Stories

How We Braved Hot Waters in Winter

We sure picked perfect days to stay at the Mount Princeton Hot Springs Resort located between Salida and Buena Vista, Colorado. Descriptions of the Resort and what fuels the Hot Springs can be found on their website. The resort was beautiful and the food was great. And thank goodness, swim suits were required attire.

I had an unexpected experience at a hot springs where we stumbled upon their clothing optional policy. What a surprise to discover that! (Maybe I’ll share that story in a future article.)

At the hot springs the highest temperature was only 10 degrees! (Outside temps, not the water!) And in order to make it into the deliciously hot springs pools, we had to take off our towels and make a mad dash for the water.

Holy goosebumps Batman! My body had never been exposed to anything so shocking. Unless we’re talkin’ childbirth. I could see my arms turning blue starting at my fingertips and moving up towards my shoulders. Kind of like commercials where characters gradually turned to salt.

The large pools were positioned close together close to the bath house. You could choose from two large pools the size of a normal swimming pool. After we crossed over a bridge above Chalk Creek’s rushing waters, it led us up to three secluded Japanese cascading pools. Temperatures ranged from 107 degrees to 101 degrees Fahrenheit.

The hot water felt marvelous! Compared to the cold air above our shoulders it felt like a heated blanket wrapped around us from neck to toes.

On the way up to the pools ahead was a Juice Bar where they offered smoothies, beer, wine and light lunch or snack options.

Inside was a gas fireplace. You’d better believe I huddled up close to that flickering conveyor of comfort. Doug had to pry me away.

Our discussion sounded like this…

“Do we really have to go back out there?” I had wrapped my arms around a log pillar inside the Juice Bar.

“Don’t you want to get into a nice warm pool?”

“Can’t we stay here longer?” My nails were now digging trenches into the wood pole.

“Honey, you know you’ll feel great once you get into the water.”

But I was overcome with the sensuous feel of warm toes and dry towels. It was getting dark (and colder). And the idea of walking out onto frigid concrete with a wet head and frosty legs was a show-stopper. Eventually though I let go of the log pole and we ventured outdoors. Doug said he was proud of me. I vowed to put my cold feet on his back later that night in bed. Yes, he’s the one who kicks the blankets off in the middle of the night. He’s been known to put his icicle feet on me before sleep disables his wicked ways.

After the first afternoon of dipping, we went to a local store and bought me a fuzzy bathrobe. (Something I highly recommend. The fuzzier the better.) Doug didn’t buy one for himself because, well, he’s a manly man and could brave the cold like a champ. So now my ensemble consisted of the polyester designer robe and towels wrapped around my wet waist to shelter my legs. I made quite a dishy picture.

Are you getting the impression that all I can do is complain about the cold? Was I oblivious to the beautiful mountains, the features of this luxurious resort, the delicious food and the decadent warm waters? Well, I’m not ignoring the benefits of having a get-away and time alone with my frigid footed husband. We treasure those adventures. Between work, writing and family commitments, time for fun away from home are infrequent.

I hope you make time to visit a Colorado hot springs. Just not in the winter!

Doug’s Manly New House Project

Never in my life would I have imagined I’d be taking pictures of a septic tank. But here we are! Doug decided to take his do-it-yourselfer skills to the next level by installing a septic system for our new house. Estimated date of house completion is December 2023.

Boy it’s been quite the journey!

At first there were the measurements. I never knew you’d need to be so specific when dealing with, well, you know. But it does. You need precise locations to get the right flow (again, too much information) and location of trenches.

He used his BMS (“big measuring stick” in Laura language) to get the right elevations so we knew where the tank and pipes should go. We trudged to and fro across that property to get the locations just right. I helped by carrying the BMS, moving from spot to spot so he could take shots. No, there was no drinking involved, although if you watched me from a distance you’d think I was tipping a few. I staggered around the property for hours.

It was important to be accurate.

Doug: Ok, go stand right next to that clump of wood.

Me: Which clump?

Doug: The one I just showed you.

Me: Okay, I found it.

Doug: Now turn the rod (not stick) so the numbers are facing me. Move it to the right just a little bit.

Me: Is this better?

Doug: I mean lean it to the right. After that, walk in a straight line over to the next spot where I dug an X in the dirt.

