While in New Hampshire - Part I

(Working title option 1: The Day Zoey Became a Service Dog)

(Working title option 2: Why to Begin a Hike at the Trail's Head)

We arrived at the Dry River Campground in Crawford Notch State Park late afternoon Monday. It was a nice campground with about thirty large spots surrounded by large hardwood trees. I got a trail map of the area from the Ranger-less Ranger station and studied how we might hike to one of the waterfalls that this area is known for. The map indicated that there were two approaches to the waterfall trail. One was to walk 0.5 mile along the highway to that particular trailhead. The other approach was to take what the map called a, "connector trail" that started at the back of the campground and ran 0.6 mile thru the woods ending at the desired trailhead.  I opted to take the slightly longer hike thru the woods and avoid the highway. 

Zoey and I easily found where the connector trail connected to the campground and began to follow the blue marks painted on the trees. It was a level path and I smiled at how easy this trail was to follow and how seemingly unnecessary the blue markers seemed to be. Soon, however, the trail took a turn and crossed a boulder field. These large granite boulders are the remains of glacial melting eons ago, leaving behind these huge river rocks. Also adding to the challenge were many large fallen trees that also now lay like debris in our path.  Once we were out of this boulder field, we resumed following the blue marks, which were now fewer and further between. Between the exposed tree roots, deep underbrush and the persistent river rocks on steroids, the trail was now a physical challenge.  The path was not nearly as discernible. I tried to walk towards a blue mark and stop there until I could spot the next blue mark before proceeding deeper into these woods.  A few times, though, this was not possible. No blue mark could be seen in the distance. These trail markers were no longer just on trees. Sometimes the mark was on a boulder. Other times it was painted directly on the rock where we walked. I would scan in one direction looking first high, and then low. Then in another direction, looking high, then low. When I could not spot the next blue mark, I found something notable in the spot where i stood, and then counted out my paces into the woods, turning to retrace my steps if my effort did not result in locating a blue trail marker. 

After over an hour of walking like this, I finally came upon a trail sign. Much to my dismay, it read my destination remained 0.5 miles ahead. How could we have walked for an hour and only advanced 0.1 mile? I later learned there were three different connector trails and I had somehow manged to navigate from one to the other, mid hike. I did take some comfort in knowing that we were, at least, still walking in the right direction. 

Our trek continued to become increasingly more difficult with the underbrush becoming thicker. I got off course at one point. I scanned and paced and scanned again. But no blue marks. So I paced off more steps and scanned again. Then paced off even more steps.  I turned to retrace my steps to the last known blue mark and was unable to locate it. I began to feel a sense of panic, right before I found a big blue mark on the ground, one I did not see before.  I looked ahead in the direction I thought the trail must go, and spotted another blue mark in the distance. We were back on the path!

I dropped Zoey's leash and let her follow freely behind me.  I was fairly certain we were the only ones in these woods and holding on to her leash while navigating over rocks and trees and exposed roots was becoming hazardous. However, her leash now dragging created sounds that had me turn around frequently thinking I was hearing someone approaching from behind. After about a half dozen unnecessary stops to turn around and canvass the woods behind us, only to find nothing, I began to ignore these sounds. We continued to shinny ourselves up over boulders and downed trees.

Then I realized I no longer heard Zoey behind me. I turned around to call her and was startled to see a man standing several yards behind me holding on to Zoey.

I said, "Oh! You scared me!"

He laughed and said, "Such a good dog." Then he let go of her leash and she came quickly towards me. I was annoyed by him not apologizing for frightening me and perplexed by him holding on to Zoey. The man continued to approach. He was wearing hiking gear and carried a day pack, so his presence in these woods seemed intentional, which gave me some reassurance. 

"I didn't hear you come up behind me," I said, offering him another chance to apologize for his poor hiking etiquette. Again he ignored me. Then I noticed he was wearing ear buds so I reasoned he probably didn't hear my admonishments. Once he was passed us and was a few yards ahead I said (assuming he wouldn't hear this either), "Will these woods ever end?"

"Eventually," he called back, while still in full stride into the trees ahead.

"Ass hole," I muttered.

Zoey was eager to follow this man. I didn't blame her. He looked like he knew where he was going - - and I obviously did not. I held on to her leash and let him get ahead and out of sight before proceeding.  I kept looking for the blue marks while Zoey held her nose firmly to the ground obviously tracking the man who we encountered. Not too soon after, I lost sight of the blue marks again and resumed my methodical pacing and retracing process. At one point, Zoey jerked me to the left in a direction that didn't feel right, but when I looked up, there was the elusive blue mark. I decided I'd let her lead and she confidently led me to the next blue mark. 

And the next. 

And the next.

It was Zoey's nose that got us out of those woods and back to the road where this connector trail supposedly officially started. Unlike my trail map, the trail's head had a warning posted: "Due to heavy rains in this area, portions are washed out. Take care and be sure to tell someone of your hiking plans before proceeding." 

It took us three and half hours to slog our way through these woods to the road. We still had the waterfall trail to hike. I looked at Zoey and she at me. We walked back to the campsite instead.

