CHRIS PITTS AND THE CASE OF THE MISSING PIECE OF TONGUE (PART 1)

Disclaimer:  Before I offend anyone here.  (I am good at doing that on occasion) I want everyone to know that I take the disease known as Cancer in any of its forms very seriously.  I have lost several friends to this heinous illness, and I have a cousin who I know may read this who is winning her bout with it.  Ever since I was a little kid if something scared me I would turn and laugh at it.  My sense of humor has always been one of my greatest strengths, and in many cases a very strong defense mechanism.  In this case, the event scared the “What is that smell?” out of me.  I have to laugh at it to keep my sanity.  All of that being said please know I do not lack any compassion for those who have faced or who are fighting cancer.  So with all of that being said, if you choose to read on, please enjoy…..

CHRIS PITTS AND THE CASE OF THE MISSING PIECE OF TONGUE (PART 1)

As I sit here and write this something is bugging me.  I really can’t put my finger on it other than to say I have a weird sensation on the bottom of my tongue.  I can’t really tell because I can’t put my tongue on it to check it like you would a sore tooth.  It’s on my tongue!  Oh wait.  Several weeks ago a piece of my tongue went missing!

Flashback 1930’s North Africa.  Oh wait, not that far.  Flash back several weeks ago.  I had to go to my dentist for a checkup.  Now I am sure that all-in-all dentists are nice people.  They have just chosen a profession that most people given a choice would not partake of their chosen craft.  I am one of those people….

I would rather have a tooth pulled than have to visit a dentist.   WAIT……

OK so let’s get beyond all of that and get to the reality that I actually made it to my dentist and was able to sit in the chair and the wonderful work of teeth cleaning begun.  It is at this point where I am having a one sided discussion (Why do they ask questions of you with both hands in your mouth?) with my hygienist that she pauses.

“Do you realize that you have a white spot on your tongue?”

“Whargh BYU targing abut wete sputa om ne tingue?”  (Translated:  What are you talking about white spot on my tongue?)

“Yes right here on the right side you have a white spot on the bottom of your tongue.  I will need to check with (Name withheld to protect the innocent.) But you have a very discernible white spot on your tongue!  Haven’t you seen it?”

Now what is really amazing here is that Dental Hygienists have mastered the language known as “Talk with two hands in your mouth.” It takes years of practice and is required for anyone to become a Dental Hygienist.  Just so you know.

Second, she asked me if I had seen the white spot on my tongue!  Who looks at their tongue?  It’s just there.  It does its thing whatever that is, and we all go on happy and healthy knowing that.  NO one gets up in the morning and says “Gee I guess I better look in the mirror and see how my tongue is doing!  Then I’ll have some hash browns.”  NO ONE DOES THAT!  (Tell me no one does that….. Please.)

FYI - Even when she showed me the “white spot” in the mirror I couldn’t see the white spot. 

Then the Dentist came in and takes a look at my tongue and he gets a look on his face like he just walked into a room where someone has been cooking three week old Red Snapper.

“Definitely a white spot.  We’ll need to send you to a specialist to get it checked out.  We don’t want to take any chances right?”

In my mind “What white spot?!?!?!?!”

Soooo at that point, my head full of questions I went back to work.  Couldn’t really think of anything else to do at that point.  All rational thinking room was at that moment occupied by questions.

I thought about going and having a beer.  People on TV go and have a beer when they get disconcerting news.  But I don’t drink beer.  So that wasn’t any good.  Maybe I should take up drinking Weinhard’s Root Beer in cases like this.  Who knows.  I usually drink Mountain Dew, but I just read an article that says it has an ingredient  that can cause cancer.  So that seemed like a terrible idea really.

Next, I take the advice of my Dentist and go and see a “Specialist” about the there or not there white spot on the bottom of my tongue.

Stay tuned for the exciting conclusion!

Deep 4th of July Thoughts - With Christopher Pitts

After last night’s fireworks display in my neighborhood, around the Taylorsville and West Jordan area, I am pretty sure that I know how the Germans felt after being shelled for hours on end just prior to D-Day.  Or in a more American vein, how the center line at Gettysburg felt as they were bombarded by the Confederacy for three hours just prior to the infamous Pickett’s Charge.

I am just saying that there was likely more firepower shot off last night in this area than in the initial phases of the Shock and Awe campaign in Iraq.

