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Where I’m going and Where I’ve Been

03 Friday Nov 2017

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Two months ago today, I wrote a blog post just hours after returning from a road trip that changed me deeply. I came face to face with myself, and it wasn’t always a pretty picture. That trip made me grow up in ways I never thought I needed, and it created new dreams, presented once-in-a-lifetime opportunities, and strengthened relationships.
let’s look back a little bit, shall we?

The Bare Facts

Total trip distance: 5449 km (at minimum, detours make this hard to calculate)
Total Traveling Time: 64.5 hours
Tanks of gas: 16
Times we pitched our tent: 5
Times we changed our itinerary: 5 major trip changes
Places we missed out on: 2 (Mount St. Helen’s itself, Garnet)
Once-in-a-life-time experiences: Countless, but two stand out (Sleeping under the stars, and Old Faithful)
Number of inside jokes: Too many to count
Catch phrases: “A bucket of chili!”, “twenty Minutes to Bozeman”, and a bunch more
Regrets: For me, that the trip was so fast that we never got to settle in, and missed out on some cool experiences; others may have different feelings

 

Why did I Write about My Vacation?

 

I created the previous blog posts through a combination of memory, audio recordings I made at the time, facebook posts, text messages, photos, and, where applicable, speaking with the others involved. In particular, the exhausted monologues of day 1, Day 5, and day 7 provided great jumping off points for me to tell my story. All impressions are my own, or are impressions or thoughts that have been directly expressed to me by those who went through them. Many of you have thanked me for writing this blog series about our trip, warts and missteps and all, and for that you have my gratitude. It would’ve been very easy to sugar-coat things, to paint this amazing trip in the rosy glow of remembrance, to put all of us in the most positive light possible. But it wouldn’t have been raw and real and authentic, and it certainly wouldn’t have been this road trip. I took great pains to describe feelings and conflicts and impressions as accurately as I could, with greatest emphasis on my own reactions and feelings. Others’ words, actions or attitudes may have coloured my reactions or thoughts, but I am only responsible for how I respond to them.
As to why I wrote this? It’s a remembrance, to the person I was before and the person I’m becoming. I don’t want to lose sight of either incarnation of her.

 

What’s Happened Since

 

In the weeks following our journey, fire devastated huge swaths of area we had previously covered. Oregon’s I-84 was closed in portions we had traveled less than a week earlier due to the Eagle Creek Fire, which is still burning two months later. Over a million acres of Montana land have been scorched by multiple wildfires that have devastated land, property, and air quality; even now, some roads have just recently reopened. If we had taken the same trip even a week later – or if we take it in the future – it would look and feel and smell completely different than it did on our journey. I feel like we were given a gift, some of the last glimpses of this unspoiled land before it all burned away.

As for the four of us personally, we’ve all had to go back to “real life” (to our jobs and our homes and our countries), but flashes of the Epic Road trip of Awesome still linger and pop out and unbidden moments. The roof bag is still stuffed with camping gear, my toiletry bag is already stocked for my next adventure, and the T-shirts I bought in Montana are among my personal favourites. We temporarily misplaced the bag from the Montana Gift Corral containing the plaque and bracelet, and I frantically messaged them when we couldn’t find it to see if we’d left it behind somewhere and maybe someone had turned it in. When the answer was “no”, I considered re-purchasing the items, but shipping to Canada would’ve been prohibitively expensive. Sarah found it in her duffel bag a few weeks later, and you can now frequently find me wearing the bracelet she and Ben found for me. I was right about how it fit, though; I’ve started to dub it the “boomerang bracelet” because I’ve lost it so many times and always gotten it back. It, like so much of this trip, must have been meant to be.

 

So…. Now What?

 

If you follow me on social media, you’ll know this bit. That dream of traveling around Montana has started to form concrete dimmensions. I hadn’t even unpacked my backpack before I sat down and spent hours researching ways to get from Alberta to Montana by bus (hint: you can’t do it). I researched planes and trains and started looking into accommodations. The idea gripped me so fiercely that Ben and I agreed that we’d forego our original plans for next summer so I could take this trip in the fall (he’s planning a different excursion of his own). I’ve spent hours on travel sites, configuring itineraries, changing plans, mentally organizing it in my head on nights when I can’t sleep. When my current job went from a temporary contract to a permanent one a month ago, I felt safe enough to book my train ride into Montana, and extending the planned itinerary from two weeks to three. It’s getting real now, not this abstract “someday” concept anymore.

So, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be back in Montana in September, 2018. Not only will I be touring Montana, but my trip will branch out into Washington State, Wyoming, and Colorado. I will be on my own, carrying nothing but a backpack on my back and a guide dog’s harness in my left hand. I’ll be looking straight into the future, doing things that – if I think too hard – I might talk myself out of because they’re new or unpracticed and a little scary.

Maybe I will rediscover my “brave.”

If you’ve ever supported the work of this blog, please consider buying me a coffee and help make this trip possible.

In Bozeman, I bought a black T-shirt that feels so very soft to the touch. On the front of it is a phrase that is apt, and I close with it now.

The mountains are calling.

I must go.