The Numbers Are In

On Thursday, July 1, 2021, I left Denver with the intention of being gone six weeks. On Saturday, July 31, 2021, I returned to Denver. Four weeks + three days. 31 days.

During those 31 days on the road, I spent:

    $919 fuel

      581 lodging (incl campground fees, motels (4) and HH donations)

      206 Vet bill (Zoey got into a tussle w another dog. This is the other dog's vet bill)

        68 new battery for Scamp

$ 1,774      TOTAL COST for 31 days on road; $57/day

Blessed Vulnerability

People often ask me if I am frightened to travel alone as I do, with just my dog and cat as my companions. I say, no. I am not frightened. I am not afraid to venture to places I have never been. I am not afraid to camp in designated campsites. I am not afraid of having car trouble or getting lost or talking to strangers at rest stops, gas stations or along whatever trail I may be hiking. But that doesn't mean all is carefree or that I approach my travels with a devil-may-care attitude. Quite the contrary. I accept my vulnerability and try to minimize any misfortune by researching routes and destinations with great care.  

Recently, however,  I mis-planned, poorly researched and rested on my arrogant laurels for one brief segment of my travels.  Spoiler alert: The Universe sent an angel named Michael E. who gallantly rescued me from my series of poor decisions. Here is what this kind soul looks like:

Dimmie invited me to camp on her recently purchased ten acres of mountain land. Her property was, sort of, en route to my intended destination. i read the first few lines of her directions and watched the video she posted of her road. "Four wheel drive not necessary," she wrote. "Just take it slow as there can be a few ruts here and there."  This where my arrogance came into play. The directions were to take highway 285 south to Johnson Village. Turn south to Salida. Turn west towards Gunnison until County Road 76. I stopped reading the details as I was so very familiar with this area. I thought I'd read about the last leg up to her property once  I reached County Road 76. What Dimmie did not write, nor did I bother to research, is that County Road 76 is on the Other Side of Monarch Pass, almost all of the way to Gunnison.  

Once I did eventually reach County Road 76, I had no cell signal and had to rely on her directions that I copied by hand from her online post. I gave myself smug kudos for planning for the lack of cell service in this old school way and continued confidently up the county road. Sixteen miles later, I found the Quartz Creek Properties sign as promised and turned left onto the dirt road that would take me to Dimmie's camping spot.

It was to be a four-mile climb uphill. Very UP hill. Within the first mile I knew I was in over my head. My front tires spun in the dirt and gravel, trying desperately to find footing. The engine roared as it fought to drag my 1600 pound trailer. (Mental note, the video didn't make the road look this steep.)  I soon learned that a running start was needed to crest each little incline. I continued white knuckling my way up until a curve in the road caused me to let up on the gas, and that was all she wrote. My van could not go up another inch. When I put it into park to consider what to do next, I could feel the gear slipping and the trailer's weight causing us to begin inching downhill in reverse. A few yards back at the curve, there was a wide spot in the road. I thought if I could drive back down hill to that point, I could at least be out of the way of any oncoming traffic. In my rattled state of mind I failed to turn the front tires in the right direction and all too soon found myself with a jack knife travel trailer that was just inches from slipping into the ditch. My situation looked something like this: 

Or maybe more like this:

I put the van into park. 

I pulled the emergency brake as hard as I could. 

And then I tried really hard not to have a complete melt down.  

I looked something like this:

Or maybe more like this:

And that is when Michael found me. He and his girlfriend came roaring up the dirt road in his four wheel drive truck. They hopped out of the truck and began to assess my situation. "Do you have any chocks?" he asked.

Chocks! Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that?  What I did, instead, in those few minutes I spent hyperventilating before Michael's arrival was to extend my recently repaired front jack in effort to stop the trailer from pulling itself and the van into the ditch.  This decision leaves me with having to repair my front trailer hitch jack, again. Sorry, Chris Shive (= another story for another time).

"Yes! I have chocks in the trailer!" I exclaimed a little too excitedly. "I just need to unlock the door." But the keys to the trailer were no where to be found. As I looked in the glove box, my pockets, the middle compartment, the passenger side floor and anywhere else I could think of for the keys to get the chocks, Michael quietly came up with a plan. "I can't find my keys," I lamented to him a little too distraught-fully. Michael told me all would be fine.  Not to worry. Just to breathe.  I felt my knees begin to buckle and thought I might vomit. In that same moment, I reached into my pocket for a fifth time and, voila!  There were the keys.

With the chocks securely in place, Michael presented me with his plan.  He would unhitch my van from the trailer and hitch it to his truck. Then he would drive my trailer uphill to my destination with me following behind in my van.  By then a second vehicle came along and this other driver helped Michael wrestle my trailer free from my van. I drove it up and around the corner to the to the next wide spot. After securing Zoey and Marzipan inside the van, I walked back downhill to assist hitching my trailer to Michael's truck. Soon we were ready to resume the uphill climb.  