I love the 4th of July!  It is amazing!  And not just because I have an enduring love for all things artillery.  I live in a great nation that I truly am proud to be a part of.  I love my country!

A couple of weeks ago after a grueling session of Stake Conference (I am in the Stake IT group.  We have had some problems with our between building transmissions….) I was rewarded with a wonderful, glorious loud long buzzing!  I heard it long before I saw it.  And I knew exactly what it was.  That sound cuts through my soul like the roar of a lion.  Only twice in my life have I seen an American B-17 Bomber from World War II in flight.  Each time it has brought a tear to my eye.  It is truly a glorious sight. 

Seeing these planes makes me think of a simpler time.  In my opinion, a better time.  It was certainly a time of people who possessed great courage and character.

Back then, stepping into one of these aircraft meant you were certainly putting your life on the line.  You were entering a plane that had no pressurization and no heater.  At a certain elevation you would be warmer in your Kelvinator.  You were also certain to be subjected to mile after mile of flak (anti-aircraft artillery) and enemy fighter planes which were much lighter and quicker than the Flying Fortress that you had embedded yourself in.  I have seen pictures of these planes that returned to England with pieces of German fighter plane stuck in their fuselage.  I have even seen pictures of these planes that landed that had the entire front of the aircraft torn off.  The B-17 was a tough airplane.  But it was also slow and vulnerable.  If it was unlucky enough to be shot down very few of its crew were likely to make it out of the dying plane.

Lots of these men never came home.  My point is,  they never questioned what they were called to do whether they were Army, Navy Air Force, Marines or any of the other branches of the service that protected our nation during that turbulent time.  They stepped up to defend the freedom of our nation and other nations whose freedoms were threatened by tyranny.  

The bodies of American soldiers line the fields of France as proof of this.

Some time ago my brother and sister-in-law and I were up wandering the Salt Lake City Cemetery looking for family names for our genealogy.  As I was walking across the cemetery something gold and blue caught my eye.  I know that symbol.  It is the symbol for the Congressional Medal of Honor.  Instinctively I stopped to look.  After all here lay one of our nation’s finest.  It was then that my heart stopped.  The death date on this marker was December 7th 1941.  This soldier’s medal was issued posthumously.

I realize this post has a bit of a more serious vein than usual.  I offer no apologies for this.  I instead offer two challenges to anyone who has a chance to read this.  First always remember that freedom is not free!  For each freedom that we enjoy on a daily basis someone paid the ultimate price.  Honor those lives daily by not just being a good citizen, but by being a patriot.  Love and be thankful for our great nation every day!

Second, if you get the opportunity, seek out someone who served our country.  See if you can get them to talk to you about their experiences.  Some may not.  It’s hard for them to do so.  Some I am sure hold it in out of humility.  Growing up my neighbor had flown fighter planes in the Pacific.  In all of the mock battles that I set up in my yard, which I am sure that he saw, he never once mentioned that.  My family only found out about it after his funeral.  But if they do speak about their experiences, you are in for an event that will change your life.  In my opinion these men are shining examples of what we should all aspire to be!

Thank you.

God Bless The U.S.A.!

i HaTE WritER's BLocK - ReAlLy BAD!

SIGH.....

Writer's Block is a big green scaly monster that lurks under every writer's bed.  For some writers the nemesis choses to lurk in their closet.  Where ever it resides, it picks the place that it can leap out from and thus stop the writer's heart to the greatest effect.  (Writer's block tends to be kind a Drama Queen!)  It has a single big yellow fang that it pulls from its mouth and polishes it  with a rusty Brillo Pad, septic from being immersed in poison ink and yellow journalism. It uses this weapon with great effect ramming it through reams of paper, or in the digital age, piles of 0's and 1's thus blocking any progress on the great American novel, or in some cases a hilarious blog.  It has eleven yellow eyes that can bore through one's soul.  In short, writer's block is 100% bleach pure evil!

Now if I were a writer, I don't even play one on television, my Writer's Block would not have a name.  It would likely have a symbol, kind of like Prince, "The Pernicious Evil Formerly Known as Writer's Block."  Come to think of it, my Writer's Block looks surprisingly like "The Artist Formerly Known As Prince."  Weird.  Writer's Block's symbol would look surprisingly like interlinked capitol letter "M"s  M.M. as it were.

