Definition of a Tourist

Just what is a tourist anyway? Someone who pulls over at all the widely advertised places, buys souvenirs, takes photos and heads off to the next spot?

Or someone who pulls over at interesting sounding places (to them, at least) just for the heck of it?

If you answered yes to both, you're on my team. By those definitions, Evan and I are becoming gold-standard tourists.

Yesterday we left Billings, headed to Belvidere, SD, a spot about in the middle of the state. But before we could settle into our cabin we had places to go, things to see, stuff to buy. After all, South Dakota is the Mt. Rushmore state. Evan is realizing how little American history he knows so he's an enthusiastic looker at interpretive signs.

But before we got to the stone-faced presidents, we pulled over at the Little Bighorn Battlefield National Memorial. It's right off I-90 in Montana, and Custer's Last Stand occurred this same week in 1876, on June 25. It was pretty sobering to look over the fields of waving prarie grass and wildflowers and imagine them with dead bodies strewn across their expanse.

This is a sculpture at the part of the memorial that recognizes the Indians who died there.

Personally, I've always felt that Custer got what he deserved, and I agree with the words of Chief Sitting Bull, "Our homes were attacked and what would you do if your home was attacked? You would defend it." Politics aside, two points if you can guess which part of the scene was most poignant to me?

Most notable moment of the day (not captured on camera because it happened so fast)...still in MT, gazing upon a lovey cattle pasture, looking toward a small stand of trees nestled at the bottom of a low hill. A large, brown creature was heading across the pasture, and it was not a cow, it was a bear!! That is a big deal for someone who's only seen bears in zoos and Yellowstone, which is almost the same thing.

As we cruised toward Mt. Rushmore, Evan reminded me that he hates crowds. What did we do, raise a tribe of hermits? Each of our boys is like that. Oh, wait...so are Goddy and I. We agreed to persevere despite the crowds and go to the gift shop first. That way you forget the feeding frenzy for souvenirs when you get to the grandeur of what you actually came to see. It worked for us and we were suitably awed by the monument.



And yes, we heeded the siren call of Wall Drug Store and went in. Our five minutes of experiencing a travelers icon was actually quite fun.

So if the essence of road trips is to get to the end of the day and have moments to savor, then I'd say we're doing ok so far.

The next post will tell you about going the not-so-touristy-tourist route.

The Epic Journey

Meet Ramsay. He's accompanying Evan and I on our journey across America. He's pretty well traveled too, starting life as a New Zealand tea towel. I bought him from an Etsy seller.

This trip is certainly a once-in-a-life time opportunity. We're driving a rather nice Jeep to Charleston, SC for Ryan and Shannon, friends of Evan's who got married last week and amazingly, didn't want to spend their honeymoon on a road trip.



Crystal couldn't accompany Evan, so I was next on the list. That would be the list of people who are compatible with Evan and can take a two-week chunk of time off. Hey, I didn't say the list was short - you must have thought that yourself!

Evan and I have a history of not being compatible, though that began to change sometime during his senior year of high school. Thank heavens. We'd have what Goddy called "circular arguments," occasions when neither of us admitted defeat in the discussion but just found another angle to be right about. It was exhausting and distressing. Yes, being right all the time can be tiring. And tiresome, I know.

Anyway, those days are done and Evan and I enjoy a convivial relationship, somewhat eerie when we find ourselves thinking exactly the same thing at the same time.

One of my aims on this trip is to enjoy what's around the next corner, taking time to see it and being a good sport about everything. The first thing we did was go a bit out of the way to Roslyn, WA, the town where Northern Exposure was filmed. I admit, I felt a bit star-struck to see the facades (which were actual buildings) I'd enjoyed for so many years on TV.


So far, so good, but it's only our second day...

Tonight we're in a cute cabin at the KOA in Billings, MT. "In Billings" is not exactly true - KOA's are not usually in anything but the middle of nowhere. In this case, the nowhere is by the Yellowstone River, under a lovely stand of cottonwoods with lots of grass all around.

Last night we were in Wallace, ID, the historic town in the Idaho panhandle where my mom was born.


She was raised down the road in Mullan, which we explored this morning. It was a sweet moment to be on the street where she lived, talking to her on the phone and having her describe the town as she remembered it.

Here's Ramsay canoodling with a statue of John Mullan, the town's namesake and explorer/roadbuilder extraordinaire. I-90 follows the route of Mullan's military road.