I only had the intersection of where to find Dimmie's access road written in my notes and Michael was not aware of all the names the property developer had assigned to the roads.  At one point, he decided to not continue uphill and scramble across a thick meadow to ask at the cabin he spotted if those people knew the intersection I sought. Much to my delight, the woman answering Michael's knock was Dimmie herself. 

My trailer was deposited on the designated camping spot in short order. Dimmie was so confused. She first thought I invited two more friends up for the weekend. When she realized we three just met, she then thought that I hired Michael to haul my trailer up the hill. It took several attempts until Dimmie grasped the magnitude of Michael's kindness.  I tried in vain to give Michael cash but not only did he refuse, but looked a little offended by the offer.  Then he did me one better. He asked when I planned to head back down hill. I said bright and early Saturday, two days from then.  "Great!" he said. "I have lots to do on Saturday being that's the day Pitkin is having their annual Fireman's Ball and all. But I'll be back here at seven o'clock Saturday morning to get you safely back down the hill."

I stammered, and insisted that that would not be necessary. But he wouldn't hear otherwise.

And, two days later, Michael arrived as promised, just as the morning sun was beginning to lighten the lupine-filled meadow that lies in front of Dimmie's cabin. 

Her view looks a lot like this.

Michael drove slow and sure the four miles down to County Road 76. Just before reaching that welcome stretch of asphalt, he pulled over and helped me re-hitch my trailer to my van. He grew up in California, but spent his summers visiting his grandfather who lived in Pitkin. He moved to Pitkin four years previous. Bought a hundred year old house that he is refinishing. He paints signs for a living, and was looking forward to the festivities the town of Pitkin planned for that day, as he is one of the town's volunteer firefighters, and all.  After an exchange of emails and phone numbers, my animals and I continued on our journey west, leaving Michael standing in the road, waving us goodbye.

This is what the town of Pitkin looks like:

This is it's sign welcoming all. I can attest that their welcome is sincere. 

Michael E. of Pitkin is one of its legends.

Why I Drove 650 Miles in One Day to Taos, New Mexico, and Back

I've been looking for a camper trailer since before the pandemic hit. This virus has only fueled my desire to obtain a camper trailer. They're self contained, thereby reducing viral exposure to/from others. I have looked at a dozen different trailers in person since March. And I've perused hundreds of ads. I've messaged 30-40 trailer owners selling theirs, asking questions such as, "Do you have a clear title?" "When is the last time the bearings were packed?" I'm not entirely sure what the second question means, but I was advised to ask it, so I do. If nothing else, it makes me sound just a little bit more informed.

Perception is everything.

Most everything I saw in my price range was in need of some work, and I'm not a DIY fixer-upper sort by any stretch of the imagination. Then, I rented a thirty year old Scamp trailer to drive around on a recent family reunion in the mountains. I never towed a trailer before so I was a little apprehensive, but it all worked out. My vehicle was able to tow the trailer and I was able to manage towing a trailer on the road. After this experience, I became laser-focused on wanting a small Scamp-like trailer.

I realized I was going to have to increase my budget to get such trailer, and that I was probably going to have to travel out of state to find one. I saw used Scamps for sale in Texas and Utah, and a few in California, but none in Colorado. Then! One such beauty popped up on Scamp Finder site in Tres Piedras, New Mexico.  I looked up Tres Piedras on the map and saw it was thirty miles northwest of Taos. Taos is a five hour drive from Denver, so this meant I could, conceivably, drive to see the trailer, buy it and drive back with it, all in the same day. I don't drive after dark, so I always have to plan my road trips around sunrise and sunset times.

I messaged the owner LOTS before making the trip. She sounded like a lovely young woman. She and her two goats just moved to Tres Piedras from Spokane. She wanted to sell her Scamp to raise money for projects on new little New Mexican ranchette she purchased. She had a clear title. The bearings were just packed last summer. She said she had maintenance records for all the professional maintenance and repairs she had done to her Scamp. The trailer sounded PERFECT. The woman sounded honest. She revealed, after plans to come see the trailer were already made, that the cover to sunroof and cover to battery had both blown off. She offered a $500 price reduction if I'd receive as is, as getting the part in her remote part of the world was not easy.  I called around. The cover, and labor to replace, would run me approx $175. Her $500 price reduction seemed more than generous. She assured me it had been stored water tight since loosing the sunroof cover and that she'd be sure to make the opening in the roof road-worthy before I arrived.

On Wednesday, I got a cashier's check for our agreed upon price and fully serviced my own vehicle in preparation of hauling my new Scamp trailer home with me the next day.

On Thursday, Zoey and I left the house at sunrise and drove from 5:30 - 11:30 all the way to Tres Piedras, with two brief potty breaks along the way. About an hour and half from our destination, I texted the owner our status. She texted back that her dad was there making sure the sunroof was all sealed and she was busy gathering all of her maintenance records and other paper work.

Excellent, I thought.