Me: Where? There’s more than one “X” down here. (I could hear the sigh from yards away.)

Doug: Walk two yards to your right, then stop at that big log. Next you’re going to move west to the orange stake, then two feet south…

And so it went. He was very sweet to tell me how much he appreciated my help and how he couldn’t have done it without me.

But the next day he bought a laser level that would send a green light from the transmitter on a tripod to the receiver attached to the BMS. I was out of a job.

Back at the house, little baggies of soil appeared all over the kitchen, deck and dining room table. He weighed lumps of dirt for weeks.

Then he sifted. Did you know there are specially designed sieves to filter dirt? Yep, bigger lumps would remain on the larger sized screen, then the rest would fall to the next smaller size and so on. It was like watching a baker create a cake but without the frosting. In the meantime he measured the percentage of big stones and fine dirt to get a mix that met the standards. This would thrill the county inspectors, so accuracy was important.

You can imagine our dinner conversations.

Earlier he had removed the old septic tank. By hand! It was a big concrete box about the size of an elephant. He dug around it ’til he could get the tractor bucket underneath to lift it out and then hauled it away in pieces. (Yes, the tank was empty, in case you were wondering.)

After the hole for the new tank was dug, we drove up to Denver to get it. It looked like a big black plastic caterpillar 15’ long x 5’ wide and x 5’ high. I gave my husband a lot of credit for rigging a lift to move that tank to and from the trailer.

There was this one little mishap when he asked me to move the truck forward S L O W L Y so he could nudge the swinging tank into place. But I had missed that last part. The truck lurched (on its own, of course) and the thing swung around and almost knocked my long-suffering husband off the trailer — “head over tea kettle” as my gramma would say. (Oops, so sorry honey!) Then he repeated the whole process to drop the tank in the ground at the site. This time he kept me a safe distance away. For him and for me.

But the work wasn’t done yet.

While I was snuggled up at home in front of the fire (like the lazy girl I am), he was out ’til the late hours digging and laying pipe. But he said he liked it. Yes, really! He loved getting dressed up in his quilted overalls, heavy coat and beanie to go play in the dirt. I couldn’t talk him out of it.

“Honey, are you sure you want to go over there in the dark with these freezing temperatures? Can’t it wait until morning?”

“Nope. I’ll be fine. It’s really not that cold once I get working.”

He grunted, beat his chest, then lumbered out of the house towards the tractor and shouted “Hi-Yo Silver!” as he drove away.

All the men in my family were eager to help Doug dig. That’s what they said anyway. Secretly they wanted to run the excavator. You could almost hear them in their manliest moments growling like Tim “The Tool Man.”

Then it was finished. The time had finally come to extend an invitation for the County to come out and inspect. And they loved it! Well, maybe I’m being too generous. They probably grunted, checked our names off a list and drove away saying “We’ll catch ya next time!”

Grocery Shopping Pet Peeves

I’m not crazy about shopping. Especially when it comes to grocery shopping; my goal is to get in and out as quickly as possible. It’s an exhausting process to make all those decisions, so I try to be efficient. I make a list and ALWAYS try to eat something beforehand. Otherwise, you know what they say, you’ll grab anything in the store that looks like it would taste yummy. For me, that would be everything in the bakery department and the ice cream aisle!

Coupons have never been my thing, and I also don’t believe in driving around to a number of different stores to scoop up the specials. The wear and tear on my psyche navigating traffic and crazy drivers, along with the extra time it takes, is just not worth it. Unless we’re talking about wild salmon that arrives in the summer. I’d make a trip to the moon for wild salmon!

I have a system once I get to the store. I start at the back, work my way through all the aisles that feature our favorite items. Once in a while I have to circle back to find something I’d passed by without noticing. But it doesn’t happen very often. I hate retracing my steps.

So you can just imagine how frustrating it is when I get to the store and find they’ve reorganized all the shelves!

Good grief, why do they do that? You get used to a certain configuration and then they go and mix everything up. Is it because they want you to stay in the store longer, make more trips up and down the aisles and “discover” tempting new items? Or is it because some market research company figured out a better way to display foodstuffs so we vulnerable, unsuspecting consumers would spend more money?

It’s one of my biggest pet peeves.

