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Budgeting oxygen in the Smokies

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Check out our obligatory Stone family photo.

Thanks to my busted up lungs, planning a trip now has an additional step: Making sure I have enough oxygen tanks to get me through whatever amount of time I’ll be gone. So when my parents surprised me with a spur-of-the-moment weekend getaway to the Smokies in January my first thought was, “Oh, crap! Do I have enough oxygen?” followed closely by, “Oh thank God, I need to get OUT!”

The trip was a “Congratulations! You took longer to finish college than Tommy Boy!” gift for FINALLY finishing my bachelor’s degree. It only took eight years and four months to finish — more than double the time it should have taken. But stopping to work, or taking an internship (or two) or just cutting back to save money stretches out that time frame just a bit. So with a carefully budgeted oxygen supply, we loaded up and set off for a much-needed three-day weekend.

My oxygen method of choice is using small, portable oxygen cylinders, also known as “E-tanks.” They are about 18 inches long, 5 inches in diameter and weigh a few pounds. I named him Gus.

Don’t judge. When you can’t leave your house without something, it deserves a name. (My iPhone is Helga. She’s a buxom Scandianavian with a ‘tude.)

Gus came with his own plain, black tote bag he straps into and gives him room to breathe – because you don’t want a leaky tank creating an oxygen pocket in an air-tight space. That could mean a BIG explosion. Usually, I’ll take that ugly black bag, strap in a tank and throw in my wallet and wear that crossbody while I’m running around. But for this trip, I decided to upgrade my oxygen transport method. Instead, I got a mint green version of this backpack from Target, big enough to hold my tank, wallet, camera – and even a pocket for my lipstick! — and hauled that around all weekend.

Cascade Falls ...

A short walk from a nearby parking area will get you to this cascade, but it also attaches to trails that continue to Laurel Falls.

Cascade Falls

Fortunately, we didn’t have to plan too many activities around my breathing, most of what we did involved little walking. We did attempt a “hike” — it was less than a mile, but it was long enough for me. A short trail led back to Cascade Falls, where I nearly got in a fight with rude people who kept walking into my pictures. (Seriously, people. If you see someone with a camera up to her face, maybe you shouldn’t walk right in front of her — especially if she’s carrying a metal can on her back. I’d say if that hits your face, you’ll feel it.)  For the short trail back to Cascade Falls, I’d rate it three oxygen tanks because its easy getting back, but tricky getting out back up the hill.

Greenbriar

Until the park service acquired the land in the early 1900s, this land was owned by farmers. Some cabins still stand and are maintained by the Park Service, but many of them were abandoned and removed.

Greenbrier

Hailed as one of the secret spots of the Great Smoky Mountain National Park, Greenbrier is an area of the park somewhat off the beaten path. It’s proximity to hiking make it a great area if you’re wanting to hit some trails and it also has a river that allows tubing and fishing. Of course, I didn’t try any hikes and getting in a tube in January didn’t seem like a great idea, so I can’t personally vouch for any of these activities. But I can tell you that the drive getting back to the Greenbrier area of the park was exquisite. In spring, you can see a plethora of wildflowers, but in winter the color palate is a little more basic. The only visible leaves were reduced to a dead, brown crunch under our feet and the only color to break it up the bright green moss covering rocks and trees and bits of fern peeking out from the leaves. I imagine the much-touted wildflowers in this part of the park are something to behold; this is definitely a place I want to return to in the spring.

A New Look, A New ME!

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Meet me on oxygen. I still do all the things I did before, just slower and with a tube halfway up my nose.

Whew. I don’t know about you, but that last blog entry got a bit to real for me. I’m not all into talking about my feelings or even really talking about myself – especially not on this blog. But I’m going to keep with this personal vein here and there on the blog, even though adventuring is waaaay more interesting than stupid autoimmune diseases.

Notice anything different about this site? I’ve gone through I-don’t-know-how-many redesigns over the years, each time getting further away from my original purpose: To showcase my fine body of work when I was in college and “networking.” (I use the term “fine” loosely here. I look back on all that and cringe now, a lot like how I will reread this in another five years and do the same.) I have tried to move my blog from being about me – because, lets face it, I’m boring – and focus on adventures! Formerly called “Curious Adventurer,” I’ve now dubbed myself the “Breathless Adventurer” complete with a new banner photo and URL. I figure if I’m going to huff and puff my way through adventures, I might as well embrace the hilarity of it all – and you get to follow along at my new home online: breathlessadventurer.com.

That being said, I am feeling SO MUCH better than I was when that last post was written. I admit, I was wallowing in a bit of self pity and fear. Maybe you’ll say that’s understandable, but I find it unacceptable. It serves no purpose, especially not to help me get to any level of better. My excuse was that January was a bit of a rough month. It started with my primary pulmonologist telling me that my lungs are screwed and he referred me to a more specialized pulmonologist for a second opinion. Then my rheumatologist had a near meltdown at my follow up in the middle of the month when he saw I was still on oxygen and not expected to get any better. He went on a rant about how he refuses to accept that. (I kind of love him for that. He was saying what I should have been all along.) Finally, at the end of the month, the second pulmonologist says that he doesn’t think that I’ll be on oxygen forever, but it may be for a while yet, until my lungs can finish clearing and healing.

