Every Single Place I Roam
We went camping again. I didn’t take any videos this time because it’s not something I’m fond of doing, but also, I find myself living in the moment these days, not worrying about being able to see pictures of the moments later. Mostly…
This time we went hiking by the reservoir in this picture:
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It didn’t look like that this year. The water was full of an odd spongy algae that was fresh and green on the rocky bottom and a drying brown on top, like a mushroom meringue. I didn’t take pictures of it this time. I also didn’t take pictures of the random DIY toilet we found near a campsite there. I should have. That’s something I’d like to not forget.
We encountered a herd of someone’s horses out and about. Of course, we stopped to say hello. There were babies. How could you not stop to say hello to the puppy horses? It turns out puppy horses are not as excited to see your giant truck as you hope they’ll be. However, the mother horses were just fine with moseying over to say, “Hey,” and have a bite.
I did take a picture of that.
Our truck, Mortimer, was bitten by a horse. I can’t stop laughing about it. I don’t think Brian was as amused, but what are you going to do? You can’t undo it, so you may as well laugh about it.
I also took a picture of the hobbit hole that’s back by the reservoir. It’s used to house empty Gatorade bottles, leaves of bygone autumns, and spiders. There is an old light switch box hanging on the one side, so at some point it had electricity.
I’m going to imagine a little old man named Gilroy lived there with his flock of sheep in the nearby pasture with the rickety fence. He likely had a single bed with one lonely ecru pillow, stuffed with the leaves of the cottonwood tree out front. Along one shelf-lined wall, where the Gatorade bottles now stand, he probably kept pickled eggs and jars of mutton stew. The two vents on the roof are tied to a large pipe that goes down to the floor inside. There is where his potbelly wood stove likely sat, keeping him and his dog Boxty warm through the brutal Wyoming winters. It looks like Gilroy has been gone for some time now. His door is laying off to the side, semi-buried in the earth.
There were a few scraps of cloth nearby. They could have been all that remains of Gilroy, coyotes and bears having stolen away his bones. They could have been leftover tent canvas from whoever left the Gatorade bottles. We may never know.
Title From:
Stone
by Whiskey Myers
