Nocturnality

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Three Man Band

Story based on the nightmare I had on 4/27/20 after reading The Guest List by Lucy Foley.

I wasn’t sure of the time as we stepped out the back door of our apartment complex.  It was newly dark, with still a glint of purple in the sky. The warm summer breeze brushed over my face as I stepped down into the soggy grass. I could see our destination ahead of us, what appeared to be an old marquee with a beautiful forest back drop. The thought struck me that we should be grateful to have this in our own backyard. 

The closer we got, I realized the structure was made entirely of metal. It wasn’t comprised of a shiny stainless steel, but more of an old, flimsy tin. The blue-gray color had long been worn away and a green algae film stuck to almost every surface. Where there wasn’t any algae, there was rust. The combination of the two seemed to suck every ounce of life from the structure. As we approached, I took in the details of what I initially thought was a marquee. 

Slowly, my brain processed what was actually an old theatrical set. It was almost as if I was looking into a dollhouse that was missing the face of its house. There was a tiny living room to the right, defined by right and rear exterior walls. The rear wall stood opposite of us and was the only support that ran the length of the structure. To the left, the living room opened up into a small kitchen. It was so run down that the only indicator that it was once a kitchen was an old stove that sat center. My hand reached out to touch one of the algae-covered burners but stopped midair. Something in my brain warned me against it, as if the whole kitchen would crumble under my fingertips.

Finally, on the lefthand side of the kitchen was what seemed to be a third room, the only part of the set that was surrounded by its own four walls. It looked so out of place, so closed off and private from the rest of the set—maybe it was a bathroom? A swinging door was the only way in or out, which I didn’t find weird upon principle.  What I did find weird though, was that this swinging saloon door was made out of fresh wood—cedar, was it? It contrasted so sharply against the rest of the deteriorating building—how did I not notice this initially?

 “Wow what do you think that was used for?” I jumped in response to the sound of her voice. I had completely forgotten that my mom had walked out here with me. I spun around to see what she meant. About 50 yards behind me was a set of small wooden bleachers. They weren’t very large at all, maybe able to seat 20 people at most. Like the saloon door, these bleachers were made of newer wood, but shoddily held together by rusty nails that stuck out in every direction. Cement walls framed three sides of the bleachers, with a chain-link fence as the front and fourth wall. It gave the impression that any spectators of this theater set didn’t have the choice of leaving after the show was over.

I felt a chill roll down my spine, the summer breeze didn’t feel so warm and fuzzy anymore. Behind the bleachers I could see the looming outline of the building that neighbored our apartment complex. I had heard rumors that it was an old psychiatric hospital but couldn’t remember ever seeing anyone come in or out of its doors. I turned to my left and walked over to where my mom was sitting. It was a brand-new picnic table off of the living room—by far the friendliest of the seating options here. As I took a seat the wind picked up, causing the set to sway and moan at its joints. I waited for the wind to die down, as it normally would after a gust, but it only grew with intensity. What was first a moan from the structure turned into an ear-piercing screech. The metal began grinding together, screaming in discomfort. 

Distracted by the violence of the set, I didn’t notice a light turn on in the enclosed room. It wasn’t until I heard a cackle above the wind that my attention turned to it. To my ears it sounded inhuman, but I quickly realized it was reverberating from the man that was now stepping out from behind the saloon door. Suddenly, everything went quiet. The wind halted and along with it, the howling. 

“Well, what do we have here? Haven’t seen you two ‘round before! Boys, come take a look at this!” Behind him, two more men stepped out of the tiny room—how did they all fit in there? They seemed friendly enough, all smiles and easy body language as they walked over to where we were sitting. Something seemed off though, once again I received a warning signal from my brain. There was something predator about their demeanor, maybe it was that their smiles showed just a little too much teeth. I stood up as they sat around the picnic table, it was like I suddenly had this primal instinct to go back inside the apartment building, to run as far away from here as I could—that’s what prey does, it runs. I didn’t run though, I stayed put as they all began to make small talk. The men seemed wild, yipping back and forth to one another, howling with laughter. I had trouble focusing on what they were saying, all I could think was—they seem more like wolves than humans. It’s not long before I was snapped to attention at mention of the building next door, “—finally escaped from that looney bin! Boy is it nice to finally meet some neighbors.”

“Wait wha—” I started to choke.

“Like a light?” The first gentleman interrupted me and held out a pack of American Spirits to my mom—whatever you do, don’t accept one. I stood painfully silent, as my mom lit up a cigarette. I knew that I needed to knock it out of her hand, tell her not to take a drag, but instead I stood there frozen. I watched as her eyes glazed over, “God, that’s good.”

There was a banging back behind us at the apartment building and three of our neighbors—God, what were their names—stepped out into the yard. The three women walked over towards us, like it was the most normal thing in the world, us sitting there with those three men. Without hesitation or a word likewise, the women each accepted a cigarette—Jesus fucking Christ, how do they not know…and who’s watching their children? Once again, I watched silently as all of their eyes glazed over. 

It wasn’t long before all of the women were yipping along, howling at the moon in perfect harmony with the men. I didn’t know how much time had passed, as I stood there unable to move or talk, but the darkness felt like it was starting to swallow me up. At last the first man stood and hushed all conversation.