But here’s another one: the 2 liter soda bottles they put on the top shelf, organized in some kind of rack that makes it IMPOSSIBLE for a short little person like me to wrestle them free. I struggle with it for a few minutes and then (horrors!) I stand on the bottom shelf. I know, I know, that’s a big risk because if I break the shelf, all those items will crash to the floor. And what if grocery clerks hiding behind those cameras in the ceiling look down and see what I’m doing? I just know they’d send out some kind of security person who would issue a shopping citation. “Code blue on aisle four!”

You can only get so many of those warnings before they ban you from the store and you have to find somewhere else to go. Then, you guessed it, you have to adjust to another new configuration. Until you do, it’s like wandering in the desert looking for the promised land!

So, I’m very cautious about standing on that bottom shelf. Ultimately, I look around and eyeball the tall people to find anyone who looks like they’d be willing to help me. Most people take pity on me as they watch me jumping up and down to dislodge some out-of-reach item.

Another pet peeve is when I buy ice cream and end up behind a person in the checkout line who takes FOREVER. I stand there watching the container slowly soften, then after the checkout, I race to unload it into the trunk of my hot car. A smarter person would bring an ice chest with them, wouldn’t they? But I like to live on the edge and am not about to change my ways at this ripe old age.

You know what else dives me crazy? The person who stops in the middle of the aisle to check their grocery list. Then they give you a dirty look when you politely say, “excuse me” and try to wiggle your cart past them. I do give a lot of slack to elderly folks and parents with a passel of kids hanging off their cart. But some people are just clueless. You know how you can sense if someone is standing behind you? Well, these people were either born without that chip or they just don’t care.

It occurs to me with all my whining that I ought to be thankful to have so much variety to choose from. I should appreciate the ability to find food on the shelves in great quantities. We have so much plenty in this country compared to other places in the world. I shouldn’t be such a complainer.

So I’ll stop. But before I go, one last thing. Am I the only one who ends up with the cart that likes to veer to the left or right, has one wheel that goes “thump, thump, thump” and slows to a skid when you least expect it?

I thought so. I’ll pray for us both.

Are you a Cabin Mama too?

Whether you grew up in a cabin, adopted one as you got older or relish the lifestyle that comes with cabin living, you can be a Cabin Mama too!

You’ll know you’re a Cabin Mama too if you…

relish living in the woods,
enjoy wood smoke and campfire smells on your clothes,
have a love/hate relationship with squirrels,
love the looks of knotty pine,
use pine cone fire starters,
jealously guard your stacks of firewood,
can cook over an open fire,
love the smell of bacon and hash,
collect old wool army blankets,
have used kerosene lamps,
love wildflower bouquets and wild strawberries,
frequently engage in sing-a-longs,
savor coffee on the deck or porch,
trade plants with neighbors,
host hunting parties and camp reunions,
collect old hats and coats people left behind,
have been known to use an outhouse,
pump water at the well,
enjoy the iris and daffodils Gramma planted,
can skip makeup altogether,
get up early to see deer in the front grove,
are used to living with a wide variety of indoor insects,
love the scent of pine trees.

Yes, we’re all Cabin Mama’s at heart. I wish you many years of loving and living and making memories in your charming abode!

Warmly, Laura

Colorado Dinosaur Bones

We got the heck outta town a few weeks ago and drove up to see the Dinosaur National Monument. We spent a few hours (and $25.00 entrance fee) cozying up to a collection of dinosaur bones embedded in the side of a rock face. The National Monument and the Dinosaur Quarry is located near Vernal, Utah at the border of Colorado and Utah.

Both me and my Mom have always been fascinated by geology and what can be found within the rocks that cover our earth. Mom jokes that she’s almost as old as the dinosaur bones. But far from it. She’s such a kidder!

It’s fascinating that creatures that large roamed the earth, but when you get close to the bones, you get a sense as to the size. It’s also very interesting to read the story of the paleontologist, Earl Douglas, who stumbled over bones projecting out of the rocks, which led him to start digging in 1909. President Woodrow Wilson made the area an official national monument in 1915. Read more about the Dinosaur Monument history.

The interesting thing is, all these bones were found piled up on top of one another and embedded in the rock. It makes you wonder how that happened. Well, they believe the dinosaurs died in a flooded riverbed which washed the bodies and bones to an area where their bodies stacked up in one spot. That’s why this was such a great discovery!