Shortly after sending that text, we entered an extended No Service Zone for cell reception. I was glad I texted her when I did. I followed her directions, continuing south on the two lane highway about five minutes beyond Tres Piedras, to FSR 222. Then I drove along a poorly maintained rocky/dirt road about a quarter mile until I saw the sign directing me to her site number. Over a rock and down a steep short hill later, I spotted the Scamp in front of a rustic wood house (?) and knew I was in the right place.

The road leading to her ranchette.

An older man met me as I drove towards the house structure. Her father, I assumed. Nice man, but he had lost quite a bit of his hearing and all conversations with him were a struggle, always culminating in screaming the key words of whatever was being said.  Dad showed me around the trailer for the first five or ten minutes, with the young woman not making an appearance. After asking more questions than he could answer, he went into the house to retrieve the young woman. She was as friendly in person as she had been on the phone. She had a ladder positioned next to the trailer so I could see how they had sealed the sun roof.   

This was my first serious disappointment. The 16 X 23 inch hole in roof was covered with only a couple sheets of saran wrap and secured with masking tape. I immediately expressed concern. I brought duct tape with me. I mean, who doesn't bring duct tape with them on road trips, right? I got up on the roof to try and secure the plastic wrap. I was on the very top step of ladder and extended half a body length across the roof. Eventually, the young woman offered to help.

Then she showed me how the hot water heater worked. She said she didn't want to demonstrate turning it off, as it was busy making hot water in that moment. I didn't understand but decided to let it go, for now. I asked how to drain the hot water tank if I didn't want to haul the extra water weight. She confessed she had no idea. Inside the trailer, she showed me how water comes out of the sink. I asked how to drain that tank so I didn't carry that water weight. Again, she didn't know. I was disappointed to see that the shower dominated the floor plan. It was the first thing seen when entering the trailer. It also took up critical space if two people wanted to sit at dinette. The shower rendered the 2nd dinette seat inaccessible. I was less and less impressed with this hot shower feature. Also, of the four interior lights, three didn't turn on. This led to a screaming conversation with Dad about what he had done with the battery to make the lights not come on. After much yelling of repeated words it was determined that he didn't know what he had done with the battery to make the lights not work. Maybe the fuse was blown again? (All I heard was, "again".) The young woman screamed back at her dad that she didn't know where the fuse box was.

As she and her dad tried to troubleshoot the lighting situation, I sat at the cramped dinette to examine her maintenance records. Of the large pile of paperwork she left for me, it only contained two maintenance records from the previous July. That was all. No other records. When asked about prior records,  she said that she spent nearly $1,000 to make the trailer road-worthy as she had never taken it anywhere in the two years she owned it. I was under the impression she owned this trailer for many years. Her short-term ownership brought to rise a whole bunch of other unknowns. I looked under the trailer and saw worn our wood, exposed screws and rust. I was starting to get worried.

It was decided that, maybe, if we hook the trailer up to my van, it might cause the battery to turn on the lights. That didn't make any sense, but it didn't matter as it was then we discovered my electrical hook up in my van was not the same electrical hookup she had for the trailer. There was NO WAY I was going to try hauling this trailer 325 miles back to Denver with no brake lights. It was suggested I might get a converter at the U Haul in Taos. The young woman called the U haul place and, despite the poor phone connection, was able to discern that they did have such a converter. Zoey and I drove the thirty-two miles on into Taos to get the converter.

This thirty-two mile drive was thru a lot of desolate nowhere. But we did pass by an interesting "Earth ship" colony of half-buried berm homes. It seemed like a hold-over either from old bomb shelter days or the hippie era. As one looked across the stubble and sage brush covered range, houses like these popped up much like prairie dogs.  Here are some pics:

Earth ship (top) and berm home (bottom)

We also drove across a bridge that spans what is called The Rio Grande Gorge. This was the only time in our thirty mile road trip that we saw signs of humanity. Otherwise, this land is barren and almost other-worldly.

It took a bit of time to locate the Uhaul place. I was becoming cognizant of how much daylight I was burning trying to get this converter. Once back at the ranchette with the converter, it was quickly evident that this was the WRONG converter. The dad wanted to know why I bought the wrong one. I felt defensive. It was suggested that the dad go back to Taos and get the right converter from WalMart and that me and Zoey could "camp" there at the ranchette and wait for morning.  By now, clouds formed overhead. An afternoon rain shower was in the making. I went back inside the trailer to examine the sunroof one more time. I remained concerned how I was going to keep this trailer dry should the clouds open up.

It was all too much. I no longer felt excited. Instead, I felt only concern for this purchase. It was going to cost me every dollar I had managed to save to buy this. I wasn't willing to let go of all my savings for a trailer that only gave me concern.  I told them my decision to not buy the trailer, put Zoey back in the van and headed home. I decided to try and drive the entire distance before sunset as I didn't want this profoundly disappointing road trip to last a minute longer than necessary.

On the drive back home, I went thru the five stages of grief before coming to some clarity. I decided I really did want to own a camper trailer and that I really did want this camper trailer to be small and manageable with minimal frills. More important, I didn't want the stress and worry about what might break or fall off while using this camper trailer. I realized that feeling confident about my trailer is more important to me than saving a few dollars.