The Epic Road trip of Awesome Day 9: Going Home

31 Tuesday Oct 2017

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Sunday, September 3, 2017

I am pulled from my sleep by a combination of factors – my need to use the washroom, Ben’s snoring beside me, and Jenny’s whimpering beside the bed (indicating she has similar needs to my own). I try and be as quiet as possible when slipping through Sarah and Dwight’s room to the washroom. It’s not easy; any time you try and be quiet, you make so much noise you might as well not have bothered. I want to hang out in their room for a while, because it’s nice and cool, while ours is a veritable sauna.
I quickly feed Jenny while I’m making noise anyway and take her downstairs to answer nature’s call. Another hotel guest has a dog with her. This dog is either on a flexi-lead or is not leashed at all. Jenny just wants to get down to business, but three times this dog tries to interfere, and three times the dog’s owner tries to call her dog back to her. I’m too tired to chew her out for her dog’s horrible recall, since my dog’s not on duty at the moment anyway, and I go back upstairs to wait for the others to wake up.
It’s 9:00 before we clean up our garbage and load most of our unnecessary items into the trunk of the car. We make our way to the hotel restaurant, where I am asked (for the second time in three days) if Jenny is “my” service dog. I smile and say yes, and the four of us are seated, ordering our coffee and juice (thanks, Dwight, for being odd man out). We consult the menu, and I order Idaho trout with potatoes and toast.
As soon as we place our order, we talk about the trip home. The plan has been to make a stop in Radium Hot Springs, but I think all of us are tired and just want to take the shortest distance home. We’ll have to visit Radium another time.
Over our breakfast – including big cubes of potatoes – We reminisce over the past days and think about what we’ll do with our day off tomorrow. We drink more coffee and Dwight drinks more juice, and we mentally prepare ourselves to hit the road again.
Once our breakfast bill has been paid, we swing by the gift shop. I find another T-shirt (my fourth this trip, if anyone’s counting). It’s blue with a picture of the Montana state flag, and it says “Montana – My Happy Place” across the front. I can’t resist.
We leave the unopened alcohol in the room, with a note for the cleaning staff to help themselves when they’re not on-duty, do one more pass-through to make sure there’s no more garbage unaccounted for, and pick up our backpacks and trek downstairs to check out of the Izaak Walton Inn. We’re told that the highway through West Glacier National Park is closed due to wildfires in the area; this would have been the route we would have gone to get to Radium. We’re glad we didn’t have our hearts set on it today.
We load our backpacks into the trunk of the car and then find one of the refurbished train cars to take pictures of each of us wearing the communal jacket. We laugh at the absurdity of it all, this small leather jacket being worn by four people, and are grateful for one more memory to carry home with us.
We get back to the car and Ben runs inside again, bringing the two propane bottles we purchased earlier in the week – one full, one empty. We can’t take them with us across the border, so the hotel staff might as well get some use out of them.
Ben gets into the passenger seat, while Sarah takes the wheel. Jenny’s not limping anymore, so the frequent massaging seems to have made her more comfortable. There’s so much leg room now that there’s no food in the car that we can reconfigure the other bags so that all four of us can enjoy it.
Sarah starts the car, and we head north toward home.

Izaak Walton Inn – Edmonton, Alberta
Distance: 432 miles (695 km)
Travel time: 8 hours (including stops)

 

We plan on getting gas in St. mary, but the driver in front of us is driving unnecessarily aggressively. Ben marvels that this driver’s car has Alberta plates (proof that Alberta has the worst drivers), then he and Ben exchange words at the gas station. I have no idea what’s going on, but it’s times like this I am glad I don’t drive and don’t have to deal with it.

Our tank full of gasoline, we continue to drive north. I reflect on this week, and realize I’m not the same person I was when we loaded up the car nine days ago, and that’s a good thing. I ask Ben and Sarah about their experiences, how they feel, what they experienced. They also admit they’re not the same individuals either, and their relationship with each other (and with me) has strengthened and changed in unexpected ways. Dwight agrees and thanks us for inviting him along. We thank him for providing some much-needed perspective and levity; without him, we may have self-destructed as a group.

I ask the others about their favourite experiences (Little Bighorn and Yellowstone being most popular) and most memorable stop for food (The “zen Wendy’s” and KJ’s Truck Stop prove unforgetable). Who has the worst drivers? Alberta, hands down. Favorite wildlife sighting? The boldness of the wildlife in Idaho was incredible, but Wyoming has some amazing natural beauty.

We cross the border into Canada, and are instantly struck with the irony that we’ve spent the past several days with friendly people. The border officer is noticeably abrupt, and fellow travelers we encounter at the Canadian rest stop are likewise pushy – so much for Canadian friendliness!

We stop by the Nanton Candy Store to indulge our individual sweet tooth. We’ve been in the store for a couple of minutes when the store owner approaches me and takes me aside. I have a feeling of dread that he’s going to ask me to take Jenny outside, but he surprises me with his respect and discretion. he makes it abundantly clear that I am absolutely welcome in his store accompanied by my service dog, but he tells me he has an employee with severe allergies and asks me to be considerate of that. Our conversation is so discrete that even my traveling companions have no idea it ever took place. I used to often wonder what I would do in a situation like this – where a very real severe allergy is present – and now I know: treat this man and his shop with the respect he just showed me. I pick out a Jones soda and pay with some of our leftover American money, then walk outside to wait for the others.

We top up on gas in nanton as well, and this leg of our journey feels so very long. Home is within striking distance, REALLY, but we still have hours to drive.

Sarah puts on some of her music as a sound track, since Ben’s music is repeating the same songs over and over and over again. Dwight, Ben and I dose now and then, sometimes asking questions about the bands or vocalists we’re hearing.

Traffic crawls through Calgary, and it starts to rain as we top up the tank for the last time in Innisfail. We stop at Peter’s Drive Inn just outside of Red Deer and order big burgers and milkshakes. The sun peaks through the clouds as we hit the Edmonton city limits, and a sense of deep sadness fills the car. We’re home! But we don’t want this epic road trip of awesome to end. Ben toys with the idea of just driving around Edmonton for another couple of hours, holding the magic in this little Nissan for as long as we can. But this trip needs to end sometime…

We pull up in front of our house and divest Hoshi of all of her extra baggage. Everyone grabs their own backpack or duffel bag, and only Sarah removes her sleeping gear from the roof bag. Our kitties greet us noisily, and it’s like we’ve never been gone. We invite Sarah to stay for coffee, and she eagerly accepts. We put Pink Floyd on the record player and just soak in the music; too many words would devalue the experience. It’s hard to believe it’s all over.

But soon enough, Sarah picks up her duffel bag and takes off for home. Ben, Dwight and I are all exhausted, and turn in early.

But for me, it’s not over.

Not really.

The Epic Road trip of Awesome Day 6: “YAY! EARTH!”

