Yes, I am still alive. Two months ago our van broke down on us for the last time. Instead of spending close to a grand to maybe-maybe-not fix it, and running the risk of breaking down on the way to Colorado, we scraped it for $400 and jumped the bus with our buddies with all of our useless crap shoved in the back. Including a “new” bicycle! We went and camped up in the San Isabel National Forest for a couple days, ate massive amounts of beef (I’m sorry, but though the brisket was pretty good, those ribs were chewy, tough and over-soaked in mesquite…), shot some shotguns (got to hunt a squirrel, though a raven snatched it before I could skin and cook it up – the whole thing, right out of the chiller!), and went to see Bishop’s Castle.
We live outdoors in tents and cars and RV’s, here, and what do we do when we go on vacation? Camping. LOL!
I’m glad I’m out of Scarborough and out of Texas. Unfortunately, we’ve traded extreme humidity for extreme dry heat. You’ve heard about the fires in Colorado. Well, the one in Co. Springs is 20 miles south of us. The town of Larkspur is already prepared to evacuate at any moment. Most of the Rennies are pre-packed for a quick move (not us, we’re too lazy, grumble, grumble), there’s a helicopter and several heavy firetrucks camped out next to the town fire station. The city already has the evacuation route signs posted, covered, and the moment they’re uncovered they expect everyone to move.
We can see the smoke from the fires from Castle Rock, and we’ve all been watching the yellow smoke blowing directly over the Faire for days. Thankfully, for the last couple of days we’ve had rain. Not much, but the cooling temps, higher humidity and calmer winds have helped the fire fighters get that fire 70% contained by this morning. Those of us at the blacksmith shoppe are great pals with the local fire fighters, who often come up on the weekends in uniform and chill out with us. A lot of the news about the fires is conflicting and confusing, so I only trust what the fire fighters tell us.
We’re living in a tent now with all of our crap scattered all over the floor driving me nuts day in and day out. The tent’s okay, but we’re in a stupidly sunny spot and right on the edge of “bear country,” the edge of the camp were the bears come in from down the mountain. So long as everyone leaves them to the dumpsters we’ll all be fine. So far we’ve only seen the young little black bear (finally saw my first wild bear!), but we’re all waiting for that 600lb. brown to wander down and cause some real havoc.
I’m back in the swing of things, quite literally, in the shoppe, and it’s taken a massive toll on me. For the last three weeks I’ve been swinging a hammer for six days out of the week, including the weekends. I know I’m averaging 40 – 60 hours in the forge a week. Callouses and burns cover my hands and arms, and every single part of me hurts like none other, especially my fingers. My grip is, however, stronger than I think it’s ever been in my life. That’s about the only good thing going.
I’m stressed, I’m tired, and I’m on the edge of another breakdown. I’m on the borderline of burnt out. Already. For at least the last two or three weeks, we’ve been down to one regular meal a day and – if I can make myself eat it – a couple hand fulls of food. I’m so sick of noodles. Tasteless, slimy, nutrient-dry f-ing noodles. Normally, we love our noodle diet, but not when I wake up for days in a row shaking, totally drained, even though I sleep for at least 9 hours a night. I’m cranky, even after a couple of cigs.
I snapped pretty hard-core at John this morning, when I couldn’t find the tobacco in time. I’d already been up since the ass-crack of dawn and my thoughts were nasty and directed toward him. I can’t work in a blacksmith shoppe, keep the house, the yard and my rat clean, organize rides into town, cook food, and be expected to make decisions all by myself. I am overwhelmed, backed up and behind in everything. I haven’t showered in a week. And my boy wonders why in the hell I can’t relax.
This is the first time in weeks I’ve made it to get onto the internet to make a blog post and it’s a grouchy rant… lol, go figure.
On another note, our baby Mona’s transformed into about the best road rat EVER. She’s completed her first full year on the road and she’s 18 months old. In Scarborough we were wanting to breed her, but after careful consideration and talking to a couple other rat-moms, we decided not to. She’s too old, anyway, and by the end of Scarby she no longer had her little ratty “seasons.” She’s calmed down a lot, and she’s a habitual survivor. She’s earned our trust at this point enough so that we’ll let her out of her cage as soon as the sun hits the tent. She’ll clamor around awhile and then find a cool spot to wedge herself into and she’ll go to sleep. So long as she’s got access to her water in her cage, or there’s a half-frozen water bottle left in a tub that she can poke a hole into, she’s fine. She passes out like a brick, though, so we don’t really know how she is unless we either tear up the house, or wait for the evening when it cools down and she wakes up to play. She always makes it, one way or the other.
Mona had a brand-new cage this show. There was no way we were going to keep her in the horrible plastic storage tote that trapped in heat. Besides, she was so bored in that cage that she’d chew or groom holes into herself. Now that she has a great big tall bird cage with hammocks and ramps and a granite stone slab to lay on, she no longer picks at herself. She’s maintaining a great weight, and she’s re-honed her little muscles with all the climbing – her favorite pastime. At first, she didn’t care much for that hammock, but then she realized that she could fall on it and not get hurt. In no time, she learned how to do crazy acrobatics and catch herself in the hammock. LOL! When she wants back into her cage, she’ll climb up the side, catch the top bar of the door, swing in like a monkey and let go with perfect timing to plop into the middle of the hammock. THEN she will lean over the hammock and get a drink. ^.^
We wish we could have bred Mona. We want all of our ratties after her to pick up on her special survival techniques. So we’ve decided that after all this fire business passes, we’ll go to a pet store and adopt us two little girl ratties between four and six months old. Now that Mona’s hit mid-life, and since we’re not getting tiny babies, she’s more likely to tolerate some new ones to the family. We’re hoping to select a couple rats that will eventually bond with us and Mona and learn some of her good survival habits. When she gets into her golden years, we’re hoping the two babies will love and groom and take care of her. (Rats seem to need more attention the older they get… is that just me?)
The heat is making everyone in the campground cranky. The drama that reared it’s head in Scarby mutated and dropped on Colorado, despite the frequency in which everyone takes off to do other things off site.
Diary of a Wandering Hen 
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