Too Tired To Blush

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We walked about 10 feet to another smaller door on the front of the building that I had assumed was some kind of a service entrance, but turned out to be the door to our suite.

Stacy stepped onto the small, wooden deck, and opened the door.

"We don't lock things around here, so there's no key to give you. But there is a lock on the inside of the door so you can secure it at night."

Stacy flipped on the light-switch, and we stepped through the door into a wonderful, warm, dry, and surprisingly large room. Although, with the state of physics north of the border I shouldn't have been surprised. Pale olive-green walls matched perfectly with the natural wood of the vaulted ceilings. The bed was king-sized, and continuing with the motif the frame was constructed entirely out of logs.

The rest of the room contained two high-back library style chairs, a small couch, all arranged in a semi-circle around a gas fireplace. We could see a huge walk-out deck, and a bay-window overflowing with cushy pillows on the built-in seat. Right then I knew that spot would become your mom's favorite place to curl up with a book for the next few days. The room was immaculate. Freshly painted, and all of the furniture looked quite new. Off to the side of the bed was a small, yet fully updated and functional bathroom with a walk-in shower.

Stacy walked around, showing us the light switches, thermostats, towels, etc. It was all fairly self-explanatory. Evidently, toilets and electricity work much the same this far north. Not like Europe or Asia. Bastards.

After concluding her tour of the room, Stacy said, "So, don't hesitate to call with anything you need." She smiled, and with her punkish-pixie looks was simply chock-full of awesome. She reminded me a more than a bit of you and your sister. Well, until you got all Navy-a-pated on us.

"Oh, just so you know since this is your first time here, all of our meals are served in the main dining room. Breakfast is at 7, and then we offer a make-your-own box lunch after breakfast. Most people do a lot of hiking while they’re here, and we find that letting them pack their own bag works out best for everyone."

She looked at us in our gear and me on my cane, and added, "Of course, not everyone hikes. There's plenty to do here in the Lodge, or you can just 'relax'."

She teased out the word 'relax' until it actually sounded quite naughty, and gave us a wink.

I was too tired to blush.

Letter to a Pilot

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September 20th, 2008

Dear Amber,

Well, I guess I need to apologize. After talking with your Mom I found out you're not going to be a Navy Pirate, but a Navy PILOT.

That's cool and all but damn . . . I was really looking forward to visiting you and scuttling a few of Her Majesty's schooners. Well, whatever. I shall get over my disappointment. Eventually.

Dammit! Could you still get a Navy issued parrot?

So, I've been looking into this whole Navy Pilot thingee - wow. Double wow. The more I read, the more I'm thinking this might even be COOLER than being a Pirate! Pirate's don't get to fly. Well, not unless they're unruly and get launched out of a cannon.

So now I have a few questions for you:

1. Do they let you check out the aircraft on weekends? You know, for pleasure trips?

2. Mom says that if you graduate OCS, then you go to ground school. Really? I would think you would go to Air School. I mean, don't you want to avoid the ground?

3. Do you get to pick your own call sign? If so, might I suggest "Bubbles", or "Perky", or possibly "Smiles"? Those are some bad ass pilot names right there and I believe they would fit your personality quite well.

4. Is it too late to apply to Pirate School?

Love ,

Daddio

P.S. Your cat came back. It took him a few days to dig himself out of the ground. I guess he wasn't dead. Just really, really tired. My bad.


*** The journey continues tomorrow ***

Chapter 2 - The Great Brown

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Chapter 2

The Great Brown

Frozen.  

That's what I was.  Frozen.  

You think I jest.  T'was a sad sight, watching your poor old father shiver and shake as I scooped slush off the windshield of the bike.  Why the hell don't you ever see a motorcycle with wipers?  That's what I'd like to know.

Oh yeah.  Not supposed to ride a bike in the snow.  That’s why.

We pushed on.  Down.  Down.  Down.  Away from the snow and the cold and the grey sullen skies of our homeland.   

I could go into great detail describing to you how I shredded the twisties as we descended the east side of the Cascades and navigated those rare and beautiful miles into the tiny burg of Naches.  But I won't.  I'll spare you the minutiae of each turn of the tire, each apex, each rise of the blacktop.  I shall resist the urge to create a lyrical ballad - an ode to the pines and the rivers and the wondrous, wondrous curves. 

Let's just say if the road and I were both doing time in prison by the time we arrived at the bottom I could have traded it for smokes.  

Oh stop cringing.  I thought that image rather clever.  You're a Navy girl.  Suck it up.

The temperature inched steadily upward as the day progressed from early to mid-morning.  Steadily and rapidly.  Really rapidly.  Climbing faster than a helium balloon escapes a toddler's sticky fist at the zoo.  Not that it made much difference.  My core was hovering somewhere between Minot, ND in January and the McMurdo Station in . . . well, pick a month.  August will do.  I had a ways to go before I would be warm again - if ever.  And miles to go before I sleep but that's a different story entirely.  

For a moment there I seriously considered setting myself on fire.  I reasoned that it probably wouldn't be that bad, and I could more than likely put it out before I incurred too much damage.  You know, finding the sweet-spot wherein the fire had warmed me enough that I could taste again, but right before I entered the burnt-marshmallow stage.  

*** the journey continues tomorrow ***