14 Saturday Oct 2017

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Thursday, August 31, 2017
I don’t notice the time, but I can hear vehicles driving down the highway. A slight breeze ruffles my hair and I burrow deeper into my sleeping bag. For some reason I can’t quite explain, I am more content than I have been in a long time, and I drift off to sleep again.
The next thing I hear is someone’s alarm. It’s 6:30 (though my phone, stuck on Pacific Time, tells me differently). Ben says he woke up at about 2:00 and saw this full complement of stars above his head, and wishes he could’ve shared that moment with Sarah. Sarah, for her part, says SHE woke up at 2:00 AM and saw those stars. I think of those drowsy contented moments with the breeze playing with my hair, and think that maybe, just maybe, we all unknowingly experienced simultaneous magic.
I stretch and we start rolling up sleeping bags and deflating our mattresses. Jenny, annoyed at being cooped up in the car all night, bounds out of the back seat and starts sniffing the area vigorously. After a quick pee and breakfast, she’s further annoyed at being put back in the car so we can load up the roof bag and search for showers. We’ve stuffed our dirty laundry into the bags that normally contain our air mattresses. The glorious foot room from yesterday is no longer available, and I hope this changes soon.
We find washrooms… but no showers.
Ben has cell reception, and he confirms the campsite lists “showers” as an amenity. We drive around the campsite in case we miss something and…
No showers.
After the long drive yesterday, there is no way we are going without showers!
We pull up alongside a couple of women – campers? – and ask if they know where there are showers. They pause (“oh, gosh!”) and consider it, before recommending a nearby campground, or possibly a truck stop in Idaho Falls. Ben rolls up the window and thanks them.
Idaho Falls looks like our best bet.
After fifteen minutes or so of driving, we locate KJ’s Travel Center and pull in to the parking lot. Ben goes inside to see if there are showers. And hallelujah! THEY HAVE SHOWERS!

We pay $7.50 per shower and are handed keys, towels and face cloths. one of us needs to wait for the fourth shower to be cleaned, and Ben says he’ll wait.

I have what I can only describe as the most amazing shower of my life. I want to stay under the spray for hours, but everyone else will be annoyed, and I’m hungry, so I turn off the water and nearly slip in the puddles my feet leave on the floor. It’s only now that I notice a mat I could have used to avoid this…

Changing in to clean, dry clothes, I shove yesterday’s clothes into my toiletry bag, pick up the towel and washcloth and make sure I’m holding the key before I let the door close behind me.

To my astonishment, I am the first one out of the showers! As the others meet me in the hall, everyone agrees that those showers were incredible! Ben notices a little room off to the side, and we’re thrilled that it contains washers and dryers! We tromp back downstairs, move the car to a better location, and four humans and one dog haul all of our dirty clothes up the stairs. Sarah gets quarters for the washer and dryer and buys soap from the little store downstairs, and we load two washers with the dirty camping clothes of four people.

While the washers spin, we go back down the stairs to locate the diner. When Jenny and I enter, you’d have thought no one had ever seen a dog before! We are stared at, but otherwise left alone to pile into a booth and order our food.

The waitress comes by and asks us if we’d like coffee. We all say “yes!” so emphatically that she asks us if we’d like a pitcher.

A pitcher of coffee!?

Yes, please!

 

Sarah holds the magical coffee karaf

 

We drink our coffee, marvel at the showers and our night under the stars, and order our food. I’m itching to try Idaho potatoes, so I order a basic breakfast with eggs, potatoes, bacon and toast. The intermittent Wifi signal brings me a notification “written” by our cat, Annie (translated by our friend Keith), stating that she’s mourned our departure and thinks we’ll NEVER come back, but is glad for all the space on the bed and the new guy who seems to come regularly for kitty scritches. I chuckle and share it with Ben.

Just before our food arrives, Ben goes upstairs with a bunch of quarters to move all of our clothes from the washers to the dryer.

Our food arrives, and we tuck in. In my opinion, the food isn’t quite as good as the coffee. It’s greasy and heavy and hits the spot, but my potatoes are all clumped together and my bacon is only warm, not hot, and definitely flabby rather than the crispy bacon I prefer.

We finish our breakfast, and Ben and I pay the bill, leaving a generous tip. It’s now time to souvenir shop!

Jenny’s struggling with this building for some reason. Either she’s discombobulated by the open space that gives way to sudden tiny pathways or she’s mad at me for last night’s “abandonment” in the car. She keeps taking me to exit doors and is seemingly disinterested in guiding, though she’s calm and collected, so I work with what I have.

There are key chains in the gift shop. I’m thrilled to find a big heavy one with a spinning centre piece showing the Idaho state flag. There are no badges for jenny’s travel blanket, so I make a mental note to order one online. Ben and Sarah try on trucker hats, laughing uproariously before each choosing one.

We climb the stairs to the laundry room, where our clothes continue to tumble around in the dryer. After a few minutes, I go downstairs to use a washroom and get Jenny some water. I’m just about to pick up her water bowl and empty out the excess water when a woman pushes open the door, sees Jenny, and lets out a shriek. I say nothing, dump the bowl into the sink, wipe it dry, and put it in my purse. The woman apologizes for her reaction. I still say nothing and leave.

Jenny’s still not taking me to the base of the stairs. There’s something blocking easy access to them, and they’re incredibly narrow and steep to begin with. We ultimately make it upstairs, where I join the others lounging on the comfy couches. We all tease each other some, wrestle a bit, then sprawl out on the couches again and tune each other and the world out for a few blessed minutes.

The dryers are done and we pry them open…

And our clothes are still soaked!

We have a brief team meeting. Our options are limited. We can either run the dryer again and hope this dries our clothes or suck it up and hope we find a dryer on the road.

It’s a quick decision. It’s pushing close to 10:00 and we really want to get to Old Faithful sooner rather than later. We load our damp clothes into the mattress bags and stuff them in the trunk, fill the car with gas, and change our riding configuration for the trip to Wyoming.

 

KJ’s Travel Center (Idaho Falls, ID) – Old Faithful

Distance: 136 Miles (219 km)

Travel Time: 2.5 Hours

 

For the first ride of any distance, I’m in the front seat. Ben is driving, while Sarah has taken up a position with Jenny and Dwight in the back. Once we’re ready to go, it’s easy to marvel at the landscape we’re leaving behind. We see more wildlife as we cross through Idaho, which continues for at least another hour from Idaho Falls. There are more Mormon temples seemingly in the middle of nowhere, and a Holy Rosary (church?) likewise situated. Once we cross from Idaho into Montana, the speed limit increases from a quick 70 miles an hour to a blistering 80 on the Interstates. We call our hosts for tonight at Grandview Campground and play phone tag due to the spotty reception Ben’s getting. We finally connect with them and let them know we’re planning a late evening checkin, and are asked to call back when we have a more solid ETA.