As of late M.M. and I have come to blows.  I am sure that if you are one the seven people who read my blog (You know who you are!) you will have noticed a lack of new material.  All of this can be attributed to M.M.  He doesn't really care for me, and after our nine year relationship I am not very fond of him either.  He actually resides eighth in my list of least favorite things, right behind Iceland.  But as they say in the music biz "He is number 1 with a bullet!" 

M.M. is a necessary evil.  Without him I don't eat.  The problem is that with him I can feel my spirit dying a slow painful death.

The fault is mostly my own.  I am so very much like the grasshopper in the Grasshopper and the Ants parable.  I tend to take things one day at a time and roll with punches as they come.  Meaning I fail to plan.  That's all well and good until you feel your spirit being crushed and there is no escape plan.  Or until you have nothing to eat.

It's a strange paradox.

So to my readers (All seven of you!)  I apologize for two things:  One, there is a lot more "DRAMA" in this post than my usual postings.  Second, if you were looking forward to more of my writing and haven't seen anything for awhile and you were saying "Where the heck is Chris and his writing?" (I tend to dream big!  It's that grasshopper in me.) I will remedy both situations post haste!

In my war against M.M. I am beginning to make some headway.  I am writing again.  That is the best.  Writing to me is very cathartic.  I also  have gotten the cameras out and I am taking pictures again.  Photography is very right brained and has always been one on my loves.  It tends to open up those right brained doors that M.M. closes.

I thank you all for your patience.  And mostly I thank you all for taking the time to read.  It really means the world to me.  And, hopefully, if I make you smile or even laugh all the better!

     

Where Be Whales Here?

WHERE BE WHALES HERE?

I have really come to love whales.  I am amazed that something so big can be so impossibly graceful.

In Newfoundland, we took a trip in a hand made boat, a design that has been passed down for ages from the the Irish immigrants to that place.  I love boats and I love the sea.  But I suffer from the malady that all Pitts men suffer from, sea sickness.  For some reason that boat handled the rough waters with ease.  I never felt a thing.  Sometimes the old ways are the best ones.

Our captain was a grizzled fisherman whose ancestors showed him how to build that boat and he knew how to handle it.  We began to see whales about half way through the trip.  Very few things can bring a tear to my eye, but that is one of them.  Looking deep into the very clear waters I could see an even brighter turquoise pattern.  Unknowingly I asked the Captain and he smiled “Those are whales.”  We were right above them!

When they rose out of the water, it was enough to make my heart skip a beat.  Magnificent. I watched until the tail fins disappeared into the water.

Whales are amazing!  Anyone in this day and age that can kill such a magnificent creature is a villain in the truest sense of the word.

In Iceland we took a whale watching trip as well…….

Leaving the harbor I had an intuition that we probably were not going to see any whales.  And this is why:

For those of you who don’t know, those are whaling boats.  Those giant hoists on the back are used to harvest whales.  And it wasn’t just these two boats.  There were a dozens more just like them.

If I were a whale I would steer clear of Reykjavik by 100.764 miles.

Undaunted and hopeful, Kristine and I boarded our boat and got prepped for the cold of the North Atlantic.  We were supplied with big red polar suits.  I think that is one of the things that Iceland and I really disagreed on.  I just don’t like constrictive clothing.  I never have.  I never will.  My clothes have to be loose and inexpensive (cheap.)  That is how I like it.  Once I put something on, I don't want to have to take it off, or change it, or add to it, or adjust it.  It’s a big time waster.  I know, I am a weirdo.

In Iceland it seemed that I was always having to add another layer of clothing that made me feel and look like I was wearing one of those comical sumo suits.  And a lot of it was borrowed.  and it smelled like the last 837 people that wore it.  And, as you may have read, Utah cold weather gear just doesn’t hold up in Iceland.

(Note:  That is not my hand.  Just in case you were wondering.)

So I again went against my instincts, mostly because I would rather be smelly than frozen and put on my polar garb and the Intrepid Kristine and I manned the upper deck of our craft (Which by the way was a retired whaling vessel.  I can just see the whales now as they looked towards the surface at the bottom of our boat saying “I know what kind of boat that is!”  As they swam away in terror.)

