Burnetts Ho!

Mel is writing this at an RV campground overlooking Montana’s Hebgen Lake, which sounds like it should be an anagram for something, but it isn’t.  It’s just a funny name.  She is gazing at an inflatable Pegasus, a floatie quickly abandoned by some poor soul who thought that it was reasonable to swim in what is essentially snowmelt from the Rocky Mountains in June, when the baby bison are still little orange puffballs and the hillsides are covered in fresh, un-peed-on wildflowers.  Tomorrow’s low will be 26 Fahrenheit.

The Burnetts are traveling once again!  Mel’s soul, which had gone into hibernation as she plunged herself head-first into working full-time again trying to fix people’s broken brains, uncurled its retracted petals as the scenery around her once again zoomed past at a rate faster than a leisurely stroll.  This soothes the nomad.  This time, the travels are by way of an RV, the nicest one they could get in Omaha, which means it is beige, and sort of crappy.  No offense, Omaha. 

We have named our RV “Jittery Jerry” after driving it through 40-knot crosswinds, wishing we could reduce sail the whole time.

The Burnetts are touring America’s West with two Colombians, because showing off North America to South Americans is fun to do.  Of course, their friends barely made it into the country.  When their flight stopped in Atlanta, they were questioned by Immigration:

“Why are you here?”

“We are going to do tourism in Omaha.”

“What?  No one does tourism in Omaha,” the incredulous agent said, “Unless you want to see cows, and trees, and grass.  What is the real reason why you are here?”

No worries!  The Colombians arrived safely, after they switched to “visiting friends” as the reason, which is a much more plausible scenario for visiting Nebraska.  It’s probably the only one.

After a frantic RV packing, after which the Burnetts had to make a familiar visit to an over-priced store to check off items on the list entitled, “Shit That We Forgot,” the crew were off, making their way North and West, with Mount Rushmore, Deadwood, and Devil’s Tower on the itinerary.  And, of, course, they reacquainted themselves with the hours and hours of passagemaking, this time at ten times sailboat speed, but still long because America is sooo BIG.

One of the advantages to living in Omaha is that, whichever direction you head off, things are bound to get more interesting to look at.  Even if you are headed deeper into America’s wild and sparsely populated West.

Seeing the beauty undulating past has been a little rough, as this prompts the Burnetts to recall some of the great sailing adventures now in the past. The mountains are gorgeous, but so is the sea.

And so, sitting in a Deadwood restaurant, draped in themed décor of cow skulls, horse hardware, weathered wood, and playing cards, listening to a guy in a long silvered ponytail belt out songs about the magnificence of the Black Hills, Mel realized something: cowboys are like sailors.  They love the same self-deception sailors have: that we are free to determine our path through the wilds of mother nature while ignoring the fact that the land, wind, weather, and sea is totally calling the shots.  Cowboys sail on living transports through rolling waves of green, and when they stop to rest, they look up at the stars and feel compelled to play stringed instruments.  Their chosen vehicles even stink sometimes, just like boats!

Of course, a little tension arises when 6 people travel across the country in an RV.  No one will listen to Mel’s John Denver collection and Allie refuses to draw a picture of a buffalo coming out of a geyser so she is DONE with all you people!

Despite such hardships, the Burnetts and crew safely arrived at their destination just west of Yellowstone, camping off of Hebgen Lake.  

Hebgen Lake was chosen for a reason.  The Burnetts are mixing this trip up a little by treasure hunting, because they have convinced themselves that after sailing around half the world, they are good at interpreting poetry.  This has, of course, involved hiking, and we all know Allie’s tolerance of that.  Many pictures have been taken of her lying supine on the ground, sweating and complaining.  This is good for her, Mel thinks.

So far, no treasure.  But Mel has taken 1000 pictures of the beauties of Yellowstone and the Rockies with her trusty travel cam.  Her pictures remain the treasure she collected from her journey on the sea.  So she has a little bit of treasure collected so far.

But a big box filled with gold would be better.

At night, after they fall to sleep exhausted and hypoxic on their Walmart-purchased foam mattress pads that make their crappy RV beds bearable, the Burnetts dream of topo maps and hear the words from that blasted poem echo in their heads, “Brown, blaze, down, meek, paddle, loads, high, cold.”  Eventually, the plan is for Greg to don his waders and make his way up some wild river while Mel anxiously awaits his return, armed with bear spray.  Hopefully, shouting, “Forrest Fenn!” will deter the bears, out of respect.  The bear may even guide her to the treasure.  If not, Mel plans to shout, “Holy Crap! Bear! Bear!” and spray the shit out of it, because apparently no one but Forrest Fenn, not even a bear, knows where this frickin’ treasure is.

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