Hightailing it to Montana: The Great Escape-Day One

Something a bit different this time. 

I kept a journal of sorts during my camping trip over the weekend. I will make a separate post for each day of our trip.  There are only three, so you won't be slogged down in an epic monotony of drivel-only three days worth of insanity, which is a much better deal, I think.


And without further adieu...

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Day One

After much Internet searching and a gift from a friend who said that this trip must happen (I heart you), I selected a place in Troy, Montana.

I'd taken a random road trip with one of my dearest friends, the blogger of Seeds of Ink (seedsofink.blogspot.com), ending up in Libby, Montana.  We had passed Troy and I thought it was nice, albeit small. A bit creepy too as it was dusk/near dark when we blew through town at the time.

 

THE CAMPING TRIP had been in the planning stages since early May.

 I wanted to go and explore a place we hadn't been before. The Midget was excited at the prospect of the two of us adventuring like 'princess mermaids' (don't judge) so I began the quest for a campground that didn't include the word 'BEAR' in the 'things to know' information section on its web site.

Bear Country

 

 

 

  In fact, the Midget, now 8, hadn't been camping since she was 2. This was going to be her first 'real' camping trip, so I wanted to choose something that wasn't too remote, yet wasn't 'glamping." It's a small, privately owned place right off the highway.  A great test site!

 

Kootenai River Campground

What follows is basically a daily journal I kept for blogging purposes. It's an experiment of sorts to give you another look into the different way I see the world around me and the thought processes that go along with it. 

 

 DAY ONE

Off to a late start as usual. I can't help but wonder if being born at the end of December perhaps is the culprit: dead of winter, myriad amounts of snow on the ground (for those of you who actually get snow), people moving at a slow pace careful not to slip on a hidden patch of ice.

Then again, until recently, 'careful' was not an adjective that really applied to me. My parents received their silver crowns earlier than one would expect. As I sit here and mull this over, I can only imagine the crowns of honor for bravery and service my guardian angels will have. I use the plural because I have a niggling feeling that I might have needed more than one. But I digress...

 

I had called the campground the day before and originally made reservations for three nights with an option for a fourth. Now I would like to note that when I made my reservations I'd told them I'd be bringing a power source as I have a small piece of medical equipment that requires electricity. I have one of these:

 

 

 

 

My solar rechargeable power source



 

 

They told me to leave it at home and they'd take care of me. I was down with that-less stuff for me to pack around.

 Our tentatively scheduled departure time came, went, and ran screaming into the night.  I had visions of trying to put up Bertha the Magnificent (the endearing name I gave that behemoth of a tent) by the headlights of my car. I also wanted to ensure that our spot would still be there for us.
 

Close to Montana-amazing mountains

 
 

 

I decided that the responsible thing to do was to call them and admit my epic schedule was  perfectly fail. Vera, the nice gal who answered the phone reminded me I was only  three hours away and that we'd be there with plenty of time to set up camp.
 

 

 WOOT!

 

Late afternoon as we pulled in

 

About four hours and an insane amount of road construction later, we pulled in. We went in to the office to check in.  I was impressed (and that's not an easy feat). They are some of the nicest people I've met in a long time and very patient with the Midget's immediate onslaught of questions.

 They put me in an RV spot that has water and electric and only charged me the tent rate.  I still got the free showers (for tenters) as well.

The Raising of Bertha

Our back yard

 

I parked in my spot and unpacked the car. The Midget happily started to chase butterflies in the small clearing at the edge of our spot. I had to call her back to help me set up the tent...or at least help me spread the darn thing out.


 

Almost unpacked

 

 

I noticed a really small ramshackle Motor home with its hood up in the next spot over and an old man sitting at the table. I took it in for a second, always curious to see who the neighbors will be, and went back to my task at hand. (You can just see his rig in the photo above)

I was in rare form, unfolding Bertha with military precision, or at least I thought so.  He offered to help me set up the tent if I needed it. Although I didn't look at him, the first thought that went through my brain was:

 Just because I'm a fat person, doesn't mean I'm helpless! 

This was immediately followed by a feeling of shame.  Here was someone who was simply offering his help if I needed it.  I finally looked up and saw a man probably in his late 60s with a long white beard. I would describe him as a cross between a hippie and a mountain man. I thanked him and told him I would ask if I needed it. He went inside his rig and I continued with my mission.

 

I wield a mean hammer

 

I managed to put up my tent, and with a bit of help from the Midget got the rain fly on.  I really think 'rain fly'  is an inaccurate term. In this particular case parachute is more apropos.

 

Those of you who know me have many times heard me say that my tent is big enough to park my SUV in.  Of course I was mostly going by memory, not actually having seen my tent for six years.  Turns out my memory served me well. My ginormous tent is 18' x 10'.