So the second pulmonologist made some recommendations to the first pulmonologist and the rheumatologist increased some medications and added others and everyone agrees we are working on getting me off oxygen. However, I think one of the things that has made the biggest difference is my awesome boss letting me work from home.

I know, I sound like a complete suck up right now. But I’ve worked for companies that have fired people while they were on approved medical leave and done all sorts of unethical, terrible things to people while they are battling illnesses for no reason other than they weren’t meeting “business needs.” I have never worked for a company that bent a rule a little bit so someone could work from home a couple of months before they were technically eligible just so they could stay away from germs and try to feel better. Compared to where I was this time two months ago, I feel like a new woman.

I’m still keeping Gus the little oxygen tank close by when I’m walking, shopping, or whatever, but when I’m home working or hanging out or even just crossing the room, I’m not using oxygen. Its WONDERFUL not dragging around 50 feet of tubing just to walk to the bathroom. Big Bertha the concentrator is feeling a little unloved right now, but she’s a big girl. She can take it.

Now, I just need the weather to clear so I can continue my self-designed rehabilitative therapy program in the fresh air. The woods are calling and I must go — oxygen tank and all.

I am my own worst enemy

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Insidious: (adjective) proceeding in a gradual, subtle way, but with harmful effects. (Oxford Dictionary)

I never really understood what that word truly meant until recently.

Unbeknownst to me, my body has been attacking itself. My immune system, always so efficient at dispatching illness, decided my own body was the enemy. It started, I think, with my eyes. I’ve had dry eyes for as long as I can remember, and have been lectured by my optometrists eleventy billion times for abusing my contacts.  Someone would threaten to take them away and I would cry, “No! I promise I’ll be good! Just don’t take them away!” Turns out, contact abuse wasn’t the sole problem.

Then, last spring I got this little, annoying dry cough, that popped up here and there. I’m plagued with seasonal allergies like everyone else in the greater-Cincinnati area, so I started popping Claritin and it went away. Then, one day in September, I woke up and couldn’t breathe very well or stop coughing.

Still, I ignored it for a few days because I’m young and healthy, right? I’m invincible and I’ll just throw off whatever virus is trying to bring me down. I was coming up on mid-terms and my best friend’s wedding and absolutely did not have time to be sick. My mantra became, “I won’t let the microbe beat me!” I kept repeating that for about 14 hours at King’s Island’s Halloween Haunt and  on the dance floor at the wedding, between puffs on an inhaler.

Now, a wiser person than me would stop to say, “Why in the world did you spend 14 hours at an amusement park riding roller coasters and having the bejesus scared out of you if you felt like death and couldn’t breathe?”

I say, why not? I looked at it this way: It’s tradition for my friends and I to pretend like we are not grown-up adults and go to the park from open to close for the Halloween festivities.  Would I regret more skipping the events and resting, or having fun all day and resting the next day?

Answer: I would regret more missing scary creepers, chili cheese fries and pumpkin spice funnel cakes. So I shouted “I won’t let the microbe beat me!” and got on the Beast, which then proceeded to beat me black and blue.

In a way, I did win. The microbe didn’t beat me, because it wasn’t a microbe. But it was a hollow victory because the enemy the entire time was me.

Two trips to the local clinic, three courses of steroids, and a Z-pak later, I was getting worse, not better. Any kind of exertion left me completely out of breath and coughing so hard I sounded like I was literally about to cough up a lung. My ribs ached, my back hurt and I was pulling muscles in my abdomen and back I didn’t even know I had. Breathing brought a sensation akin to a coarse grit sandpaper scraping my lungs.

If I’m honest, I knew something was up and it wasn’t the pneumonia that I was diagnosed with.  Pneumonia doesn’t make you so out of breath after walking up the stairs that you get dizzy and see stars. But I’m stubborn. And I’m young and invincible, right? I just needed some rest, which I would get after midterms and my friend’s wedding.

Well, I got through midterms (failing two-thirds of my classes) and the wedding weekend festivities, and then crashed and burned. When I finally dragged myself back to the clinic, my oxygen levels were 81 (they’re supposed to be 100, so 81 is pretty not good), and that was after two ineffective breathing treatments.  The nurse practitioner read me the riot act for not going to the ER.

“You need to go to the emergency room,” she said, scanning my medical history. “I think when you were in here before I told you to go there if you had breathing trouble again?”

Busted. She did tell me that but who wants to sit in an ER waiting room with all the sick people?

“Well, I just figured I needed some rest and a few more steroids?” I asked, between puffs of Albuterol.

She looked up from the computer screen.

“You’ve had two courses of steroids and this is the third time you’ve been here. I can’t give you more steroids. You need to go to the ER.”

She walked out to give someone a flu shot and stuck her head back in, “And don’t drive yourself. Have someone take you.”

Seven or eight hours later I was officially admitted to the hospital. I was diagnosed with pneumonia (again), started on IV antibiotics and received breathing treatments every few hours. Three days later, I was no better. That’s when Papa Stone stepped in.

