Roads Not Taken

 

Most Lovestead winterizing projects had been completed. 

The weather forecast suggested that snow would be coming next week. 

It also offered up a fairly nice late-November Thursday.

"Let's go to Canada later this week," I suggested to Bill after seeing that finally winter might be imminent. 

Bill couldn't go Wednesday because of an afternoon church meeting, so we agreed on Thursday. 

"Do you still want to go to Canada today?" he asked me early yesterday morning. 

"Yes," I said without hesitation. 

It felt good to know that we could go, feeling little if any guilt about what we really should be doing at home. 

"I want to go down a new road," I said, "somewhere out in the country around Creston."

And, so that's what we did with Bridie and Foster snoozing in their back-seat beds. 

The first road "South Goat River Road" ended within a mile or so but not before we passed a Christmas blow-up display that, per square inch, could rival any we had ever seen before.  

Even a welcoming Bigfoot played a role, along with the angels in all the color and the  Christmas-oriented scenes. 

And, yes, Santa was occupying the outdoor potty john.

Of course, I viewed the display as a picture-taking bonanza and figured my friend Mike, who received 12,000 outdoor Christmas lights from Amazon the other day, should see this.  

Later, as we turned off on what appeared to be a prime side road east of Creston, my brother Mike called.  We told him, with tongue in cheek, that we were looking for real estate in Canada.  He understood why we might be doing that. 

We chatted with Mike until precisely at the point where we passed Fustercluck Acres, owned by the Booker's. 

Bill slowed down for a potential photo, and Mike disappeared.  Must've gotten out of cell range, we thought as we moved along looking for another good road. 

We drove east, and then Bill asked if we wanted to turn and go to Canyon Park. 

"Sure," I said, thinking it was time for the dogs to get out to relieve and to run.

We never did find Canyon Park, but we drove through expansive farm and orchard country where Canyon-Lister appeared on the names of several buildings. 

The route also took us close to the magnificent mountain range we always see and behold while driving to the Canadian Border at Porthill. 

Several stops along the roadside in that area netted some neat close-up views of the Skimmerhorn Mountains.

We also viewed what appeared to be a compound or two, and wondered if this might be the area called Bountiful where the Mormon fundamentalists polygamists lived.  

Sure enough, after returning home and doing a little research, we learned that our assumptions were true. The compound(s), which are said to include 1,000 residents are located at the base of the Skimmerhorns. 

It was a beautiful day, and I was thrilled to capture a couple of neat photos of the Skimmerhorns, along with some potential and now validated history. 

The day and the roads not taken had turned out well, I thought. 

But soon, it turned stinky. 

Our next task, since we hadn't found Canyon Park, was to find a place for the dogs to spend some time out of the car.  It was obvious from her nervous panting in the back that Bridie was ready to get outside. 

Well, our efforts to find the proper spot did not materialize soon enough.  First, we heard a growl in the back.  Then the most piercing, pungent, oh yuck! smell came emanating to the front of the car. 

"She's had an accident," I said to Bill, as the gawd-awful odor took over the car. 

Next task:  find a safe place to stop and assess the damage. 

That took a while.  

No wide spots, no abandoned roads, just other roads and driveways, so we kept going, hoping that we'd maybe missed the sign to Canyon Park. 

As we proceeded, Bridie felt the need to come over into the back seat and try to make her way on the console up to Mom and Dad. 

With our backpacks and coats in the back seat and lying directly on her route forward, we did not want to imagine the scene behind us.  

Finally, when Bill found a turn off, I held on tightly to Bridie's collar, in hopes she would not retrace her pathway to the back where she had been resting in a cushy bed. 

Bill got out, opened up the back, grabbed her leash and led her out the front seat. 

What we had imagined earlier turned out to be pretty much what we now saw, all over our coats and backpacks and the beds in the back. 

Bridie's uncontrolled aim had left some residue pretty much everywhere in the back area, including a glob or two on little Foster in the bed next to her. 

Bill switched into almost immediate Boy Scout "Be Prepared" mode, while I did my best to calm Bridie and tell her it was going to be okay as she stood there, very un-Bridie-like with her soggy rear feathers and tail not nearly as pretty they had been after a grooming session at the pet lodge. 

Fortunately, we had water and we had towels.  It was a methodical approach of first cleaning this and then that and finally diving into that long Collie hair on Bridie's bun to remove what had become gluey residue.

Once most of the stains and soupy stuff had been removed, we put the dogs back in the reversible beds and headed for town where we found a pet store with "neutralizing" spray and deep-cleaning wipes. 

"These are good for carrying in the car at any time," the nice clerk told us. 

Fortunately, the wipes removed leftover stains and the neutralizer nuked most of the bad air. 

Later, we did find a park where the dogs, having gone through this calamity, settled down and enjoyed some calm outdoor time. 

Happily, this morning Bridie seems to be okay.  She has eaten and has drunk a lot of water. 

It's still a mystery what caused the unfortunate doggy accident, but we're all proud that we handled it with as much dignity and care as possible. 

In addition, we've washed a few towels and blankets. Now to give those doggie beds a good scrubbing. 

In short, our day in Canada had some good adventures and some not-so-good, but that's life AND we'll have some definite memories and a desire to learn more about the community at the base of the Skimmerhorns.