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[for Mary Jane]
Apr. 29th, 2012 05:23 pmOkay: whoever said camping was romantic? Has obviously never gone camping in the Old West.
...So I guess that'd be me, then.
Let's rewind. It'd seemed like a fine idea at the time. With Monument Valley practically within walking distance and a strong desire on my part to start making things up to MJ for being such a gosh-darned spaz since she landed in my kitchen on Valentine's Day, it looked like the perfect getaway. I mean, c'mon: just the two of us and Mother Nature's own skyscrapers, taking in the sights and working in a couple science experiments on the side (yeah, that last part wasn't included in the hypothetical brochure I used to sell MJ on the idea, granted, but still)? I couldn't think of anything better.
Which, in retrospect, meant I probably should've thought a lot harder.
Not wanting to spare us two city kids any comfort, I took a few weeks to get all the gear together -- including a genuine horse that I had a crash-course lesson in learning to handle. The plan was to aim for two travel days from-and-to the settlement, and one overnight under the stars. And on paper, this was a great plan. Hell, even the execution wasn't half-bad. Emphasis on the half. Barring a couple predictable mishaps throughout the day, we had a great afternoon-- not to mention an evening I'm pretty sure we'll be giggling about for weeks.
But the cowboy boot had to drop at some point, didn't it? And for this tragic tale, it's during a middle-of-the-night bathroom break. It's capital-F Freezing when I step out of the tent to relieve myself, which isn't helped by my failing to pull on anything to wear save for a wrinkled pair of jeans and some thin woolen socks that don't do much to keep out the c-c-cold. Eager to get back inside and nestle up next to my personal, MJ-shaped heater, I rush through my business, not paying much mind to my surroundings.
I'm about to pay for that in three... Two...
"Sonuvabiscuit!"
My foot slips over and off the smooth surface of a rock about the size of my head, and in my valiant attempt to course correct, all I end doing is making things worse. Stubbing the opposite toe instead of planting it, my other foot twists underneath me as I fall face-first onto the ground...
...And arm-first onto an unsuspecting rattlesnake. Twin points of pain surge through the underside of my forearm, and I'm too late to bite back a cry. My voice echoes back at me in stereo like something out of a cartoon, waking up the horse, and making me dead sure of one thing and one thing only.
Camping? Is not romantic.
...So I guess that'd be me, then.
Let's rewind. It'd seemed like a fine idea at the time. With Monument Valley practically within walking distance and a strong desire on my part to start making things up to MJ for being such a gosh-darned spaz since she landed in my kitchen on Valentine's Day, it looked like the perfect getaway. I mean, c'mon: just the two of us and Mother Nature's own skyscrapers, taking in the sights and working in a couple science experiments on the side (yeah, that last part wasn't included in the hypothetical brochure I used to sell MJ on the idea, granted, but still)? I couldn't think of anything better.
Which, in retrospect, meant I probably should've thought a lot harder.
Not wanting to spare us two city kids any comfort, I took a few weeks to get all the gear together -- including a genuine horse that I had a crash-course lesson in learning to handle. The plan was to aim for two travel days from-and-to the settlement, and one overnight under the stars. And on paper, this was a great plan. Hell, even the execution wasn't half-bad. Emphasis on the half. Barring a couple predictable mishaps throughout the day, we had a great afternoon-- not to mention an evening I'm pretty sure we'll be giggling about for weeks.
But the cowboy boot had to drop at some point, didn't it? And for this tragic tale, it's during a middle-of-the-night bathroom break. It's capital-F Freezing when I step out of the tent to relieve myself, which isn't helped by my failing to pull on anything to wear save for a wrinkled pair of jeans and some thin woolen socks that don't do much to keep out the c-c-cold. Eager to get back inside and nestle up next to my personal, MJ-shaped heater, I rush through my business, not paying much mind to my surroundings.
I'm about to pay for that in three... Two...
"Sonuvabiscuit!"
My foot slips over and off the smooth surface of a rock about the size of my head, and in my valiant attempt to course correct, all I end doing is making things worse. Stubbing the opposite toe instead of planting it, my other foot twists underneath me as I fall face-first onto the ground...
...And arm-first onto an unsuspecting rattlesnake. Twin points of pain surge through the underside of my forearm, and I'm too late to bite back a cry. My voice echoes back at me in stereo like something out of a cartoon, waking up the horse, and making me dead sure of one thing and one thing only.
Camping? Is not romantic.