“Well, I believe it’s time for us to start playin’ some tunes! What do you ladies think? You’re gonna love our band!” The two other men stood up and followed him back into that tiny room, carelessly swinging back that cedar saloon door. In a matter of seconds, the screeching was back. That relentless wind picked back up and I covered my ears to help drown out the blood curdling noise, but I couldn’t. I turned to look at the women and saw all of them staring back at me, eyes wide and jaw opened in such distortion that it looked as though it would dislocate. Then they began to scream, a sound much worse than anything the wind could make.

Fuck this—I sprinted back towards the apartment, ignoring how heavy my legs felt. In a blink I was back in my bed. I wasn’t quite sure how I got there, or how long it had taken me to get there, but all was quiet outside. I snuggled under the covers, grateful for the evening to be over. Just as I was about to close my eyes, I saw my closet door creak open. Out stepped a little boy in his pajamas, blonde hair and blue eyes—I know him, how do I know him? Before I could say anything, he opened his mouth in the same manner that the wild women did and let out a bone chilling scream. I covered my ears but I didn’t need to, it was over before it began. The boy started convulsing and fell to the ground like a rock. It took a full 5 seconds before my brain put the pieces together that he was having a seizure.

I leaped out of bed, “Shit! SHIT! Somebody help me! I NEED HELP!” I yelled and yelled for what felt like forever, but nobody came. I tried to recall all of my first aid and CPR training, but my mind was blank. When the seizure ended, I watched life bleed from the boy’s eyes. When he stilled in my arms, I heard my bedroom door open. It was one of the wild women. With glazed eyes, she brought two more children—her children—into my room and guided them to a seat on the floor. My skin grew slick with sweat—what the fuck. One by one, the wild women kept returning with the children who lived in the apartment complex, until no more abled bodies could fit in the room. I tried to talk, tried to scream, tried to ask them what they were doing; but nothing came out. Once the room was full, I heard the lock on the outside of the door click—shit. At that instant, all of the childrens’ eyes widened and their jaws extended.

“NO!” I screamed, but it was no use. I jolted awake. 

A “Grizzly” Experience (Pt 3)

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Guinness, Mookie, and I walking around the campground

Kyle sat straight up and stared at me, unbelieving.  I remember thinking, you trust I would actually make this up right now!?

Sure enough, a few seconds later he heard it too.  In that moment, we shared a look—one that communicated everything we were thinking, without us having to say a word.

Then the real scrambling began.  We started grabbing everything we thought was of immediate importance:  phones, dog leashes, wallets—and we even checked to make sure we were wearing adequate clothing so we could brace that brisk Montana morning.

               “I’ll take Guinness, you take Mookie.  I will open the tent slowly, then you will run to the truck and start unloading the cab—once there’s enough room, get the dogs inside.  I’ll start organizing the bed while you jump in the passenger seat,” Kyle said while looking at me earnestly. 

I nodded, grateful that I married a sweet, logical man that shared the same wavelength as me. 

For those of you who haven’t heard this story before, let me provide a little more background information.  In the Spring previous, Kyle and I had decided that U-Box would be our best option for moving across the country.  This service is almost identical to Pods, offering a “cheaper” solution to packing up your belongings and having them shipped for you.  This was great for us because it allowed us to travel “freely” with our dogs and camp across the country. 

I put “cheaply” and “freely” in quotations for a couple of reasons.  First, U-Box ultimately ended up being a complete sham and we do NOT recommend it to anyone (if you’re curious as to why, contact me and I’d be glad to elaborate).  Second, Kyle and I vastly overestimated the amount of space available in the half-cab Tacoma.  Kyle had purchased a cover for the bed in order for us to store our camping gear safely in case of bad weather, which gave us maybe two feet of vertical height in the bed to work with.  Upon signing a contract with U-Box, we accepted the fact that it would take over a month for our belongings to be delivered to us in Oregon—meaning that we had to pack not only for our cross-country camping trip, but also for a month living in our new home.  Needless to say, we under-packed the U-Boxes and over-packed the taco—we were forced to leave many belongings behind the day we set out on our trip.    

I guess the point I’m trying to make is that the truck was so tightly packed, that it took us at least thirty minutes every day (not including the time to break down our campsite) to pack the bed in a way that worked for our travel.  It was seriously a puzzle….that I left to my husband to solve every morning (love you babe!).

As you can imagine, this inconvenience felt much greater when we were on the run from five grizzlies.  While sitting in the tent, waiting for Kyle to eliminate the border between us and the grizzlies, I began to sweat.  This time I was nervous for different reasons.  We were no longer sitting ducks, waiting to see what fate had in store for us—we were in charge of that destiny now.  We were about to get the fuck out of there.

Man, was I worried.  I was concerned that while we were focused on loading and organizing the truck, the bears were going to roll by our campsite one more time.  I mean, let’s face it:  what were our chances of getting out of there discretely?  They couldn’t have been good.

I held my breath as his hand grasped the zipper, and the rest happened so fast.

I sucked in a sharp breath as my face smacked the cold, mountain air.  Without thinking, I sprinted with Mookie (she was always the BEST running partner) straight to the truck, not caring how much noise we made.  I listened intently to make sure Kyle and Guinn were close behind. 

By the time we got to the truck, it was eerily quiet.  I followed direction well and operated robotically, without missing a step.  Within a matter of seconds (or was it minutes?), the dogs and I were loaded safely in the cab.  I watched through the side mirror, holding my breath, as Kyle quickly organized our most important belongings into the bed.

