She’s Hot, Hot, Hot

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Please understand, it’s not that I don’t love my husband. It’s just that he simply does not understand what a hot flash truly is. I mean, I understand that being awakened in the dead of night by someone “kung-fu” kicking  your bed sheets and blanket to the South Pole can be a frightening experience. But, if he could just imagine how it would feel to have a blow torch suddenly ignited inside of him, and no fire hose to put it out, he might understand the panicked flinging of the bed covers and my sarcastic quips to his objections. One night, I awoke to find him completely exposed and curled up into a fetal position.

I gave him a nudge and asked, “If you are cold, why don’t you pull the covers over you?”

I heard a small groan.

“Because” he answered in a feeble, weary voice, “you keep ripping them off of me. I give up.”

I don’t know why, but his answer came unexpected. How many times had I actually deprived him of his protective coverings to warrant such a pitiful retreat? I was fully aware that I had sent the covers flying, only to sit up in bed and retrieve them five minutes later. In fact, in an effort to remain positive about my condition, I had decided to view this constant night time motion as a part of my exercise plan. Apparently though, I had not been effectively retrieving enough of the covers for both of us.

Seeing him curled up in a tight ball, shivering in the night, caused me to take pity on the poor guy. I crawled down to the bottom of the bed to reach the other half of the sheet and tossed it his direction. As it unfolded like a white parachute and settled over him, he quietly thanked me.

“Your welcome,” I replied, “But you may want to bolt that down.”

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Whatever You Do, Don’t Run!

                                                                                                                  

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I am always up for an adventure – especially those that promise an adrenaline rush or two. So, exploring new territories, and close encounters with the wild, hovers near the top of my priority list.

When I was growing up, summertime meant family camping trips, exploring national parks, and swimming in whatever body of water we could find. So it was inevitable that I marry an outdoor type of guy who grew up doing the same sort things. Camping has been a summer event for our own family for many years and has included several state parks.

Traveling to Canada and spending some time where the wild things are was on our “Gotta do it” list. So when our friends invited our family to join them on a camping excursion to a remote area of Canada, we were thrilled. We carefully planned our three week adventure and before long it was time to hit the road.

After a two day journey northward, we arrived at Moosehorn, a small, private camping area in British Columbia, with our travel trailer packed with enough food to feed an army for a month. No one would go hungry.

We echoed “Ooo’s” and “Ahh’s” as we scanned the beautiful lake that curbed the secluded property.  We peaked into the windows of the few rustic cabins that dotted the lakeside and we watched the Loon’s flap their wings and glide across the water.

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Then we set up camp and settled in.

Over the next few days, we enjoyed fishing on the lake and taking rides in our small, aluminum boat. The lake provided the perfect perch to view the abundance of wildlife that shared the territory with us. I snapped my camera at nesting bald eagles, coyote, and deer drinking at the lakeside.

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Then we spotted a couple baby grizzly bears frolicking on the hillside. My husband steered our boat closer to shore for a better view, stopping about a hundred yards from the shoreline. I felt safe with a large span of water between our boat and the baby grizzly show. Although I have to admit, I wondered where the momma grizzly was hiding and if she could smell our fish cooking in the evenings.

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There were no septic hook-ups, so we had to use the grounds facilities, which were somewhat primitive. There was a flush toilet in the wash house across the campground, but our friend’s directed us to an outhouse which stood conveniently at a stone’s throw away from our campsite – if you had a good arm. It was also hidden by a large overgrowth of trees and bushes. This made me a bit nervous, but I decided not to be a wussy and use it anyway.

While inside, I contemplated the possibility of a grizzly meandering by and discovering the wild berry bush next to the John. I wished I had not come alone. I considered yelling for my husband to come and get me, but I thought I might sound like a wounded animal that would make the perfect no-cook meal. I also knew that my husband would not let me live it down. So instead, I pressed my face up against the splintering wall of the latrine and peeked through the tiny cracks of the wooden boards. When it looked like all directions were clear, I swung the door open and sprinted toward our campsite. Once I was in the clearing, I did my best to do a casual stride into camp. No one knew the difference. From then on, I walked the further distance to the flush latrine that was situated in a large clearing, stating that I preferred toilets that flush versus those which look like bottomless pits. That seemed to work.

