How do Don and I have a vacation – just the two of us – when one of us wants to sleep in a tent and the other one of us is far more rational?
That was an easy answer before the pandemic. Don suspended his love for the outdoors and his distaste for people so we could do what I wanted to do.
But what I wanted to do – a weekend in the city – can’t really happen now. Instead, we planned a trip to The Cabin.
Our plans crumbled under the weight of the February snow that often makes The Cabin inaccessible. It’s like the Overlook Hotel in The Shining.
We decided to stay home, just me, Don, and Pete. How, exactly, do you spend a weekend away in your own house? I mean, I have about nine shows I think Don should watch. Three days without the kids gave us plenty of time to watch everything.
But Don was resistant to spending 72 hours bingeing Justified and Cobra Kai. He wanted to take Pete for a hike.
On our vacation.
It was like the inverse of The Shining – instead of going crazy from losing contact with civilization, Don was going crazy from being in civilization. A hike? In February? With, like, eight feet of snow on the ground?
I agreed, but only because snakes hibernate in February.
I think.
Normally, I spend the Saturday of our annual February vacation getting a massage. Then I meet up with Don at some Old City bar, a few cold pints adding to the drunkenness of muscle release.
It’s remarkable how much a hike through fresh snow with a grumpy outdoorsman and a beagle so intent on a scent trail you could be dead on the other end of the leash for all he cares is absolutely nothing like a massage and a good IPA.
I laced up my Cabela’s snow boots. They are extremely effective against the elements – something I was unaware of when I bought them. I just thought they were cute and kind of like a pair I saw Mandy Moore wear in an interview once.
We set out on our hike, which Don would probably call a walk since it didn’t involve scaling any heights. Without snakes to keep an eye out for, I decided to search for scat. If I’m outdoors, I’m going to at least make it entertaining by looking for scat.
A few weeks ago, as the kids were sledding, Pete found deer scat. Deer scat is fairly easy to identify. It roughly approximates the size, shape, and number of marbles you’d find hanging in a netted bag, like the ones sold in toy stores. It’s bigger than rabbit scat, but not the long scat of a fox or coyote.
I immediately began to look for the associated deer tracks. Well, first I stopped Pete from eating the rest of the deer scat. Then I looked for tracks.
I was triumphant when I found them. For me, finding scat and the associated animal tracks is what I imagine it is like for people who become Rhodes scholars or Nobel Prize winners.
I’m not exaggerating. The extent of my outdoor experience was walking – grudgingly – to my neighborhood pool, through exactly no areas populated by wildlife. Noticing scat and animal tracks is downright extraordinary.
Knowing what scat even means is pretty impressive too.
My hike with Don did not yield scat any more than it yielded a cold beer at the Khyber Pass, but being suspicious and hypervigilant of Don and anyone else on the path who might murder me can make a girl miss a few scat piles.
Now, I have to be honest here. I enjoyed this walk. I was disappointed when Don suggested we turn back. Hiking when snakes and amphibians are dormant is liberating.
Don’t be upset. I’m still the indoorsy girl you (hopefully) love. A few weeks ago, my Chateau Picard wine glasses arrived. And I just discovered a website called “Star Trek Wines,” which I’ll be actively exploring just as soon as I’m done writing this.
As Don and I headed back along the trail, I noticed a building. It was beneath the trail, next to the water. It was old, stone and wood the chief materials in its construction.
I wondered aloud how many bodies had been dumped inside. Or, if not bodies, then perhaps it houses the witch, or some ghastly creature, decrepit and water-logged, resentful at being confined to this building for centuries while hikers like me cheerfully stomp past.
Don asked if I ever gave it a rest.
Unfortunately for Don, this stuff either comes out of my mouth or spills onto my laptop, published for the world to see. And really, considering the highly inappropriate story I told him on our first date, he should know this better than anyone.
I can’t share that story here. I’m sorry. But I’ll tell you the story in person anytime you’d like.
We capped off our staycation hike with a movie, something I suggested based on a friend’s recommendation. It was not good. By any standard.
So the best part of that day was our hike.
Which was probably to be expected. After all, the best part of Wendy’s day in The Shining was when she escaped The Overlook, trekking through the snow to escape the hotel.
I guess I should be grateful Don wasn’t chasing me with an ax.
Maybe next year.