On Friday morning, I called Scamp Trailers in Backus, Minnesota and ordered me a brand new, thirteen foot Scamp that will be built per my specifications. Scamp only builds to order. There is no show-room or dealers. My trailer should be ready for pick-up in late March. Ayla likened this timeline to me being pregnant.

Long story short: I am expecting a new trailer in eight months... and I am so excited!

My First Baseline Dementia Test

Both of my parents died from dementia. More specifically, they died from complications brought about by the dementia.  This insidious disease doesn't kill the body, but it shuts down signals to other vital organs, which then kills the body. I think both died from some version of kidney/renal failure. By the time each passed, the disease had progressed to a point where it didn't really matter which vital organ function failed. I'm not sure who was relieved more when they died: Each of my parents, or those of us left to witness their decline.

I was rather clueless about the disease when Dad was diagnosed. Unfortunately, he was diagnosed after the disease had significantly progressed. We were made to feel that, "if only" he had been diagnosed sooner, maybe there would be more that could be done to intervene. So when Mom began to display different yet similar cognitive decline, I was quick to get her into her primary care physician. Nobody wanted the diagnosis, but I didn't want to be told I waited too long with her, as I had with Dad.

Dementia is a slippery slope. Cognitive decline is inherent with aging, so it is difficult to discern between what is "normal" and when the decline should be of concern. Mom was given "The Dementia Test" - - for lack of a better reference.  She was asked the day of the week, what city she lived in, who the President is and to count backward from 100 by 7's. Once you make it to 58, you are allowed to stop. Midway thru this test, the examiner lists five random objects and tells the patient they will be asked to recall these five objects later in the test.  The first time Mom was given the test, she struggled with the counting backward and recalling all five objects. Yet she scored high enough on this first test for us to be told there were no red flags. That her occasional forgetfulness and confusion were right on track for her age (80).

A couple of years, and more instances of forgetting later, she was administered her second Dementia Test.  It was the exact same questions asked before. But, this time she scored higher than she did two years previous. "How is this possible?" I asked her doctor. She clearly was starting to slip in my mind's eye, yet this rudimentary test did not support my observations. "Highly educated people such as your mother," the doctor explained, "are frequently able to pass this test. They are able to disguise their dementia for longer periods of time." At my insistence that SOMETHING be done, Mom was subjected to an MRI. Mom hated the MRI process: The confined space; The loud banging and clanging. And I felt awful for insisting she have one, but I was desperate to find help for her. I did not want the regret and guilt I had for my father's un-monitored decline to be duplicated with my mother's decline.

The scan was summarized as having normal amount of plaque build up for a woman of her age. Normal? Really?  We all KNEW, KNEW, KNEW something was up with Mom, but we were given no tools to address. Two years later, and another try at the Dementia Test indicated that now at 84 that the disease was probably present. We tried to keep her in her own apartment for as long as possible before moving her and her cat to assisted living. A year after moving into assisted living, her decline was so great that she lost the ability to keep her beloved cat with her. We basically sat back and watched over the next seven years this disease consume my mothers wit, intelligence and insight. She was reduced to a confused woman with only three or four stories about her life that she shared over and over (and over) again to anyone who might listen. When she finally died at the age of 92, most of her grandchildren and all of her great grandchildren had no idea what an extraordinary and vibrant woman she once was. Such is the true pain of this disease.

This is a legacy haunts me and my sisters. When one of us can't recall something or gets confused, we quietly confess to one another, or try to joke about how "it's" probably starting to happen to us now. I decided to take the proverbial bull by its horns, and get a handle on my own cognitive status. I wanted to have a game plan for how to address should the disease be present in me. I wanted to know what all they had learned about this disease in the twenty some years since initially navigating its' waters with Dad and then later, with Mom. I made an appointment with a neurologist. As I had no real symptoms or pressing brain concerns, I was given an appointment four months into the future. I'd like to say I almost forgot about this appointment by the time the date finally came along, but my truth is, I thought about this appointment nearly every single day since making it.

Ironically, the day of my appointment, I drove to the wrong office location. I

arrived early enough at the wrong location to still be able to drive to the correct office location, with enough time to still be seen by the neurologist.  After hearing my perceived justifications for making the appointment, the neurologist offered to get some baseline data on me. I was eager for this. Yes! Some data!  And then out came the same worn out and tired Dementia Test.  Seriously? Nothing else?

The five objects I was asked to remember were: Face-Velvet-Church-Daisy-Red. I am pretty sure these are the same five objects Mom was asked to recall back in 2002.  And, between you and me, I have been practicing counting backward by 7's from 100 for many years now. When the test was done, the neurologist said I scored a perfect 30 out of 30 score. "Good baseline data," she said. The neurologist commended me for already doing all the anecdotal things we are told to do to keep our brains pliable. I practice yoga, I (try to) learn new skills. I socialize and stay active.

And nothing else. The appointment was over.

In the nearly twenty years since first having Mom take this test, absolutely nothing has advanced in how we diagnose, or stave off the effects of dementia. NOTHING.

