I don’t know why it’s taken me forever to figure this out. Installing WordPress on my computer so that I can do all sorts of wondrous things has been nearly as painful as contemplating chewing off my own arm, like that guy in 127 Hours, a movie which did not hold my attention. Or else I was knitting or cooking and only marginally paying attention to a movie which probably required a lot of visual processing, so it was all just lost on me. My point being that WP is hopefully installing as we speak. Maybe. And then, perhaps, I can figure out how to use it and not funk everything up! Woo-hoo!
Did I mention I’m wanderlusting? Whereas the Daily Show will give you a moment of Zen, I am giving myself a daily dose of torture, or inspiration, depending upon how you view it. I’m somewhere in between, myself. The image du jour:
I’m practically salivating over anything Montana-related at this point. Except for fires and the like. Except if I were salivating over wildfires, I would be, theoretically, helping the cause. Anyway.
I’m not just fantasizing about any old place in MT, it’s one area in particular. It starts in Red Lodge, stretches north by way of U.S. Route 212/ Beartooth Highway, which, according to Wikipedia, passes through portions of Custer National Forest, and Shoshone National Forest and near the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness. U.S. 212 winds in and out of Montana and Wyoming, with a layover in Cooke City, until it finally ends just a bit further along, at the northeast entrance of Yellowstone.
We camped along this route a million times when I was a kid. An oft-repeated story of Ang-as-toddler occurred while staying at Island Lake Campground, elevation 9,600 ft. Not ever a graceful child, I fell into the very-very cold water one night and, because I was pretty short, drenched all of my little jeans. The jeans were hung outside overnight to dry, but the temps dipped that night, and we awoke to frozen pants, and I started to cry. This is where opinions differ. I’m quite certain that I was crying because I saw snow on the ground. The three other members of my family insist it was because the jeans were frozen. I have always disagreed with this premise, but no longer dispute it when told around the campfire. There are other stories they don’t tell, like the time when, raising it too quickly, a flaming marshmallow launched from the stick, landing squarely on my cheek. Or how, as a teenager, I insisted upon wearing makeup throughout our annual westward trek, secretly convinced I would pass some hunky guy on trail.
So, while we’re at it, let’s take a moment to ruminate on how much we love the National Parks and Forests, shall we? What is your fave Park or Forest? Share your memories in the comments!
tinkerly. 