Doing Manly Things In a Comfortable Cabin Whilst in Arkansas

(Sort of) Roughing It...

The Mount Rushmore of Questionable Facial Hair

Eric and I had been planning a getaway for quite some time, and there were only three parameters: 1) No Wichita, 2) No Kansas City, 3) No Oklahoma City. Though combined, they are known for a touristic pedigree that rivals long-standing European destinations, I felt confident that I could plan an extended weekend trip outside of the three cities on this to-don't list. So I added a fourth stipulation: No Shaving.

No shaving was the egg to staying in a cabin's chicken. Our scraggly beards mandated we do manly things, and if we were going to be manly, what better place to do so than in a rustic cabin that used to be a blacksmith's shop in middle-of-nowhere Arkansas? We planned to "get all up in nature's grill" and spend a rustic weekend roughing it with such pioneering staples as a jacuzzi, central heating, queen-sized beds, a fully applianced kitchen,  dishwasher and a TV with a DVD player. After we removed our shoes first, so as to not track dirt on the varnished wooden floors and artisan rugs. We're men, not barbarians.

I found the Silver Run Cabins a few years back while researching different areas for a similar chance of respite. My criteria was simple - I was in search of a place to let the cell phone's battery run out, to cook meat on a stick on a grill, to renew my relationship with nature and tame a wild animal. Though unable to convince the feeblest looking goat in the herd to let me saddle up bareback, we still had an enjoyable break from city life. Which is why when my younger brother called to let me know that he too needed to have his Matrix head-plug pulled out for a few days, I immediately thought of Silver Run.

What separates my brothers and I most from each other is not in fact our choice of profession, nor is it our sense of self, our passions, our pastimes or our unique-snowflake personalities. No, what separates, yet defines us most, is our differing ability to grow facial hair. You see, dad is of the generation that was allowed to sport robust staches at work at a time when a full beard meant you hated the troops. He's always had solid facial hair, and even as time has replaced blond hairs with white ones, his Walt White goatee remains enviable.

My mustache-growing prowess needs no special introduction here, on my blog, which if you've forgotten, is entitled My Once and Future Mustache. Matt has begun to let his chin-whiskers breathe a bit as of late, now that he's no longer a corporate accounting calculo-bot. Though his cheeks sprout a bit patchy, he makes up for it with solid overall coverage; it's a quantity over quality situation. He gains high points though for the progress he's presented on the chin and especially the neck (what we call the neard).

The biggest surprise was Eric, who has never let his facial hair grow for more than a fortnight. That's not actually true - it's likely more like one week, but I really wanted to use the word "fortnight". So he abstained from the razor for a fortnight (short term call-back humor) plus one week and showed up for the man weekend rocking an impressive goatee. His mustache has always come in swankily thick, but until now we only joked about him allowing it to breathe. The goat and chops were ready for battle, if not slightly cracked in their defense of his face skin.

After a raucous night of ping pong and beers in Matt's awe-inspiring KU room, we set out early Friday morning for Arkansas, leaving in our wake dogs, cats, spouses, children, bills, computers (well some of us), alarm clocks, schedules, meeting makers, water cooler chatter, fast food, slow-moving work clocks, creepy neighbors and me having to take my dog out at 11pm, even when it's freezing and I'm tired and I really don't want to, but Melody won't, and I don't want to risk having to clean up dog pee on the carpet, even though sometimes I take her out and she still pees on the carpet in the middle of the night; and I mean, what's up with that?

(VIDEO: KU Ping Pong at Matty's place)

Eric and I drove separately with Matt splitting time between us, while dad stayed behind another hour or so to buy low and sell high when the markets opened. I don't know what that means, but if we were still in high school, I'd make a joke about Matt not going to college because of his stock portfolio's poor performance. (This is a very specific Brantner family joke; ask one of us about it).

It's roughly six hours from Wichita to the sprawling metropolis of Yellville, Arkansas. Turn right at the barbecue joint with an Arkansas Razorback flag, head another eleven miles through curvy, hilly roads and you'll reach the Silver Run Cabins.

It was sprinkling when we arrived, and the proprietor was out feeding the cows (true story), so we chatted and stretched our legs a bit while we waited. When she arrived in a beat up pick up truck, she apologized and told us that she was out feeding the cows (see...true story). Sign in was a breeze - she pointed left, told us to drive until we saw the Blacksmith cabin, and told us to enjoy our stay. No paperwork. No signing. No spiel about not trashing the place.

Waiting for the keys to leave civilization

This is the ideal place for any family or group of men who want to rough it without really roughing it. The location is legitimately remote, buried inside a massive forest, yet flush with amenities and comfort. It's the kind of place where you can lock the doors if you want to, but the owners reserve the right to make you feel foolish for doing so. Our former blacksmith shop came with three bedrooms, a massive kitchen, an oversized den with a fireplace and tiny packets of shampoo and conditioner.

I call this setting Rustic Pioneer Comfort

Outside was an oversized grill salivating in anticipation of my kebabs, a picnic table, splinter-free wooden stumps surrounding a fire pit, all curiously juxtaposed next to a barb-wire fence separating us from such wild beasts as goats, horses, bulls and three bite-size rams, complete with curly horns and all. They were adorable.