The scenery is gorgeous as we travel through a small corner of Montana and into Wyoming. Sarah passes out GoPicnic lunches, but we snack on them sparingly; we’re still full from breakfast. We pay the entry fee to Yellowstone National Park on the Montana side of the park, and it doesn’t take long before we’re suddenly into Wyoming. In less than 90 minutes, we’ve crossed three state lines. We see tons of wildlife. A bison stands in the middle of a field close to the highway, just hanging out and minding its business, and Ben adds that to his tally of animals seen on our trip. There’s more beautiful senery, including other geisers, that Ben and Sarah definitely want to photograph on the way back down. No complaints from me; they’ve earned these pictures!

We reach Old Faithful just after 1:30. I expect us to have to take a small hike to get out there, but instead we pull into a parking lot and travel along sidewalks to small cafes, shops, and the visitors center. We stop in a souvenir shop where I find two awesome tactile keychains (one for me and one for a friend back home) and a badge for Jenn’s blanket. I’m paying for my purchases when Sarah tells us she’s heard that Old Faithful might erupt in a few minutes! I’m afraid we’ll miss it, because (again) I’m expecting a hike and a trail, but it’s only a brief paved walk to a wodden outlook.

I’ve imagined Old Faithful for months. I’m expecting some great rushing force of water, like a reverse waterfall. But instead, I hear nothing but fellow tourists as I stand on the boardwalk.

It’s 2:16. Time for the expected eruption.

And nothing happens.

A hush falls over the crowd as a faint smell of sulphur fills the air and Old Faithful bubbles slightly.

More time passes.

Another brief scent of sulphur, another slight eruption, more silence.

As time passes, people inch away and go back to the shops and their cars. Murmurings of Old Faithful being a tease and a let-down can be heard behind me. I inch closer to the edge of the overlook just as Old Faithful, in a final show of strength, erupts.

After a 20-minute tease, Old Faithful erupts!

It’s not at all what I expect. The faint scent of sulphur is not present here. The strong powerful sounds of gushing water I expected are definitely absent as well; instead, it sounds like faint ocean waves.

After a couple of minutes, Old Faithful settles down, and many people clap and start to move away. It’s kind of weird to think about, Sarah says. It’s like everyone is congratulating earth on being earth… “YAY! Earth!” But I just HAD to get a picture with Old Faithful in the background.

Me and Jenny crouched down with a calm Old Faithful in the background

We zip inside another store for road snacks. Dwight buys a bag of grapes for $8 and Ben buys more road cheesies. I get a Gatorade and Sarah buys her snacks – we all spend a small fortune on road food.

We take our last bathroom break before piling into the car. Jenny – as she’s done all the way through this trip – finds the accessible stall without my asking her to do so. Sarah keeps telling me how impressed she’s been with Jenny on this trip, and while I can dwell on Jenn’s mistakes and missteps, I have to agree with Sarah. Jenn laps up the water I set down for her by the sink, and we’re all ready to hit the road.

Old Faithful – Grandview CampGround

Distance: 308 miles (496 km)

Travel Time: 6 hours (including stops)

 

We keep our travel configurations from this morning as we pile into the car. Ben’s got a Google map on his phone and is hopeful that he can still navigate in these areas with no cell service. Just twenty minutes out of Old Faithful, Sarah spots the geisers they wanted for pictures, and Ben pulls in.

Dwight and I stay in the car, talking. We haven’t really had an opportunity to do so on this trip, and I confess my feelings of uselessness. I’m not a seasoned camper, and Ben and Sarah seem to frequently have everything under control. Sure, I’ve rolled a sleeping bag or two, or helped set up the tent, but to me it doesn’t feel like nearly enough. Dwight offers some perspective that I desperately need – that I have been contributing, but that I need to temper my need to be needed with the practicalities that come alongside camping with experienced campers. My blindness has nothing to do with it. I’m not sure I feel any better, but I feel better for having talked about it.

Sarah and Ben come back to the car, thrilled with the pictures they’ve taken of this area. It’s called the Painted Pots. There are signs that state that you must stay out of the water; it’s so clear and so hot that you would never come out.

The Painted Pots

We’re ready to go again. Sarah and Dwight chat in the back while Ben follows the route he sees on Google maps. There’s a motorist in front of us who keeps speeding up and slowing down and speeding up and slowing down. Ben finally gets so annoyed that he takes the first available turnoff and hopes it’s the right one.

The highways are well-paved and well-maintained. We’ve driven for about half an hour before Ben thinks he made a mistake – turning left instead of right. His google map is useless up here, and he asks me for directions. I pull up Nearby Explorer, put in the address of Grandview Campground, and start giving directions (basically, keep going straight and take one turn or another).

As we travel, Dwight and Sarah nap while Ben and I chat. I talk to Ben about my feelings of inadequacy, and he’s quick to reassure me that I have pulled my weight – heck, I’m the one navigating on this leg of the journey!

The signs for Bozeman appear, and we are all tired. It’s 20 minutes to Bozeman now, and someone points this out. Dwight says that’s a perfect name for a band, and we all laugh and agree.

In Bozeman, we stop for gas. We’re getting hungry and find a burger place with a drive-through. We order massive burgers and fries, and we’re all impressed as we munch. Only Ben seems disappointed by his waffle fries (I try one and agree that my traditional fries are better). Sarah has cell reception, so she calls Grandview and tells them our ETA appears to be about 9:30. They thank her for her call and tell her they’ll see us when we get there.

As we drive through Bozeman, Ben and Sarah express a strong liking for the city. The architecture looks cool, and now I think we’re all sorry we won’t get a chance to explore it further.

Nearby Explorer continues to map our route – go straight. we pass small towns and lovely scenery as the sun sets. Even I can see the sunset filtered through the trees, with mountains in the background on either side. I’m blown away by the majestic beauty of this sunset as I munch my fries and tell Ben to continue to go straight, through county after county, past unpopulated areas or tiny hamlets.

We reach Billings. It’s a big city, too, and we all agree that tomorrow, we will go into Billings, split up for a couple hours, and do our own thing. As we leave the city limits, I start to worry about directions to Grandview. The email says GPS can sometimes be wrong, and we have no cell service to contact them if we get lost.