 

 Bertha the Magnificent

 

 

Even though we were right off the highway the noise really wasn't an issue, which surprised me. The nightly train was a bit noisier but we were still awake and all was well.

The Midget went over to visit our neighbor and she made quick friends with Bobo, his dachshund.  As we went to bed I decided I wanted to ask my neighbor over for coffee in the morning.  He seemed like an interesting person.

THE NIGHT THE ARCTIC CAME TO VISIT

So I'm unpacking the rig and Bertha is standing strong and proud in her full glory. I was confident that we were adequately set up for 55 degree temps that were predicted for that evening. For the first time in my life I did NOT pack for the apocalypse, a blizzard, or random zombie attack.

After dinner was done and the mandatory ritual of burning marshmallows over the campfire complete, we headed to the tent for reading and snuggle time.

RIP marshmallows

 

 

The Midget decided that she wanted her own 'room' and set her things up and put up her divider.

 The Midget's domain

 

I went ahead and set up my things on the other side of the tent. I put my bedding in order and grabbed a flashlight and my Nook and was off to  a dystopian fantasy.

 A short time later the Midget started  asking if I was asleep. She asked again 5 minutes later.  After 30 minutes of this, I asked her what was wrong. She was afraid to be alone over on that side so I invited her to move over to mine.

This wasn't good enough, however. She wedged herself between me and the edge of the tent, demanding that the divider on my side be hung up to a small room that would  'keep us safe and warm.'  Little did I know.... 

I don't know how much later it was but I woke up absolutely freezing. The Midget was half out of her sleeping bag and was as cold as an ice cube. She woke up shivering and I quickly unzipped her bag and snuggled up against her, trying to warm her up. It was a long cold night.

I actually dreamed about Alaska. More specifically running around Barrow in my nightshirt. I remember waking up on and off, but eventually we both ended up dozing off.

                                                      Montana moon

 

*THUS ENDS DAY ONE*

 

 

 



How do you like your purple?

 

Purple prose.

 

 It might not bear the hallmarks of the more emphatically debated topics, but it’s there nonetheless and almost everyone I’ve talked to has an opinion on it.  It can be a tool or a death sentence to a story.

 

The consensus seems to fall into three categories:

Camp one says that it’s a writing style filled with useless words that aren’t important to the crux of the tale being told and can be quite distracting. Such readers prefer to have lots of room for interpretation.

She smiled, enjoying the sun and watching the leaves blow around.

Camp two indicates that they prefer a middle ground-enough detail to describe an environment and a character’s physical sensations without creating a gauntlet the reader is forced to endure.

She smiled as the sun’s warmth shone down on her shoulders in between

 the scattered clouds being tossed about on the breeze.

 

Camp three says that they enjoy the enhanced details and that it greatly enhances their reading experience, giving them an intricate and detailed view of what the author had in mind.

 

She smiled as the heated tendrils of light flowed down, her shoulders soaking

up the heat with a rapturous joy.  Scattered clouds moved languidly, occasionally

passing over her, denying her warmth, and causing her shiver.  A breeze blew

softly around her, pushing the offending darkness away, restoring the connection

between life, light, and skin.

 

 I am the first one to admit I tend to favor the visceral side of things, and that it gives more insight to the workings of my characters’ minds.

 

I was actually doing a bit of research on purple prose since it is something I deal with almost daily.  It's automatic with me.  It could be worse....

"In Defense of Purple Prose, " an  online article from the New York Times, Paul West writes:

             "Of course, purple is not only highly colored prose. It is the world written

up, intensifies and made pleasurably palpable, not only to suggest the

 impetuous abundance of Creation, but also to add to it by

showing - showing off - the expansive power of the mind itself, its unique

knack for making itself at home among trees, dawn, viruses, and then

turning them into something else: a word, a daub, a sonata. The impulse

here is to make everything larger than life, almost to overrespond, maybe

 because, habituated to life written down, in both senses, we become inured

and have to be awakened with something almost intolerably vivid. When

 the deep purple blooms, you are looking at a dimension, not a posy. "

            (http://www.nytimes.com/1985/12/15/books/in-defense-of-purple-prose.html)

Combining cerebral with visceral has been a challenge to be sure.  My past writing style was one that was written such a  cerebral that it required extra purple so that the reader would not become lost.

 

A few readers really got it and went out of their way to tell me how much they liked it, while the majority ended up confused and not getting the story at all. Looking back I can’t help but cringe a bit. (Okay I cringe a lot).

 

 I think many writers aim for balance. I prefer to walk a bit left of that. A touch of unbalance makes my world go ‘round.  

 

Wishing you a purple day,

 

 ~Robyn

 

 

(Note: This is an entry from a blog long ago, that has been reworked and updated as it's still very applicable for me today. It was too good to waste and there are a couple I will be reworking and posting in the coming months. I will note them as such.)