Now, I wouldn’t call Dad “laid back,” exactly, but he’s not as short-tempered as I am, most days. I guess watching his baby girl languish in a hospital bed for days was more than he could take. (I suppose I wasn’t languishing, more like doing school work when I could get a wifi connection. But to him, I probably looked like I was languishing.)

“I’ve had pneumonia before, twice,” he said, right index finger jabbing left palm. “And it doesn’t take this long to go away.” Dad wanted a specialist called in.

So the doctor overseeing my care called a pulmonologist, just to appease my father. I know this because I still see that doctor and he told me that’s how he was approached for the consult. He also said that he took one look and knew it wasn’t pneumonia.

Thus started the portion of my inpatient stay that felt like an episode of “House,” just without the rude doctor yelling, “Everybody lies!” and trying to pressure me into risky treatments. Now when the doctor came in, he said I was the talk of the place because no one could figure out why an otherwise healthy 29 year old woke up one morning and couldn’t breathe.

Another specialist was called in, this time a rheumatologist. And finally, after five days in the hospital and 700 vials of blood taken, we had an answer.

I have Sjogren’s Syndrome.

What’s that, you ask? Good question. Depending on which website you are on, this is either the second, third or fourth most common autoimmune disorder, behind Lupus. It means that my immune system is a little confused and thinks my body is some kind of germ that needs to be fought off.

Sjogren’s — pronounced show-grins — most commonly attacks tear ducts and saliva glands, creating its trademark dry eyes and mouth. Check and double check, I have them both. In some cases it can attack your lungs and/or kidneys. My kidneys seem to be safe, however, my lungs are a little worse for the wear.

My initial concern was only if the condition is life-threatening. It isn’t, as long as its managed. In my case, a flare could bring another attack on my lungs and lead to more damage, more difficulty breathing, yadda, yadda, yadda.

The treatment is relatively simple: steroids temporarily and medicine to suppress my over-achieving immune system permanently. A pill or two a day keeps the eight-day inpatient stay away. But one thing I hadn’t counted on is oxygen therapy for the rest of my life.

Because the damage to my lungs was so extensive, I have a fair amount of scar tissue on the lower portion of my lungs. This means I get short of breath easily and I don’t absorb enough oxygen when I breathe.

So when I get frustrated with not being able to do something simple, like take my dog for a walk, I have to remember the innate stubbornness that kept me going while my body was trying to kill itself.

I won’t let it beat me.

The anatomy of a friendship

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I like to commemorate moments in life. Maybe it’s because I am the oldest in my family and every second of the first three years of my life is committed to film by doting parents, grandparents and aunts.  There are albums full of pictures from the big moments – like my first birthday or my first day of school – and the everyday moments – just sitting in the floor playing. And that was before Papaw bought a camcorder – you remember those 40-pound behemoths that threatened to dislocate your shoulder and recorded to VHS tapes?

Maybe that’s why I have a weird habit of recording the most mundane of activities. When I’m with friends and family – whether it be one of countless family BBQs, a standard girls’ nights on Karli’s couch, or an epic adventure in a faraway land with Lacey, I like to take a second to sit back and savor the moments just spent with my people. But even with all my vigilant watching and moment absorbing, things still slip by unnoticed. That is, until years later when I look back and finally realize how a series of seemingly small – and extremely annoying – events quietly helped build a friendship.

The year was 2007 and I was a college sophomore travelling to Washington, D.C., for the first time. I was there for a student media convention. I think I was supposed to attend more of the conference and see less of the city, but I still learned much and more. I had never been in any city except Cincinnati. There is no comparison. I was in awe of the Metro – how awesome is it to take the seemingly endless escalator underground at Dupont Circle, board a train and re-emerge across town just minutes later?! I paid for cabs (like a rookie) and frustrated the drivers by always forgetting to specify “Northwest” after “Connecticut Avenue.” And I absolutely got into a cab with no cash and had to ask to stop at an ATM.

I walked the Mall for the first time – comically mistaking the “National Mall” for a shopping mall when invited to join a group. Imagine my surprise when we exited the Metro station in the middle of a field with the Washington Monument looming over us. I saw the monuments for the first time late on a rainy night with mist rising from the earth. That is still my favorite way to see them. Of course, that rain persisted throughout the entire weekend we were there. But did I let that stop me when my quiet, photographer roommate asked me if I wanted to leave at 6 a.m. to go with her to work on a photo contest assignment? Absolutely not!

Back in those days I had been on staff at the student newspaper for only a few months. I only really knew two people and the photo editor wasn’t one of them. She was the girl in the other room – the fun, less stressful room farther away from the editor-in-chief. I knew the photo editor’s name was Lacey and she almost always wore Chucks and a Canon. I was the Newb and she was the only member of the creative staff there – and college newspaper workers can be incredibly cliquish – so we got roomed together. This meant that we were largely overlooked by the rest of the group, which was pretty all right by us. We’re both totally fine left to our own devices.

Knowing her now – and knowing myself – it shocks me that either of us was up and anywhere before noon, let alone at 6 a.m.  I still remember her saying I remind her of her mom because I got up super early to make sure I had time to blow dry my hair and put on makeup. Yes, just to go out in the rain. I used to care more about what I look like.

