignored them as best I could. I was so stiff every time I got up, I might not be able to walk in the morning anyway.

I wasn’t sure whether to be happy or sad when I woke the next morning feeling a bit sore, but basically limber. I put on my good attitude and asked what I needed to be ready for, and when. The oldest minion said, “Hike in 30 minutes!” But Wild Greg spoke up from where he was washing the breakfast dishes.

“I’m not sure I’m ready to take your mother on another Death March.” That is the fond description the minions have given to all the hikes with their father, but in my case it was a more accurate description. There was consternated chattering among the minions that boiled down to them denying that anyone came close to dying. Wild Greg countered,

“But none of you were considering throwing yourself over the side of the cliff to end your pain.”

I looked up at him quickly, expostulating, “I never vocalized that!” But I could tell that he knew I had thought it. Even if it was just dark humor to get me through the hardest parts, he also knew that I had hiked hard.

I was left at the campsite with strict orders to have fun doing things like playing my flute and crocheting. I was told I could go on very short walks, but not too far. I was prohibited from getting lost. They even asked if they should leave the ~~magic~~ emergency whistle with me, but I thought they should take it. Most importantly, they left me most of the snacks.

Rebuttals can be heard at the end of the podcast.

Below, you can listen to the above story read aloud. It is in 2 parts. First, Part 1:

And now, Part 2:

Helpless Female Versus the Bike Mirror

July 7, 2015 by Laura Blodgett Leave a Comment

I should have known I was in trouble when I “read” the “English” instructions for mounting the bicycle mirror. It was like they were describing a car and I only knew about travel by horse. No. It was like reading Greek or Russian in our alphabet equivalent phonetics. I could make the sounds, but comprehension was lacking. Looking at the exploded diagram of a brake lever with all the mirror components added in almost made me nauseous. When step one said, “Disconnect the brake cable from… “ and I looked at it, scissors briefly came to mind.

The mirror had been recommended by an experienced cycling friend. It ranked highly in amazon reviews, and it claimed to “mount quickly.” Unfortunately, I was not aware that I needed to understand the finer differences between hand brakes, and the part of the description that mentioned “models” of brakes slipped right by me, like jello on a hot day. Hot jello is also what my brain felt like after attempting for half an hour to fit a “lock nut” where the instructions said it should go, but where it did not fit on my bike brakes.

My engineer husband had tried to get me off to a good start. His only mistake was assuming that I would buy the right mirror for my bike. He showed me his secret drawers of tools in the dark corners of his workshop and helped me find the correct ones for the job. He helped me disconnect the brake cable in a less violent way. Then, on his way out the door to work, he promised to come back. That was very brave of him, since he knows what these projects do to me.

Looking back and forth from my bike brakes to the instructions, while crawling around on the garage carpet in order to problem solve the inner spaces of the brake lever, was making me dizzy. I couldn’t seem to keep the instructions in my mind for the time it took to look at the bike. In retrospect, this may have been because my bike brake was the wrong kind, although, I do give myself credit for using my pinky finger in very creative ways to hold the “lock nut” inside the too long brake shaft space while trying to attach the mysterious, but too-short-for-my-brake-lever-case, “hollow bolt.”

Finally, something clicked … or snapped … or something-like-that in my brain. I noticed that the sketch of the handle bars on the package were not the kind on my mountain bike. They were the kind that circle down like ram’s horns, such as my road bike has. Thus, I decided, since all else had failed, to switch bikes!

I had most wanted the mirror on the mountain bike so that I could use it to pull grandkids in the chariot-style bike trailer in the near future. I was also planning on outfitting my road bike with a mounted mirror later, for solo road trips. Well, road trips for me are about an hour long, but we all have to start somewhere.

It turns out that my low-end road bike has the dreaded “style 4” brake levers listed in the instructions; not to mention the “rubber hood” that is briefly spoken of in the tone of, “We are really sorry if this is on your bike. Do the best you can.” For style 4 brake levers, the manufacturer recommends the “average” bike owner use a drill press.

Amazingly, I know what a drill press is, since my husband asked for one for Christmas a couple years ago. I have even used it under careful supervision for a project we completed together with PVC pipe. I was not going to go anywhere near the thing alone. It is the kind of machine that I’m sure will become sentient when I walk into the shop by myself.

All this is how I decided I actually don’t need a frame mounted bike mirror. Well, that and some (belated?) therapy research on amazon.com’s best bike mirrors list, which convinced me that there is a lack of consensus about the reliability of bike frame mounted mirrors. It seems every type of mirror has made a segment of the population crazy. Been there, done that.

