It’s Raining Ranas (Frogs)

           After an onslaught of amphibians during this last storm, it brought to mind a strong pattern that seems to be building... Ever since one of our first few dates, frogs have been a recurring theme in my relationship with Dave, for reasons I won’t go into here.

            Moving to the ranch just added fuel to the fire. Before we moved, I spent a night camped out alone on the property, just to be sure I was whole-heartedly on board with this new adventure. As the sun set on one of the most beautiful views in the world, the frogs began chirping. I grew up on a lake, and the sound immediately transported me back in time. (Unlike many people these days, I actually enjoyed my childhood, so this was a positive thing.) The darker it got, the louder they got, until you literally couldn’t hear yourself think. I was in love. Goodbye, freeway noise! So long, train whistle! Hello, frogs!

            While we were refurbishing the "barndominium," we lived in a trailer on the property. As time, and the remodel, dragged on, and on, and on, our trailer started having some issues. The primary problem was that the plumbing was intended for use once a year, in a campground somewhere, using the trailer’s battery operated, low-volume, water pump. Being plumbed permanently to a common-variety garden hose was apparently too much pressure for the system, and the “pipes” (they were actually hoses themselves) developed leaks at the couplings, particularly under the kitchen sink.

            We were far more worried about dealing with the real pipes in the barn, and so Dave's quick fix was to drill a through-hole under the sink so that the water would drain out under the trailer rather than onto the kitchen floor. We’d only be living in there a few more weeks, and then we could patch it, right? Riiight…

            This was during the spring, when the pond was starting to dry up, and the frogs were desperately seeking any water source they could find. In fact, one evening I went to feed the dog and discovered that a bullfrog had commandeered her water dish. Not only did the frogs find their way to the mud puddle under the trailer, but also up through the hole into the trailer. (Works both ways, doesn’t it?)

            So it happened unexpectedly one night that when I opened the kitchen cabinet to pull out a pan, Schlook!, out came a flying frog, and Bap!, he stuck to my arm like a gecko.

            Needless to say, I’m sure my shriek was heard all the way down in town.

            This went on for a couple weeks, with me always just distracted enough to forget until, Schlook!, Bap!, Shriek!

            Then it became kind of a game. I’d open the cabinet and dodge out of the way to see if they could make it all the way across the room. I’d always release them into Blue’s water dish (the bullfrog had moved on by then), and they would make the journey back into the cabinet. Finally, after a time, they just became part of the daily routine.

            In fact, by now it was summer, and we had been given an old water tank by one of the neighbors. The top had been cut off, so it made the perfect swimming pool. I could just fit a raft in it, and be spun in a circle like a propeller by the wind.

The frogs enjoyed the pool just as much as I did. They immediately colonized the edges, and as I spun in a lazy circle, Bap!, they would leap off the walls and join me on my raft. Que sera, sera.

            Well, the barndominium was finally finished before the following winter, and as much as I missed my companions, it was nice to have clean dishes for a change. As the rain poured down one evening, I sat covered in a quilt, a cozy fire burning in the Franklin stove. Suddenly, Bap!, there was one of my little buddies, plastered to a window pane on the French doors.

            I was almost tempted to let him in.

Almost.

Sassy Bitch

            In order to get to the ranch, we have to drive a two and a half mile dirt road that is fairly unmaintained, and that gains 1800 feet in elevation. Needless to say, four wheel drive is the only way to go. And after anything more than a tenth of an inch of precipitation, your only hope is a quad.

            When we first moved up, we had neither. While we searched for a used 4WD truck for me, the neighbors were kind enough to loan us a quad. Now, while I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and truly appreciate how much they helped us, when we learned they had nicknamed this fine piece of machinery “Sassy Bitch,” we got an inkling of how she was going to respond to our demands of her.

            Sassy had one back tire that was smaller than the others, so she listed to port (left). I learned quickly how to fight to keep her going in a straight line. I also learned how to stop sideways when opening all the gates on the road, as she had no parking brake.

