Year 5 from 12/28/1986 – 12/28/1987
Cabin Camping
Dale and I were active adults BC (before children) and we were determined that having children would not alter that behavior, that we would not succumb to the couch, or to Daddy-Dockers to Mommy Jeans to elastic waistbands. Seriously. We ran with Meghan in the pre-jogging stroller, the double wheels vibrating like an old ’50 Chevy that exceeded 50 mph, with her gums (pre-teeth) chattering over every bump in the road. We played intermittent tennis games while Meghan toddled around the adjacent tennis court, certain to stop a rally whenever she stepped on our court every minute or so. We hiked, as long as ever, only not as far. In fact, we learned the incontrovertible rule of the age of the child equal to the total miles a family could hike without serious catastrophe. For example, Meghan was 2 ½ and our hikes were about that in miles (total per day) and all was well. Any farther, things deteriorated inversely to the time it took to get there.
We thought we had this parenting thing down, or at least the car camping part. Since children take to camping like a labrador to sticks, like a cat to cat nip, we headed to Dale’s property in Cascade, Montana, 30 miles from the nearest town of 500 people. A remote place, just on the eastern side of the divide, where the National Park Service drops errant bears, where hunters prowl in search of deer and antelope—this is where Dale’s cabin was and where we stayed.
It took four days to get there, four agonizing days of eight excruciating hours of the Cinderella tape played incessantly (at least 130 times going there), with Meghan screaming “play it again” each time the tape ended (18 minutes 45 seconds) and not a wink of sleep from her car seat. Finally, with the last few bumps and turns of the road, just as we pulled to the site of the cabin, Meghan mastered the art of sleeping in the car; the rhythmic bouncing on the unpaved washboard of the county road rocked her to sleep. All we had to do was find other backcountry roads for the return trip, and maybe, we could make it back in time for the start of the school year. It was late June, plenty of time.
The rustic cabin was one room with exposed insulation on the walls and plywood for floors, a wood burning stove for cooking and heating, yet this possessed more comfort than the tent. Dale built a ram pump, so we enjoyed running water and a stream fed solar shower. A hammock strung between two beautiful aspens provided the perfect napping place for our toddler, for any of us. A creek, barely a trickle in summer, at the bottom of our hill provided hours of amusement for Meghan, where she was safely entertained with mud and rocks and bugs and water. Meghan ran between swinging in the hammock to splashing in the water. It was a glorious vacation, primitive, elemental, fun.
Love is Complicated 