Backcountry mammal

Once upon a time, my favorite mountain animal was the marmot. That was a foolish time. I've grown up and fallen in love with another: the pika.

I've known about this guy for a while now, but I never got to build a relationship with one (well, one posse) until last night.

We camped in Pikaville. This wasn't intentional or immediately apparent, but after settling into the tent to relax before dinner, we heard "MERH!"s coming from all around. We'd look up and there would be a pika being adorable. Usually that involved gnawing plants and scampering off to their homes where they'd store it. They can stock a pile up to fifty pounds! Oh my goodness!

Our tent was on prime harvesting ground (meaning uncomfortable splotches of grass), but they were like, "Whatever, we'll chomp on grass all around the tent even though it's in the middle of the night and Kelly is totally freaked out hearing animals scurry around one foot from her head." (When you're half asleep, 900-pound bears and 1.5-pound pikas sound alike.)

Because of their ears, work ethic, and friendly noises, pikas are the most precious mammals in the mountains. I want to learn their squawky language, wrap them in my arms, and chat with them about farming techniques.

Backcountry boyfriend

My boyfriend is like one of those TV boyfriends. The good ones. Here are examples from this weekend:

Me: Oh my God, this uphill portion of the trail is the devil.
Drew: Let's take a break. Here is punch. Here is Advil. Here is a granola bar. Let's repack and I will take all the heavy stuff. Let me take your bag up the hills.

Me: Oh my God, I have to poo in the outdoors.
Drew: You can use the hole I just dug, and here is the toilet paper.

Me: Oh my God, life is so hard.
Drew: Here is a snuggle, and here is a briefcase with a million dollars cash inside, and here is a domesticated perma-baby elephant.

These are not all 100% accurate, but close. He really did dig a toilet for me!

If anyone else were my trail guide, I would be reflecting on the past four days with thoughts like, "My muscles are sore and I'm not sure it was worth it," but instead I'm thinking, "I want to go on more multiple-night backcountry adventures with my boyfriend!"

Now I'm afraid I've revealed the secret treasure to the world and you connivers are going to steal him away for YOUR backpacking trips. Shoo.

Backcountry trail

"Kel Bel, I called you like a thousand times to tell you how good-looking you are, but your phone was off! Why?"

Friend, the boyfriend and I backpacked. We slept three nights in the great outdoors with the threat of bears, rummy losses, tent breath, etc.

We completed 70%ish of the Teton Crest Trail. Thursday, we moseyed up a few thousand feet with the help of a tram. (It moseyed up the mountain so our feet didn't have to! What an angel.) Then we hiked down and slept.

Friday, we walked down a huge hill, up a huge hill, saw a nice lake, hiked up another huge hill, and then back down another hill into a sweet camping spot. Friday, I was grumpy. My blisters developed. The boyfriend was, like the tram, an angel. Unlike the tram, he did not physically carry me up the hills. I forgive him for not being a big, red, people-carrying machine.

Saturday was easier peasier. Again, we went up a hill, down a hill, and then up a hill, but this last hill was the tip-top of our hike! No more big hills after this one! Ninety-eight percent of my body felt glad as we moseyed down switchback after switchback and I saw miserable souls trying to get up the pass we had just conquered.

This morning, we woke up knowing we were the best at everything in the world. We hiked out of the canyon. A bull moose conveyed his message of, "Goodbye! We enjoyed having you!" by sitting in a field and not making eye contact.

And that, palios, is why you couldn't reach me these last few days. And why I have blisters. And why you shouldn't come over if you don't want to see them.

It has been FOREVER since I shared a Cuteoverload photo with you!

Timer gone wrong? I don't know!!!

Transportation II

My car stinks. Some people think it's a bad thing. These people include my boyfriend and roommates. They fail to identify benefits of stinky cars. See, until now, my car didn't have a name. I called it "The Lumi" or "Whaley" or "My Hot Car", but it's obviously none of these things.

Heretofore, you should call my car The Stinkmobile. Variations are also acceptable, such as Stinker and Stinkfest '09.

Why the stink? Magnificent question, reader. The answer is boring. I leave my windows open in the morning because it's hot, and then afternoon thunderstorms roll in and drench my seats. They begin mildewing immediately. Then, distraught, I roll up my windows to protect the interior from further moisture, and the mildew begins to bake.

Want to ride in Stinko? Yeah, you do! Stink! Stink! Stink!

Transportation I

My new bike cuts through the air like a spoon in one of those Argentinian steaks - that is, it cuts well. (This simile would work better if I were trying to show how cool the air [or "steak"] were instead of the bike ["spoon"], but I don't care. It's nice knowing that somewhere in the world, the steaks are tender enough to be cut with a spoon, and that somewhere in Wyoming, I have a new, fast, adorable bike.)



I am still figuring stuff out, like my favorite place to rest my hands and how to efficiently put my feet back in the strappy pedals after I have stopped to pet a Bernese Mountain Dog. I will learn these soon. Until then, I will be a semi-master of speed and cuteness.