Tomorrow we head into uncharted territory - neither of us have driven east of Billings. The plan is to gaze upon Mt. Rushmore, ooh and ahh at the Badlands (do you do that there? I'll let you know...) and not go crazy at the vast empty that is the middle of South Dakota.

Not Their Best Day

Shearing day is not an alpaca's favorite day of the year. They usually are gregarious and curious, but when they come into the shearing pen, they turn grumpy.


Not that I can blame them...

This year we're trying something a bit different. We'll leave the fleeces on most of them, just removing the belly fiber so they stay cool, and shear them a bit earlier next year. The fiber will be several inches longer and hopefully the hand spinners who buy the fiber on Ebay will be appreciative, resulting in good auctions.


So shearing day should really have been called shearing-the-belly-on-most-of-them day, but that's too much of a mouthful, don't you think?



My friend Kelsey was invited to help. She's young, strong, and most important, a really good sport. That last attribute is important for people who help at alpaca shearing because sometimes the animals show their displeasure by leaping around, kicking or worst of all, spitting.


We'd warned Kelsey, but sure enough, it happened at a moment when no one was expecting it, especially her. The alpaca was on the ground, she was holding his head and concentrating on where Goddy's clippers were, a sensible thing to do when your fingers are in proximity to shearing blades. The alpaca let fly with gobs of green goo, and Kelsey was in the line of fire. I didn't get a photo because I went into rescue mode and raced off to get wet cloths. We got most of it off, but discovered that dried alpaca spit makes effective, if fragrant, hair gel. Kelsey didn't have any stray locks in her eyes the rest of the morning. And she managed to keep smiling.


(Can you believe such a sweet-faced creature is capable of a vile habit like spitting?)


But here's the thing that most impressed my husband (who doesn't often get impressed with alpaca handlers, no matter who they are) - Kelsey didn't let go of the alpaca, even with a face full of spit. Way to go, my friend!!


Here are a few pictures of Goddy's method of shearing alpacas. He starts with them standing but if they want to lie down he lets them.



The fiber from the body (called the barrel) is the highest quality.




This guy decided to lie down so Emilio is holding his tail and keeping alert in case the alpaca leaps to his feet.


One thing about shearing day that we could all learn from - as soon as its over, the alpacas are back to their gregarious, silly selves. I guess if you kick and spit when you're mad, there's no need to hold a grudge.

Blue Collar Blessings

When we lived in New Zealand, we didn't use the term 'blue collar.' The rural society we traveled in had more of an Us (the landed gentry) and Them (those who made it possible for them to be gentry) classification. I guess as farm managers we were one of Them, and I'll confess it chafed a bit.

Over here, being blue collar is just fine. Maybe its the laid back way of the west, but it sure doesn't matter if you go to the grocery store in grubby work clothes. Here, we stare if someone wears a suit or heels (unless it's Sunday, a wedding or a funeral.)

I like the fact that we work hard and honest and go to bed knowing we made a difference. If we weren't on the job, the animals would go hungry, the grass would shrivel up and the fences would remain unmended.

But what does this have to do with the handsome animal at the top of this post? Well, he's my latest blue collar blessing. For many years I've longed for a mule, and Danny came to me by the sweetest of serendipity's.

I accidently clicked onto Dreamhorse.com one night (of course, it was bookmarked on my computer but I honestly wasn't going to look at mules that night.) But, since I was there I did end up looking at mules and Danny had just been listed. He's just the sort of mule I'd dreamed of,
well trained, experienced and personable. I'm looking forward to exploring our neck of Camp Sherman.

But back to the blue collar thing. Mules have always excelled at working, they get the job done without fuss, unless a fuss is called for, and they have a great capacity for fun and adventure.

I was riding with my friend the other day, who was on a high-class Friesian. Now don't get me wrong, Friesians are the most beautiful horses to look at, the're fun to ride and the ones I work with always smell good. Kind of like some people...

Danny is generally a sensible mule or has been so far in our short acquaintance. But that day he just couldn't cope with this fancy Friesian doing a dressage movement (the passage, for those of you who know dressage) in his peripheral vision. Every time the Friesian would passage, Danny would shot off to the right, as if trying to get some space between his blue collar self and this pretentious fancy-pants. It was somewhat funny, in hindsight, though it's not too funny to be on a mule who's unhappy.

Here's Danny, off to explore his new home.

Danny is now getting settled into the pasture at Camp Sherman. The horses he'll live with aren't fancy, but they're a bit shy of blue collar. More like what we'd call 'dole bludgers,' those who depend on welfare but don't do a lick of work.

Now the bludgers want to see what's around the corner.