Surveying the back yard

We would obviously spend hours messing with farm animals while dad, who in a former life spent time on a farm, tried to convince us not to fear the animals. Yeah, I'm supposed to believe that goats, who are scientifically proven to eat garbage, aren't going to find my hand appetizing? Nice try pops!

The man weekend commenced!

We callously opened beers and poured them into mason jars that doubled as mugs, which was both awesome and pioneery. We threw the football in the back yard, even though it was sprinkling. Because that's what men do. Dad brought cigars, so we fired them up under the cover of the second story stairwell. We talked women, cars, Ice Road Truckers, sheet rock and bench presses.

OK, nothing in that last sentence was or has ever been true, for any of us.

The sun was rapidly setting on our first night so I began dishing out dinner prep assignments. We were having chicken, steak and veggie kebabs with the admittedly not-so-manly quinoa on the side. I did mix it with a Lipton's French Onion Soup Mix, bringing out more flavor, and possibly recovering a man point or two. But probably not.

This is how I supervise

Most food is better on a stick

The meats had been marinating in Italian dressing for two days, so all we had to do was go Vlad and impale them (that's a Dracula joke, if you're wondering - great novel). Matt and I chopped veggies while Dad and Eric tended to the fire. I grilled outside using a headlamp, the manliest way to prepare food.

If you have eight spare minutes, you can witness our entire food preparation and engorgement process. I should probably, at this time, mention that I found a new feature on the VIRB action camera - from Garmin - that allows me to easily take time-lapse videos. It's the shiny new feature on my shiny new toy. For those of you that bore easily, I've also included a couple of still images of our feast.

Don't mess with one of us!

Mason jar mugs, for the practical boozer

(VIDEO: If this video is any indication, we ate way too fast)

As you can see from the video, dinner was a blast. The only thing that it was missing was David, our other brother, who couldn't make it out for the weekend. His presence would have completed the manification of the trip, though it also may have caused the cabin's manliness threshold to burst, thus creating a temporal vortex, which as we all know leads to alternate realities, meaning that one of us would have a goatee for real (bad Spock reference, for you dad). Point is, we really missed him.

But it was refreshing to sit together at the wooden table, cutting our steak and chicken with well-worn steak knives with nicked handles, discussing the finer virtues of life, technology, beards and Walter White. As a family the Whantner's have spent more time together recently than in year's past, but this was just the dudes. And that's important.

In truth, the conversation wasn't too dissimilar from when we're with the entire family; a few more curse words slipped out, and we didn't feel constricted by social standards such as burps, farts, slightly racist jokes...things of that nature. Decades old stories of troublemaking from our childhood percolated, no longer confined by the statute of parental limitations.

We laughed. A lot. Eric of course had the zinger of the trip (you may remember his "Hidden Valley Ranch" gem from the Napa vacation - If not, read it here). It got dad good; it had him laughing the second hardest we've ever seen him laugh - top prize was an innocuous viewing of the Jim Carrey movie Yes Man when the protagonist explains that he's not a stalker, but "your new living room furniture looks great from the front yard". He almost had to go on a respirator for that one, and the story was the same for this gem. To pump up his comedic mystique, I won't reveal what he said here...but if you ask Eric, I know for a fact that he'll be more than happy to let you in on the joke. I'm grinning just thinking about it.

Cleaning was a cinch with the four of us pitching in. We retired to the den with our mason jars refilled and all the makings for smores. Dad came through, bringing tiny retractable pitchforks. It goes without saying, but he also brought graham (gram?) crackers, chocolate and marshmallows the size of baseballs. That last part's absolutely true, and a testament to dad's commitment to this man weekend.

They turned out to be terrible for smores, way too big, completely obliterating the ratio of crackers to chocolate to mallows. It was fun to roast them on a non-switch-turning-on fire inside, though. And a disproportionately goozy smore is better than no smore at all.

For the record, the term "disproportionately goozy", though accurate, is super gross.

We dimmed the lights and watched the single best cabin movie of all time: The Edge. This late-90's plane crash/hungry bear thriller, starring Anthony Hopkins, Alec Baldwin and Bart the Bear has action, romance, betrayal, beards, f-bombs, friendly banter and a bona fide cabin scene. The four of us watched it years ago, a Blockbuster rental in 1998, my senior year, a time when dad was the only one in the group who could grow a beard.

Eric and Matt made hilarious Bart the Bear impersonations throughout the movie, voicing the unheard thoughts of the lonely bear who just wanted to play with the famous actors. Then eat them just a little. I've seen this moving a handful of times, but this was the most entertaining; certainly it was the most I've ever laughed at a bear mauling. The chuckles eventually stopped when Bart impaled himself on a spear (spoiler alert, and Dracula call back), and the end credits rolled over the blurry image of Anthony Hopkin's broken-hearted, stubbly face. I can think of no better way to signal the end to the first night of such a testosterone-filled vacation.

We all brought some form of pocket knife, so it would become imperative that we set out on a hike with the hopes of using them in a non joking manner. This would of course prove fruitless, since our plan was to catch the KU game at a bar after hiking, thus eliminating the need to trap, gut, cook and eat wild game. But if a wild goat attacked us, we had the proper tools to posture with.