I worry for nothing. As we pull into Hardin, pass the gas station indicated on the email, the sign is clearly marked. We pull in to the drive at 9:00, and Ben and I get out of the car. Lori arrives just a couple minutes later and opens the office/gift shop. She’s warm and welcoming and she’s thrilled we got in earlier than we’d estimated and gives us a rundown of the campsite information. We’re given directions to the showers and our campsite, change for the laundry facilities (open 24 hours), a Wifi password, and kitty cuddles from the resident cat. We can dry our clothes! AND see kitties? With showers and wifi, we’ve hit the camping jackpot!

We get back to the car and tell Sarah and Dwight about our good fortune. We pull up to our assigned space, and the guys get to work on pitching the tent. Sarah and I haul the mattress bags full of wet clothes to the dryers. The first dryer eats Sarah’s quarter, so we have to go back to the car and get more. We move the wet clothes from one dryer to another, and I constantly drop them. Sarah and I laugh giddily as she loads the second= – hopefully functional – dryer with our clothes. They fit in one load, and the dryer takes our quarters with no fuss.

We get back to the tent, which has been completely set up. Our air mattresses are inflated and sleeping bags unrolled. Jenny is bounding around the camp site like she’s never seen such a beautiful grassy area, and I’m struck by the sound of crickets I hear. If you’ve ever seen a movie that has a night-time scene with crickets in the background, these crickets sound like that. It feels like I’m in a movie, and I’m so happy I could burst.

We check on the clothes in the dryer, and they are – miracle of miracles – all dry. We stuff them into the mattress bags again and put them in the car; we’ll take care of them in the morning.

It’s 10:00 PM, and I’m ready for sleep. I crawl into the tent and bury my face in my pillow. Jenny will not leave my side, squishing my legs under the weight of her Labrador frame. The movie-crickets sing me to a restful, contented sleep.

“Um… Dad? I got a Tattoo…”

05 Saturday Aug 2017

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I recently celebrated a birthday. I chose to celebrate it by attending a stellar performance of “Phantom of the Opera” with my husband and a good friend, silencing my phone’s frequent ringtones heralding “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” messages from all corners of the technological world, and capping it off with a personal-best-speed 6-mile run. In the midst of all this, I received several birthday wishes and instruction from my father, that I could get ANYTHING I wanted…. except a tattoo.
That’s great!
because… I already have one tattoo… and I don’t want any more.
When I told my father this, he seemed surprised. “How did that happen?” he texted me.
Well, in the manner of all things sarcastic, I texted back that I consulted a tattoo artist, had a design drawn, sat in the chair, and got it done.
Isn’t that how all tattoos “happen”?
I never intended to keep my tattoo a secret. In fact, my dad reads my blog; I mentioned it here. But for people who’ve just met me or don’t read my blog or missed the whole half-a-sentence mention my tattoo got six months ago… here’s some details!
I chose to get it where it can be concealed in the workplace and shown off in a more casual summer atmosphere. Originally I wanted mine on my shoulder blade, but many friends told me in general tattoo-based conversations about their shoulder pain horror stories, so I nixed that idea. At the time I was working in business-to-business sales, and many colleagues had tattoos. I asked a couple of them where they got theirs done, called a couple of shops, and went in for one consultation.
I know many people who have TONS of tattoos; others are terrified of needles. I fall much closer to the “terrified of needles” camp, so I was kind of scared to get this done. Several friends (blind friends in particular) asked me about my experience getting a first tattoo, if it hurt, what my artist was like, how I knew things would be OK… the whole bit. I had to think a lot about it, because I lucked out; my one consultation was so easy and fluid that I never even considered getting another.
When choosing a tattoo artist, you’re effectively finding a doctor, a therapist and a graphic designer all in one. It’s an intensely intimate process and both artist and “canvas” need to be able to effectively communicate, otherwise…. not-cool things could happen… and they’re pretty permanent!
When I walked in for my consultation on an unseasonably warm Friday in January, I had no idea what I would be getting myself in for. The entire staff was warm and welcoming, and Jessie (the artist who would design and place my tattoo) and I sat and chatted about what I wanted, where, and how she could best describe her design for me as a blind customer. I’m pretty no-muss-no-fuss, and I wanted something I would be happy with but that wouldn’t be too elaborate (see above comments about needles). It was one of the easiest service-provider/customer conversations I’ve ever had in my life, and I knew I’d found the right tattoo artist. Money was pretty tight at that time, and so I told Jessie I would give her a call once things picked up and I could justify the expense, but I definitely wanted the tattoo. Not three weeks later I got my current job offer, paid my deposit, and asked for Ben’s thoughts on some drawings. He wanted his own tattoo, but different from mine, and on the first concept drawings Jessie hit the ball out of the park for both of us.
The designs had been chosen, I left Jenny at home, and I made my way back to the tattoo shop. I don’t know what I expected (some cubicle-style room with a curtain across it? Dingy dark corners where tattoos are applied in secret?) but the open airy room I entered with huge windows along the back wall definitely wasn’t it. While I was nervous about getting the tattoo, Jessie was great about putting me at ease. I even got to put on gloves and feel the tattoo gun (without needles) as it vibrated, and touch the needles in their sterile packaging. As I sat in the chair, Jessie went to work, describing everything she was doing, giving me fair warning if she was using a different needle (yes, they feel different), offering me a break if I needed. We talked about other things, too, like good food and dogs and work and business ownership… life, really. The time flew by, and while the tattoo application hurt a little, it really wasn’t that bad. Just over an hour after we got started, a bandage was placed over my freshly-tattooed skin, and it was done.
I remember telling Jessie at the time that I seriously don’t think anyone has ever just “gotten” communicating with a blind person so well. She admitted to feeling slightly uncertain about how much information to give, but she knew that everything she did would have to be described. One never would have guessed that I was her first blind client, though not her first with a disability (she mentioned having done piercings and tattoos for Deaf clients). Not only did I get a cool-looking tattoo, I got the seamless experience – the true luxury – of not having to explain anything at all about blindness or accommodations or humanity and disability. Remember when I wrote about a tattoo artist being like a doctor, a therapist and a graphic designer rolled into one? I hit the jackpot.
So, if you’re in Edmonton, hit up Jessie at Shambhala Tattoo. Tell her Jenny sent you… because, in a way, she did.