I couldn’t take it any longer.  I was in the cab for maybe 30 seconds before I gave in.  I opened the door slightly and straightened, one knee tense against the seat and the other on the edge of the truck’s interior.  I poked my head above the top of the cab and scanned our surroundings.  The least I could do was be his lookout.

               “What are you doing, get back inside!” Kyle hush-yelled.

               “Do you need help? Let me help!”

               “I’m almost done, sit tight.”  Almost immediately after saying that, he closed the bed of the Tacoma and hurried into the drivers seat.  I quietly followed suit and without hesitation, he started the truck and peeled out of the campsite.  It wasn’t until we were cruising down the mountain did I begin to feel some relief.

Less than a mile down the road from the campground, we noticed a car parked at one of the more remote trailheads.  After scanning our surroundings we spotted a man beginning the trek solo, hiking in the direction of where our campsite was.

               “Kyle, pull over.  We have to warn him!”

He whipped the truck into a side bank.

               “Excuse me, Sir!!??”

               “SIR!?”

The man stopped and swiveled around.  At this point I was leaning out of the passenger side window, flailing my arms around like a maniac.  Sensing the urgency, the man jogged down the trail and towards the truck.  When he approached I could tell he was a lot younger than he looked from afar, military perhaps?

               “Hi, sorry to bother you….but we just had a few grizzlies in our campsite up the road and wanted to give you a heads up that they’re still active in the area.”

               “Grizzlies, really?  Are you sure?”

               “Yes, my husband saw them.  Two adults and a few cubs.”

               “Dang, really?  Normally it’s moose up here you have to worry about.  Alright, I guess I’ll go grab my pistol then.  Thanks for the warning, take care now!”

Kyle and I shared a skeptical glance and watched him trot to his truck, load up, and set back up the trailhead.

               “Well,” Kyle said, “we did all we could do.  The rest is on him.”

Any other day I probably would have worried about that solo hiker.  I would’ve stressed myself out wondering if he made it home in one piece.  On this morning, however, I was too relieved to be getting out of that campsite to be worried about another adult’s (arguably stupid) decision.  Kyle put the truck in drive and continued to ease slowly down the mountain.  About ten minutes later we reached a clearing.

Lush green grass surrounded both sides of the truck.  To the left the field arched softly upwards into a hill, as though to remind us we were still in the mountains.  The sun teased the top of the hill, not quite ready to engulf the valley with sunlight.  To the right there was a very thin scatter of trees, and beyond it an even bigger field with a herd of deer bedded down peacefully.  The sun rising over the hill gave the whole valley a misty, pink aura—the kind that can only be identified as dawn.  Kyle pulled over on the right hand side of the road, careful not to kick up any dust.

               “What are you doing?  This is an open field, won’t this make us vulnerable??”

               “Actually quite the opposite.  Deer bed in places that are open and safe so they can keep an eye on their surroundings.  Makes it harder to be snuck up on.  If anything approaches, the deer will let us know.”

I looked out the window to see three does lift their heads up to check us out, right on queue.  I took a deep breath, attempting to control the massive amounts of sweat that was pouring out of me.  My hands were still shaking as I slowly opened the truck door.  I did my best to slide out as quietly as I could, I didn’t want to disturb the deer any more than we already had.  I steadied myself, not only mentally but physically, as my feet squished into the soggy grass.

I had never heard such quiet before in my life.  I know that statement might not make sense to you, because quiet is quiet is quiet, right?  But this was so different.  The silence was pure.  There weren’t any birds singing, no twigs snapping, no water trickling in the distance, and definitely no sounds of people nearby.  It was utterly and completely noiseless, as if all sound was sucked into a vacuum and the world was placed on mute. 

Any other moment in my life and this might have made me uneasy, but not then.  I didn’t feel relief “wash over me,” no, it hit me head on with the velocity of a high-speed rail.  I felt like I got the wind knocked out of me, again, but in a good way this time.  I looked down at my hands that were no longer shaking and I inhaled the most delicious breath I would ever take in my life. 

Then I started to laugh.

No, it was more of a cackle; like a mad woman.  What the fuck had just happened!?

I looked over at Kyle getting out of the truck and noticed that he too, had a smile on his face.  We shared a look that encompassed too many emotions to try to explain.  He let the dogs out of the truck, leash free, and I watched contentedly as they bolted through the open fields (a safe distance from the deer).  I walked over to Kyle, slipped my arm around his waist, and leaned my head against his chest.

It was over.  It was really over.  We were safe.

We sat there long enough to see the sun bathe over the valley and the deer slowly move into the cover of the trees.  We enjoyed the silence until it slowly receded as the wilderness began to wake.  It was the most peace I had ever experienced in my entire life.  I couldn’t tell you how long we remained there in that valley, because time really did stop for us that day. I have to admit that I have since worried I may never be able to find peace like that again—like maybe that level of consciousness can only exist following a life-threatening experience.  But even after all this time I still get overwhelmed with liberation when I think back to our presence in that valley.  I now know that it is possible to be completely at peace with yourself and the world around you; and right now just knowing that is good enough for me.

A “Grizzly” Experience (Pt 2)

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Mookie and Guinness 7/3/18 @ 11pm

I stared at Kyle in stunned silence.  I racked my brain, sorting through the filing bins stocked with useless information.  What do we do?