Face-Velvet-Church-Daisy-Red is my new mantra.
My plan is to fake them out for a few years, just like Mom did.

What a long, strange trip it's been: My Night as a Hospital Patient During a Pandemic

I was admitted into St Anthony's hospital via their ER on Tuesday. I spent Tuesday night and most of Wednesday there before being discharged yesterday evening. This is April 2020. We are in the midst of a world wide pandemic. The last thing I wanted to do on Tuesday was go to a hospital, much less be admitted into one and spend the night in one. Yet, this is what happened.  


It all started quite suddenly Monday night. Out of blue, I felt a sharp stabbing pain in my lower right abdomen. This same pain radiated around to my lower back.  "Like a hot poker," I would hear myself say multiple times when asked to describe the pain.  After several hours of struggling to find a comfortable position, I took a rogue hydrocodone - - left over from a previous dental procedure - - which allowed me to lie down, but sleep eluded me all night.  

At dawn, I took another pain pill and wondered what to do. "Maybe you should call your doctor,"  Ayla texted.  When she texted this, the second pill was still taking the edge off, so I stored her suggestion away for another time.  

But the edge soon returned.  And the third pain pill took longer to kick in. Feeling a little scared now because the pain was that bad, I did call my doctor.  Much to my surprise, I was scheduled for a face time appointment with her. She listened to my story and asked me to describe my pain.

"Like a hot poker," I said.
 Fever? she asked. No. 
Nausea? No.
Blood? No.  

She recommended I go see a doctor in person who was in the same medical group but in a different office location. An hour later , Ayla drove me to Dr. Ellis' office and waited for me outside. I shook off my sudden vision for how Ayla's next thirty years were starting to unfold, and waited for the nurse to unlock the office door.  Dr. Ellis listened to my story. Yes. The pain came on quite suddenly, I said. Like a hot poker, I said next.  No. No fever. No nausea. No blood. He manipulated my right leg in one direction and then in the other. I didn't moan, scream or wince. He had me hop up and down. Then he took his fingers and poked and prodded around in my soft belly flesh until he found The Spot. I moaned, screamed and winced. Dr. Ellis looked perplexed. He felt it was probably my appendix but given how the pain presented itself, more diagnostic testing was needed. I was offered either going to an independent diagnostic provider or to the hospital. He then presented me with all the reasons why going to the hospital was the preferred option. It basically came down the hospital offering one stop shopping: the hospital could both diagnose and treat whatever was the source of my debilitating pain. He assured me that if any place knew how to keep my potential exposure to the Covid virus to a minimum, it was the people at the hospital.  He would call and let them know I was on my way.

Ayla drove me to the emergency room entrance of St Anthony's hospital. Once confirmed Dr. Ellis had prepared them for my visit, I waved Ayla on home and proceeded to be processed and admitted so quickly that I was left a little breathless. The attending physician heard my hot poker story. When he asked about fever, nausea or blood, I already knew my negative response to each would not be well received.  They collected some blood and urine,  and then wheeled into the CT Exam room. As explained beforehand, the contrasting dye put into my IV for the test, filled my mouth with the taste of a penny and made me feel like I wet my pants. I was grateful for the forewarning.

At some point I was given Fentanyl for my pain. I cannot recall if it was before, or after, the CT scan. But I do recall that as this notorious pain killer started to ooze into my veins, every speck of pain I ever had in my life washed away with it.  Not only was my hot poker pain gone, but so was every other ache and pain in my body. No more achy shoulders, feet or knees. No. Pain. Whatsoever. It was glorious. 

Soon, the attending physician presented me with the results of the scan. It was most definitely NOT my appendix. It also didn't appear to be my ovaries or diverticulitis. In short, the CT scan had not revealed a source of my hot poker pain. However, the scan did reveal ANOTHER potentially serious problem. At the base of my stomach there appeared to be something pooching almost thru my stomach lining. He said he consulted with the GI team and all were agreed that this was a concern. Then the doctor paused, pulled up a chair and sat down next to me at eye level and leaned in a bit when he said his next words. "I want to admit you for the night here in the hospital and have the GI team run additional tests in the morning. I don't advise you going home until we have a better idea what this other issue is." 

And that is how my overnight stay happened. I was no closer to knowing what had caused my excruciating pain that got me there, but I now had another issue that seemed to require immediate and aggressive attention.  

I took a minute to process all that he said. If the fear of this unrelenting hot poker pain got me to the hospital, the potential of whatever was in my gut possibly puncturing my stomach while I slept convinced me to stay there. 

In short order I was wheeled from ED UNIT 1, Room 30, to ED UNIT 2, Room 20. The entire hospital had been rearranged to accommodate the Covid crisis. Room 20 where I was to spend the night, wasn't a real hospital room. It was a converted examination room. The examination table was replaced with a hospital bed. A TV was crammed up high next to the ceiling. My bathroom was somewhere down the hall. The room had no windows. The nurse who wheeled me there tried to up-sell the room by pointing out how it did have a window on the door. I could at least see out to the hallway. I didn't have pj's or a toothbrush or a comb. Just me and my cloth mask and my phone. No visitors were allowed. I didn't want to ask Ayla to drive all the way back to the hospital just to bring me overnight provisions. She already took half a day from work to chauffeur me around and now it fell to her to figure out how to care for my many animals. I slept in my underwear. 