We went to Rush, an abandoned zinc mining town that has somehow been preserved for over a century. Barbed wire fences prevent curiosity seekers from breaching the shabby confines of the barely-standing edifices. The splintered wooden structures now lean about thirteen degrees closer to the trodden earth, fighting a battle against gravity, one good Kansas wind away from decimation

It feels like a vacant Wild West town, the leftover set from Tombstone, with decidedly less mustaches, drinking and shenaniganry. Slowly plodding towards the trailhead in Eric's "smart" SUV felt like time travel, or at the very least visiting a small-town country museum. Think Cracker Barrel without the general store, wait staff, food and patrons. OK, think Cracker Barrel, but just the front porch.

The plan was to hike for a few hours, so of course we came prepared with bottles of water, chex-mix, strawberry gum, layering options and as previously mentioned, knives. Predictably, the only time we unsheathed the cutlery was when our picture was being snapped, and when we cut ferny limbs off trees to pretend we were making life-saving smoke signals...like Anthony Hopkins in The Edge. 

Always be prepared

Rush presents an interesting hike, as it guides you through what used to be the town - this part takes a grand total of seven minutes - then sends you down a rocky path towards the river. You pass closed mines that have No Trespassing signs, which we unsurprisingly attempted to circumvent. I snagged my only pair of boot cut Gap jeans on a barbed wire fence and poked a hole in them; Matt caused a minor rocky landslide as he struggled to boulder over a single ridge; Eric came dangerously close to toppling a fence by scaling it; Dad, he of the wise-sage generation, hiked down to a mine entrance, but left the climbing to us rock heads.

If this is the sort of attention to detail Eric has in his work life, then Access Midstream is in trouble

Dad rocking the busted Sasquatch pose in front of a mine entrance

Mudslide Matt helping to redistribute rocks from the top of the ledge to the bottom

We followed the trail downhill, towards the river. This presented an increased level of difficulty, with piles of damp fallen leaves covering slippery plots of mud. There were no full tumbles, however we had a few cartoony close calls. The trail fed us into the the road that we took into town. We goofed around a bit by the river before heading back to the trial head. Matt's failed attempt to hydroplane over a low section left him with a bad case of wet-foot, and naturally, dampened spirits. Always the golden child, this proves that Matty's superhero capabilities, though ample, fall short of walking on water.

This is the closest I've been to getting thrown into a river since an unfortunate middle school bullying incident

Reenacting the "A roll is a roll, and a toll is a toll..." scene from Robin Hood: Men in Tights

Supplemental image in the dictionary, under the phrase "Mischievous" 

Defying physics (sort of)

Eric's Rock Fishing technique proved surprisingly ineffective

A randomly chucked rock prevented Matt from doing what he ended up doing in the picture below...

That's more like it

Because we had time, we did another pass around the Rush trail, stopping to eat beef jerky and read historical information. It's difficult to imagine the concept of a town such as this, one that existed over a hundred years ago because of what lay in its underbelly. A town that was once profitable and thriving now sits untouched by anyone save the curious. A smaller, less disastrous Chernobyl, buried deep in the woods; tragic in it's own small, backwoods manner.

What also attracted me to this obscure frontier town that died in the same time period as Oscar Wilde, is the fact that it forces you to unplug. As in, there's no Wi-Fi in the boonies. My phone died on the way in and I didn't recharge until I left Sunday morning; for safety purposes - I don't exactly have a history of not locking myself out of my car.

Dad and the bro's "had bars" and used them at the cabin, for which I moderately chastised them obsessively. I gave them grief, but out here in the real boondocks, re-living our ancestor's fortune hunting ways, we were as off the grid as dried up waffle batter on the kitchen counter.

Letting Dad test out the stability of the rocky trail

Walking to the top

"Yeah, you can totally climb this face" I lied

Us men and our lack of directional sense

Prepping for the inevitable bear attack

The photographer always gets screwed

Unless he was going for a totally badass action shot

No chin-strap jokes, I just think this is a cool picture

Proof that this used to be a town

Digging for snacks

Planning out our path, in the town that's the size of my cubicle

Taking in some history

This is how I learned that Turkey Fat is a mineral 

Our motto, "Leave no man with snacks behind"

What it would have looked like if Reservoir Dogs was filmed in the Ozarks

Searching, always searching...

We found it: Ridiculousness

Trying our best not to disturb the wake left by phantom miners, we spent another hour or so plodding down the trail, this time successfully resisting the urge to fake-enter mines. We circled back to the car, and after a rather lengthy and complicated process that involved removing muddy boots and placing them into a cardboard box so as to not dirty up Eric's car, we headed for town.

We made a quick stop back at Blacksmith so that Matt could change out of his soiled socks, then hit the road towards Yellville in search of a bar and a TV so we could watch the KU game. Not exactly mirroring the habits of our pioneering forefathers, but this was KU v K-State, and the Jayhawks were due for a big win. Besides, we were on vacation with nothing preventing us from doing whatever the heck we wanted to do.