               “How many?” I asked.

               “Two adults.  At least three cubs.”

               “What—“

               “Shhh.”

I prepared for this, I remember thinking—but of course, my mind was blank.  All that last minute research in the car sure did me a lot of good.  We didn’t have any bear spray, which is the preferred method of self-defense against a grizzly (a bear gun—or 10mm—should be a last ditch effort).  I knew a 9mm wasn’t our best option, but hell, I’d be lying if I told you now that hearing the bullet slide into the chamber didn’t make me feel any better.

I wanted to scream, to alert the other campers that we were no longer the highest rank in the campground food chain.  I wanted to make so much noise it would scare them away.  I wanted to grab both dogs by the collar and carry them, sprinting to the truck.  I wanted to fire a warning shot. I wanted to cry—full on ugly sob.  I wanted my mom.  I wanted to be home.  Shit, all I really wanted was a sturdy barrier between my family and a sleuth of grizzlies.

But I couldn’t do or have any of those things.  All we could do was wait.  I knew the absolute best course of action for us, at this moment, was to remain as calm as physically possible; and while that was practically impossible, we just needed to be quiet at the least.

I heard every breath.  Mine, Kyle’s, Mookie’s, Guinness’s, and the heavy offsetting pants of the beasts only a few feet away.  I hitched my breath, stopping short of a full inhalation.  I had never realized before what a damned mouth breather I could be.  It was then that I started shaking.  It was almost like it was out of frustration—the only way my body could physically release everything I was holding in.  I remember looking down at my hands and thinking, “wow, I have absolutely no control of my body right now.”

I snuck a look at Kyle and the dogs.  Kyle was looking down at Mookie, rubbing her ears as she laid beside him, his pistol in his lap.  Guinness hadn’t moved an inch since we had retired for the night, he was completely oblivious while tucked under our unicorn blanket.

I refocused my gaze on my hands, my eyes darted back and forth to keep pace with the tremors.  I forced air into my lungs, then shakily blew it away.  I reminded myself for the fifteenth time that this was all I could do—this was the best I could do. 

We all know what it feels like for time to slowly drag by.  Well, in case you’re wondering, time moves at a glacial pace when the only thing between you and five grizzlies is an orange piece of nylon.

A twig snapped way too close to where I was cemented in my sleeping bag.

A low growl seeped out of Mookie’s throat.

I looked over in a panic.  All it would take was one bark.  One territorial warning and the tent would come crashing down onto us in a thousand shredded pieces.  I saw it happen.  Second by second I played that scene over in my head.  Since there was nothing else I could do, I developed a worst-case-scenario game plan.

The dogs would bark, causing the adult grizzlies to blindly attack our tent to eliminate the threats to their cubs.  My first move would be to jump on top of whatever dog was closest, putting my back towards the grizzly.  It would be ideal if I could shrug one of the packs around my shoulders beforehand in the hopes of buffering some blows.  I would then hold the dog down and “play dead” until the coast was clear, hoping that Kyle would either follow suit or unload a magazine successfully into our attackers.

Kyle reached out and slid his sweaty hand into mine, interrupting my train of thought.  Fun fact about me, I have always loved holding hands with my husband.  Anytime, anywhere—it never failed to make me happy.  But this time was different.  It was meant to be an act of comfort, a silent way of letting me know that everything would be okay.  I knew, however, that this was not of the same caliber as a movie theater hand holding session.  There was so much more laced between our fingers; anxiety, tension, fear, love.  It was as if we were reacting to an electric shock, grabbing on in order to transfer energy and lessen the blow.  We were holding onto each other like this may very well be the last opportunity to do so.

I slowly lowered my head onto his shoulder, and he returned the favor with a soft kiss to the top of my head.

I knew then that regardless of how fate intended this scene to play out, it would actually all be okay.

I ran through a quick prayer in my head.  I was sure to thank God for all he had given me up until this point. I declared how grateful I was for every sunset I got to catch.  I relished memories of my family, my new marriage, my friends, and my furbabies.  I apologized for the times I blindly took all of them for granted.  I finished the prayer by politely asking the Lord not to let grizzlies rip my family to shreds and use our bones as toothpicks on the 4th of July, 2018.

I didn’t want to get my hopes up but the grunts, snorts, and twig snaps were now receding further down the river.  I held my breath a few seconds too long, exhaling loudly when I began to see spots.  Kyle gave my clammy palm a reassuring squeeze and laid back into his sleeping bag.  He looked like he was beginning to relax physically, but the set lines on his face gave him away.

I tried following his lead and laying down, but quickly shot back up.  Who the fuck can relax during a time like this!?  Now I was certain I married a crazy person.

My shaking intensified.  Relax, I told myself, they’re gone. They didn’t find any food and now they’ve moved on to bigger and better things.

I heard Kyle release a breath that sounded like he too, was holding for way too long.  I tried to distract myself by thinking of anything remotely happy; my brothers, fun vacations, ice cream.  I was searching for something that would help me stop imagining the grizzlies ambushing our campsite.  I took a peak at my tribe, both dogs now sound asleep.  I remember being impressed, grateful, and mildly ticked off that Guinness didn’t even slightly react to what quickly became the scariest moment of my life.  It then struck me that it had been a few minutes since we had heard any sound of the grizzlies.  No snorts, no calls, and definitely no more shenanigans.  Relief flooded my tense body.  I thought logically that the shaking should stop, but this surprisingly made it worse.

