Periodic Reminders

Alright, you're gonna have to bear with me here; what can I say? I'm an idiot. So just plod on until the exciting part hits. So last weekend we went off on our annual pilgrimage to the crystal waters of Lake Chelan. This is the kinda thing thAt's worth living for. Hot as blazing hell weather [for a Seattlite, this ain't the usual], rolling golden foothills, and buffalo meat... I mean, heavon on earth.
We'd never been to the great Grand Coulee Dam in all uv our trips across the mountains and east so it got worked in this year. With my freshly aquired $7 bike rak, two bikes in tow, and a carload of junk, we headed out to fruit country. The pines melted into sagebrush and my armpits began to drip. Coulee country. Lakes and canyons and rivers and overweight, balding retirees. blah blah blah we get to Grand Coulee Dam, blasting Bob Dylan's Version of Woody Guthrie's famous song. Check into the hotel, swim in the the pool with about 19 others... all creepy... we leave quick and go through the vistor center where we were fortunate enough to see the wheel chair President Roosevelt used while on one of his 2 visits to the dam contruction site. Then running through sprinklers, walking over the bridge, and around the meticulously presented perfectville town of Grand Coulee or Coulee City or Dam Town or something like that. Biking and warm night then the LaSeR LiGhT ShOw across the claimed 1mile long face of the dam. I'd never seen a laser light show before and man, this sucker didn't disappoint. The history of the river, region, and dam was told through light pictures and the authoritative voice of the very egotistical Columbia River himself. I mean, all the river did was brag brag brag. Thank goodness the show was abbreviated with nonsensical techno-bop music and whirling geometric designs. Even got a cool BumpEr SticKer.
ok ok ok
so we leave Grand Coulee, blasting the song one last time, enthusiastically singing along, as to be expected, and bumbled our way to the best water I've ever had the privilege to swim and float and splash around and dive and mouth fountain in. So we get there, it hot as a mother fucker... hot hot hot, 90's+ I mean the sun is so intense that it was turning regular plastic into Bakelight plastic. But, before we went for a swim, in spite of already wearing my suit, the camp site hada be roughly set up. Bikes, tent, junk, junk, junk, all down a hill... right on the sweet sweet sweet water. *right now i'm listening to one-a my favorite Fiery Furnaces songs, Sweet Spots* Hgh, same spot as last year, good one. Things are kinda set up so we run to kiddy swim area [she's trying to swim, you know] like spastic 13year/olds run away from em-bare-assing parental people sorts those kinds. So I got my foam noodle and hauled ass straight into Lake Chelan like I've practiced in Puget Sound... much to my surprise, Chelan is significantly warmer than the sound... amazing. Splashing and singing silently... diving and popping my legggs up outta the water with incredible dexterity... There was a floating log to try and stand on... these teenage guys claimed to have floated the log way out beyond what was reasonably sane or reasonabley insane... they asked me how old I was, I told them 44. So all was fun, she was wering her sun hat in the water, flailing about as only an adult who doesn't know swim but is sincerely trying to can. Eventually we made our way back to the site. "Where are the car keys? I need to get *something* outta the car" she asks. My stomach immediately sinks. I mean it sinks hard and far. Man, I don't have the slightest goddamn clue where the keys are... keys and alarm transmitter dealeroo. Yes, I was driving. Yes, I locked the car, button to finger. No, it's not anywhere we looked. Near hyperventalating and sick to my stomach. I sure wasn't any kinda Rock of Gilbraltar. I'm soo hungery, but realize I at least hafta try. Snorkel and mask, 8:30pm and off to the beach. I called it a kiddie beach 'cause it's roped off, but it gets deep rather quickly. The water is as clear as aquamarine tinted glass, the bottom is clear 30, 40+feet down. I scoured it with my mind... it was worth a shot, but nothing.
Why, why, why, why, why am I such and idiot?
*** more later, I'm tired of writing***
So dipping wet I shuffle back to the campsite, empty handed, grasping my towel with my left and mask&snorkel with the other. Dejectedly we made the burritos, lit the fire, and planned the next days activity to deal my with stupidity. The smores tasted good... even when swirled with anxiety and a weak stomach.
I slept incredibly well. Hmm. Woke up early and went snorkeling again, nothing. She'd talked with some rangers or rangers-to-be and got help transporting some of our stuff to storage and got advice. A bus runs from Chelan to Whenatchee... at the Whenatchee airport we'd be able to rent a car that we drive to Seattle to pick up the spare key. The bus from Chelan to Whenatchee runs every 1.5hours and travels 37+miles all for a single dollar; the trouble lay in the fact that we were 5 or 6 miles from the bus stop and the 9:15 bus was due VeRy soon. Well, bringing bikes [first time] bailed our asses out. We both thought we'd missed the bus when we finally made the intersetion. She went to the stop, I went to lock the bikes. The bus came, the unlocked bikes stood propped next to a large propane tank, I grabbed my bag and ran. If the bike got stolen, I deserved it... It was a beautiful ride down ALT97... by 9:40 I was exausted and asleep. Somewhere along the way I rememeber seeign the only highschool senior graffiti that I can every recall not thinking as meathead dumb... there was this shear cliff with simple numbers painted on it, numbers in solid block squares. 97, 83, 02... the oldest going back to 41 or something. Graduating years... would've been dumb as hell if they hadn't had to repell to paint the stuff. I don't know, whatever.
The bus drops up off at the Columbia Station, Whenatchee's train station. From there we called a cab that turned out to be an early 90's Ford Taurus stationwagon with squeaky brakes and a loose rear suspension. The driver was neither friendly or mean; he spoke in 1, 2, or, at most, 3 syllabol clusters and never saying much. The radio played an ecclectic mix of conservative talk and metal. 7.5 miles and 15dollars later we're at the lilly launching pad of airport. Inside the whispering cargiver said nearly too much and hooked us up with surburbia's #1 econo-sports car, a red 2005 Pontiac Sunfire with killer striping.
***more later, again, have to leave work early... i mean, it's a friday and all***