It also occurred to me to ask a cycling guru from the local cycling group I have participated with now and again. The suggestion was the hubbub route 66 helmet mirror. Maybe that will be less of an issue in my field of vision. Its installation is probably less likely to end up with me in a straightjacket, too. We have to consider all the unintended possibilities of these “quick” upgrades.

Helpless Female Co-Pilots the Pedal Boat

June 16, 2015 by Laura Blodgett Leave a Comment

Have you ever tried to steer a pedal boat? I should probably ask if you know what a standard pedal boat is. My husband, Wild Greg, and I, took ours out for a turn about the local lake this past Saturday. Our pedal boat is a thick, square, plastic flotilla with a very UNimpressive paddle wheel. This paddle wheel is powered by two sets of pedals on 6 inch axels. I don’t know if that is the exact technical term, but work with me here. The point is that one rotation of the pedal does not transfer much force to the paddle wheel. This is probably just as well, because the black plastic paddle wheel only has a diameter of about 12 inches. It is amazing it pushes any water at all.

Suffice to say that no one should ever try to use a pedal boat as a get-a-way vehicle. If we pedal too fast, the front end magically lifts out of the water and we get absolutely nowhere. Although, it can take a few moments to realize we are going no where fast. Even in the best vector conditions, we still have to regularly sight off of some focal point on shore to verify that we are moving. At about a quarter mile an hour.

This doesn’t even take into account the pitiful steering apparatus. Whoever designed that had a wicked sense of humor. There is a 4 inch handle for each pedaling driver (there can be two passengers in the back, but this is not advisable for traveling distances greater than 10 feet). Figuring out how to steer and propel the pedal boat is a good substitute for marriage counseling. We can either fight over the control or cooperate for at least some minimal progress. A regular boat paddle can be of use once in a while, but the pedal boat is not shaped right to use it much. If we have any kind of ‘directional disagreement’ out in the middle of the lake, there will be time to work it out, because if we don’t, we won’t go anywhere. The loons will laugh at us as they dive under and swim underwater like jet submarines. At least they don’t leave a wake.

Not that motor boat wakes are a danger concern. The pedal boat, after 10 years of experimentation, appears to be untippable. Wild Greg likes to experiment with these things. Still, that doesn’t mean it isn’t humiliating to be sent into uncontrollable circles of variable speed as a motor boat putters or zips by. A fraction of an inch correction with the ‘steering’ handle can result in being rerouted to any of the 360 possible degrees. But this hardly matters, since the next wake wave is going to come in a few seconds anyway and knock the flimsy keel in another random direction.

You can see why we mostly stay in the no wake zone of the lake. Unfortunately for me, the best way to get to that area of water in Lake Lowell is through a mucky side channel that rivals an Amazon jungle swamp. Today was no different. The gangly trees grew up out of the eerily buzzing shallows, their leaves whispering taunts and their thin woody arms swinging out to grasp my bare arms. Half in jest, I scanned the banks for crocodiles and the surface of the green opaque liquid for hippo ears. All the insects in the valley breed here, but they didn’t do more than tickle me. We saw a sparkling dragonfly and a couple of meandering butterflies. Wild Greg rode contentedly.

I used to feel so relieved to make it out of that passageway, which is long enough that the lake is not visible most of the time. Then, last week, I read that in 2007 someone (a non-swimmer?) had released his still growing piranha-like fish into our local Lake Lowell. He (I think it is fair to assume it is a male) obviously needs to do more research on his tropical fish. Or maybe he needs a measuring tape to be able to visualize the mature size compared to his fish tank. Or maybe someone needs to take his fish tank away. If it has been done once, I figure there is a good chance it has been done again. Now, every time a three foot long giant carp jumps into the air to snatch a bug, I have to wonder if it is a piranha. The news reports say such fish ‘cannot’ survive the winters here in Idaho. I think they are just saying that to calm the masses. It is a tactic that should work until someone get an exfoliation treatment they weren’t expecting.

Wild Greg got in the water for a swim during this trip. It is easy to get off the pedal boat. Of course, the simple transfer of mass makes the pedal boat sway and spin like a chubby toddler learning to walk. Wild Greg can usually man handle the boat back to its originally desired direction. Then, he typically challenges me to a race. He gives me a head start, not because he is a fast swimmer, but because he is laughing so much at how fast I am NOT going.

Maybe you will concede by now that this is not totally my fault. I can tell that I am pedaling with adequate force. Also, I had been trying harder on this particular day after our little test (see video below) to see if Wild Greg could tell when I was helping him. He could not. Apparently he had been pushing just fast and hard enough that my feet were just along for the ride. But, since the outing had been presented to me as one where we both got some exercise, he shared better after that.