               “What time is it?” I asked, since my phone was turned off and tucked away with our clothing.  But Kyle didn’t answer right away, he was beginning to doze off.

               “Kyle! What time is it?”

               “What? Oh, 5am.”

It had been an hour since Mookie’s growling woke me up. This is it, I remember thinking, this is our time to escape. 

Oh boy, did I want to get the HELL out of there.  I mentally began collecting our items, calculating the most efficient way to pack up our shit and leave Bozeman, Montana in the dust.

Then I heard it again; that same obnoxious, bone chilling bleating.

“Kyle, they’re coming back.  You have GOT to be fucking kidding me, they’re coming back!”

A “Grizzly” Experience (Pt 1)

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It was July 3rd, 2018. My husband, Kyle, and I were driving across country with our two large dogs in a half-cab Toyota Tacoma, moving from Northern New Hampshire to Central Oregon.  On our fourth day of travel—out of a week long planned journey—we were headed for the much anticipated, Bozeman, Montana.  We had left the Badlands early that morning, making a few pit stops along the way.  I took the liberty of snoozing in the passenger seat when the sights weren’t as inspiring, and woke up when we were somewhere in Wyoming.

Kyle was happily cruising through the at-this-point-beautiful scenery, listening to YouTube’s re-telling of the Battle of the Little Bighorn.  After a few minutes of half-ditch efforts of paying attention, I began looking at the research I had saved on the campsite we were headed to; Fairy Lake Campground in the Custer Gallatin National Forest.  I had been so ecstatic when I stumbled upon this mountainous campground in Montana. Not only were the pictures magical, but who wouldn’t dream about camping at Fairy Lake on the 4th of July!?  After confirming our GPS route and triple checking to make sure all US Forest roads were open, I began to rack my brain for other concerns that could potentially plague our trip. 

Grizzlies.

Since both of us are from the East Coast, we’ve never had any experience (or encounters) with bear species outside of the common Black Bear….and let’s face it, they’re docile enough.  Make yourself large, make lots of noise, and you’re likely to scare them off.  Not to mention, they’re roughly half the size of a brown bear.  What are you supposed to do in a chance encounter with a brown bear, anyway?  Whenever you hear horror stories about bears, they are normally referring to grizzlies somewhere out West.  At that moment, sitting shotgun in the Taco, I realized I never had the reason to research ways to survive a grizzly bear attack before (God forbid you ever actually need to utilize that information).

Being the paranoid freak I am, I figured it wouldn’t hurt to cover all of the bases….so I began doing some obnoxious, in depth, research on grizzly bears (yes, I even pulled out my Google Scholar guns).  I wanted to know about previous human-grizzly interactions, common behavior, and what their home range was.  I spent the better part of an hour focusing on the most important aspect:  how you should react when you encounter a grizzly, especially a grizzly with cubs.  It started off innocent enough—logical, functional, and relevant to our temporary living arrangements; but it quickly translated over as annoying and obsessive-compulsive.  I was reading everything I thought was useful aloud to Kyle; how we should package our food, how much noise we should make, and where and when to deposit our trash. 

It’s no surprise that Kyle quickly became agitated with my “useful” readings.  After about an hour, he looked over at me and said, “Amber, please stop. There is absolutely NO way we will encounter a grizzly. The chances are slim and if we do, we’ll be just fine. They are more scared of us than we are of them.  Please stop worrying about this, it’s not necessary.”  I responded with a grumble, something about him finally being grateful for my research should we ever run into one of them in our lifetime. 

The hours passed by in a quick blur following this conversation.  We were awed by the Rockies, swiveling our heads in every direction, terrified that we would miss out on a beautiful, snowcapped peak.  By the time we reached the service road that led us to our campground, I was giddy with excitement.  The road was rough and rutted out, forcing Kyle to fight with resistance when the mud tried to suck the Taco in.  We slowly caressed the sharp curves of the mountain cliff, lugging upwards.  At this point I had more pent up energy and excitement than our pups in the cab…was it really necessary for us to move at a glacial pace!?  The higher up we crawled, the cooler it got and by the time we reached the top there was a steady snowfall pulsing the ground.

We came across a white government truck right as we were about to enter the campground.  A cheerful driver (that just so happened to be from Concord, NH) rolled down his window as we passed, inquiring what our plans for the 4th of July were.  We felt SO lucky when he informed us that Fairy Lake had reopened shortly before our arrival, due to yearly maintenance.  We drove the short loop that encompassed the campground, scouting out the most ideal site.  Much to our delight, there wasn’t another camp within at least a good 20 miles.  After only one go-around, we happily agreed upon what we thought was the best place to pitch a tent:  a site in the far right corner.  It was pushed back furthest from the dirt campground drive, with multiple levels to enjoy.  Kyle stealthily backed into the allotted parking space and we quickly bundled into our winter gear (we didn’t care about being stylish….just warm).  We released the hounds and took a robust tour of what would serve as our home for Independence Day. 