Have I told you that I get seasick?  All Pitts men get seasick.  It’s our curse.  I think somewhere in the past one of my ancestors must have ticked off a Gypsy.  Ginger pills help, but Dramamine is best.  That is until I get off the boat.  Then, as soon as I stop, I fall fast asleep for like 10 hours.  After a Dramamine binge a north bound freight train with 359 and 1/2 cars could pass and I wouldn’t hear a thing.  On the cruises that I have taken if you forget to take your sea sick pills they always have some at the ready for you.  It will only cost you $18.65 a pill.
On this trip I was fine because of Dramamine.

The person who wasn’t was the poor girl who was standing next to me.  I always thought it was a cartoon thing that people turned green when they get sick.  Up until this trip I had never seen it happen.  I literally watched her turn green starting at her gills and working up into her face.  Her family must have REALLY ticked off that gypsy.  In all honesty along with feeling terrible for her I was thinking “She’s kind of the same color as the Grinch.”

One of the crew finally noticed and took her below decks.  I will never know her Fate.  As they left I heard the lady tell her to “Stare at the horizon it will help.”  I tried that once when I was seasick.  I have never taken illicit drugs, but I think a bad drug trip would be something like that.  Not only is the boat moving, and the waves moving and all the people look like they are made of jell-o plus everything in the distance looks like it is twisting and all wrong.  Trippy!

Well long story coming to a crashing ending, we didn’t see any whales.  A couple of Common Dolphins showed up (I will never figure out why they are called that.  There is nothing “common” about them!) But I think they were just there to say “Hey touristy type people, the whales saw you coming in that retired whale boat and they took off.  They didn’t want to take any chances.  So long and thanks for all the fish.”

At one point on my Iceland journey I turned to Kristine and told her “You don’t get to pick anymore what trips we take.”  Callus of me I know.  Her response was to take a week long river cruise on the Rhine without me.  That showed me.  But in all honesty it has given me what I feel is some interesting material to write about.  That being said I will only be writing one more Iceland installment and that will be the end of it.  I don’t want to beat a dead fish too long……

Because then I would feel like I was back in Iceland…..

Thanks for reading.  I hope you liked it.



As a final thought.  Here is a picture of Iceland's entire Navy about to be attacked by a Borg Cube...

 

Legends of Pitts - Bathroom Tissue Yard Decoration

LEGENDS OF PITTS - NOCTURNAL ACTIVITIES AND THE ART OF BATHROOM TISSUE YARD DECORATION

                                  (Simulated Chris Pitts Work - Demonstration Purposes Only)

As we grow older our hindsight vision begins to tune to a perfect 20/20.  It’s something I learn more and more everyday.  Eventually we all look back at some point and say “What was I thinking?”

So when I look back on these events I smile and wonder.  I knew better, but not enough to stop.  It’s a good thing that “most” of my nocturnal activities were harmless as we can no easier change the past then Superman can spin around the world a million times and turn back time.  (Wait!?!?!?)  But what can I say,  I was driven!

When it came to Bathroom Tissue Yard Decoration, known in the common vernacular as “Toilet Papering”  I am sure many others considered myself to be a renaissance man in the field.  This “legendary” status would only come many years after the fact as those individuals who were “chosen”  look back in awe of my trio’s greatness.  I am sure at the time there may have been some bitter feelings as individuals dragged black plastic bags across painted yards slowly filling them with my artistic medium.  But, as they say, time heals all wounds!

My career started not with toilet tissue per say, but with something cheaper and more challenging.  Back then money was a little tight when we discovered this source we were elated.  Near my house was an old Circle K that had been converted into a corporate office of sorts.  Each day fastidious clerks would crank out hundreds of rolls of adding machine tape.  These rolls were then rubber banded and fastidiously placed in a dumpster behind their building.  This same dumpster bordered the open fields where we used to hang out.  We dubbed these rolls ‘ticker tapes” and each day we would go collect bags full.

Ticker tapes had both pros and cons.  One major pro of the ticker tape was that it was easier to throw than an entire roll of toilet paper.  It could reach the highest heights of the tallest trees and then gracefully return to earth waiting to be thrown again.  In the end leaving roll after roll of connected bows dangling from as many affected branches 

It was also stronger than a normal roll of toilet paper.  This meant you could wrap and throw and curl and drape to your heart’s content without the fear of the line breaking.