When he started swimming, he tried to align himself to swim alongside the pedal boat. I will swear to a judge that this time I was consistently steering straight, but Wild Greg was veering off into a perpendicular universe. I called and called, hoping he would hear my voice one of the times he turned his head to breathe. In this case, it was good that he is not a fast swimmer. I would not have been able to catch him, but he would have steadily plowed into the middle of the lake. The motor boats are supposed to go slow through there, but they don’t all follow the rules. If the piranha didn’t get him, a drunk fisherman would.

Getting back on the pedal boat from the deep water is no easy feat. It cannot be done delicately or gracefully. I chose not to watch Wild Greg deal with this. Pedaling or steering couldn’t help him, so I leaned back and took some more photos of birds. The world needs more photos of birds, right? Until my camera got sea sick. It started giving me messages about “too much motion,” and then it stopped working. Wild Greg thinks the memory card malfunctioned, and since his engineering job entails working closely with these products, I have some hope that all I need is a new memory card. But, so much for further photo documentation.

By now we had been pedaling for over an hour. This isn’t the same as riding a bike, and I wasn’t exactly tired, but the legs do get weary of creating tiny rotation circles. We turned around and aimed at the buoy that we thought marked the entrance to the creepy swamp.

It’s kind of like looking for the Stargate during a stressful chase. It was so easy to find the portal at the beginning of the adventure, but when you want to go home, NOW please, the wind picks up, the sun light goes through a series of surreal color changes, and the communication device fails. Well, actually, I had left my communication device on the mother truck, so I couldn’t post on facebook that we were riding 12 inch whitecaps on Lake Lowell. Pedal boat surfing! The wind was directly against us, so we had to hit the waves head on to make any progress. If we had tried to zigzag, we’d still be out there. Maybe you would find our sun dried bones in August. I’d be the one in the bikini… As it was, we were rockin’ and rollin’, but not coming close to capsizing in spite of the force with which the waves splashed over the sides. Hey, it was a pedal boat. Proportionally, it would be like a yacht in a major squall. However, it is solid and stable, so you may not get anywhere , but wherever you are, you will be above water. Bring snacks and drinks.

Finally, the pedal boat was slowly skimming the huge water weeds that grow in the 30 feet of water adjacent to the shores. We were nearing the swampy portal. That’s one advantage of not having an outboard motor or a sizable paddle wheel. Nothing catches on it. We pedaled in happily synchronized unison, with Wild Greg steering to near perfection. Over two hours alone with me and he was still calm, and our relationship was stronger than ever. He even says we should do it again, for “maintenance,” though he was hasty to add that “maintenance” is a very positive word.

When we drifted up to the slimy boat ramp, he managed to maneuver the pedal boat so that I didn’t have to put my feet into the semi-solid algae eddies lapping the shore. There was a family nearby in the small, hot parking lot, looking for good fishing spots. They eyed us dubiously, like we were unexpected creatures emerging from the lake. Or maybe I looked like I should have been lounging on a southern beach, not coming out of the swamp. After a couple seconds, a rather robust looking woman asked Wild Greg if he needed any help! Hmpf. He smilingly declined. Then, he brought the mother truck around and I helped him lift the hefty pedal boat into the truck bed from a downhill angle. He had plenty of help, thank you very much.

Short Cuts to YouTube Channel Art for the Non-Technical Over 50 Helpless Female, Plus Link to Barefoot in Snow Video

March 18, 2015 by Laura Blodgett Leave a Comment

I admit that this is a weird post, but after struggling through learning how to do all of this, I felt a need to write it all down. You see, all I wanted to do was post youtube videos, partly for fun, partly to inspire others, and possibly to generate income. But it is not as easy as it looks. It helps that I have become familiar with using iMovie to put together movies and slideshows. A lot of experimentation combined with a few apple store tutoring sessions (apple one-to-one programs) over the last 4 years has paid off. As a result, I have been able to make some fun family movies to post to a Vimeo account.

When I wanted to expand to YouTube for videos more specific to my blog, I needed help. I tried to google things, but was overwhelmed, so I called my techno-geek daughter and she helped me over a few major hurdles of comprehension, as well as simply making me aware of steps that I wasn’t recognizing. Then, I also ended up asking my graphic arts major daughter for help. Below is an outline, hopefully with details in ways that matter, that tell what I did. My barefoot running in the snow video is embedded at the end.

1. Set up a Google+ account. I already had a gmail account, so that was a brief exercise for the first account. I just had to go to the little grid of 9 dark squares in the upper right section of the menu bar when on my gmail webpage.