So with Lacey in a red hoodie and me in my favorite grey “Baseball Hall of Fame” hoodie, my kangaroo pocket stuffed full in lieu of carrying a bag, we hopped a cab and set off to enjoy the day. Not even when I stepped out of the cab into an ankle-deep puddle and not even when my head and shoulders were soaked and my feet ached from walking and were shriveled up from the water in my shoes, did my spirits dampen. We spent a great day walking around the city, unbothered by anyone and quietly getting to know each other.

And then I realized my phone was missing. Remember the Cherry Chocolate from LG?  A cute, little, red, brick-like phone that slid up to reveal a keypad and was designed to be a great music player? I loved that phone. It had these touch-sensitive “buttons” on the front that were just ultra-cool to me. When I realized it was gone, I just figured it was wrapped up in the blankets on the bed back at the hotel. Nothing to worry about.

Lacey completed her assignment; we stopped at McDonald’s – McDonald’s! in a great foodie city we got McDonald’s? – and got back to the hotel. As we were peeling of layers of rain-soaked clothes, the phone rings.

It’s my mom.

Now, I didn’t tell my mom what hotel we were staying in. So obviously she didn’t have my room number. So imagine my surprise when I hear a strong voice, tight with worry, “Cassie? Where have you been?”

“Uhhh…the Monuments? I left my phone at the hotel this morning.”

Tension still there: “No, you dropped it on the road and the police found it. They called me.”

“Huh?”

So while I was traipsing about DC, my parents were hoping and praying I hadn’t been abducted and sold into human trafficking. Mom, in the way that only mothers do, turned into some kind of crazy investigative reporter and found information on my desk that I didn’t even know was there, located the hotel and notified the police officer who found my phone in the same water puddle that I stepped into while exiting the cab outside the Washington Monument.

So the one connection Lacey and I had to the rest of our group was cut. We were on our own. Did we care? Nope. We went to a few more sessions at the conference and spent the rest of the time exploring the city and watching “Law and Order” reruns while trying to finish class assignments. She showed me how to navigate the Metro, helped me buy my first train pass and introduced me to Thai food.

Without realizing it, we had forged a friendship. When I think about it, that first trip to DC was a foreshadowing of things to come. We live to travel.  We’ve taken several trips together since then, and every time something crazy happens. In DC, I lost the only cell phone we had between us and we were left to our own devices for a weekend. In Montana, we got stranded on the side of the highway, hopeless but for the kindness of strangers.  We’ve set up camp on a flood plain, with the campground’s owner recounting how the spot we were pitching our tent was submerged just weeks before – but we left before the thunderstorms rolled in so we didn’t wake up floating in our tent down the Red River in Kentucky. Then we decided to trek downhill for an unknown number of miles at the Natural Bridge in Kentucky, thinking that we could get back down to our car that way. Then we ended up having to climb back up in a 110-degree heat index without any water and almost keeled over from heat exhaustion. And our friendship today has the same easy grace that it had when it began – even during my awful year when I didn’t know who my real friends were.

So after seven years of little adventures, the next logical step is to take one gigantic, huge, ginormous adventure, right? We’re both wrapping up our 20s and we’ve done our time in college, racked up the obligatory, financially-devastating student loan debt and been productive, cubicle-inhabiting members of society. I think I’m safe in admitting that neither of us is very satisfied with this arrangement. So, what are we going to do about it?

I’m glad you asked.

My number one bucket list goal has always been to visit all 50 states. Number two is to circle the world, starting with Europe for my thirtieth birthday, if I hadn’t made it before. Today, I’m 365 days away from that deadline and I’m itching to go.  And guess who has the same milestone birthday next year? That’s right: Lacey! Next year, we are planning a three-week trip to Europe, but we’re buying open-ended tickets. I think I’m safe in speaking for both of us when I say that we’re tired of living our lives at the mercy of someone or something else and we want to enjoy this life before we’re too old and decrepit to leave our wheelchairs. So my birthday present to myself is going to be freedom. My student loans will still be there waiting for me when I come back down.

Lacey and I have had separate blogs with differing purposes for the last several years. Over the coming weeks, we’ll be launching a joint travel blog. I haven’t been this excited about a project since I started my own little newsletter when I was a kid. (Yes, I’ve been an unabashed nerd my entire life.) We plan to start working together to chronicle our journeys, building up to the Grand European Adventure. Once we get on that plane next year, I’m going wherever the wind takes me, student loans be damned! I hope you will follow along with us on our adventures.

Getting a taste of Yellowstone in Kentucky

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Seeing bison tagged and penned in as if they were cattle didn't exactly feel like Yellowstone, but it isn't bad for being more than 1,600 miles away.

Seeing bison tagged and penned in as if they were cattle didn’t exactly feel like Yellowstone, but it isn’t bad for being more than 1,600 miles away.

Its late January and we’ve been getting hit with cold and snow pretty consistently  for a couple of months now. Taking the dog for a walk has become an exercise in endurance for both of us — and that’s on the days where she doesn’t just run out, do her business and then make a bee line back to the door. Cabin fever has set in.