            What I couldn’t seem to get the hang of, though, was predicting rain. Rain events are big on the mountain. Everyone has to stage their cars down on the pavement at the bottom of the road and use their quads on the mountain, or risk getting trapped on one side or the other until the road dries out. The trick is to have the right vehicle in the right place at the right time. It is almost a party atmosphere – everyone watches the news, and then there is a mass migration down the mountain. Some of the neighbors use trailers, others shuttle with family members, but everyone has a system.

            Except me. I was always a day late and a dollar short. The storms seemed to hit whenever Dave was away at work, so I ended up doing the shuttle alone. Which meant hiking one way or the other quite often as part of the shuttle. The hike is beautiful, and great exercise, but in the mud and rain, or in a time crunch for work, it lost its charm quickly. And there always seemed to be a propane tank or a basket of laundry at the wrong end of the road because I had planned poorly.

            When I did actually stage everything correctly, the commute was still a big adventure because Sassy was not a four-wheel drive quad. Her two mismatched back tires slipped and slid all over the slick clay soil, throwing mud in every direction as she went. (But mostly on me, or the clean clothes.)

            The first big rainstorm hit one morning during “rush hour,” when I had no choice but to slide down the mountain to be on time for work. I was only cruising at about five miles per hour, so the first time I hit the brakes for a steep section, Sassy’s slide was in super slow motion – BONK! – into the bank. The second time, I tried to move to the right so a neighbor could pass me, and – BONK! – into the bank again.

            By the time I got towards the bottom, the rain had been falling for quite a while. So when I hit the final steep section, Sassy went into a power slide of her own free will and spun a full 180 degrees before – WHOOPS! – no bank, just off the road completely and into a ditch. Strike three! I’m out! I left her where she lay and hiked the rest of the way.

            The next storm caught me by complete surprise. I woke up at about 4am to rain thundering on the roof. What do I do? Do I make a run for it and sit in a coffee shop until it’s time for work? Do I call in sick? It’s hard to make decisions that early in the morning.

            Because I had just gotten my truck and didn’t trust my 4WD skills yet, I opted to hold off and see how the morning progressed. I ended up finding a co-worker willing to pick me up at the bottom of the mountain, and slogged my way down on foot.

            As I did, I was gratified to pass a neighbor’s car abandoned just past our gate. It was clear from the skid marks that they had tried the 4am gamble and lost. Then I passed another. And another. It was almost eerie, but I did feel vindicated. I’m not a complete idiot; even the veterans got caught offguard on this one.

            That feeling disappeared quickly. When I came home, it was dusk, and Sassy had been at the bottom of the road for a few days. When she sits alone for more than a couple days, she deflates a front tire and refuses to start. I tried and tried, to no avail.

            I thought to jump start her like I’d seen Dave do several times before, but she sat on just enough of an incline that I couldn’t push her on to the main road to give it a go. I pushed and dragged until I felt my back getting ready to go on strike again, and finally admitted defeat. It was now after dark, and there was no way I was going to risk becoming a mountain lion’s main dinner course, so I called a neighbor for help.

            Her quad was back down the main road at another neighbor’s house. So I hiked down to pick it up. By the time I got there, he had it ready to go, and after a quick lesson on how to shift it, I was on my way.

            It was a dream! 4WD, no slip-sliding, no mud clumps pelting me, no constant steering to the right, and I could even park when opening gates. Who knew?!

            Well, we finally found a deal on our own 4WD quad, just in time for my sanity to remain intact. We returned Sassy to her owners with a new battery and seat. (Did I mention that the mules ate half the seat almost immediately after we got her?) And then we waited in anticipation of the La Niña winter forecast for this year. Bring it on! I’m ready!

            Riiight…

Calamity Jane

            They walk among us. They are behind you in the supermarket, and sitting next to you in the café. They are the incredible women who straddle two worlds – after working nine to five and picking up the kids from soccer practice, they ditch their high heels for cowboy boots and run home to throw hay to the livestock, fix fences, and move cattle to the upper pasture.