The cons were many.  First, it only came in one color.  White.  Those who created adding machine tape obviously lacked creative vision.  Second, it had no discernible smell except paper.  When choosing toilet paper, a myriad of scents were available.  You could actually match your toilet paper scent with the tastes of your benefactor.  Perhaps a nice “summer rain” to match that particular season.  Or a “spring flowers” for that special time of year that the bulbs begin to burst forth.  It’s the little touches that make the difference.  Lastly, ticker tape suffered from a lack of challenge.  Too easy, too strong, too malleable.  Every good artist enjoys a challenge.

To spare the innocent in these stories I will only use the initials of those who benefitted from our art.  But many a late night was spent with Gary Ellis and Jeff Fenstermaker (Neither of whom was innocent despite their appearance!) casing the joint so to speak.  It wasn’t just to toilet paper someone’s house.  It was to do something that hadn’t been done.  Or to do something that appeared from the outside to be impossible.  To do something that would have the halls of Cottonwood High School rumbling the following Monday.

One of our first projects involved a house placed solely and squarely on 13th East in Salt Lake City.  No matter what the hour, this street is always busy.  Challenge Accepted!

My good friend, (and hopefully still my good friend!) AST (Once again we are using initials to protect the innocent.  Full initials with married name included) lived at that house.  Today her house is surrounded by a fence; back then there was little to no cover.

It was sometime around midnight, which, if you didn’t know is the ideal time for bathroom tissue yard decoration.  The bad thing was, it was a Friday night and there was still a lot of traffic.  So, little cover and lots of traffic.  Not really an ideal situation.  Undaunted we trudged forward!  So the objective was to get as much material into the trees and bushes etc. and then take what little cover there was as each car passed.  To our astonishment we pulled it off.  Even a police car passed (Which we would find to be a recurring element in our career.) and we pulled it off!  Finishing, we skulked back to Gary’s Buick and drove home basking in our achievement.  Instead of cigars and brandy, we celebrated with Pearson’s Nut Bars and Mountain Dew.

That was the beginning of a long and productive career.  Each yard, each house, a canvas.  The worst time was ducking from a police car over a cinder block wall into an a dark unknown.  The “dark unknown” being a huge and thick rose garden.  Amazingly with as many surgeries that I have had, that is the most lacerations my body has ever suffered.  I remember having a hard time explaining all of the cuts on my arms to my mom.

The pinnacle of our career was a vision to match Monet’s giant water lilies in the MOMA.  It happened that we had two friends who lived across the street from each other.  Their houses were situated in a small cul de sac with little traffic which was perfect because we would need time.  A lot of undisturbed time.  Our objective:  to paint two houses with multiple colors of  media and then to connect both houses together with the same media!  In my mind a veritable success!  I am sure that KPG and VCM were not as excited as they likely had to clean it up.  

In our own defense, a lot of people knew who was doing this.  I like to think they were flattered....  A lot of the time we would drift back to help clean up.  Denying any involvement of course.  Usually saying something like “I’m not this talented!”  :)

Looking back, it was weird.  I always have danced to the beat of another drummer. (Usually Neil Peart, I love the RUSH!)  But even I think it was weird.

That being said, it was fun!  Weird and fun.  What came out of all of it?  Legend?  Maybe. It will be interesting to see if anyone remembers any of this.  Ultimately it gave me something to write about.

Would I do it all over again?

Absolutely!

But my objective would be The Statue of Liberty……

Icelandic Horses - That’s so Raven!

To my readers:  Today’s entry was going to be the first in an ongoing series called “Legends Of Pitts.”  In looking at the article I feel that it needs a little “fine” tuning and frankly I only want to give the very best to anyone who spends their valuable time reading this.  :)  That being said, please enjoy part three in my ongoing Icelandic Expedition Series which I know has been finely tuned for your reading enjoyment!

Thank you!

Christopher R. Pitts

Icelandic Horses - That’s so Raven!

[In July 2013, Kristine and I took the journey of a lifetime to Iceland (Kristine’s choice and not mine.)  Here, now in March 2014 I am beginning to recover from my experience.  What follows are my memories as dictated by my therapist to help in my recuperation.