You had to step down from the parking lot in order to reach the campfire ring and picnic table.  It was a large enough area, with plenty of room to cook out should your heart desire.  If you walked straight through, taking a couple more steps down, you reached an expansive clearing…perfect to pitch your tent (I had read, after all, that it’s best to sleep at least 100 yards from where the food is stored in order to buffer yourself for a grizzly encounter).  Large stumps littered the lush green grass, like they had just been clear cut.  Twigs lounged around wherever they were left, making it near impossible to step quietly throughout the site.  Just beyond the clearing was one of the most beautiful rivers we had ever laid eyes on.  It bordered our campsite on two sides, moving from left to right while hooking and hugging the Western side of the designated campground.  It was a relatively large river, with elegant bends and ripping rapids that could both be seen within the boundary of our individual site.  You could hear it’s roar no matter where you stood. The forest expanded endlessly beyond, turning the opposite bank into an unpredictable wilderness.

Putting business first, we leashed our mongrels and took them for a beautiful romp in the snow (something we hadn’t seen in almost 3 months).  We danced and played in the hard packed summer snow—still unbelieving of the breathtaking campground we had to ourselves.  Upon returning, we relished the sun descending behind the mountains with a bottle of Tito’s split between us.  We boiled water on our George Foreman and added it to our freeze-dried dinner pouches (Mountain House is the brand we prefer)…anything to save us the dishes.  Based on the research I had done—and the wreck of a shape the bear box was in—we decided to pack away our food and garbage into the cab of the truck.  Every dish, food package, garbage bag, or dog related item was placed into a sealed plastic container that got locked into the cab.  As you can imagine, I was very controlling when it came to determining what items got locked away, let’s just say there wasn’t any room for one of us to hop in the truck once everything was stored for the night.

We didn’t spend too much time awake after dark folded us into the Rockies.  We were, however, awake long enough to witness two more parties slink into the campground, keeping a wide girth from our site.  Interesting enough, one had Massachusetts plates and the other had New York (small world, am I right?).  I spent a short amount of time reading to our pack by flashlight once we got settled in for the night, although it didn’t take long before we were all drifting off to sleep.

Approximately 5 hours later, I awoke with a start to the sound of Mookie growling low and harsh.  For those who aren’t aware, Mookie is our eldest dog:  a 3 year old, 70lb German Shepherd/Pitbull/Akita mix.  Needless to say, she serves as our resident guard dog since Guinness is a Berner pup whose only concern is how much time is left before dinner.  In the past, Mookie has been caught growling at the wind and rarely alerts us to something actually worth concerning over.  My first response was a quick, “Mookie TSHHH,” in the hopes of silencing her before she woke everyone in the National Forest.  Mookie reacted nobly, as expected, and stayed quiet with her ears perked at full attention…..until we both heard the unsettling sound of bleating.  

As I think back on it now, I can’t come up with any other way to describe the sound of the call we heard that night.  Bleating isn’t accurate, but if you’re curious, follow this link to hear what disturbed us: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CLlTYpW-pzg.  Regardless, it scared my pants off at the time because it was coming from at least four different spots behind our tent, closer to the river.  I whispered Kyle’s name harshly, in the hopes of waking him without letting our visitor(s) know we were privy to their arrival.  When that didn’t work, I offered a swift blow to his shoulder—nothing too forceful, just enough to wake his ass up.  His response was short, jolted, and hoarse, “What, what’s going on?”

               “There’s something out there,” I said.

               “I’m sure it’s nothing.”

               “Shhh! Kyle, listen.”

A few long seconds lull by, before rustling engulfs our tent, the bleating deafening.  Kyle sat up straight, grabbing the still growling Mookie onto his lap, and rubbed her ears in the hopes of blocking out her hearing.  Minutes chugged by, like we were waiting in line for a ride at Disney World.  We listened warily, while what sounded like a herd of animals paraded around our tent; sniffing, snorting, dismissing.  “It’s a herd of deer,” Kyle said as he looked over at me and grabbed my hand.  He was trying to sound sure, confident in this solution for the sake of my sanity. At that moment, there was a distinct snort in the corner of the tent I was occupying.

Kyle moved slowly and precisely, sliding Mookie out of his lap.  “Are you crazy??” I yell-whispered once his hand reached out for the zipper on the tent flap.

               “Shh!”

I waited in stunned silence, frozen stone still to the spot I had cemented in my sleeping bag.  I studied his face for a length of time that even now, seems like it was too long. All I wanted was some look of relief, a signal that he was right and we had absolutely nothing to worry about. I decided then that I needed to take this man to Vegas…

After the most excruciating beat I’ve ever experienced, Kyle deftly closed us back into the tent without so much as a rustle.  I once again analyzed his face for emotion as he leaned back into a sitting position.  He took a deep breath and reached across my body, pulling his 9mm out of the holster and cocking a hollow point self-defense bullet into the chamber.

               “They’re grizzlies.”

High school didn’t prepare me for this.

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Produce goes bad way faster when you’re the one that purchased it.

