Warm Me Up

I’m absolutely drained right now, having sat and listened to an older female camper recount every detail of her humdrum day.

Millie. 

A 60-something horsewoman with short grey hair and a lifetime of ranching experience, Millie was an expert at wasting my time.  

A total of FOUR TIMES I’ve listened to her Story Of The Bear Spray.  She wouldn’t use bear spray riding horseback, thank you very much. If she dismounted to spray the grizzly, then her old knees would never allow her back on.  And the spray might get in her eyes, or the HORSE’S eyes, imagine that, if she’s standing downwind and blah blah BLAH BLAHHH BLAAAAHHHHHHGGG.

I’m irritated at the loss of 17 total minutes I’ve squandered hearing different renditions of this same anecdote.

“So you’ve never run into a grizzly, and if you had bear spray, you wouldn’t use it.  But you don’t, and won’t, and haven’t.  Fascinating,” is what I don’t say, but wish I could.  

All my energy is gone from trying to be polite to this time-suck. She would creep silently through the trees leading up to my van, taking me by surprise each time she greeted me.  

“Howdy, neighbour!” she’d shout as I’d jump, or drop my glass, or hurl an axe at her face.

On her stealthy strolls through the campground, she habitually carried a gigantic bottle of Bailey’s to “warm up the coffee”.  

My coffee had been warmed by Millie on three different occasions today already.

So far.

First, she appeared outside my sliding door with her horse in the morning, precisely as I was preparing to leave on a hike in search of wild elk and lone cowboys. Yet here I was, an hour later, trapped in Millie’s mesh of tedious tales.

When she finally made her exit, hiking was out of the question.  It was already lunchtime.  Within minutes of having eaten my last bite, she made her return:  a ploy thinly veiled as an excuse to clean up the shit her horse had taken in front of my van.

“I’ll just scoop this up right quick!” She hollered. “Warm-up?”

“I’m plenty warm!” I turned my back and started washing dishes in an attempt to convey I was too busy to chat.  That didn’t stop Millie.  She had a complete inability to know when a conversation had ended.  

“Yep, well, I’d better get on with my day.  You have a good one,” I’d say. 

 “Alrighty then,” she’d start, followed by The Story of Her Horse’s Name, and another 6 questions regarding my complete family history and plans for the day.

My only respite came when she disappeared for several hours during the day to ride the trails. Once the coast was clear, I’d tend to some responsibilities around camp. I had fallen in love with the breathtaking backcountry of Alberta, and felt privileged to contribute to its maintenance.

I’d assure that the other campers were also respecting this gift of nature, visiting with them and keeping a smile on my face, though it opposed my reclusive nature. I turned my daily trips around the campground into an art, looking each person in the eye, turning up the charm and practicing wit despite a needling urge to go hide in the woods.  It was a performance every time and it was exhausting.  

Returning home to my site was a comfort: back to my camper van, alone with my cat, able to breathe.  Sweet solitude.  Until…

“Howdy, neighbour!”

 Millie.  Again.

“So that brings me back to ’84…no wait, ’85?  Must’ve been. That was the year Tim from Grande Prairie came to the ranch with his old trailer.  He didn’t get his new trailer until ’87…? No, that can’t be right. Because Tim at the time, he was just breaking in this Buckskin named Pal. And I am telling you, he was an ornery stud! Tim would say to me, he’d say, Millie, this boy is crazier than popcorn on a hot stove! And we’d just laugh and laugh.  Yep, poor Tim lost the old barn in a house fire back in ’73…nope, must’ve been ’74, the year his oldest son Allen was born.  Anywho, where was I? Right, ’85…”

“STOP TALKING! I DON’T CARE! I DON’T KNOW TIM FROM GRANDE PRAIRIE!” I want to yell, but don’t.  I’m not quite cruel enough to tell this poor old lady to kindly fuck off and give me some space.  

My discomfort continued to escalate hearing The Story of The Cats She’s Known and the minutiae of her day, or of some day 40 years ago, or the dazzling tales of The Mares She’s Bred, or The Apples She’s Tasted. 

Poor Millie, camping alone, jabbering on endlessly with the one chump (me) polite enough to bear the burden of boredom. Could she not perceive that I wanted to be left alone?  Did she have a crush on me?  She supposedly had a husband back home.

Meanwhile, my chances of running into that hot single dude who arrived this afternoon were quickly diminishing as night fell.  And, truth be told, the mountain air and surplus of cowboys around camp had me feeling like a mare in heat myself.  I bet Tim from Grande Prairie would have gotten a kick out of hearing that! 

I wanted to be out prowling at the height of the season to find a red-blooded ranch hand who could swing an axe and subdue a steer.  He’d sit with me in silence, or play his guitar after building a fire that roared like the howl of our hormones.

Yet there I sat with an aging female farmer in rubber boots and a down vest, being wowed by The Story of Her Red Sweater.

Millie.

The next morning, I’m groggily pulling myself out of bed, legs hanging off the side as hazy rays glare at me through the windshield.

 “Howdy, neighbour!”  

Only this time, it’s accompanied by the rumbling of a half-ton pulling a horse trailer. 

In cloudy confusion, it occurs to me that Millie’s the one driving the half-ton! She’s leaving the campground, on her way home.  She yells from the driver’s seat, “Bring your mug!”

The clouds are low on the Eastern slopes, giving a dreamlike quality to the entire situation.  As if in slumber, I stumble from my van, floating on the fragrance of pine and dew.  She climbs out of the truck, Bailey’s bottle in hand.  I extend my empty mug as she pours and pours and pours.  

“You should be good for a few mornings, now.”  

She gets back into the truck, waving.  No stories about Andy From Altona or Cindy From Sundre.  The big wheels spit dust as she starts to pull away.

“Wait!” I yell, suddenly wanting to know The Story Of The Trucks She’s Owned. 

I say something I mean.  “I hope I see you again!”

“Maybe next summer,” she answers, ”but I’m sure by now the hubby’s coffee needs a warm-up.”