 

My tattoo of Jenny’s paw print with her name inside it

 

 

Crying Wolf!: Or, What it’s like to have a Blind-friendly Cat

03 Saturday Jun 2017

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Two months ago, after days of hand-feeding and hoping and remembering and crying and realizing it was the end, we said goodbye to our beautiful Russian Blue kitten, Dash. Her ashes – along with her collar and a few tufts of fur – currently sit in a box on a windowsill where she can enjoy the sunbeams until she’s laid to rest permanently. Two ceramic pawprints with her name in raised letters sit on my computer table, where she would climb up for snuggles, as a testament that says “Dash was here.”

But Dash WAS here, and a hole opened up in our little kitty kingdom. The Boy cat and Jenny consoled each other somewhat, but they each grieved in their own ways. Annie started pacing back and forth in front of me while I was on the phone, demanding my attention, something only Dasher ever did. I could hear the echo of Dash’s meow at unexpected moments and it stabbed me in the heart, while Ben sought comfort in the other critters. We knew, very quickly, that we needed to give another Russian Blue a good home.

And we quickly found one.

Wolfie the Photogenic Kitten

We saw Wolf’s picture on the SCARS Web site only a few weeks after Dasher’s death, and we knew she was the kitty we could help, and she was the kitty who could help fill that empty space. The look on her face, and the fact that she needed to be around other kitties told us that we would all be a perfect fit. From the instant we met her, she allowed us to play with her, to pick her up, to show us her sassy side. At only six months old, she showed us that she wasn’t afraid to holdd her own against more dominant cats, and she clearly needed other kitties so she wouldn’t feel like she was all by herself.

From the moment we brought her home, she possessed such confidence and security. She did not spend one minute hiding, but instead made herself comfortable on the arms of our couches, watching everything around her, as if to ccalmly tell the other kitties, “I’m here, I’m exploring, I’m figuring out my own place in this pecking order… you, deal with it.” Within only a few weeks, she went from a clumsy uncoordinated six-month-old kitten to a growing, purring, playful bundle of energy. She and the Boy wrestled and played not long after Wolfie came home, and the difference in the Boy, too, was startling.

It’s fun, learning how to communicate with a new, young cat. We’d taken for granted the quirks of Annie, Dash and Wayne, knowing on instinct their favorite toys or when they preferred snuggles or how they liked to tell us to please for the love of God change the litter boxes. Wolfie through all of that into disarray. We learned very quickly that the way to her heart is toy mice, that she and the Boy will stand side by side when food is poured into the bowls, that her favorite sound is the sound her claws make while she tries to climb up the window screens. She has different meows that we’re still trying to decipher, but most of them seem to indicate a brief, “Hi! I’m here!” She doesn’t seem to like the bell on her collar or her license tag, as evidenced by the fact that she can crane her neck down and bite at the tag at any opportunity. Wolfie has no interest in going outside, but she loves to spend hours in the breeze by the back door.

But why would I say she is a blind-friendly cat?

With me, she is not silent. Ever. She actually comes to her name about 80% of the time. The rest of the time, when I call her, she will announce her presence with a quick meow or a jingle of her collar. If I put my hand down after calling her, she will put her nose up against my fingers, then let me pick her up for a snuggle. Even if I’m near her, petting another kitty, her loud kittenish purr gives her location away instantly. She communicates in her own way with Ben, of course, but I’ve learned she only seems to do these things with me, as though she understands that if she wants to get my attention, tactile and verbal cues are the way to do it.

Wolfie will never replace Dash, not really. But some of her quirks make it feel like Dasher is still here with us. Sometimes, we have to stop ourselves from calling Wolf “Dash”. That gets easier with time, and as Wolf grows into a more confident, stronger kitty. She’s slid herself into our kitty kingdom almost seamlessly; and even though she and Dasher never met, I think they would’ve been friends.

Welcome home, Wolfie. We’re happy to have given you a fur-ever home. Thank you for loving us, for making us laugh, for keeping us on our toes. And Dasher… if you sent us this kitty, thank you, too, sweet girl. Enjoy your sunbeams.

Rest in Peace… While I fall Apart

04 Tuesday Apr 2017

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I’m writing this post in the hope that I don’t have to post it. But if you are reading this, it’s a sad day in our home today. Last night, we said goodbye to our cat, Dash, after a sudden, fierce illness that we can’t completely explain. If you are reading this, Ben and I decided as a couple that the kindest thing was to let her go. I am writing this with tears running down my face, but I’m writing this now, days before the end, when I can still remember Dasher’s meow and her purr and the way she demanded attention until she decided seemingly arbitrarily that it wasn’t needed anymore. By the time this post is published – if it is published at all – it’s been nearly 24 hours since we held Dash in our arms, buried our faces into her soft fur coat, and said our farewells. It’s been nearly 24 hours since we cried at the kindness shown by the vet clinic, lighting a candle with a sign that said someone was mourning their beloved pet. While I still remember her for the gentle fighter and protective cat she is, not how she was during the last week of her life, I want everyone to know her for the quirky ball of CAT that was Dash.

Dash and Wayne settling in for the Winter

Dear Dash,

I don’t know if I ever told you these stories while you were curled up with me at night, while your purr rumbled me to sleep, while I laughed at your high-pitched, attention-seeking “Meeeeeeeeeeow!” But you’ve been part of this family almost as long as our little family existed, and my heart aches that you’re no longer making memories with us.

Ben and I talked about you, Dash… in the way of many conversations like this. The “We should get another cat… someday” conversation we had not long after we got married. We had Annie, of course, but another cat seemed like a good idea… in a someday-we-will sort of way. That summer day in 2008, we visited friends on a farm and were told one of their barn cats had just had kittens. I sat on their back porch and a little gray ball of fluff came up and demanded my attention. I lifted it up in my arms and it purred contentedly and I asked it if I could take it home. Ben was playing football with the guys, but when he came back to the porch, this same ball of fluff – you – curled up on his chest and fell fast asleep. He looked and me and asked if we could take you home. How could I say no? We drove to a friend’s house and grabbed a diaper box to drive you home in. Somehow, on that trip home, we named you Dash, and your little kitty paws and your big-kitty purr stole our hearts.