We casually drove through the heart of Yellville in approximately 17.3 seconds, and quickly realized that this wasn't the sort of town where it was common to drink beers at noon on a Sunday. Or any day, for that matter, if the disproportionate number of churches to "insert-anything-else-here"told us anything. Off to Harrison, a town I like to sum up by saying, "I think I saw a Pizza Hut on the way in". Promising?

There was in fact a Pizza Hut on the outskirts of Harrison, however we resisted the (inappropriately coined) temptation and soldiered into town. In a very suspect manner that he won't elaborate on, Matt befriended a man at a gas station, who pointed us in the direction of a non-Pizza Hut pizza joint that actually lived up to the description "promising", which is why I chose to shed its italics from the previous paragraph. The sight of beer taps and college hoops on the telly allowed me to remove the final prohibitor, leaving this establishment nothing short of, promising. Straight up, no conditions, promising.

And so was KU's play, I wrote, in an awesome transition. We dominated our in-state rivals, to the extent that some of them might have left the court in tears. I said "might have", as there's no way to know for sure.

We toasted our 25 ounce beer mugs - the kind that you have to pretend to deliberate on before ordering (12oz...25oz?); though when it's 2pm on a Saturday, that decision is made the moment you walk into a bar. It's such a great feeling, chasing a refreshing hike with an oversized beverage. Moments like this on a random Saturday are what make the weekends so special, and help push me through the duller moments of the work week.

It must have been the fresh air. Or the combination of that, beer and our reinvigorated pioneering spirit, I suppose. Whatever it was, things began to get weird. Instead of throwing the football when we got back to the cabin, we attempted to befriend the animals. Sure, there was a fence in between us, but we were breaking down boundaries; literally so, if you count the fact that at times our hands breached the chain link fence, and once I had to hop it to shag the football. If the pictures below were in a series at a fancy gallery, the title would be, "Getting Weird With Barnyard Animals: Trying To Lose a Finger".

Even the animals fought for Matt attention

I've had girlfriends look at me less seductively than this goat

I've never seen rams before, and I've certainly never seen rams not butting heads before. Disappointing.

These are the eyes the Guess Who sang about 

This is the sort of picture you show animal control when they ask if the goat was provoked when it bit off my brother's finger

For some unexplainable reason, this goat makes me think of Earnest Goes To Camp

For not eating me, I rewarded him with a full minute of unflinching eye contact 

After antagonizing the animals, we moved on to the next manly endeavor of the trip: creating fire with our bare hands. The previous day's persistent drizzle made this somewhat difficult, but nothing a lot of little lighter fluid and some crafty tee-pee making skills couldn't overcome. (By the way, I haven't written the word "tee-pee" since probably middle school, and wow, is it hilarious! I'm trying to be adult about this, but it's tough when I'm sitting here, alone, laughing, almost uncontrollably. I apologize for everything).

Here's a time-lapse video of the sun setting, and us bro's smashing large branches, or at the very least attempting to.

(VIDEO: Smashing wood then burning it)

The fire eventually opened up, reaching a level of manly respectability. Dad tried to show us how to tame it by beating it into submission with a stick. Though always open to education, I couldn't just sit there with him lashing out at my infernal creation, nature's tempestuous response to my impassioned overture.

He would expose a pocket of air, feeding deep into the fire's lungs, only to extinguish it by batting the foundation repeatedly and with the tact of a caveman, flattening the outer ring. He'd prop it back up, feed the embers the precious air they crave, then take it away with the force of a Sammy Sosa slug. I attempted multiple tacts to stop this paternal force, including negotiation, bargaining, trickery, tom-foolery, deceit and finally physical force, before giving in.

He probably had the right idea however, as we soon retired into the kitchen for another round of dinner prep. Dad prepared encyclopedia-sized steaks while we heated up the veggies from the previous night. The campfire flame calmed as the grill's intensified, searing the steaks perfectly, branding them with perpendicular grill marks. Like Burger King, but you know, real food.

After dinner, to prep for round two of the smoreage I lit an inside fire, awesomely I must proclaim, by "spinking" a match into pile of dry, wanting logs. As you can see from the video below - last one, I promise - the match landed perfectly, not requiring any non-organic additives, such as the lighter fluid that we heaped onto the logs before setting up.

(VIDEO - Yes, Another fire!)

If you have never seen the 1982 Kurt Russell classic The Thing, then you should watch it for the first time in a cabin with Eric and I. That's what Matt and Dad did, at least, and they loved it. Dad almost deposited his beer onto my lap during the blood-testing scene, which, even though I knew it was coming, still scared the crap out of me. Great movie, even better setting, and in spite of the sugar, even more smores. Hell of a way to end the trip.

Wait...that wasn't the end of it. We gravitated into the kitchen, and I did something for the first time since George Bush the first was in office: play cards. Not a fan of cards in general, I'm way too fidgety and my attention, huh, what was that, look at that cat, what'd you say, hanging chads, that's random?

But I storm troopered it out, and even managed to win a game of gin rummy. I believe camaraderie is the word they use when they describe groups of men playing cards. And that's the heck what we had. The conversation was enjoyable and free-flowing by this point in the trip, though I constantly fought the urge to google and use "Rounders Quotes" that no one would get.