And they’re still finding more bones! In the summer of 2019, paleontologists found a Stegosaurus femur, three intact teeth and countless other fossils. Read all about these latest discoveries.

We were glad to find the Quarry Museum air-conditioned, but they do require you to be masked in order to enter. It can get pretty toasty in the summer, so bring a hat and water if you decide to hike the trails at the Monument.

It does leave you with a sense of awe that creatures like this lived in our neck of the woods, so to speak. And if you’re hankering to see more fossils and dinosaur bones, you can also visit Garden Park Fossil Area near Canyon City, Colorado.

Camping with Hubby at Flaming Gorge

We visited Flaming Gorge. There’s nothing like a camping trip to strengthen the bonds between husband and wife.

Thankfully Doug did all the preliminary research, made reservations, and got us safely to the campground after we visited Dinosaur National Monument. He’s great with logistics. All I had to do was sit in the truck and let him do all the driving. He also packed the truck, unloaded the truck, set up the tent and the canopy too. Then he carried both kayaks 98.367 yards down to the water’s edge. (I did carry my makeup bag to the tent.)

In case you think I must be a real prima donna, I did the shopping, meal planning, packed the coolers and did all the cooking. I’ll have you know that in 19th century Italy, a prima donna refers to the “first lady” in an opera who performs leading roles. Generally she sang more music than other women in the company. In other words, she did the most of the work.

So being a prima donna isn’t always a bad thing. I entertained my wonderful hubby by breaking into song the entire way there and back. Just sayin’, I do earn my keep!

Once we got to the campground, it was time to pick the best spot for the tent. You don’t want it too close to the fire and the opening should face the picnic table. There can’t be too many lumps on the ground and it’s got to be level. While our site was close to the potty, it couldn’t be downwind.

Every year we have to re-learn which tent poles go where and in what order. There’s nothing funnier than watching two fairly intelligent people trying to teach each other how to understand simple directions. And it’s amazing how instructions can be easily misunderstood:

Hubby: “Grab that pole and push it towards me.”

Me: “Which pole?”

Hubby: “The long one. Push it over this way.”

Me: “What way?”

Hubby: “Push it through the sleeve on the top.”

Me: “It’s stuck.”

Hubby: “Here let me come over and do it. You hold the corner down.”

Me: “Which corner?”

After the tent was finally set up, we took a quick drive over to the Visitor’s Center. We camped within a few miles of the Flaming Gorge Reservoir, a beautiful mini-Grand Canyon that borders Utah and northwest Colorado. When we got there, we approached a sign that said, “Danger Cliffs. Guard your children.” Nobody has to tell me twice. I’ve been afraid of heights my entire life. Just thinking of it as I write this article twists my stomach in knots.

We could have gone horseback riding while we there there, but the trail meandered along the rim. That was a deal breaker. Why would I want to climb up on something five feet higher to look down into the abyss? Even at the Visitor’s Center I wouldn’t go near the corner window, which was suspended over the gorge. I let Doug take the pictures.

The next day we took the kayaks out. Now, I’m fine with water. I grew up with lakes and pools and even competed in synchronized swimming events. I have no problem getting into the kayak; it’s the getting out that gives me the trouble. Thank goodness Doug was a submariner in the Navy. He knows all about how to lift heavy, awkward, talkative objects out of the water.

We had a great time once we got settled at camp. The weather was perfect and the bugs were few. Once it got dark, we started a campfire and sat with our heads tilted way back looking at the stars. There was no light pollution and we could even see the Milky Way and tons of shooting stars. It was a wonderful experience.

Doug leaned over to me and said, “Isn’t it great we get to sit here in the woods, smell the pines and look at the stars?” I replied, “You mean like we do when we’re home?” Ha! Somehow it’s different when you drive six hours, get woodsmoke in your clothes, sleep on the ground and put up with noisy neighbors!

But after two days of tenting, I was ready for a shower. So, we packed everything up (again) and moved over to the cabin he’d reserved. T’was a welcome change. If you ever decide to go, we stayed at the Red Canyon Lodge near Flaming Gorge. There is a small lake there in case you want to take your kayaks or canoe.