Don’t get me wrong, I love winter. I would much rather be dealing with temperatures on the southern end of 70 degrees, wind chill or not. Pulling on a pair of thermals under my pants is no big hardship to me. And living in that big, bulky hoodie for a few months? I welcome it. But what do to on those days when you’re tired of being cooped up and you feel like if your dog runs a circle around the room one more time you just might hog-tie her and hang her from the ceiling fan?

I slap on one more layer of clothes, grab the long leash and take the dog on some nature trails. In the spring and summer we love to hit Shawnee Lookout and we’ve been to the Cincinnati Nature Center. But this time I wanted something different. I’ve been looking at pictures from Yellowstone National Park lately and it got me thinking. Why not go see one of Kentucky’s own geological masterpieces? So last weekend we headed to Big Bone Lick State Park.

Emme was impatiently trying to drag Dad up the hill going back to the bison pen.

Emme was impatiently trying to drag Dad up the hill going back to the bison pen.

All right, we’ll pause here for a minute. Yes, I said Big Bone Lick. I know, so many jokes. I had been living in Kentucky for almost a year before I realized there was such a place. So I asked a friend who grew up here what, exactly, is a big bone lick?

“Its … a lick. … A land formation. …I don’t know,” is the response I got.

Well, the story behind Big Bone Lick, according to the park service, is once upon a time millions of years ago it was a marsh that drew all sorts of big animals to feed around the mineral deposits in the area – in this case, salt. Then those big animals died and left their big bones behind. Actually, nothing specifically said where the “big bone” part of the name came from, but scientists were pulling enormous bones out of the earth for several decades, so its not a far stretch. (Anyone feel free to correct me if I’m wrong on any of these points.)

So, its one big salt lick that used to have some big dinosaur bones in it. Bison have been reintroduced to the area, and we even have a sulfur spring. (Take that, Yellowstone.)

One of the things I love about snow is being able to see the trails that my mutt sniffs out in the woods.

One of the things I love about snow is being able to see the trails that my mutt sniffs out in the woods.

So, bright and early last Sunday morning I set out with the dog and my dad to get a little nature and exercise. As the humans trudged through the couple of inches of snow on the ground to get back to the bison herd, the hound darted back and forth, taking full advantage of the 16 feet afforded to her by the retractable leash. And I realized another thing to love about snow: It reveals to me the tracks of animals that Emme is attempting to hunt down. Instead of me just rolling my eyes as she runs to and fro, I can see the rabbit and deer tracks crisscrossing the path. So while Emme busied herself hunting wabbits, I had some fun taking pictures of snow tracks.

And of course once we got to the bison, my little 40-pound, hound dog mutt thought she should have a crack at one of them. She barked at the bison, pulled on the leash and pawed at the ground until I swear I saw one of the giant beasts roll his eyes at her.

Getting up close and personal with bison

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These lumbering giants gummed up traffic while we were at Yellowstone National Park.

These lumbering giants gummed up traffic while we were at Yellowstone National Park.

After our white-knuckle trip into Cody, Wyoming and a 2 a.m. arrival, we slept in. For the first time on the trip we weren’t worried about covering miles, making up for lost time or being stranded. That day, all we had on our agenda was exploring.

Cody is about 50 miles from the east entrance of the park, so we had an hour-long ride through some breathtaking Wyoming scenery a Big Boy statue – that we never did get a picture of. He was just hanging out near the road, double-decker burger and all.

When we arrived at the park the weather was a little … unexpected. We’d prepared for the trip expecting Glacier to be cooler than Yellowstone and it was actually opposite. The weather in Montana couldn’t have been more perfect. But in Yellowstone, it was raining — pouring at times — and the cheap fleece I was wearing did absolutely nothing to keep me dry. After our first stop, which was a half mile hike from a parking lot to a restroom, I was already soaked. Memo to myself: Pack for rain next time.

Yellowstone greeted us with a spooky fog laying heavily on the land.

Yellowstone greeted us with a spooky fog laying heavily on the land.

The morning’s cold rain created a dense fog over the park that blocked most of the hilltops and restricted our view. It gave the park a surreal, almost spooky feel.

It didn’t take long for the rain to let up and we decided to hit one of the trails and try to see some geysers. The trail didn’t lead us to any geothermal curiosities, but it did give us the opportunity to practice karaoke hiking — that is, our own soon-to-be-patented method of not sneaking up on bears, or any wildlife for that matter. We serenaded the Wyoming wilderness with “Colors of the Wind” from Pocahontas. And when I say we, I mean Lacey did most of the singing. I probably would have gotten us mauled.

One my least favorite things about going to parks is people stopping their cars in the middle of the road to take pictures of wildlife. Because that deer they see out in the middle of the field is so different than the ones that dart across the road back home.

Lucky for me, the traffic jam on Main Street, Yellowstone National Park was a bison herd ambling its way across the road. And before you ask, no. I was not one of the people weaving my way through the herd.  I have a little bit more respect for wild animals with horns (and brains in my head) than to try to get this close to them. Thank you, but I happen to like not being gored and I’m too clumsy to have to run for my life. I stayed in the car and still got eyeballed by a muncher on the shoulder.

Generally, I don't want to be making eye contact with something that has horns that large.