This might arguably be the most frustrating fact we deal with on a day-to-day basis. Luckily with our close proximity to California, veggies for us are now relatively cheap…but even with that being said, we’re at a point in our lives where a dollar wasted is one too many. I am a stickler when it comes to balanced meals and I believe veggies are the best part! Unfortunately, we have busy lives–and no matter how much we try to “meal plan,” we just can’t seem to use up our veggies before their obvious expiration dates (and trust me, we push the concept of expiration). Over the last few years, we have developed a few strategies to tackling this issue; the first being to brainstorm (and COMMIT TO) a weekly dinner plan. If you can do this, it allows for you to decide exactly how much produce you need before going to the market, therein reducing the amount of waste. Second, we try to utilize the same veggie in multiple meals, cooking it in a variety of ways to help “spice up” the tastes. That way, if you have to buy more than one meal’s worth, you can be sure to use it up before it goes bad. Third, FREEZE EVERYTHING. You can do this initially to have as future produce, or if you start to notice your broccoli yellowing. It is usually a last-ditch effort for us (particularly with fruit). Definitely spend some time to figure out what methods of freezing you like best. We prefer IQF, then storing in excess tupperware containers. However, there are plenty of other options, especially if you want to go plastic-free!

You will need more than just one junk drawer.

At this point, I’m going to assume that all of you understand what the purpose of a “junk drawer” is. Just admit it: we all have one (or five). As I move into my sixth year of living on my own, I have accepted the fact that I am just not capable of organizing my shit the second I get through the door. I’m tired when I come home from work, and let’s be real, my priorities are heating up dinner and pouring myself a glass of wine. The harsh realization is that we, in fact, need a junk counter. Throughout the week we pile everything into one designated area and don’t spend a single second stressing about cleaning it. Instead, we normally take 30 minutes or so every week to clear it off, sorting and storing all of our shit away. I have a tendency to be more on the sloppy side, while my husband is an OCD freak (love you, babe). This tactic of cleaning the counter once a week has seemed to put both of our minds at ease–I don’t have to stress about cleaning every night after work, and he gets the satisfaction of a deep clean to start the week fresh.

Doing laundry at the laundromat is fucking expensive.

Stay close to home as LONG as you can. You might think laundry isn’t a factor to consider when you move out, but it should be at the top of your “worry” list. Depending on where you live (and how much laundry you go through), you could spend anywhere from $15-$50 a week on laundry. YUP, that’s right. As a couple, Kyle and I did our laundry about once a week. In the cheapest place we lived, it cost us about $20 a basket. However, we have had laundry trips that costed more than $50 (those that included bedding, snow gear, etc.). It’s not something we ever considered before moving out and have made it a point to bring our laundry home to our parent’s house as frequently as possible. My only other advice is to budget for this cost, and do NOT let that laundry pile up!! One of the first things we did when we moved to Oregon was shop for a washer and dryer….. BEST purchase ever made.

***PS you don’t have to sort your whites and colors if you wash with cold water***

You definitely should NOT treat yo’ self (for the fifth time this week).

If you think you have enough money for that *extra* splurge, newsflash- you don’t. Put that $40 concealer back. You might have the bills to cover the cost at the moment, but you’ll be crying later when you’re attempting to stretch $50 over the course of the next week. Don’t get me wrong, I am all for treating yourself….on occasion….when you need it….and you have more than enough money to spare. The truth is, this can be SO hard to judge. Some weeks are harder than others, and some days can seriously test your sanity. But once again, I ask you to trust me; you will be stressing out more when you’re struggling to pay your bills. I promise you, you won’t be thinking about how worth it that concealer was–instead you’ll be more focused on feeding yourself.

Target is the devil. You and I both know why.

Unless you plan on spending at least $100, don’t do it. Just don’t.

Cheap wine does the trick.

Hell, I’ll even go as far to say that boxed wine does the trick. As an immense lover of wine, I will obviously admit that there’s a direct correlation between cost and quality. There have been a few times that we’ve splurged and bought a very “special” bottle, for a special occasion. I can still recall the name of the bottle, and the winery we purchased it from–they are just that “special.” However, on most nights I come home from work and just want something to take the edge off. I don’t always want beer (that makes me gassy), and liquor is often way more than I can handle on a work night. Wine is what I have my heart set on. As we know, that can quickly become an expensive desire. I will forever be grateful for my college education, partly for the fact that it taught me how to find cheap wine that hits the spot. It doesn’t compare to those “special” bottles, but why would we ever bother comparing it anyway? It’s in it’s own recreational, non-competitive league. If all you’re looking for is that smooth sense of comfort, a quick fix to help you sleep at night; why spend more than $12?

Dogs are cute. But if you get one you must choose between cleaning your house every day or being covered in dog hair 24/7.

How many of us actually clean our house every day? I don’t mean organizing, I mean CLEAN clean your house. I’m going to assume, if you’re anything like me, you likely have no desire to clean your baseboards every day. If you are one of the normal types of people, and want a dog more than anything, my advice is to stock up on lint rollers. They will be your newfound best friend. Oh, and invest in a vacuum cleaner specifically made for dog hair–it’s worth the extra money.

Fun things cost money.

This is one of the cruelest facts about adulthood. Sure, you can make your own adventures and build forts in your living room…but let’s face it: most fun things cost money. Even books nowadays are $25 a pop. Oh you want to see a ballgame? Go to a concert? Hit a few bars? See a movie? Snowboarding? Bowling? Shit, even hiking costs money depending on where you go. It’s tough to find a balance between a budget and a healthy social life. As much as we try to ignore it, we need to have fun for our sanity–whatever that “fun” may be. Over the years, my husband and I have found nice little hobbies that will keep us busy (and happy) when we can’t go downtown as much as we’d like. Gardening is one of our favorites, and a darn good example to elaborate on. Seeds cost money; so over the years we have done our best to collect and store any we can get our hands on. This includes allowing our plants to go to seed and harvesting what we can from our own garden. It might sound silly, especially to those without a green thumb–but this is an activity we can spend hours on, physically reap the benefits, and soothe the itch to be outdoors. If gardening isn’t for you, and you can’t find a similar hobby to help save money, then I recommend reevaluating your budget. Now, I’m not telling you to skip meals, but maybe there are some other luxuries you can cut in order to make room for some fun. It’s easy as adults to lose that side of us; the carefree, childlike happiness. We can get bogged down under the stress of every day living. However, the older I get the more I realize just how important happiness is. I have recently decided that it is not something I’m willing to sacrifice in my life, regardless of my own personal situation.