That's a lie. I did not sleep this night either. The many tubes attached to my body, the intermittent beeps from the host of machinery surrounding my bed, and the near constant noise from the hallway beyond my closed door, in addition to all the noise inside my own head, kept any hope of sleep at bay.

Blood was taken at various intervals throughout the night. I felt the twinge of the hot poker pain trying to make a reappearance during the night, but by morning it was all but gone. In the morning, a series of doctors and other medical professionals came to room to poke and prod on my belly and to ask the same set of questions about fever, nausea or blood. The fact that I have been taking 600 mg of ibuprofen regularly to address all my usual aches and pains became a focal point. I was scheduled for a series of tests that didn't allow me to have anything to eat or drink. The scope down thru my mouth to my stomach and upper intestine revealed my stomach lining was inflamed and there was some bacterial infection on my upper intestine. This is what appeared in the CT scan as something about to perforate my stomach.  I'm still waiting for more details from the biopsy, but the end result is that this potentially fatal condition in my gut - - that was found quite by accident - - was found early enough for a successful intervention. 

An ultrasound test confirmed my ovaries were not the cause of my hot poker pain. My right ovary appeared quite healthy and my left ovary was no longer visible. What? I asked. Yes. Ovaries shrink after menopause. Some shrink so much that they shrivel up and are undetected. Such was the fate of my left ovary.  Who knew?!   

In the end, my original hot poker pain remains undiagnosed. Possibly an inflamed adrenal gland. Or an aggravated ligament. I was given a Class 5 narcotic to take should that extreme pain ever return. Enough drugs to ride it out. I was discharged later that evening.  

When I returned home, I was drained. My animals were delighted to see me, but I only had enough energy to feed them and go to bed. I can't believe I didn't shower or put my clothes in a plastic bag to be laundered.  I was just too tired.  

And I slept again most of today.  I'm trying to find my new normal without ibuprofen. I'm trying not to grieve the loss of my left ovary. I'm trying to find peace with needing to lean on Ayla more. I'm counting fourteen days into the future before I'll feel like I survived my night in a hospital during a pandemic.

Sometimes the light's all shinin' on me
Other times, I can barely see
Lately, it occurs to me
What a long, strange trip it's been

Derryclare

While on an extended visit to West Ireland, I joined the local walking club on what
they call a Hillwalk. Being from Colorado, and being a frequent hiker of the trails in
the Rocky Mountains, I feel confident an Irish hillwalk is something I can accomplish.
But to be sure, I introduce myself to the walk’s leader and ask his thoughts. He
encourages me to join them the following Sunday and advises me to bring walking
sticks. Later, while at the local outfitter store purchasing a pair of walking sticks, I
also get a topo map of the Connemara area, which includes the hill we are planning
to walk: Derryclare. The closely platted concentric circles on the map defining the
steepness of the ascent give me pause. I ask the young store clerk his thoughts about
me attempting Derryclare. He assures me I’ll be fine.

The day of the hillwalk, I ride in a car for nearly an hour with three other hillwalkers
to where the walk will begin. The two women in the back seat appear to be about my
same age, as is Pat, the walk’s leader, and our chauffeur. My confidence is buoyed.

Our five cars are the only cars in the open space that leads to where we will begin
our walk. As there isn’t a trail to follow, I am hard-pressed to call it a trailhead. Everyone
makes quick work of getting their packs on and poles out. Then it is a twenty minute sprint
down a dirt road, under one fence and over another, before the hillwalk officially starts. My
day pack is already feeling heavy and my brand new hiking poles are being very
uncooperative. They keep collapsing into thirds whenever I try to use them. I hand them to
one of the group’s other leaders to see if they might be able to figure out what I am doing
wrong.

“They’re shite,” he says after a few minutes of fiddling with them. He gives them back to me, still separated into thirds and dangling from the errant bungee cord that should bind them together. There is no time for me to take off my pack and put the poles in it. I am resigned to sprinting while holding my un-usable poles in one hand. I regret purchasing the least expensive pair in the store.

Just then, the solid ground gives way to mushy, marshy bog. Ireland’s peatland.  

In all of my mental preparations for this day, I focused on the ascent portion of the hillwalk. I completely disregarded how the hill was preceded by something called a bog. Bog. I never saw, encountered or understood what a bog was, prior to this day. 

Bog is where peat comes from. Peat is what the Irish burned as fuel for centuries to heat their homes. Many Irish adults still share a common memory of having to cut bog into bricks during the summer, in preparation for the cold winter. This rich earth is abundant in fuel because it consists of densely decomposed organic matter. The soil itself is very acidic and serves as a preservative, of sorts. Entire, intact human bodies have been uncovered in the bog. The acidic soil essentially pickles their flesh, keeping the unfortunate victim’s last facial expression intact for centuries. Human bodies from as far back as the Ice Age, and as recent as World War II, have been discovered while harvesting peat from the bog. These bodies are referred to as Bog Bodies.