Saying "good night" when you have to drive home the next morning is always a bummer, though the hiking, food and drinks had us running on empty. The Thing had us on edge (The Edge?), and only Matt and Eric were fortunate enough to share a bed. On a trip like this, cuddling is neither required nor frowned upon.

And that was the weekend! Short to say the least, but just what the Brantner brethren needed. We're already discussing the next one, this time making David's presence a requirement. We're all busy, we're all important (just ask us), but we all love spending time together. And trips like this one, quick as it may have been, are the simple reminder we need to make the time to do it more often. So I'll keep my knife sharpened and ready for absolutely nothing, in case nature - or my family - comes calling.

Here's a link to the rest of our awesomely manly pics: Awesomely Manly Pics

But here are the best! A friend of mine retouched these images, turning them into masterpieces!

The Man, The Myth: The. Doug. 

As you can see it's impossible to set the camera and climb up a rock, but not impossible to set the camera and climb halfway up a rock

This is essentially the picture that Alec Baldwin is chasing in The Edge. Adequate joke, by the way, if you've seen the movie. Just watch the freaking movie!

Frozen: A Fateful Jog

How I stranded myself one winter’s day at Shawnee Mission Park...

It was an honest mistake, really. A tiny one, at that. But enough to knock me out for a week with bronchitis.

Backtrack to last Saturday morning, when I got up before the sun, suited up in my New Balance winter gear (very “tights” heavy) and headed to Shawnee Mission Park to run the trails. Though physically demanding, this is one of my favorite training activities. You have to be much more alert than when jogging on the street. Thousands of rocks dot the trails, each one itching to send you head over heels. Low branches and felled trees will only let you proceed using ninja trickery. I’ve seen white-tailed deer there multiple times, jump-darting through foresty obstacles with the grace of an ice princess, only stopping to stare at me with their dead-ass scary eyes.

There’s so much going on, it doesn’t even feel like real running. Which is kind of the point. Your average pace slows down as you navigate the woods, but you get a much better workout. A perfect weekend for me begins with an early 7 – 9 mile trail run, fresh coffee and long, hot shower. After that, I can justify any amount of beer and pizza Saturday and Sunday may throw at me.

What happened last Saturday was a debacle, to say the least. The scene played out like an Edgar Allen Poe short story, with myself as the unwitting protagonist.

It began with a hollow echo pulsating throughout the dark morning forest, as the car door to my 2006 Storm Gray Saturn Ion sealed inside of its malicious belly, the very key to its heart, and with a powerful “thump”, the locking mechanism cemented our dear character’s fate.

I locked my keys in my car.

Well, not all of them. In an ingenious and totally unnecessary effort to shed weight, I unclipped my house key from my car key (I only have the two), and without thinking threw the car key in the center console, and put the smaller, lighter house key in my jacket pocket.

Seven miles later, I realized my folly as I stood panting visible breath onto my car window, hand on the door handle, incredulous look at the house key, Holy Shit moment in full effect.

Luckily (the only time you’ll see this word) I was listening to a podcast on my phone, and thus had a means to seek assistance. Unluckily (you had to see it coming) my battery life was at 30% and draining. I took off my glove to call my wife to have her text me our car club information, and quickly realized how cold it was, now that I was standing still. Running in the mid-twenties is fine if you’re bundled up and don’t stop for yoga breaks. But the moment you quit running, and your blood flow normalizes, that layer of sweat inside your gear begins to act like a refrigeration unit. Which sucks when you weigh less than 150 pounds.

Not wanting to waste time, I called Melody’s store directly and she answered in a surprisingly short amount of time. I explained my predicament and without judgment she hung up so she could text me the information.

My first call to the help line was disconnected immediately after the lady asked me for my phone number in case we were disconnected. She never called back. Battery power down to 27 percent.

I called back and was transferred to another individual after failing both voice and dialing prompts. I noticed my fingers trembling as I went to punch in our account number, after the robot lady was unable to understand my voice command. After I gave the man my phone number, I asked if it was company policy to call someone back, of if they just captured our numbers for “for protocol” (I was very proud of this word choice). Though his response was apologetic for his co-worker, his tone gave me the impression that it’d be best if we weren’t disconnected.

I explained my predicament – now twenty or so minutes in – and answered all of his questions about where I was, car make and model, where exactly the keys were and what city I was in. Hey wait, didn’t I just answer that? Still, he transferred me to a pleasant-sounding gentleman who would assist me. If he didn’t live in St. Louis.

This guy then sent me on a whirl-wind tour of operators and lady-robots, none of which seemed to be able to help me. I kept my left glove on and held the phone with it, while my right hand, fully exposed, now beet-red, began tingling somewhat aggressively. For some reason, I began thinking of the winter climates that Bear Grills traveled to for his shows, and vowed to use some of his tactics after I knew that help was on the way.

Finally I had to hang up and call back for a third time, now more than half an hour since ending my run. I could feel the cold sweat on my back and head, compressing against my body. I took my beanie off for a moment, but the cold air, fresh against my noggin, was like sticking my head in the freezer.

I connected with another lady, who was professional, quick and thorough. So much so, that she told me that my account had expired months ago. Why this didn’t elicit a red flag from the previous agents is a mystery.