Making friends as an adult; it’s like dating, only harder

On By asbuckley233 Comments

We all have friends.

Wait. Let me rephrase that:

We all have acquaintances, most of us have at least one friend, and there are a few lucky bastards that belong to an exclusive friend group (although I’m still not convinced that adult friend groups actually exist outside of early 00’s sitcoms). I think it’s also safe to say that every one of us has had at least one best friend at some point in our life.

Many people find a best friend young–in elementary, middle, or high school. Those who have gone to college have likely found another best friend or two along the way. But as we get older, what happens to those friends? Where the hell did they go? Sure, you follow them on Instagram and Facebook; but when was the last time you had an actual conversation with them??

Life always goes on, with or without you on board. We can’t blame ourselves for falling out of touch with the one person who knows what your favorite type of calzone is, or why you always choose to play as Yoshi. People change, things change, and that’s OK.

As I encroach upon my 24th birthday, living in a new city on the opposite side of the country, I find myself longing for new friendships that can rival the bonds I made in the first grade. Of course, I expect the conversations to be more intellectual than the ones I had in first grade…and our priorities would be vastly different than they were back then. What I mean is that I miss the loyalty, the consistency, and that distinct–ugly snort–laughter you can only share with that one friend who understands what you’re laughing at without having to ask. Then there’s the inside jokes, the relentless teasing, and knowing that when you say “let’s get together tonight,” you don’t mean going out to the club but actually sitting at home in pj’s watching trashy reality shows while drinking a bottle of wine.

Unfortunately, I have begun to realize that finding those friendships once you’re an “adult” isn’t so easy.

With balancing careers, significant others, family matters, health concerns, and your checkbooks, it’s difficult to find yourself in social situations that give you the opportunity to make true, honest-to-God friends. The best chance you have at meeting people (post educational experience) is at a job that you most likely despise. And let’s be real, they have to be a very special individual for you to willingly spend time with them outside of the required 40hrs a week.

So where does that leave us?

I’ll tell you where it leaves us: sliding into the dm’s of a friend of a friend of a friend asking if they’d like to grab a drink or see a movie sometime. Each time I’ve done this since moving (twice, to be exact), I’ve found myself sitting next to my husband on the couch feeling like an online predator, evaluating my first moves of attack. I can’t help but think–it shouldn’t feel like this!! I shouldn’t feel like I have to wine and dine a stranger once a week just to find a few friends. It wasn’t this hard in the first grade!

Thus far, I haven’t been turned down for a lady date…but I also haven’t made a friend yet. Acquaintances, sure (I’ll say hi if we cross paths in the market), but no friends. I’ve always considered myself a fairly outgoing person and I’ve never had an issue making friends before in my life.

After over analyzing every conversation, gesture, and yes, even a betrayal, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s not me…and it’s not them either. You can’t fake chemistry, amicable or romantic, and none of us have the time to continue to “date” someone you just don’t click with. I mean, come on, that’s valuable couch time you’re wasting!

I think it’s time to accept that making friends as an adult might be near impossible. For all I know, it could be completely out of our control–the product of fate alone. All we can do is keep trying, and for pete’s sake; be NICE to each other!

I have no clue what I’m doing…so stay tuned, this should be interesting.

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All of this is new to me, as is much of the world I presume. Here I am just another 20-something, attempting to create a successful blog that could maybe, potentially, support my broke ass one of these days (???).

But none of you care about that. Why would you? You are here to read about something that interests you, specifically. Something that can draw you in, enrapture you, and change your mind about topics you’ve never even had the time to consider.

Well, I hate to break it to you, but this probably isn’t going to be one of those blogs. I won’t give you advice on how to run your life. I have no desire to coach you into making healthier decisions. I won’t hold your hand and guide you through your darkest times. I’m here because I feel the need to exercise an outlet that I’ve never before considered. I’m here to document, comment, and make fun of this ridiculous concept “we call life…”

Although I have no niche, and definitely no blogging experience, I think I might have something to offer here. I have an infinity for finding myself in the middle of a shitty situation, and a colorful vocabulary to help recap it. I guess my plan is to relay life as it is, as best I can.

I’m not a food blog, but occasionally I’ll share a great recipe…spoiler alert: it will most likely be a cocktail recipe (hehe). I’m definitely not a travel blog, but you better believe I will post updates on where I travel, pictures included. I’m not a business blog…..but trust me, y’all will know when I (once again) swap careers. To be honest, I have no clue who I am and what precisely my goals are, but I do intend to keep it interesting.

Adulting isn’t easy. Shit, that might be the understatement of the century. I have to take faith in the fact that none of us know what we’re doing, otherwise, what the fuck am I doing here?