In addition to being a pickling agent and a source of fuel, bog is also abundantly sticky, having the adhesive properties of Super Glue. The wetter the bog, the more tenacious of a grip this dense earth has on my boots and the sturdy (aka: more expensive) walking stick one of the group’s leaders loaned me when we reached the bog. 

“Here. You’ll need this,” he said, shoving his walking stick into my one free hand. And he was right. 

The drier portions of the bog support my weight and I am able to step from uneven mound of grass covered earth to uneven mound of grass covered earth. But when I step on a wetter portion of the bog, my boot sinks ankle deep (sometimes deeper), bringing the lower portion of my body to a full stop, while my upper body continues in a forward fashion. I quickly learn to use my borrowed walking stick to prevent my face from also falling into the wet, sticky earth. Then, I must wrestle my boot, and stick, from the baboon-like grip they are in before resuming the walk. My progress slows as I try to carefully assess each step. Is that wet or dry? Will I stay atop the grass, or sink? Step, step, step. Schloop! Stuck again. This happens every five or six steps. My walking companions, however, move like agile deer, leaping from one clump of grass to the next. I am woefully unskilled at reading this terrain. No sooner than I think I have figured out where to step, my next step sucks me in.

Finally, the bog gives way to crushed rock which, all too soon, gives way to sheer slabs of quartz jutting straight up the hill side. Pat pauses the group long enough on the crushed rock for me to catch up. I welcome the brief minute or two I am given to free my one hand of my unusable sticks, drink water and to collect myself. Then the group begins climbing straight up the rock face. Yes. Straight up. No meandering back and forth. No gentle, hairpin curves. No following of animal tracks. Shy of one small toad I came face to face with while struggling to extract myself from the bog, I have seen no sign of animal life here. The bleating of sheep can be heard off in the distance, but no chipmunks, marmots or squirrels. Not even a bird. The bog and this rocky hillside appear devoid of any life other than me and my hiking companions and some very persistent mosquitos. (I later learn it is rich in unseen bog life, in particular, eels. I am grateful I was unaware of the eels at the time of this outing.) My now-wet boots are like water on ice when trying to find a foothold. For every three feet up I manage on this slippery rock, I slide back down another two.

The group pulls further and further ahead of me. The two men who were behind me in the bog, are now at my side giving me words of encouragement. Eventually, the older of the two who volunteered to be, “The Sweep” when the walk first started, tells the younger one to go on ahead and let Pat know he will be with me for the remainder of the walk. It appears, to me, that our summit isn’t too far ahead. The Sweep and I slowly make our way to where the group waits.

But this isn’t the top. There is another summit looming in the distance, not visible until reaching this faux summit. My lungs are sucking in air like I am a three pack-a-day smoker. My leg muscles are screaming. I ask The Sweep (who I later learn is named Jerry) if the group will come down the same way we are going up. I intend to ask if I can wait for them here to return. “No,” is his unwelcome response.Then the group begins moving uphill again.

I start walking with the group, but don’t hold this position long. I begin to lag further and further behind, with Jerry. We see the group reach the next summit and continue on down out of sight.  Then it is just me and Jerry. Many long minutes and painful strides later, Jerry and I finally reach this second summit. The group is so far ahead now that they are almost indistinguishable from the dapple-colored schist of what Jerry assures me is the real summit of Derryclare.

I am done, and Jerry knows it. As we rest, Jerry gets out his compass and begins plotting a different way off this rock. While he plots and figures, my cell phone rings. Yes. There is cell service in the vast bog and rock-covered  lands of Connemara. It is Pat. I give the phone to Jerry who tells Pat that we are going to head down from this second summit and catch up with the group down below. Pat says he will look for us there.  

Before beginning our descent, Jerry hands me a tube of energy gel and tells me to have some. Then he hands me his water bottle and tells me to drink. As we descend, I realize I have become “that person” who shouldn’t be where I am. Jerry’s prime directive now is to get this American woman safely off the mountain without having to call the search and rescue team. Even more unexpected, I embrace my new-found role of hapless, adventurer. I not only allow Jerry to tell me how to walk, where to sit, when to drink, and how to breath, but I welcome his direction.

Once down and back in the green lush grass I eyed lustfully from above, I realize that the walk is far from over. I now must traverse the bog again all the way back to the road. There are several times while extracting my jelly like legs from the earth’s grip that I want to sit down and cry. I do bitch and I do moan. But it is with a small degree of pride that I say: I did not cry. 

Much to my surprise, the group is all still waiting for Jerry and me back at the cars. We spotted them crossing the last bit of bog below us while we were still up on the rock. I know they were waiting at least forty minutes for us, but no one complains. Instead, they greet us warmly then we all drive to a nearby pub to talk about our day. Upon arriving at the pub, I re-introduce myself to the others as, “that American woman,” and we all have a good laugh.