Once again I dialed Melody and kindly asked her what the eff. She scrambled to find the new number to text me. I couldn’t be too mad at her though, because while searching for it, she was interrupted in the break room and had to tell an employee, “I can’t help you right now because my husband locked himself out of his car and is going to freeze to death”.

Speed dial the same number, enter the new code. My right hand, now basically numb, hurt less than before, but let me know that the thawing out process would be brutal. When confirming my location, I pronounced “Shawnee” as Sylvester Stallone would, the result of a semi-frozen jaw.   

This entire time, I was pacing around the empty parking lot, as all of the shelters were closed for the winter. Even the bathrooms (both men’s and women’s - yes, I checked) were chained shut, and since it’s, you know, a park, there weren’t any places to bunker down. Well there was one…

Help was now on the way! Which was good, seeing as my phone’s battery level was down to twelve percent. Apparently I wasn’t the only one losing steam. I was supposed to receive a text stating how long it would be before help came, but obviously that didn’t occur.

So with no known timeline, I bunkered down it the only place I could: an oversized portable toilet. Now this wasn’t a run-of-the-mill blue crapper that you’d find at a construction site or kid’s soccer field. This bad boy was a deluxe version – coral blue plastic and a doublewide door, with two, count them two, racks of toilet paper. But no hand sanitizer. And yes, it smelled like shit.

This was the only place to hide from the wind, which thanks to great ventilation, wafted the toilet smell into a fury. But it was better than bunkering down in the trees…which I had already tried.

I called Melody to thank her and let her know that things were looking positive – the last call before I’d finally be able to put my glove back on my frozen cherry popsicle of a hand. After relaying the news, she immediately goes into a monologue about downloading the auto app, and blah blah blah (remember, she was in work mode) – I cut her off by meagerly offering up, “I don’t really need a lecture at this particular moment, as I wait for my hand to thaw out while pacing around in a port-a-john”. “Right”, she told me, “Sorry…I love you”.

And that was that. With no idea for an ETA, I had to jump periodically to see through the top vents – my car was about 100 yards uphill. My phone rang again, now more than an hour after my run, which considering what I had to go through to get help, was actually impressively quick.

Dude needed directions. Now you’re kidding me, right? Says he’s not from this side of town. Of course he’s not. My answer to everything was, “In Shawnee Mission Park, by the tennis courts”. I must have said it seven times. If he couldn’t find it with those instructions, I had no plan B – that was the best I could do. Didn’t Elvis die on the toilet?

Miraculously he found me. Sensing my soul’s imminent departure from this world, he offered me a seat in his truck while he worked. I declined because I thought that if my body felt any form of heat, my brain wouldn’t be able to convince it to go back into the wild, to my car - and I didn’t really want to spend the day with this guy.

I turned the car on while he collected my VIN number. I shook his hand and when I thanked him, nothing better than “TUUUYYYSSSS” came out. I shrugged, patted him on the shoulder and turned the heat to eleven.

I had to take the gloves and hat off, but left everything else on. My lower body was actually in decent shape as my running tights did well to wick away moisture. My hands, roaring back to life in front of the heater, were pink and fleshy and ill tempered. My head was already starting to throb.

But you know what they say, a hot shower cures all!

No they don’t, because that’s not at all true. This past week my body has been through a series of symptoms ranging from chills to high fevers, headaches to stomachaches, dizziness to coughing, hacking to sneezing, body pain and the worst, inability to move off of the couch. Just one week, and a Z-pack and an inhaler later, I’m finally excited at the prospect of venturing outside for more than ten minutes.

What have I learned from this debacle? Not much. Barring wearing a spare car key on a chain around my neck Lord of the Rings style, I don’t see much reason for optimism that I won’t repeat this boneheaded move. This is at least the fourth time this year that I’ve locked myself out of my car or house, or straight up lost my keys. I’m like a seven year old.

And don’t forget, I still have a 10-mile trail run to train for in February. With this race, called Psycho Wyco, the challenge is making it to the finish line. With my luck, I’ll be fortunate to enter the starting gate. So cross your fingers and stay by your phone. And if you haven’t heard from me in a while, you might want to swing by. I’ll make you a key.

Nica Stories: Escape to Monte Cristo

Tales from a non-traditional honeymoon...

This fourth post, about a hidden gem buried down stream in the Rio San Juan, involves fist-sized spiders and flying monkeys. Still interested? Previously, I've written about volcanos, lagoons, and two-person dance parties. As I dig through my trip photos, site by site, I wonder just how many more of these I can come up with. I reached the conclusion that I could feasibly be writing these until our bronze (8th year) anniversary. So time to stop dilly-dallying, and get to writing...

Tales from Monte Cristo

Me: "Is it poisonous?"

Melody: "Of course it is! You don't get to be that big without telling other animals not to eat you!"

Me: "Crap!"

--Referring to the brightly-colored, massive spider staring through our souls from the bathroom window--

AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

* I'll start this post with a disclaimer that no part of the history of Monte Cristo that I'm about to detail is likely true. I've learned some small facts over my many visits there, and filled in the gaps with wildly imaginative theories. My actions, and those of my friends, family and wife however, are entirely valid. Enjoy!