You became your name, Dash, sneaking out of the house at every opportunity, destroying Ben’s glasses your first night home, trying so hard to charm Annie who was singularly disinterested. You grew into a cat who was so particular about the “right” way to come up for cuddles (pacing back and forth three times, then hopping up), insisting there was only one way to climb up on the bed (always using my nightstand and boombox), creating the nightly ritual of sticking your paw between bed and headboard and batting at our heads, even straightening a painting you knocked askew during one of your “kitty crazies.” Trees held a fascination for you, until you tried to climb one and nearly choked yourself when you suddenly realized how high you were… and then you ran home in a huff. You broke yourself out of the habit of jumping onto the dining room table by falling through it when we took the tabletop off for refinishing. All these years later, we still laugh at your kittenness, and we never stopped calling you “Kitten”.

You grew older and wiser, your body filling out and matching the size of your big long tail, your formerly loud purr (once nicknamed the buzz saw) turning into a deep rumble. I used to ask you where you got your gorgeous gray fur coat, and for some reason you would never divulge that secret to me.

You hated us moving to our big scary house. There were all these places to go and explore, but it was too much for you. You climbed up on the kitchen counter and tried to melt into the particle board. Annie tried to comfort you but jumped down when she saw that we noticed her. But you owned this house, you made it your own, finding all the cool hiding spaces in the ceiling tiles and jumping into the windows anytime you could.

Not long after we moved in, we brought home… a new cat. he was a boy cat who wanted to be everybody’s friend. Annie grew annoyed with him quickly, and I think the two of you conspired to barricade him in the litter box. But somewhere along the way, though, you and Wayne (the Boy) became friends. You would run and play and wrestle all the time, even slowing down once to let me feel how you played.

Over the years, you’ve been the negotiator in the kitty kingdom. You’ve quietly put Annie in her place, befriended the Boy so much that when he ran away you moped around the house for a week until he came home. You befriended Jenny, this enthusiastic spitfire of a dog, showing her with patience and gentleness how to interact with kitties. Your farm-cat skills came in handy whenever a mouse crossed the threshold of our home. You loved being outside in the back yard, rolling around in the dirt. And if you snuck outside between my feet, after a few minutes you would hang around on the neighbor’s fence, meowing your head off because being outside wasn’t fun anymore. You love boxes so much that we leave empty Amazon boxes around the house just so you could have somewhere to nest… so much that when we said goodbye to you, we chose a box rather than an urn for your ashes – you would’ve turned your nose up at the urn, anyway.

Dash – the Box Cat

I would give anything for one more cuddle with you, Dasher. One more snuggle with that deep purr rumbling against my chest. One more time laughing at your back-and-forth back-and-forth back-and-forth JUMP! onto my lap on the couch. One more time that you and Jenny negotiate the best way to share the sunbeam streaming through the window, or the best configuration to share her doggie bed. One more time wondering what you’re “meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeowing” about. One more time getting my attention by stepping on my foot. One more time that you’re so happy to be with me – and I am NOT done petting you, thank you very much! – that you’re biting my wedding ring and purring at the same time.

I want to remember you for all these things, Dash, because that’s who you were. You were funny and quirky and standoffish and SUCH a wonderful cat.

I’ll never forget you.

Rest in peace, Kitten. May you find all the boxes to sleep in and all the dirt to roll in and all of the cuddles you want ONLY when you want them.

Goodbye, my sweet girl… You’re not hurting anymore.

So… very… Tired…

23 Wednesday Nov 2016

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My wonderful readers, you have been so patient with me. The past month and a half has been exhausting, exhillerating, frustrating, encouraging, and probably the most conflicted six weeks of my life. You have, without knowing it, given me the space I needed in order to get back in the saddle again… so here I am. I thank you in advance for your continued patience, because I am just… so… tired.

I’m tired of having to convince the general public that I deserve bodily autonomy.

I’m tired of having to convince potential employers that workplace accommodations are in my hands, they have to do NOTHING but respect me and train me the way they would a sighted employee.

I’m tired of being talked down to like I’m a child.

I’m tired of seeing organizations (albeit well-meaning ones) publish books about “how to talk” to me.

I’m tired of feeling like I am fighting all the time, but I feel like NOT fighting is giving up on myself.

And, most of all…

I am tired of blaming myself for being human, for being imperfect, for being angry and frustrated and exhausted.

I am just… so… very… tired.

Growing up and the “Good Book”: Reflections on a Year at Bible School

23 Friday Sep 2016

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Ten years ago – has it really been that long? – I found myself in a remarkably similar circumstance to the one I am currently facing. Out of work, in a place of personal, spiritual and professional transformation, I decided to take the plunge and spend a year at a small unaccredited Bible college. My choice was made because of a complicated combination of financial and theological crossroads, and it’s a decision that I have never regretted.

 

So why am I writing this now, a decade later? A combination of reasons. One of the benefits of being out of work is the ability to read books by a wide variety of people – those who have embraced the Christian faith wholeheartedly, those who have abandoned it due to pain or abuse, and those who struggle to believe. It’s beautiful and tragic and messy, seeing those who share my faith embrace some fellow earth-dwellers and reject others, those who no longer share my faith who cry and wrestle with those who do and whom they love, and those who never shared my faith – or those whose departure from it was particularly traumatic – who become furious at anyone who professes any form of belief in the divine. Such literacy and conversation has rounded out my worldview in ways I never anticipated, and it started at that small Bible college ten years ago. Another reason I decided to write about it is that a friend and classmate wrote of his experience in an articulate, moving reflection (though one that’s more theological than I’m going to get into here).

 

I remember the day I dropped off my application form. The journey to that place is too long to get into here, but I remember thinking that it was foolish for me to be out of work and wanting to spend money to study the Bible… but I had to do it for reasons that I still can’t quite explain. I remember calling the school, being so lost in a residential area, expecting more foot traffic than I got, and having one of the instructors come out and meet me. I was so embarrassed, but I put in my application (and, not 3 hours later, received a part-time job offer that would work around my class schedule). After being accepted, I wondered how my classmates and instructors would accept me as a blind student – I worried for nothing.

