Danger in the Wild

I’d like to say I enjoy the great outdoors; I really would! But, I’ve spent too many years learning that it can be a scary place. During our childhood, my sister stepped into Lake Michigan a healthy individual and stepped out covered in a rash. I decided that Lake Michigan ended our long-awaited family vacation. So what, if it was really the measles!

Camping trips haven’t done a thing to sway my opinion. I’ve slept in more than one soggy sleeping bag; slammed my thumb in the car door before even pitching the tent; fallen off a horse and split my pants in front of a cute guy on a bridle path, of all things; and comforted my daughter through the night while doctoring yet another lake-water-induced ear ache.

Amidst the beauty of Colorado, I have been afraid. My Dad is convinced that the color red is necessary in every good photo. Consequently, I was frequently cloaked in red sweatshirt and placed on the edge of a precipice so Dad could capture the perfect image. Scenic view aside, I don’t like the thought of falling off a cliff!

Even going “over the river and through the woods” can be a rough ride. I was frequently car sick as a child. Before the day of seat belt laws, I was often knocked out with Dramamine and put to rest in the back of the family station wagon. My father would exclaim, “We’re off” and enjoy the view, leaving those individuals who were awake to beg him to keep his eyes on the road. Much to the dismay of my three siblings, I once awoke and puked in their bag of peanuts on the way up Pike’s Peak. I thought I was very considerate not to puke on them! I have proven as an adult that very little has changed. I’ve puked in front of teens a few times after screaming, “Pull over! Pull over NOW!” I’m sure the young folks were laughing with me.

My husband thought he would convince me of the joys of nature on our honeymoon. (Okay, don’t even go there! ) As if I wasn’t challenged enough, trying to forget the “Snow Bunny” who giggled and asked me to pin up the flap on her PJ’d bottom, my new mate tried teaching me to ski in Vail. Day one was spent in the parking lot – sitting on the parking lot – fielding the questions of 4-year-olds who asked, “Lady, do you need help” Day two, I shut down the tow rope, taking all other riders to the ground with me. When I finally did make it up a mountain, my husband decided we’d take the easy route – down the “CAT” run. He failed to tell me that I would encounter hairpin turns and risk, once again, falling off a cliff!

Now you might think that my own back yard would be a place of security, as well as beauty. You might be right if it weren’t for wasps that build their homes at my front door, bees that bore into my picnic table, hornets whose nest sways above my head, a leaf pile that burst into flames, squirrels residing over the garage, and the killer trees. Yes, I said, “killer trees.”

One lesson life has taught me is beware what you ask. I have always wanted to live in a home surrounded by established trees, and I do. It seemed like a good idea . . . until our first autumn here. We spent all weekends that October raking the falling leaves . My husband had the brilliant idea that we would compost them, so all leaves were hauled to the southwest corner of our yard. There is very little decay taking place in an 8-foot high pile of leaves that cannot be routinely turned. They do, however, readily burst into flames when your husband is away on a business trip and the neighborhood children play with matches.

Squirrels are cute things when they’re running around the yard. They can be quite disruptive, however, when bowling with walnuts in your attic. Neither are they adorable when you peer out your window and look up to see a tiny head with beady eyes () peeking out of the eaves. After making such acquaintance, my husband went into the attic to investigate. He came out with the news that a squirrel clan was happily residing in a 4 x 4 x 5’ straw condo over our garage. And they didn’t seem open to entertaining guests. Having donned his protective gear -- bulky coat and gloves, boots, and a helmet – my husband returned to dance among the squirrels on the garage rafters and deconstruct paradise. Ten garbage bags, some patching and several trapped squirrels later, we are living in a squirrel-free zone again.

One of my favorite trees is an old maple that sits dying on the eastern edge of our property, outside the circular drive, approximately 20 feet from the road. I dubbed the tree the “killer tree” and anticipated the loss of life that would be suffered when it came down in our busy street and my, subsequent, loss of liberty. My husband brushed off my concerns and continued to sleep soundly – even the night the top of that tree crashed down in the one triangular place it could without entering the street, taking out our cars, or damaging our house. This year we enjoyed the shade of the remaining parts that still put out leaves. I do, however, walk gingerly beneath it and look up at the 10-foot spear-shaped piece of lumber that balances on point in the top and waits for me to forget.

My husband loves the outdoors. He played in the woods where his grandpa said the Indians lived when he was a child. When he was about twelve and got lost hunting, he spent a cool, lonely night there wearing only his clothes and a CPO jacket. He skis on snow and water, scuba dives with curious barracudas, made his first jump from a plane right after the guy whose parachute did not open, and has survived multiple tumbles from our roof and trees. He did learn, smart guy, that it is best not to imitate Superman in the trees, for blanket capes and bare limbs are not a good combination.

I am prone to worry about my other half. He is prone to tell me he is “fine.” I thought all these years he was referring to his state of well-being. Perhaps, he was trying to tell me, instead, that he is quite a hunk of male humanity for he is rarely fine in any other sense. He demonstrated this when he said, “I’m fine,” promptly fell asleep, and drove off the interstate on the way to my sister’s.

One day my husband was clearing some small trees to allow more sunlight into our garden . I carried a glass of iced tea to him and inquired, “Do you need me to stay with you while you do that?” He, of course, responded, “I’m fine.” Not confident of that, I returned to my activities in the house with his assurance none of the trees coming down was big.

A few hours later, I went to see what progress had been made outdoors. I found my husband sitting on one of our marble benches. Being no slacker, I assumed he was only taking a short break from a tiresome job. Standing next to him, I realized how exhausted he looked and asked if he’d fallen asleep on the marble bench. (When he slows down, he does have a knack for falling asleep in strange or uncomfortable places.) He assured me that no such thing had happened, but I knew something was up when I saw that his neck was scratched. Something out of the norm had taken place. Although he tried his best to sidestep my inquiries, Steve gave himself away by the slight grin that came across his face.

I learned that he tied a rope to one of those “not big” trees and made his cut at the base. Everything was going as planned until the rope was snagged on a nearby tree. The tree that was once falling as planned began to fall toward my husband who thought he’d push that “not big” tree away. Things didn’t work out as he expected when the tree pinned his neck against the neighbor’s chain link fence, cutting off his airway . He would have yelled at the neighbor in the other yard, but it’s difficult to yell when you are getting no air. I am pleased to say my husband is “fine .” (You can trust me.) He squirmed just enough before passing out that he bent the neighbor’s fence and freed himself.

So, stay out of Lake Michigan, check into a hotel, refuse to wear red in Colorado, always carry Dramamine, stay on LEVEL ground, cut down your walnut trees, bag your leaves , and beware of killer trees.


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