            In Montana? Of course.

            Texas? Hell, yes!

            But Southern California?

            Absolutely.

            They live on dirt roads, off the power grid, and sometimes even, without running water. They can break a horse, fix the clutch on an ATV, and bake a cake for the ladies luncheon in their woodstove.

            I have always been fascinated by this world. As a teenager, I sought out books like Pioneer Women. I watched reruns of Little House on the Prairie up to an age I am too embarrassed to admit. I appreciate, and have even dabbled in, the art of quilting. And I have been a country music fan for decades.

            Yet I was born and raised in Southern California.

            It wasn’t until I met Dave that I discovered that this world did indeed still exist in modern times, and within miles of one of the most modern cities in the world. Since then, I have met many incredibly strong, genuine, and graceful women. Some of them still use oil lanterns to light up their evenings, while others have taken advantage of the affordability of solar power to make night life more convenient. Some haul ice from town to keep cold storage coolers working, others use propane refrigerators. Some of them still even haul water to their homes. (Although they use water trucks, not buckets like Laura Ingalls did.)

             I am a recent immigrant to this lifestyle. While I have always been a fan, I was not born to it. But when Dave was offered the opportunity to caretake on a ranch set in the Los Padres National Forest, I was wholeheartedly behind him.

            He, however, had some reservations. Not necessarily about whether I could tolerate it. It was about whether I would survive.

            A little background on me: As a child, it was rare to find me without a scab, scrape, or bruise, and usually all three at once. Not only was I active, I was also a klutz.

            As I got older, the trips to the emergency room only increased. Of course, it was never for glamorous accidents, like breaking a leg skiing slalom on a triple diamond run in Vail. No, my pathetic accidents were things like stepping on a stingray in the tidepools, badly spraining my ankle falling out of bed (a futon, actually), and losing the tip of my thumb to a dog during a game of fetch.

            A former roommate even made note of the fact that each successive move I’d made since college brought me closer to the local hospital. In fact, the most recent move had taken me from seven blocks away to only one. Now I could walk to the emergency room for my weekly visits. As a volunteer, not a patient!

            Usually.

            And now I was moving into the National Forest. Far away from the hospital. Or even a neighbor. (The closest one is over a mile away.)

            Dave set some immediate ground rules. One was to ban me from using any of the sharp knives, which is really no problem since he does most of the cooking anyway. (Yes, I am a lucky woman!)

            He also spent the first two months we were here reminding me at every turn, “Be careful!” or “Watch for snakes!” Which was also no problem, because it showed he cared about me. Or at least didn’t want to be bothered with a trip to the emergency room.

            And so far, so good. (Knock wood.) The only midnight trip to the emergency room has been for the dog. (Who knew an 11 year old dog could get pregnant?! Isn’t that 77 to you and me?)

            And so far, it has been fabulous! One of the first months we were here, as we sat around the firepit watching a bear saunter past the pond, it suddenly hit me. It’s Monday night. A good three-quarters of the rest of the world is inside their homes watching football. Oblivious to the wonders taking place fairly close to their own backyards. And not a single, solitary part of me misses that.

            I know that I still have a steep learning curve ahead of me. But I have some incredible women to learn from. And I hope someday to glide as gracefully between landscapes as they do. If I don’t get eaten by a bear first.

The Badass Tinkerbell

            I have always had a healthy respect (read “fear”) for guns. Growing up in Southern California, the nightly news is full of reasons to be leery. Now that I have spent some time on ranches and in the backcountry, though, I recognize there is another intention for guns – not as weapons to destroy fellow human beings, but rather as a protective tool. A tool that protects a family from starvation, that keeps livestock from disappearing to predators, or keeps a child safe from the jaws of a mountain lion. Still, I would rather not be the one staring down the barrel of a rifle at a coyote that’s on the receiving end.

            Nevertheless, one of the first things Dave did when we moved to the ranch was teach me to shoot. He is gone for extended periods, so it was inevitable that at some point he wouldn’t be around when the need for a gunslinger arose.

