For those of you not on hand-shaking terms with the on-the-go potty, here we have one, in full use, at Lake Mary, Arizona.
And for those of you who didn’t tune in yesterday, the weekend found us on an exodus from Phoenix in a quest for autumn colors, nippy climes, and a walk in the woods.
But it’s been a warm fall, and by late Saturday night, after four hours of driving (including potty stops–should I include the potty stops?) and fifteen miles of backtracking due to miscommunication with Husbot (I will definitely include the backtracking), the most color I’d encountered was on a t-shirt in the Mormon Lake Lodge Steakhouse and Saloon:
I held little hope for the next morning’s color quest.
Oh me of little faith. Speaking of faith, the Mormon Lake Lodge is terrific, great for Midgets. There were no Mormons in evidence, nor, for that matter, was there a lake, which dried up fifteen years ago. All that’s left is a puddle–albeit a lovely puddle–eight miles from the Lodge. But no one much seems to mind. The place was lively with hunters, junior hunters, and non-gun-toting vacationers who all slept in until 8:13 a.m., when the Midgets embarked on an impromptu and very noisy hula dance behind our cabin. We’d already been awake for hours. We fled deeper into the hills.
And, lo and behold, almost twenty miles north of Flagstaff on a Forest Service road, we found what we were looking for. The Midgets even kept their hats on (see yesterday’s post). The picnic lunch (our doggie bags from the Steakhouse and Saloon) languished in the fridge forty miles southwest of us, our filets and chicken fingers probably being eaten by vengeful residents of the surrounding cabins who were laughing heartily at the misfortune of the noisy pygmy neighbors and their irresponsible and forgetful parents.
But we got the last laugh.
We were collecting yellow speckled leaves, chewing on milkweed, blowing dandelion puffs, and crying about the prickles in our socks. We were holding hands, navigating the fringe of the aspen stands through bunch grass as high as Gbot’s head.
I am not a hiker, and so I was surprised by the wholly absorbing process of determining the path of least resistance from the junior aspen stand back to the car with a twenty-three month-old, each step as important as the entire journey. The math doesn’t seem to add up, but I am sure the equation would have infinity in it somewhere, and also that zero with a slash through it, “undefined.”
Before heading out onto the highway for home, Mbot and I spent nearly twenty minutes in the bathroom at the cafe where we ended up having lunch:
Me: “Are you done?”
Me: “Are you done now?”
Mbot: “No. Don’t look at me.”
And so we came full circle, the same shape as a toilet seat.
How was your weekend?