Generally, I don’t want to be making eye contact with something that has horns that large.

If you are an unfortunate person who hasn’t had the opportunity to see bison up close and personal, I’m sorry. They are beautiful beasts. You could call them bigger, furrier cows, but that’s deceptive. The animals’ size makes it seem as if they can only lumber along at a glacial pace, but they can actually run at speeds up to 35 miles per hour.

They’re kind of like that big, hulking football player you see in a line of scrimmage that looks like he’d be better suited at a table with a steak in front of him. But as soon as that ball snaps he turns into a graceful athlete, weaving through the other players and spinning down the field. That’s what a bison is like.

The Discovery Channel has a clip on YouTube of a cow defending her calf from wolves, and even though its a real nail-biter at times, it’s surprising to see how agile she is.

This herd was the first of two we got to see at Yellowstone. The other herd was a safe distance away – way out over the plain and across the river.

Though you can't see them in this picture, there were some people standing on the sides of the road where the bison were crossing. I applaud their idiocy. Fortunately, we didn't see any bison attacks.

Though you can’t see them in this picture, there were some people standing on the sides of the road where the bison were crossing. I applaud their idiocy. Fortunately, we didn’t see any bison attacks.

Because of all our lazing around we didn’t get to see much in the park that day. Just the bison and a few of the thousands of geysers in the park. We left in the early evening looking forward to a big, hearty meal fit for a cowboy coming in from a cattle drive. We’d been living mostly off sandwiches and snacks we kept in the car and hadn’t stopped for a really good meal in days.

The first thing we noticed when we got back to the town is how dead it was. I mean, it wasn’t particularly hopping when we left in the morning, but things were open and places were busy. It was just after 8 p.m. when we tried getting into a barbeque restaurant. It was on “winter hours” and closed at 8 p.m. There’s even a Cassie’s Steakhouse — kitchen no longer open when we got there.

By this time, we were starving. The Wendy’s lunch we had on our way out was long gone and I won’t lie. Lacey was starting to look a little bit like a T-bone steak. We gave up on good food and just tried a Dairy Queen. They have decent enough food and ice cream to boot. We walked into the dining room and waited at the register while several workers passed by, looked at us and never stopped to take an order. Completely disheartened, or maybe that feeling was just the low blood sugar, we got Arby’s and took it back to the hotel room.

To see more photos from Yellowstone National Park, check out my Flickr account.

No fail recipe for stargazing

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This picture of a road was lifted from video in Wyoming. At least this road had reflectors on the edges, we didn't even have that on the way through Montana.

This picture of a road was lifted from video in Wyoming. At least this road had reflectors on the edges, we didn’t even have that on the way through Montana.

You’ll need one part wild west, one part white knuckles and a whole lotta darkness.

I got a surprise late Christmas gift this year  when I changed the memory card in my camera and found a few hundred more pictures from Yellowstone National Park. Talk about excited! But, it also reminded me that  I hadn’t ever finished posting to Flickr or blogging about the rest of the trip. Life intervened. But, let’s see if I can sum up what’s left of the trip.

I could go back and gush about Glacier National Park some more but I’ll move on. I still pull out the photos from that part of the trip and flip through them about once a week, drooling and wishing I could just pack up and head back to Big Sky Country — for good this time. But that good thing came to an end and we started on the last leg of our trip: Wyoming and Yellowstone National Park. The drive was to be another long one — our last, thank goodness. So we got an early start, knowing we’d be racing against the Montana darkness again. I think this will be the third time I marvel at just how dark a place can be.

Thankfully, we had an uneventful day of driving. No blown out tires, no getting lost, no hitting wildfires. Just crossing Montana country heading to the state line was quickly as we could. The quiet gave me the chance to get some school work finished  — because going back to school for a different degree seemed like a good idea at the time — and so Lacey gave me a break from driving until the sun set. And then the fun began.

For all we knew, the road we were driving was on the side of a mountain, like this part of Going to the Sun Road in Glacier National Park.

For all we knew, the road we were driving was on the side of a mountain, like this part of Going to the Sun Road in Glacier National Park.

Imagine darkness. I bet your imagination conjured something with faint outlines of objects, maybe a sliver of light under a door. Now, take that away. No more outlines, no more shadows. Now, as you adjust to that darkness, take it down another notch. You can’t even see the hand in front of your face. The darkness takes on a life of its own and you can feel it pressing in on all sides of you. It is terrifying and inescapable. That’s the kind of darkness I’m talking about.

Its a darkness I would welcome if I weren’t trying to cover almost 400 miles and knew what it felt like to be stranded on the side of the highway. 

The beautiful thing about not having a big city or any other kind of suburban civilization nearby is you don’t get light pollution. When the sun sets you only have the light you carry with you. In this case, that’s my headlights. So, I can only see maybe 10 or 20 feet in front of the car at all times. I can’t tell if there’s a curve or an animal up ahead until I’m up on it and there’s nothing I can do about it. Fortunately, there were no animals. But there were some tight, winding curves. The kind of curves you would encounter when you are driving along the sides of mountains. But we couldn’t tell what kind of geology was around us, and that made it still more terrifying.