My tiny Peace Corps town, San Carlos, is roughly 8 hours by bus from Nicaragua's capital, Managua. Or so it used to be; now it's only 4 because they've paved the highway - but whatever, for purposes of this story, I'm saying 8 hours. 8 hours in a 1970's era school bus on unpaved roads, dust billowing through the windows, bumping up and down uncontrollably, teeth chattering, bladder squashing, hefty Nica grandma forearm-bulge invading your personal space. If you know me, I've bored you with this story before. So for now, this is what it takes to get to San Carlos from Managua.

Somehow you have arrived in Managua, then taken the bus (see above) to San Carlos...now what? Future posts will detail the trouble you can get into in San Carlos. This one is about what happens when you go further down the river, deeper into the jungle, closer to Costa Rica, separating yourself from civilization even more by hopping into a long and narrow boat (panga in the local parlance) made out of what appears to be rental property quality bathtub plastic, and tell the captain - a 22-year old kid with baggy jeans, a clean, stiffly-starched short-sleeve polo shirt, rock-hard gelled hair slicked back, and just the faintest intention of a mustache - "Take me to Monte Cristo!"

Melody on plastic duty to shield us from the raging rains of the Rio San Juan (below)

Choppy waters and distant rainfall on the way to Monte Cristo

So what the heck is this place with the familiar name? 

Two hours from San Carlos by panga (that new word you learned in the previous paragraph) lies Monte Cristo, a self-sustaining eco-lodge that resides on the banks of the Rio San Juan. The owner, Augustin Llanes, lives there with a skeleton crew that specializes in great hospitality in the most unlikely of regions in the world.

Augustin puts you up in spacious yet quaint bungalows with, among less important accommodations, internal plumbing and running water, something of an anomaly in this region. The rooms are comfortable enough to get a good night's rest, yet rustic to the extent that a small part of you feels like you're roughing it.

Front view of our cabin

Front view of my foot, and the view from the back of our romantic bungalow

The reasons to go there are many, and the best see the visitor taking advantage of unique opportunities provided by the land and the creatures that inhabit it. Its primary source of eco-tourism comes from the massive fishing tournaments that are part of the Rio San Juan's lore, where fishermen (and women) come from all over the globe (seriously) to pull tarpons the size of high-schoolers out of the majestic river (seriously).

You can hike or ride horses into the massive farm/jungle, where you're just as likely to stop and pick a pear as you are to interrupt a family of howler monkeys engaging in raucous banter. Canoeing, kayaking and fishing tours are all options; depending on your comfort level, you can go it unsupervised, or request a guided tour.

It's a free-for-all in terms of how you plan your stay. Once you arrive at Monte Cristo's dock and walk up the thatched roof-covered outside stairs, you chat with Augustin, probably over beers, and tell him what you're interested in - then you go from there. For the flexible travel who prefers to arrive at a location, then decide how to spend the time, this place is an absolute marvel.

So you know which dock to depart

The entry stairs have a very eco look and feel

This is a blessing, because you never know when you'll want to get dirty traipsing through a rainforest or down a river in a kayak, or when all that you really want is to enjoy coffee and mangos while reading in a hammock for three hours. At Monte Cristo, it doesn't really matter.

And now for the probably-not-so-true back story...

It's my completely uninformed opinion that this plot of land was confiscated by Daniel Ortega and the Sandinista government back in the 1980's, and given to a local party supporter - let's call him Geribaldo Llanes - to build up as a strategic military post.

The Rio San Juan has been historically mentioned as a possible location for a large-scale canal (think Panama Canal), the main point of relevance for this out-of-the-way river that connects the Pacific and Atlantic coasts of Nicaragua. This chatter has even cropped up recently, as "tests" are being currently run by the new Sandinista Government (still run by Ortega, of course).

The Rio San Juan also connects to the Rio Frio, which takes you on a brief, one-hour panga ride into neighboring Costa Rica. The Ticos and Nicas have a tenuous friendship much like that of you and your brother - equal parts love, hatred, bullying, annoying, instigating, back-slapping, towel-spinking and rum sharing. That is to say, there are good times, and there are fractured times, just like with brothers.

So Ortega gave Geribaldo (again, not a real person; maybe not even a real name) this land near what he didn't realize was the end of the Nicaraguan civil war, and when he was beaten in a free election by Violetta Chamorro, Monte Cristo (which had not yet been anointed so) was just another piece of Sandinista land on a list of many that had to be "dealt with".

Though strategic to the region, the Rio San Juan feels like another country from Managua, so likely Geribaldo wasn't hassled to return the land, and it wasn't deemed worth the hassle to appropriate to the incoming government, which had a rather long list of action-items on its plate, the first of which was to stop its citizens from trying to kill each other.

Geribaldo, not one to miss an opportunity, begun turning it into an eco-lodge as a way to draw tourists further down the river. Finding false commonalities with Alexandre Dumas's character Edmond Dantes, he named the place Monte Cristo, and went to work building the infrastructure that, years later, Agustin would use to host, among other tourists, myself, fellow PC volunteers, Melody, my brothers and mother.

Again...none of this is likely true...

What are my favorite memories from Monte Cristo?