We had planned to move from the cabin back to the tent on our last day, but I hated the thought of setting everything back up again. Instead, we left a day early and stopped along the way for a visit at my brother’s house. He has a shower.

Now, just so you know, I don’t mind tenting. We’re fairly mobile and have a better selection of camping spots. I like it better than trying to navigate one of those huge campers. But after you get home and think of all the work you put into the trip, you might question whether it was worth it.

Yes, yes it was. The stars, campfire, kayaking, snuggling together in the tent and seeing Flaming Gorge definitely was worth it. And now that we’re home, we really appreciate our comfy bed and a full sized shower!

We still have noisy neighbors, however. There’s nothing like a few screech owls to remind you of the great outdoors!

The Engineer’s Wife

I married an engineer.

You’re talking to a woman who doesn’t balance her checkbook, goes by the rule “good enough IS enough” and cooks by the seat of her pants. As my former boss knows all too well, the term “planning” is anathema to me. Risk assessment is a phrase I’ve never much dwelled on. Project management scares me silly and “measure twice, cut once” is a lesson I still haven’t learned.

Enter my wonderful husband, Doug.

He balances his checkbook to the penny, glories in the magic of spreadsheets, color codes his calendar and keeps emails longer than I’ve kept tax records.

I’ve learned a lot in the four short years we’ve been married.

For example: it’s “soil” not dirt; it’s “concrete” not cement; and it’s “fuel” not gas.

I’ve grown used to pillow-talk on Subsurface Utility Engineering, foundation design, reinforced concrete slab, erosion control BMP (best management practices), traffic control device spacing and signal timing.

Oooo, baby! Whisper it to me slowly!

When we read in bed, I’m absorbed in Jerry Jenkins’ Left Behind books. Doug is knee deep in Reinforced Concrete Design.

We have baggies of “soil” all over the house and a jar of dirt and water measuring the separation of clay and sand. The official name is “Sediment Suspension Test” in case you were wondering. The jar sits among other decorative items on our fireplace mantle. While Doug observes sediment layers measured in centimeters, I see an image of snow covered sage bushes.

He’s planning a leach field for our future home and texts me love notes of holes in the ground with protruding measuring implements. Last year for Christmas I got him the Survey Linker Rod he asked for. I call it a BMS – Big Measuring Stick.

Our dinner conversations are all about perc tests and clay deposits.

The garage is now organized with every rake and shovel and broom in their own special spot. A tennis ball hangs to indicate the exact spot to park the car. Tools nest in drawers according to size and function.

When I hang a picture on the wall, it’s a hit or miss process. He’ll measure from stem to stern (he’s a Navy guy) to find the right place for the nail. I marvel at how he only needs one hole to do the job right.

Yet, I’m the fussy one when it comes to loading the dishwasher. I re-arrange to get maximum cleanliness. And God help anyone who puts plates in the wrong spot. I’m sensitive to water flow and soap dispersion, ya know.

Together we make a great pair. We poke fun at our quirks and find plenty to laugh about. I love his wit and sense of humor. He puts up with my penchant to collect books, boxes and old furniture.

I call him “Cookie Monster” ‘cause he sneaks out of bed at night to raid the pantry. He calls me “Blondie” although these days, it’s more a pet name than a fact.

We’re lucky we found each other. And he’s the best Cabin Dude this Cabin Mama could ever have hoped for!

The Bigger the Fur Balls the Better

Animals are funny. Never thought I’d say this, but they seem like they’re almost human.

We are step-parents to my daughter’s dog, Penny, a lovely chocolate lab. She’s won our hearts, but that doesn’t mean she’s got us wrapped around her finger (or paw).

Take feeding time for example. We have a routine where we let her out for her morning relief before filling her food dish. She’s barely finished her business outside when she makes a mad dash up onto the deck, through the door and over to her food bowl. You’ve never seen such unbridled enthusiasm! She’s panting hard, rearing up on her hind legs and bouncing around the kitchen like a baby goat. Then she gobbles down her food, navigating her way around the plastic maze in her bowl designed to slow down the gulping action.

She knows a few words quite well: treat, food, dinner, time to eat, and outside are the primary ones. She also knows “rope” which refers to the knotted rag rope she chews on, wrestles with, and drags all over the house. To her credit, she also knows the words sit, wait, stay, and lay down.