Following the precautions given to us, I restricted my daily exercise to walking or jogging around the large field behind our campsite. I kept an eye on the surrounding forest and wondered if a grizzly with poor eyesight could mistake me for an over-sized jack rabbit. I hopped a little faster.

After a few days of running around in restricted circles, I told my husband I needed to expand my horizons and go on a long walk – on a straight road. He agreed to walk with me. We reviewed bear safety rules as we walked away from the open field and along a dirt road that led toward town. It felt good to have a change of scenery. We were about a half mile into our walk and were joking about what we would do should we encounter a grizzly. My husband said, “You know you’re not suppose to run.” I wondered just how fast I could run if death was chasing me. Then he added, “But if you do run, you better make sure you’re faster than the guy next to you.” He looked at me and grinned. My husband is a runner – and qualified for Nationals in the 800 meters while in college. I decided that it was time to head back to camp.

We walked briskly and spoke louder than usual as we made our way back down the road, hoping to ward off anything that lurked in the woods. I wondered if a grizzly was capable of sneaking up behind us and I wished I had a rearview mirror attached to my head.

When I saw the Moosehorn sign I was relieved. “Looks like we made it!” I said.

“Yep,” my husband replied, “Looks like we’re not going be a grizzly’s dinner tonight!”

I laughed nervously and looked over my shoulder.

We rounded the bend onto the Moosehorn property and started chatting about other things. It was then that I heard a low, guttural grunt come from the thick bushes to my right. The little hairs on the back of my neck pricked up like quills on the back of a porcupine. I kept my pace and I looked over at my husband. He was looking at me wide-eyed. “Did you hear that?” I asked in a hoarse whisper. “You mean that grunt sound?” He whispered back. We both looked over our shoulders and quickened our pace.

“Whatever you do, don’t run!” He said in a louder whisper. His teeth were clenched.

“You don’t run either!” I whispered back. I noticed I was having to double-step it to keep up with him.

Just then there was a loud crack about 30 yards behind us. It sounded like a small tree being snapped in two. I restrained a scream, but a stifled sound that mimicked a cow in labor made it’s way through my pressed lips. I won’t repeat what my husband said.

We both hit Olympic speed walking pace, with a few hops thrown in. Buns tight. Tails affright. Our feet were forward, our bodies faced each other, arms pumping, and our heads were whipping front to back. I wondered if the paddling Loons on the lake would think we were an odd species doing a mating dance.

Another loud whack came from behind us. I shot off like a steel marble in pinball machine. It was survival of the fittest. I was in front.

I heard my husband’s panicked voice hit high tenor, “Don’t run!!”

He passed me and took the lead.

“You are!!” I shouted and I reached out and grabbed the back of his shirt.

We both stumbled. I struggled to keep my legs from entangling with his, but held my grip.

“Ahh!!” He let out a labored yelp, “Let go!!!”

It’s strange what one can do when they face possible death. I gripped the back of his shirt with an iron hand.

“No way man! If I go, you go!” I shouted.

My feet bounced and skidded over the dirt like a bare-footed water skier. My husband’s shirt tail was my tow rope.

He burst into grimaced laughter. I joined him.  We struggled to keep in motion, and our laughter quickly progressed to wheezing with intermittent squeaks. I could feel my grasp on his shirt growing weaker. I envisioned doing a cartwheel off the side of the road and becoming human toast.

We came around a curve in the road and I saw the first cabin. I wondered what the occupants would do if a half-crazed couple came diving through their front door. I looked over my shoulder to see if our would be attacker was in sight. The road was empty. “No bear coming!” I gasped. My husband slowed his pace and I skidded to a stop. We stood solitude, hands on our knees and catching our breath.

We figured the grunt we heard was our warning to move on – which we did with enthusiasm.

“You ran.” I said.

“You did too.” My husband answered.

“So, who’s faster?” I asked.

“You held my shirt.” He replied.

I guess we’ll never know.

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