I've visited this lush vacation spot roughly half a dozen times, and have always been rewarded with a unique and intriguing experience. The thread that ties these moments together lies not entirely in the activity, but the friends and family with whom I'm sharing the moment. If I want to see flying monkeys, all I have to do is pop in a copy of The Wizard of Oz. But watching them in real life, sitting in a wooden rocking chair next to my wife...that's something special (see below). So in no particular order:

• Attack of the Killer West African Bees - Or that's what we told ourselves after Matt was attached on horseback by a family of bees. They somehow found a path inside his shirt, stinging him no less than eighteen times. We retreated back to our cabin as Matt's chorus of "Ow's!", "What the F's!" and "Are you kidding me's?" both rose in urgency and made us chuckle. Augustin brought rum for us to wipe on the stings - he had no less than 18 of them - which relieved Matt of a small amount of pain. He also brought out a few cold Tona's, so we could kick back and laugh over the experience. All of us except for Matt, that is. 
• Monster Spider - Melody and I were enjoying a nice night looking out into the dark nothingness that is the Rio San Juan at nighttime. We had rum, cigars, music and what I can only imagine was witty banter, but were sorely lacking munchies. A quick jaunt back to the cabin for some of the street goods we purchased earlier in the day seemed like it was harmless...that is until Melody yelled for me to come into the bathroom. Perched on one of the window slats above the bathroom sink was a spider as colorful as a losing paintball contestant, and as big as a grapefruit. Thoroughly creeped out, I fulfilled my husbandly duties by attempting - though failing - to swat it away with a dusty magazine. We settled on closing the slats, hoping to imprison the beast behind bars for the remainder of our stay. We never solved the mystery of how it breached our room's interior, and more importantly, I had to sleep on the side of the bed that was below the window for the rest of our stay. 
• As a side note on this topic, lizards also joined us in our room, to less frightening consequences. These are the small ones whose tails fall off when you grab them. In fact, we had one that spent almost the entire weekend inside our shower. Now seeing a lizard in your shower in and of itself isn't considerably scary, however once your brain processes the fact that a massive spider has also appeared inside that very same cabin, it makes a cognitive leap that has frightening psychological consequences.
• Canoeing with the Dudes - Four years ago I guided some pals on a two week excursion through Costa Rica and Nicaragua, staying one night at Monte Cristo. Nick, Zach, Chad and I loaded our gear into two wooden canoes and paddled two hours east towards the town of El Castillo. On that trip, we learned a lot about each other goofed around a lot. While none of us capsized, we shared some great stories, cracked jokes and made fun of each other, all while marveling at the amazingly green landscape around us. The herds of cows, the cranes perched on one leg for no particular reason, the sunbathing turtles and jumping tarpons. El Castillo was quite a sight when it entered our view, but it is the shared experiences of the journey to get there that stand out in my mind. 
• Flying Monkeys - With a nasty storm approaching, and Melody and I in for the evening, we saw a family of monkeys jump from one set of trees to another, fifteen or so yards away. We sat on the back patio, astonished to see something straight out of a Nat Geo special. The parent figure guided the little one first, and it abided by hurling its body in the air, gut forward, hands, feet and head arched back, just like in the cartoons. It connected with a group of leafy branches twenty yards lower than its leaping off point. Surprised to see the first family, we were mind-blown to see an additional ten monkeys follow suit, all flying in front of us, with the river blanketing the background. Not sure where they headed, but we heard them roaring all night long, sounding like a cross between Darth Vader and the raptors from Jurassic Park. 
• Food - The food is some of the best I have had in the country that isn't purchased from an old lady in the street. Agustin uses a variety of fresh fruits (hello starfruit!) and vegetables that are picked straight from gardens on the resort. The meats he uses come from animals that we either saw earlier in the day (oink oink, moo moo) or canoed by (fish sound here). Fruit smoothies - or favorite is the luminescent purple pitaya - are served with most meals. There's usually a unique garlic sauce or chilero, and with a rare focus on plate presentation, the result is a meal straight out of a travel brochure...but better. 

These are a few of my favorites memories from Monte Cristo, and I hope to add to this list with each visit. I don't imagine I'll ever stop visiting my host family, and let's be honest, if I've made it that far, what's another few hours downstream. Enjoy the rest of the pictures from this amazing place. Next up...El Castillo.

Quite possibly the single most romantic thing I've ever done!

Melody relaxing on our spot. Here we read, drank coffee and rum, listened to music, talked for hours and hid from our pet spider

Spared no expense

Melody enjoying a rum pitaya drink straight from a pitaya (no idea if there is an english translation). 

Our favorite fruit smoothies

Probably the second most romantic thing I've ever done

Even the banos are quaint and cutesy

Visual flora

Obviously this means that star fruit means star fruit in spanish

Ironic to see street signs, since there's never been a car this far down river

Back in my PC days, I canoed for three straight days - 160KM - to the atlantic coast, San Juan del Norte

Melody at the resort entrance. I get a uniquely liberating feeling each time I pass between those hung tire-planters

Some seriously angry cows on the river

Such attention to detail

A great evening snack, rum drinks served in fruit with fruit on the side

And for a bit of the midwest, there's always the Bar Mark Twain!