I’m here to tell you that that old saying that goes something like dim lights shine brighter in the darkest night just isn’t true. The darkness eats the light until there’s nothing left. So I did the only thing I could think of and drove with my brights on for about 200 miles.

Our only companions were your friendly, over-the-road truckers, whose headlights in my rear view, and then side view mirrors as they passed me, only contributed to the blindness. We discussed calling the hotel, letting them know we’d be a day late and staying somewhere on the road, but my stubborn streak kicked in and I wanted to keep pushing through. We’d already lost a day, I refused to give up any more of my vacation.

On we went, knuckles white and eyes open wide with adrenaline and No-Doz. And about the time we crossed the state line and reached Wyoming, Lacey started staring at the sky. She said something along the lines of, “If you can, you may want to pull over and get a look at the sky.” On the side of a county road leading to Cody, Wyoming I beheld the most beautiful night sky I’d ever seen. I’m sorry I don’t have any pictures of it. It was a swirling mess of galaxy and glittering stars with a violet-black backdrop. We stayed, me leaning on the side of June, until a car started out of a nearby driveway. Then we moseyed on down the road to the Big Bear Motel.

Featured image of the Orion Nebula courtesy of the Smithsonian Institution via Flickr Creative Commons. 

Glacier Nat’l Park: Worth It.

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What. A. Week. I’ve recently begun getting a Mary Kay business started (I’m an independent beauty consultant now, yay!) and between that and schoolwork, my week has been eaten up with doing everything but working on my blog. Except for that day I made an outline of the rest of the posts for my vacation and then accidentally posted it. It took me about 24 hours to realize it was live before I pulled it down. So if you saw something with a lot of typos that didn’t make any sense, it was a complete booboo.

I think I left off when we finally made it to Whitefish, Mont. We made it through the epic tire blowout, the stranded in Billings and part one of white knuckle driving through Montana. (Look for White Knuckles Part Two in the next post or two.)  First off, let me tell you we loved the Cheap Sleep Motel. It is cheap as in price, and definitely not a luxury hotel, but the reviews were right when they said it was clean. With its cinder block walls, I kind of felt like I was back in elementary school. But my elementary school didn’t have better Wi-Fi than the Microtel we stayed at in Cheyenne or a bigger flatscreen TV than just about anywhere else we stayed. Or an understanding staff that worked with us when we were stranded and a day late for our reservation.

Did you know Glacier is a rainforest? I didn't until I got there.

Did you know Glacier is a rainforest? I didn’t until I got there.

So, finally, we made it to what we realized is our holy place: Glacier National Park. We were able to move our reservations with Swan Mountain Outfitters from Monday to Tuesday, albeit we lost our Cowboy Cookout. Instead, we had a two-hour ride scheduled in the afternoon. So, in the morning we decided to take a little time and check out Flathead Lake. We wanted to venture down to Wild Horse Island State Park, home to  – you guessed it! – wild horses and bighorn sheep, but with all the hangups we experienced in the trip to that point, we were just worried we’d never make it to the corral. So we just took a short walk around part of the lake, got a few pictures and headed out to Glacier.

Let me just tell you right now that if I had to go through everything on that trip again just to get to Glacier, I’d just about do it. That being said, next time, we’re still flying into Missoula anyway. The most accessible way to see the park is to take the Going to the Sun Road that divides the wilderness into northern and southern parts. But to truly experience it, you have to get on some of the miles of hiking trails into the back country. Sadly, we didn’t get the time to get off the beaten path this year – remember we lost a day to car trouble early in the trip – but Lacey and I are both doing our best to get back next year so we can hike out to Iceberg Lake, among other places.

That's right, pictures of rocks and water. I'm mesmerized by clear water (I'm used to the Ohio River!) and I can't get over how pretty the rocks are in McDonald Lake.

That’s right, pictures of rocks and water. I’m mesmerized by clear water (I’m used to the Ohio River!) and I can’t get over how pretty the rocks are in McDonald Lake.

Even though my explorations in the world are admittedly limited, I can’t imagine a place closer to heaven. We didn’t have a lot of time for sight seeing before our ride, but we did get the chance to stop at McDonald Lake. A picture is worth a thousand words, so I’ll just direct you to the photo at the top of this post to see what I mean. I had never seen water as clear as Flathead Lake until I saw Lake McDonald. You could look out into the water and see, in detail, the rocks lining the bottom of the lake, and see the line under the water several feet out where the lake went from inches deep to a seeming abyss. I’ve never seen anything like it.

Adventures in Montana: Night driving

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One of the few touristy stops we made along the way to Glacier National Park - a memorial to a Lewis and Clark Expedition. And no, I don't know more details than that. I'm a little rusty on my expedition trivia. Above photo: The memorial was surrounded by pasture and railroad tracks (and broken beer bottles). These horses were grazing a ways out in front of the monument.

One of the few touristy stops we made along the way to Glacier National Park – a memorial to a Lewis and Clark Expedition. And no, I don’t know more details than that. I’m a little rusty on my expedition trivia. Above photo: The memorial was surrounded by pasture and railroad tracks (and broken beer bottles). These horses were grazing a ways out in front of the monument.