            We practiced with a .22 pistol full of snake shot (imagine a little package of metal bb’s that spray out in a cloud). He set up a cardboard box with a popular logo on it, and, I apologize in advance to all you Disney fans out there, I shot Mickey Mouse.

            Lesson over, the gun was hidden away, and a year passed with no need for me to pick it up again.

            Until the following summer. I came home from a long day at work that was further complicated by a sinus infection, and all I wanted to do was crawl into bed and sleep. All the animals greeted me with their demands for attention, but I brushed them off and ran for the sanctity and solitude of the house.

            Except for the insistent, incessant, meows of Big Max. He sat on the porch mat and cried for a good 15 minutes before I finally had enough and shut the door in his face. Big Max hates to be pet - he just wants to be near you, and I just didn’t have it in me that night to sit on the porch 5 jeet away from him, in a cloud of flies, until he was content.

            Well, that apparently pissed him off royally, so he decided he was going to show me who really runs the place, and went off to round up the mother of all trophies. I obliviously went on with my evening chores, got ready for bed, and went to crawl into our magnificently comfortable bed and dream sweet dreams.

            Only… Is that a cricket I hear out there? No, too constant… A cicada? No, too loud… O my god, it’s a rattlesnake! And judging by the noise, he’s pinned down and angry at one of my dear, sweet pets.

           So I run outside – crap, it’s dark, where’s my headlamp?

Back inside, find the headlamp, back out, and it’s still too dark.

Crap, where’s the big flashlight?

Back inside, there it is!

Back out. Sure enough, there’s Big Max pacing back and forth in front of a very large, very angry, rattlesnake he has cornered in the yard.

Get away, Max, get away!

Back inside. Where’s the gun? Shit, shit, shit, is it loaded? How do I know for sure?

Quick (read “frantic”) call to Dave – “How the HELL do I load this gun?!”

But, of course, straight to his voicemail. Breathe.

Oh wait, I can see it now, it’s already loaded.

Back outside.

So… there I was… pitch-black, moonless night… barefoot… in my nightie…flashlight in one hand….22 pistol in the other…

It’s hard to feel like a badass when you look like Tinkerbell.

BUT, I aimed just like Dave taught me, pulled the trigger, and…silence.

No more rattling, no more movement, no anything. TOTAL BLIND LUCK. Literally, because I’m pretty sure that I closed my eyes when I pulled the trigger.

And, of course, I didn’t believe I had hit it.

Aren’t they deaf? Maybe I completely missed, and it didn’t hear the shot, and that’s why it hasn’t moved…

So, I shot again, and nothing changed.

Shit. Maybe one more try?

This time wood splinters from the flower bed went flying, and the percussion made ME deaf.

Oops – that was a real bullet, not just snake shot. We’re done here!

Down went the gun, and now I’m going in with the shovel. I’ve been told rattlesnakes can still inject poison after they are dead, and now ALL the animals are here to see what the commotion is about, so “Off with it’s head!” (Are you starting to see the same underlying Disney theme that I am in all of this?)

            So… there I was… hacking away at a dead snake… still in the pitch-black… still in my nightie… and I can just about hear Big Max in the background saying, “Take THAT!”

Some Kind of Beginning

       The past few years have been a crazy, wonderful, adventure. As people have asked questions about my life, I have recognized the outlandishness, as well as the comedy, involved. And the more people laugh, the more I am compelled to create more laughter. The best part - it's all true! Okay, I'll admit to a little poetic license, but the majority of what you will read is complete fact, with maybe just a little exaggeration here and there.

       And since it's a really slow time at work, it's time to start publishing some of this adventure. I'm starting with one of the first stories that I emailed to close friends and family, with lots of giggles in response. From there, I'll go back to the beginning, and fill in the holes with (hopefully) some more laughter.

      Make of it what you will, but know that there is nothing more fun than being able to make fun of yourself.