 

Our courses were a combination of Bible study, interpretation, and practical Christian living. We read the whole Bible during the course of that year – when I discovered all the passages about justice for the oppressed that I had never encountered in my previous church experiences. We discussed living on earth and a home in heaven and how to emphasize both and neglect neither. We volunteered in organizations that challenged us, that showed us poverty or illness or disability. Along with classes and short-term missions trips and volunteering and working, I found my faith changing from a loud, boisterous show of enthusiasm to something quieter, something stronger, something harder to describe. Along with that spiritual struggle – because that’s what it was – came the most complete exhaustion I have ever felt in my life. I was in many ways happier and busier than I ever had been, but my schedule was so hectic that I would go to my little basement apartment after a day of classes and/or volunteering and/or working, say hi to my roommate, and fall exhausted into bed… only to do it all over again the next day.

 

But it wasn’t all hard work; in many ways it was a ton of fun. My classmates took me in as one of their own – pushing me beyond my comfort zone, asking questions, all but stapling my pants to the piano bench during chapel because I was the only student who was even remotely willing to play the piano publicly. I fell in love with the piano again during that year, frequently taking time alone in the chapel to decompress and play that out-of-tune upright that belonged in a 1900s saloon. I found out later that the entire school could hear me, and more than once someone would slip quietly into the chapel and hear me sing hymns or write chord progressions or just make up little ditties where my fingers would dance across the keys.

 

I not only learned a lot from instructors, but many of my classmates taught me about openness and generosity. Within two weeks of starting classes, I moved from an apartment into a basement suite, and no fewer than half my classmates helped move my stuff (in the rain) and helped clean up my old apartment. Over the year, many cried with me, some sang with me, even more laughed with me, others encouraged me to jump off a roof into a snowbank (my other option was to climb down the ladder after 20 minutes of panicking). I hated to feel like I needed help with anything, ever, but both classmates and staff patiently helped me realize that everyone needs help sometimes, and that’s OK.

 

Instructors were accommodating in most ways. Even the one who seemed to never get me assignments or tests on time – due to his reluctance to use email – let me explore with my hands a model of the Old Testament Tabernacle. Another instructor shared of his faith journey with such vulnerability that I related to him so completely. Another listened to me obsess and worry when my feelings for this guy who was “just a friend” had morphed into something I didn’t even recognize or want to acknowledge as romantic intentions. Still another gave me a ride to class once a week, allowing me to sleep in an extra thirty minutes; that thirty minutes was so small in the grand scheme of space and time, but it was inestimable in its impact. Looking back on it, I learned more about self-care at Bible college than I ever learned anywhere else. It’s a term that doesn’t appear in the Bible, though the concept certainly does.

 

2006 – looking back on it – was truly a pivotal year in my life. I moved in with my first roommate (the first time I ever shared space with anyone as a contemporary), I met the man who would become my husband, I grew (as many people that age do) in maturity and life experience, and my faith morphed from the experiential into something more systematic and sustainable. It was the year I learned to carve out my own identity, discovered it was OK to not be OK all the time, and that sometimes quiet reflection makes you stronger than just faking it. Maybe I would’ve learned those lessons in other ways had I not attended that small Bible school, but I didn’t learn them elsewhere, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Painting Pictures of Egypt

04 Friday Mar 2016

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Change is an inevitable part of life – or it should be. Whether moving house, obtaining or losing or changing jobs, attending or leaving school, starting new relationships or ending them, getting married or divorced, having a child, or losing a loved one… we’ve all experienced change in some way or another. Some of these changes are joyous and should be celebrated, some are sad and tragic and need to be mourned, while others are some shades of happiness alongside those of sadness.

 

I started thinking about change this past week when I had an opportunity to visit my family and friends in the Vancouver area. It was a much-needed respite from job-hunting, though I was able to submit resumes and schedule interviews from there, so I guess it wasn’t a true “break” from it. But I found myself shocked at some of the changes in myself, in people I knew and in how they related to me. In her beautiful song, Painting Pictures of Egypt, Sara Groves speaks longingly of where she’s been and where she’s going, how she misses what used to be but has to keep pressing forward. I often found myself thinking of this song during my trip, as even back in Edmonton, parts of my life are in a state of transition.

 

One of the biggest changes that my friends and family were confronted with was the addition of my guide dog. Guide dog travel is different in some ways to cane travel, and I found myself being given landmarks (electrical boxes, flower pots), and then Jenny trying to guide around them. it was a bit of a head trip to me and to those around me, who’ve only seen me with a cane… not to mention an opportunity to learn, yet again, how Jenny works best. It was an opportunity to show grace to myself, my dog, and those around me… and I am ashamed to admit I was not always graceful.

 

One Saturday afternoon, I witnessed two things back to back that highlighted the highs and lows of life. A dear friend from high school got married! It was a beautiful, elegant, but simple wedding that outlined the  deep love and commitment that they had for each other. Not long afterward, I spent time with a relative who currently lives in a care home. This was really hard to handle emotionally, as I hadn’t seen him in several years, and he was not quite fully present in the room with us (frequently asking who I was, etc.) On the heels of a celebration of love, witnessing this change in him was truly sad and painful, even as I sometimes regret what could have been…

 

I have seen over the past few years many people I know who are forced to confront change in a much more direct and personal way. Whether it’s a medical diagnosis, the loss of a spouse, or the sudden onset of disability, I can only look with them and admire their tenacity. many of these circumstances are painful, threatening to cut them to the core, and yet many will reach out with grace and tenacity and grit that even they never knew they had. Even those who struggle through pain are strong in their own way. Many of these people don’t have the luxury of many of us; they truly can’t go back to where they’ve been, or at least live the exact way they used to.

 

Now that I am back home, I am confronted with more changes. Being between jobs is infuriating and invigorating, yet I can’t wait to get back to work. The seasons are changing from winter to spring, which brings on some fun allergies, even as the temperature warms up and I can hear the birds singing. In some ways I want to go back to where I’ve been, but it doesn’t seem to really fit me anymore. I can look forward with one eye over my shoulder back to where I’ve been, or keep both eyes on the road in front of me. Maybe I will go back, maybe I won’t, only time and circumstances can tell that. But in my pictures of Egypt, I won’t be leaving out the painful bits, because I can’t live life with rose-coloured glasses… and life is too messy for all that…