In Iceland you can count the number of animals that live there on one hand  First you have the sheep.  As anyone who read my last Iceland blog knows, they are everywhere.  Then you have the birds.  The different species of birds don’t count here because, well because they are birds.  And even though they are “supposed” to be different species they all look like seagulls.  Then you have a few cows.  Then a very small population of grey foxes.  The foxes attack and eat the sheep (As do the Icelandic people.  Being a sheep in Iceland is not easy.)  Foxes are not native to Iceland.  No one knows how they got there.

I like to imagine one of the cave dwelling criminals taking the bladders of the sheep that they stole and ate and building a small inflatable boat.  Then taking the boat over to North America snagging a male and female fox, floating back to Iceland, and then releasing the foxes and yelling “Take that!” just prior to skulking back to their cave.  I wouldn’t put it past them.  After all Iceland gave birth to Bjork.

And lastly the Icelandic Ponies.  I am not sure why people outside of Iceland started calling them ponies.  The people in Iceland don’t call them ponies and they really don’t like it when anyone else calls them that.  Truth be told there is nothing “pony” about them.  They are big!  Big even for horses!  And they are strong.  They have to be because 99.327% of Iceland is made up of volcanic rock.

In Iceland, if you are a horse, you will never leave Iceland.  The Icelandic people guard these horses zealously.  Foreign horses take note, horses from outside of Iceland are not allowed into Iceland.  If a horse leaves Iceland for whatever reason that horse will never be allowed back.  If say a horse swims far out to sea, well you get the picture. The horses, like most of the people in Iceland can trace their lineage all the way back to the vikings.  Those are the same vikings who landed here, got off the boats, and said “This looks like a great place to live. Let’s stop here!”

The same day as the hellaciously wet hike, Kristine and I booked a Horse tour.  In hind sight, this was a terrible idea.  However, we had no idea that our hike on that particular day would be in a hurricane.  We arrived at the stables soaking wet.  Our hosts were very sympathetic to our plight and were very accommodating. They did everything in their power to make us comfortable and welcome.  Not a word was spoken when I sat on the floor in a corner and the water from my clothing made a small lake in their lobby.

To gear up for your Icelandic “HORSE” ride the first thing you do is put on bright hunter orange rain slickers and less than comfortable Napoleonic War issue cavalry helmets.  The slickers aren’t so much for the rain as they are protection.  If you are wearing hunter orange you are less likely to be shot in any of the ongoing clan wars in that can erupt in Iceland at any given moment.

Let it be noted before I continue, that I love Horses.  To me they are second only to dogs in the animal coolness hierarchy.  I love riding horses. I loved riding my Icelandic horse.  From head to toe he was magnificent!  Black as coal.  His name was Hrafn which is Icelandic for Raven.  

In thinking about riding horses I was thinking a casual stroll across the flat Icelandic lava wastes.  You know, maybe see one of those elusive foxes eating a sheep or something.  Nothing in Iceland is ever that easy…

Our guide was from Sweden.  If she hadn’t been in Iceland that summer taking tourists for horse rides I am sure she would have been working her “day job” which is the whip person on one of those Romans sailing barges.  No matter how fast Raven and I went, it was not fast enough for her.  And she had no problem letting us know!  Had she a whip, I know I would have felt its sting.

And it wasn’t flat either.  It was torturous! It was crazy rocky and muddy! It was uphill both ways. At one point we crossed a raging river and again in the “I am not lying.” category I swear Raven was swimming!  The whole time we kept hearing our guide yelling “Klep, Klep, Klep!  Push that horse!  They are bred for this!  Klep! Klep! Klep!”  I had spurs on, but why would I kick such a noble steed?  To this day I don’t know what “KLEP” means, but it is a word I have come to hate.  Sometimes I hear it in my sleep, and often I awake in a cold sweat.

Raven was a great horse.  At times I swear that horse was up to his belly in mud and he trudged along loyally.  Through everything that female Simon Legree pushed us through Raven and I went on willingly and loyally.  I kept leaning forward to tell him what a good horse he was, and that it would be ok we were going to get through this!  We were Rohirrim!  Both bred for this!