2. Then, I had to set up a base youtube account using that primary email address. I didn’t do any specific art for this parent channel at this point, as my main goal was to make the specific channels.

3. Once that was done, I could create other Google+ accounts by clicking on the “Home” icon to the far left (right under the Google +) to show a drop down menu that gives the choice for clicking on “Pages” third from the bottom.

4. This should land you on a page showing any other Google+ pages you have, as well as giving you the option to “get your page”. That is what you click on to make a new Google+ page.

5. Clicking on that button takes you to another page where they want you to choose a category. “Brand” seems most appropriate for what I’m doing.

6. Now, I was asked to name my new page, and list it’s relevant website, which for me is this blog.

7. With that filled in and “create page” clicked, I was finally taken to where I was supposed to set up my page, adding a cover photo, description, etc. It seemed best to me to make this look reasonable. As Facebook gets more glitchy about how it allows my Daily Improvisations page to show up in people’s feeds, I may end up using these Google+ pages more.

8. To create the photo, I spent some time with iPhoto and Aperture for cropping and making collages, then used the BorderFix plug-in I added for Aperture to create text boxes and text on my photos. The same photo can be used for the youtube art, but there are more specific requirements for having it look good and being able to be accepted by the YouTube site. Specifically, this means making sure any words or particularly important part of the photo be going across the center of the photo, as the computer version of the photo will be clipped on the site to only show that section. Oddly, photos cannot be exported from Aperture, so I also have to go back to iPhoto to do that. I was taught by helpful techno-geek daughter to always export in lowest quality for the blog and Facebook, and that seems to work for Google+ as well. Once the photo is somewhere that you can upload from (I usually just do it from my desktop so that I can find it easily and not get bogged down in all of the iPhoto library again), there is a button on the Google+ page in the blue section of the upper rectangle that says “add cover photo.” It you click on that, it gives the option of uploading a photo, or choosing one from their own archives.

This is what I ended up with today after three tries

9. Having a specific Google+ page allows me to set up a specific YouTube channel for that page. If you go again to the 9 box grid, in the drop down menu there should be an option of clicking on a YouTube icon. There might be enough icon choices that you have to click on 3 dots or more options at the bottom of the drop down menu.

10. From the YouTube page, you can still see your photo icon (if you have added a photo, otherwise is will be some graphic space filler) on the far upper right. When you are on the YouTube site, clicking on this gives you a drop down menu that shows all your Google+ pages associated with your account. If the page does not already have a YouTube account associated with it, there is the option right under it’s name to “create channel.” For some reason, after you click on that, it then gives you a little pop-up like box that again asks you to click on “okay” to proceed. Then, one more box explains a bit more about how it is all connected, so you know who will have access to what in this set-up.

11. This is where I ended up using Preview to tweak my original photo to make it work with the YouTube channel. My graphic arts daughter showed me how if I open up the photo on my computer in Preview, I can easily adjust pixels and resolution. I don’t completely understand what resolution means different than pixels, but I know that I ended up needing to adjust both in order for youtube to let me upload my photo. With it in Preview, click on “Tools” to get a drop down menu. From there, click on “Adjust Size.”

12. Usually, Preview doesn’t like to make both changes at once, so it works best to change one or the other first, click “okay,” then go back to the drop down menu in “Tools” and “Adjust Size” again to change the other. The numbers that YouTube wants are dimensions of at least 1248 by 1157, for reasons I know not, because then, they want it in few pixels. The dimensions did not have to be that exactly, but had to be at least that. My daughter also somehow knew this magic number of “72” pixels that made all the difference. Changing all my photos to 72 pixels made them YouTube channel art friendly.

13. The last thing to do is upload the photo and see how it works. I went back and made changes to each photo before I was happy enough with it. Once I knew what I had to do to adjust it, making the changes went fairly quickly and was worth it to get something presentable.

As of today, I have two completely set up YouTube channels and one more in the making. Using music is greatly limited if I want to allow ads on them, so I have been experimenting with creating my own music, first with just recording myself on the flute playing public domain classics and celtic tunes. Hopefully, the folks at YouTube don’t change too many things about the process again soon! Here is a list of the websites that I found useful in doing this.

YouTube’s own Create channel art page

YouTube channel art tips by minimatters.com

YouTube Simplifies Creating New Channels

How to Create Multiple YouTube Channels Under One Account

Here is the video on barefoot running in the snow I finally got to post today, and the blog that goes with it is at Running Barefoot on Ice and Pine Needles to Stack Rock Near Bogus Basin: