This weekend was a magical one for me, although unfortunately not in a sexual manner. It was more the kind of weekend you get wherein you go up to the mountains, and make yourself one with the trees, and can’t sleep for even five minutes because your mother is in the same bed as you and is snoring at approximately the same decibel range as a jet airliner on takeoff, constantly making HONK Pssshhhhhh HONK pssshhhhhhhhhhhh HOOOOOOONK pssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh noises, over and over again, until you have to take the pillow, easing it closer and closer to her face until…
Um, wait. Sorry, I’m just on edge after the magical weekend I had. Let me explain. It began at the Village Inn, where we ate breakfast. I will not mention what happened in the bathroom, excepting that this one dude apparently got something that definitely did not agree with him, and his anal regions were making this fact quite clear to everybody in the restroom. I myself had trouble eating after hearing this exchange, to the point that it took me a full thirty minutes to eat everything that had been placed in front of me by our well-meaning waiter. This was the most entertaining portion of our trip.
So we drive up to the mountains, as my mother shows off her impressive mastery of the local terrain by saying she didn’t know that the “fry bread” place was as close to a town on the route as she had thought. Then, we went through Jemez Springs, a beautiful city right downriver from the main foresty part of the trip.
TRUE FACT: When we stayed at the “Giggling Star” Hotel in Jemez Springs, the guestbook had an entry that read “Rub-a-dub-dub, three women in a tub.” My mother is still frightened at this thought.
Anyway, we stayed up at a nice little motel south of a big lake called La Cueva Lodge. It’s usually pretty nice, and I know that the “Bear” room has cute stuffed bears all over the place that I will never touch, because God alone knows what kind of evils could inhabit them, and it’s not like you can ask the people at the hotel whether any of the guests had plushophilia (assuming of course that you WANT to know). We stayed in “Bluejay”, although I don’t think it really matters. What does matter is that there’s a little river behind the lodge, where you can fish. It is of course separated from the lodge by a steep cliff, assuring the wise angler that there will be no old people with stories at the bottom.
I didn’t catch a fish until my mother and I drove out far beyond the fish hatcheries, beyond the survivalists, and beyond everything else that was not directly tree-related. There, I caught a fish within ten seconds. This was the dumbest fish in recorded human history. I mean, seriously, I was in fact using a worm, which generally guarantees a fish of some kind, but it was like this fish wanted to commit suicide, and I am not for a moment suggesting it wasn’t. I think it had probably lost its fish girlfriend, and was attempting to become a Goth fish by getting a fisherman to stick a hook in its side, the same way human Goths go to body piercing shops.
Oh sure, other things happened involving extreme bodily functions and gaseous emissions, and I eventually realized it was time to go once I hit on the idea that fake wolf ears would make excellent places to stick fish hooks, assuming that one actually wanted to wear them, because they would blend into the surroundings. But I think that this trip can be summarized in the way we left the mountains: Quickly, with me trying to figure out how to draw a wolf for no apparent reason.
It was a magical trip.