Well, we were supposed to be headed to a Cowboy Cookout with Swan Mountain Outfitters in Glacier National Park, but day three dawned with me making a waffle in a hotel lobby while wondering when we’d get out of Laurel, Montana. Not that we had anything against Laurel – its a lovely place. That’s where we met Mike and Tina of Allstar Towing and the staff at the Locomotive Inn. I still can’t say enough good things about everyone we met in Montana. Even our cab driver on our way to the airport was charming. He told us all about the rims (the sandstone land formations that surround Billings) and the suicide cliff outside the city. The story goes that a group of Native American braves rode their horses off a cliff in the midst of a smallpox epidemic to try to please the gods and stop the sickness. It’s kind of a heartbreaking story.

This is from Lady Gaga's whirlwind tour through Montana. She went through the state holding concerts at national monuments and tagging. Actually, I completely made that up. This is just another fine example of Montana graffiti.

This is from Lady Gaga’s whirlwind tour through Montana. She went through the state holding concerts at national monuments and tagging. Actually, I completely made that up. This is just another fine example of Montana graffiti. (Try to look through the bug guts on the windshield.)

Nevertheless, we made it out of Laurel, back to Billings and then back on the road and headed to Glacier. The most expedient route would have been to take I-90 and continue on north at Missoula. But the front desk clerk at the hotel gave us a different route that was supposed to take us around more lakes and – even better – avoid an area around Missoula in flames at the time. (At this point in time part of the West was still in raging wildfires, the torrential rains that flooded the Denver/Boulder metro areas hadn’t hit yet.)

Now, we made great time and few stops along the way to sight see. Lacey and I have a tendency to get wrapped up in exploring and photographing an area and before we’ve realized it, we’ve blown at least two hours. Its so easy to start looking through a lens and lose all track of time. But despite our frugal time spending, we lost our race against the sun. Before we knew it we were plunged into darkness going through Montana wilderness. I guess the benefit of this is that Lacey’s whole fear of falling off the side of a mountain didn’t kick in because we could see nothing. I may have mentioned the Montana darkness in a previous post, something about black. Nothing but black. And white knuckles on the steering wheel.

Day of Wyoming storms precludes disaster

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This photo is a freeze frame from one of my favorite lightning strikes from the Wyoming lightning storm. We didn't know it at the time, but this storm on our first night was a precursor of things to come on the trip.

This photo is a freeze frame from one of my favorite lightning strikes from the Wyoming lightning storm. We didn’t know it at the time, but this storm on our first night was a precursor of things to come on the trip.

Before there was the blowout, there were the storms, We didn’t know it on day one of the trip, but storms were about to become a major part of our life. After we landed in Denver that first day, we needed to cross about 1,026 miles – about 15 hours of driving – to get from Denver to Glacier National Park. We decided to spend Saturday knocking out about half of that drive time.

Our fist pit stop: Sheridan, Wyoming.

Our fist pit stop: Sheridan, Wyoming.

We covered about 435 miles and landed in Sheridan, Wy. that night to sleep. Along the way we saw some beautiful scenery and watched a storm come from the mountains and blow across the highway in front of us. (You can see more pictures in my flickr account.) But the best part of the day was driving into the lightning storm.

Of course at that time we didn’t know that driving in and around storms was going to be a recurring theme of the trip, but watching the lightning show was truly a beautiful sight. I made a video montage of the best shots I was able to get, complete with commentary from Lacey and I, and a sample of our playlist from the trip.

I just want to note that trying to catch lightning on video is like trying to play Whack-A-Mole.  The lightning strikes felt like they were surrounding us – really they were on three sides. Just when I’d think I’d have a good idea of where the most activity was, it would all switch up. We watched the storms for hours, but I only got about five or six decent shots of actual lightning bolts.

There were white markers around the battlefield to mark where soldiers fell. This group was in a line that ended in the walking path.

There were white markers around the battlefield to mark where soldiers fell. This group was in a line that ended in the walking path.

Day two of the trip dawned bright, clear and full of promise. We left Sheridan early and stopped at the Little Bighorn National Monument, the scene of Custer’s Last Stand. The area, like the rest of the state, is undeveloped and it really isn’t hard to look at the landscape and imagine what happened that day. The trail leading visitors around the battlefield and the markers that show where soldiers and warriors fell also help illustrate the scene. Plus, there is a tour guide who can be heard around the entire battlefield. So even if you aren’t in the tour or don’t want to hear it, too bad. You’re getting the story anyway.

The Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument sports a new memorial to the Plains Indians. Its still under construction and when complete the walls inside the circle will showcase various native symbols and carvings.

The Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument sports a new memorial to the Plains Indians. Its still under construction and when complete the walls inside the circle will showcase various native symbols and carvings.

A new project that I’m excited about is a memorial for the Plains Indians. The metal cutouts of Native Americans on horseback are already there but there are still carvings to be done on the stone walls inside the circular monument.  I’m excited to go back and see it when its complete.

After we got through all the fun times of the day, we were ready to put the hammer down and knock out the remaining seven hours of driving we had left to get to Whitefish. That was about the time I saw the tire going away from the car and, well, you know the rest of that story.