I like to think that in that three hour ride Raven and I formed an inseparable bond.  That years from now, when I have healed completely and can actually return to Iceland without the imminent danger of a nervous breakdown I will return to those fields.  Raven will be there not forced to carry big guys like me through hell, but to breed an even better Icelandic horse.  I will step into the field and our eyes will meet in a glance of caring and respect.  I will pet his neck and give him a sugar cube or two.  And and a Granny Smith apple.  And then we will saddle up and ride into the sunset in search of our female nemesis.

How will we find her you ask?  After all these years?

We will just listen somewhere off in the distance for the “Klep! Klep! Klep!”

AND when we find her she is going to get an equine noogie!  :)

AND NOW!  GULLFOSS!

[In July 2013, Kristine and I took the journey of a lifetime to Iceland (Kristine’s choice, not mine.)  Here, now in March 2014 I am beginning to recover from my experience.  What follows are my memories as dictated by my therapist to help in my recuperation.]

-WET-

In Iceland, Cool Ranch Doritos are called “Cool American Doritos.”

I wondered as I stared at the blue bag of corn “crisps” lovingly placed on the Icelandic version of a 7-11 shelf  “Do people in Iceland think Americans taste of ranch dressing?”  In reflecting on the seven days that I spent there, I think they just might…..

Several people have asked me to relate some more about my experiences in Iceland, hence this narrative. That plus I love to hear myself ramble in text.   

I have had several months to recover from our excursion.  Most of my wounds are healed.  I hear they have wonderful creams now that can fade scars.    Even better, feeling has started to return to my extremities.  It’s amazing how much you appreciate fingers when you can’t feel them.  Only time will heal the emotional scars.

Iceland and I definitely had a love hate relationship.

Iceland is diverse. Diverse in that there are multiple shades of black volcanic lava rock which make up about 90% of the landscape.  There are very few trees that dot the landscape.  Those that do exist seem to be stunted to no taller than about 12’.  It rains nearly every day in Iceland.

“Did I mention that it rains nearly every day in Iceland?”

Icelandic rain gives a new definition to the term “wet.”  One excursion had Kristine and me hiking three miles into a hot spring to swim in a warm fresh water river.  The pictures on the flyers show bathing suit clad tourists frolicking in a large crystalline blue pool.  White washed smiles gleaming through effervescent healing steam.  It looked very refreshing!
  

The reality was a hike in gale force winds and biting rain.  Our clothing which was supposedly water resistant proved to be “semi-permeable.”  Gear which in Utah kept me dry for hours lasted approximately 30 minutes.  Volcanic steam, mixed with a thick fog offered those without the need for corrective eyewear a view of about 10 feet.  With my glasses on, my visibility was about 10 inches.  Taking them off I did much better.  Instead of being a big foggy blur everything just became a big blur that made a sound like sheep.

“Oh yeah, in Iceland they open all of the pens where they keep their sheep and they let them roam free.”

So the sheep are everywhere. 

Arriving at the river we found it to be warm.  And that was about it.  Not big at all, and not deep.  But warm.  The dressing room you ask?  The great wide open!  Yep Kristine’s changing room was me holding a big giant wet towel around her.  For me, a lot of people got to know me better than I am sure they cared for.  How very European!

You know that brief moment when you walk from a hot shower and you get that brief chill before wrapping yourself in a warm towel?  OK now imagine that same feeling except the towel is soaking wet and and a nearly horizontal stinging ice cold rain is beating against you.  All this with possibly a dozen sheep watching.  That is what we experienced as we left the warm waters of the semi-inviting geothermic pool.

I have never felt that wet.  Even when swimming.

The hike down was very like the hike up.  All uphill.  Those spots that did ebb in the downward direction were “slip and slide” wet.  You get the picture.

Arriving back at our van we crawled in wet, muddy and exhausted.  Not one piece of clothing that I had on was dry.  Looking back I am pretty sure that even my skeleton was soaked.

Ironically the one saving grace was that I arrived back to an apple flavored juice box.  Not nearly as refreshing as the picture of those tourists frolicking in warm naturally heated water.  But at that point I was willing to take what I could get.

The one thought that kept crossing my mind that day was “If the devil doesn’t live in Iceland, he must have a summer home here….”

Despite how this sounds, I didn’t hate all of Iceland.  Some of it came to grow on me.  Not even in a parasitic way.  More on that to come later.

My next cathartic Icelandic story - Icelandic Horses - That’s so Raven!  

But first a Legend of Pitts Interlude

Let the healing continue.