Oops, Katie got left behind.

I suppose Danny will fall into that group as he moseys around the grass and trees, sniffing the air and drinking the pure water of the Metolius. But every now and again, he'll work for his dinner and we'll all go to bed happy.

Gremmy Godsiff, ace reporter

Don't know about the last part of my new title, but I sure relish the first bit. Being a Gremmy is just what I imagined it would be, and it just keeps getting better.

Back in my b.c. (before children) days, I mused that I'd really rather go straight to grandmother and skip all the mother part. I'm glad I'm not the master of my universe and that God has it organized so much better. I mean, how could I appreciate not having to change a dirty nappy if I'd never done it? But you know what I've discovered? Rowan smells just like his father did...

Alyssa and Rowan's visit, two whole weeks worth, was full of moments. Some were routine, some out of the ordinary, all special. It was nice to have them here long enough to discover a routine to the days, even though Rowan's main routine is to go out of it regularly!

But here's what we did, generally...

Because we were housesitting for the ranch owner, Goddy spent the nights at the big house. But he'd come up in the morning, fix a pot of tea and wait for Rowan to wake up. The he'd have playtime before heading out for his a.m. chores. I'd get up, have tea, play a bit more with Rowan, watch an episode of Backyardigans (my new favorite kids DVD), have breakfast then head down for my chores when Rowan went down for a nap.

He and Alyssa would toddle down when he awoke; well, he toddled, she walked. Max was with me most mornings, so he'd be racing around like an energizer bunny and make Murphy dizzy.

Rowan would do the rounds of the horses, throw rocks and dirt into the creek and then we'd head back to the house for afternoon adventures. We went to Camp Sherman a couple of times to check on the horses there, we went shopping and sometimes he napped and Alyssa and I did projects.

In the evenings after dinner, Goddy would go back to the big house and Alyssa and I watched our fill of Jane Austen and other assorted chick movies. Pretty sweet...

I haven't wiped the sticky fingerprints off the windows or coffee table yet. Some souveniers you just want to keep around.

Here are a few of my favorite pics of the time.
Max and Rowan, on a mission to somewhere.

Watching Gremmy at work in the barn.

Meeting Big Max, the Friesian. I like the eyes in this picture.



Taking a break before doing more work.




Helping Goddy take a toy to the young geldings.

At Camp Sherman, we met the horses then explored along the pasture.

This is Sophie, who belongs to my friend, Kathy.

It was a long walk to where we were going, so we rigged up a ride in the toboggan we tote the hay in.




Life in the big outdoors is more fun than boys should be allowed to have!!!

Still here...

Just so you know, I haven't been abducted by aliens.

My heart was gone for a couple of weeks, while Rowan (oh, and his sweet mom) were visiting, and I confess to taking lots of pictures and not getting any of them posted yet. Actually, Alyssa took lots of pictures on my camera, which is nearly the same only better because she takes way more than I do and therefore captures many more moments of cuteness.

I promise to do a Rowan post soon, and then a Danny-my-new-mule post. Really, I promise.

Here's to you, Mom!

I want to tell you about a special party that happened last Sunday. I was up in Anacortes, and Evan and Crystal were there too.

We plotted with some of Mom's dearest friends to have a surprise luncheon for her, to honor her as my mom and to read from an anthology called My Mom Is My Hero. There's a story in there that I wrote about her called "The Care Package Queen."

One of the aspects of my mom's life just now is that it's really easy to go behind her back and plan things. She had no clue what we were planning, even as she pulled up to the house after church and I greeted her, wearing a skirt instead of my usual saggy sweatpants. I generally have such a hard time pulling these things off but it was scary how easily the lies slipped out.


The ladies had brought salads for lunch, and after eating Crystal and I read from the book. Crystal's story was by a woman from Bend who honored her Aunt Ruth. It was fitting for Aunty Crystal to read it...

I managed to get through Mom's story with just a few tears but I didn't dare look up while reading or it would have been smudgy mascara all around.

Of course, Mom cried. It's nice to bring your mother to tears in a good way!



No party is complete without favors for the guests to take home so the ladies each chose a knitted coffee cozy to put around their favorite coffee-stand drinks. It was supposed to be a choose-or-steal deal, but they're all so nice no one did any stealing. I hope the cozy's keep their hands as warm as their presence made my heart.


To be able to honor my mother in such a tangible way makes me so grateful for the gift of words. I usually choke up or get really sweaty trying to say them out loud, but somehow they come out ok when they get written down.

Plus it really was fun being sneaky!