Oh, and it’s a big deal when someone pulls in the driveway or she hears the doorbell. What a ruckus! This summer I was on an HGTV kick. There was a commercial every ten minutes that featured a doorbell. I would grab the remote and mute the volume to keep her from launching into another dramatic home protection response. It’s great to have a dog around for protective purposes, but I wanted to spare her (and me) the drama of false alarms.

It amazes me how much Penny understands and displays human-like behaviors. She’s a consummate beggar and is picky about the person on whom she showers her attention. That would be my husband, Doug. But food trumps all. When he finishes his meal and there’s no more to be had, if I’m still eating she moves right over to me. She sits there, focused like a laser beam on each bite I take. Her head tilts and her eyebrows twist. If I look over at her, she wags her tail. The tail wagging speed is commensurate with the likelihood of accessing food. If I move to get up from the table, she goes into hyperdrive and follows the plate (not me) over to the counter.

When she does something worthy of a T.R.E.A.T., I put it down on the floor and she knows enough to wait. She sits there staring at the morsels, then ever so slowly tilts her head and looks up at me with those big brown eyes under bushy eyebrows with a pleading expression. You can almost hear her thinking, “Please ma’am, can I have some more?”

I swear she has an alarm clock in her belly. She knows she gets fed in the morning after her trip outside, so I can understand that. But her evening feeding instincts are mind boggling. She’ll come trotting over to me and when I try to pet her, she’ll veer away in the direction of her food dish. This gets repeated a few times, just to make sure her purpose is clear. This act can start about 3 pm. When I get her drift, I look down at her and say, “No, it’s not time yet.” Then she snorts, sneezes, circles around a few times and plops herself down at my feet to wait.

Her feeding time is anytime from 4pm on. At 4pm on the button, she signals it’s that special time (in case I had forgotten). As I move toward the food bowl and say, “Alright, alright!” the bouncing and panting begins. (I wish my kids had been that enthusiastic when they came to the dinner table!)

Her food bowl is designed like a plastic maze with corridors where the food accumulates as I pour it in. This “slow feeder bowl” is supposed to slow down the eating process and minimize gulping. I’d hate to think how fast she’d eat if the maze wasn’t there. It’s all gone in a matter of minutes. My daughter put a sign on the dog food container that says, “Penny has been fed. Don’t let her fool you!” It’s designed to prevent others in the household from taking pity on her and thinking she’d not yet been fed. The sign also says “morning” on one side and “night” on the other, so we can avoid falling prey to her oh-so-persuasive doggie charms. We flip the sign over to signify what time of the day she’s already been fed.

I’ve always been a cat person so being adoptive parents to my daughter’s dog was a new adventure. She is a sweetheart who follows me from room to room and settles down at my feet to nap. She’s easily pleased. Food and love are all she craves. We can do no wrong in her eyes. Now I understand the adage about trying to be the person your dog thinks you are.

Then there’s our cat, Snickers. She rarely interacts with Penny because she’s better, ya know. She’s really in charge and just puts up with the interloper. Occasionally, Penny will get a little too close, causing a quick response from Snickers, the princess. There’s hissing, batting of paws and (if looks could kill) an expression of pure contempt. I call it the Garfield look.

Snickers makes it clear when she’s hungry too. We’ve indulged her and it shows. Her pudgy tummy and apron swings back and forth as she trots down the hallway to her napping spot. At the end of the day, she hops up on our bed, makes a few quick loops around the perimeter and settles in next to my husband. During the night though, I feel a hot, furry body snuggled up next to me, which is nearly impossible to nudge out of the way. (It’s not my husband, silly.) She sleeps close most of the night unless she jumps to the floor and makes that awful hacking sound of an emerging fur ball. Do I get up in the middle of the night to clean up the mess? Nope. But we tread carefully in the morning.

Speaking of fur, we get a “two-fer” between cat and dog hair. Of course, I could clean more often. But why do that when cat hair gets deposited in little wet fur balls on the carpet and dog hair rolls down the hallway like tumbling tumbleweeds? It’s so much easier to just pick them up and put them in the trash. Why do all that vacuuming?

I’m afraid we’re hooked on having a dog and a cat, but my husband talks of us getting a horse or two. I say, the bigger the fur balls, the better!