camping – On the Horizon Line

Birthday Eve | Silver Streaks and Strawberries

It’s the day before my 39th birthday, and I have 18 minutes before the babysitter leaves. I forgot the laptop in my haste to get to may meeting on time (and also to comb my hair), so I borrow old menus and a pen from the coffee shop waiter.

The sun is warm and the sidewalk bustles with sundress-clad women, bare legs still pale after a cold spring. I ask for strawberries on my salad, settle under a red umbrella, then scribble down year-end thoughts on the back of “Today’s Soup Specials”:

This last decade started with just me + a handful of houseplants, and ended with me + a husband + 2 kids + 3 old cars + 2 even older boats + a mortgage + a garage full of adventure gear I love + closets full of crap I don’t need. That’s a lot of addition.
This is the decade when I became an adult: a woman who learns to balance all sorts of awkward-shaped bundles with not enough arms while sometimes wobbling, sometimes sauntering, sometimes sprinting between people and places, most of whom I love but some of whom I don’t (like the grocery store…I hate the grocery store).

I sip my coffee, heavy on the honey, and reflect on what I’m grateful for:

A son who knows the name of every wildflower we pass on hikes, and who makes me stop at each poppy and peony to smell the “beautifuls”. His sticky kisses and big brown eyes.
A daughter who plops down in icy mud to splash in the creek, giggling at the goo between her fingers. Those dimpled fingers reaching up to grasp mine.
A husband who fixes the holes in the 45-year-old sailboat I persuade him to buy, who pulls the ticks off our scalps without flinching, and who cooks us dinner (and usually breakfast, too).
A brave sister who always says yes to adventures, who holds my babies as close as I do, and who buys me expensive whisky for my birthday.
Parents who taught me to try my hardest and love me still when I try the least, and who still go camping so they can sleep next to rushing rivers.
Girlfriends who gather on porches and in cabins and on trails and around meals to heal and hold each other through each season.
My body, my mind, my smiles lines and grey streak (hell, let’s call it “silver”), which all serve to keep me upright and centered amidst the pull of gravity.

And now I only have 2 minutes left before my alone time is up—never enough time (or sleep) during these longest shortest days with toddlers—so I box my sandwich, down the espresso, and pedal fast on my pink bike with these handwritten words folded inside its rickety rear milk-crate.

As I bike home, I list what we need for the impromptu camp-out tonight with the kids and my sister—a birthday-eve bash on the banks of the Blackfoot River among the pines and willows, camas and cutthroat, where I will dunk naked in the cold mountain water to baptize anew, a new woman still at 39, figuring it all out as the water flows past.

Camping

Why (And How!) To Camp With A Wall Tent

The Crux Move In Utah’s San Rafael Swell

I’d been expecting to be scared at some point during our family’s spring trek to Utah’s San Rafael Swell. But I’d thought the fear would bubble up while I was rappelling into thin air over rock walls. Or, even more likely, while watching four-year-old Talon take his own turn defying gravity.

But it turns out that our crux move arrived before we even got out the climbing gear.

“We’re never gonna make it,” Rob said for the third time in as many minutes. I gripped the handle above my door as we jounced through a creek bottom.

We were driving over snowy mud. Sliding over it, more accurately. The road into the San Rafael Swell, a national recreation area managed by BLM, was slick as shit.

“Let’s turn around now,” I urged. “We still have enough daylight to find a different campsite.”

I was worried that even if we magically made the remaining 20 miles of this windy 30-mile road, the spot we planned to camp for a week would also be covered in snow.

We’d chosen the remote campsite by looking at Google Earth, since neither of us had ever visited the Swell. It looked perfect from satellite images: the public land at the end of the road abutted Muddy Creek Wilderness Area and several mountain biking and hiking trails.

The plan was to set up our nifty canvas wall tent, complete with its miniature wood-fired stove, settle in and explore different canyons each day. Talon and I had been practicing climbing and rappelling at home by using a series of bolts Rob had drilled into the ceiling (a fun winter activity when it was too cold to go outside). I was eager to use our skills on real rock—but not at the price of totaling our truck en route.

We fishtailed again, swerving toward the edge.

The baby cried louder, voicing her displeasure at being restrained in a car seat for two days straight. I tried offering her a pacifier. She threw it at me.

“Mom, can I please get out? It’s boring back here!” Talon whined.

We pulled over at the next crossroads, ready to turn back. My sister and her boyfriend pulled up behind us, still in good spirits (maybe because they didn’t have crying kids in tow?).

“We should keep going! I bet that was the worst of it,” she reasoned, pointing at the map.

With her encouragement and the kids happier after the pit stop, we decided to continue on. Thank goodness we did: it was smooth sailing after we descended from the high-desert plateau.

We let Talon and Lyra sit up front with us for the last few miles. They put their heads out my window, giggling at the breeze on their face.

The road ended at Muddy Creek, framed by soaring canyon walls painted in rainbows of red. We all smiled in glee as we took in the 360-degree view of wilderness, which we had all to ourselves.

“We get to stay here for six whole nights!” Talon said, jumping in excitement. “Dad, can you get my bike off first?”

He pedaled circles around us as we started setting up the wall tent. I cracked a beer, lifting my face to the spring sun as I saluted Rob.

“Cheers to persevering.”

Why We Love Camping With A Wall Tent

Two years ago, we bought a 10×14′ canvas wall tent from Big Sky Canvas, a local manufacturer in Montana. We usually use it for camping in the spring and fall.

In the summer, we set it up in our backyard, where the wall tent serves as a guest abode for visitors, a handy kids’ fort, and a lovely little yoga studio. Here’s why it’s a great family adventure tool:

More space! You can walk around, cook, and get dressed without hunching over. It’s easy to hang up coats and other gear, and to keep the kids’ toys and clothes organized and out of the way.

Comfy beds! We bought two collapsible cots from Cabela’s that make excellent couches, too. With a sleeping pad on top, I sleep better than on my bed at home. The kids sleep on the ground on thick foam pads, snug as bugs in their sleeping bags.

Warm and cozy! The tiny, portable wood stove (we bought this Camp Chef at Cabela’s for $250) is SO awesome in the morning when it’s chilly, heating the tent up fast while we sip coffee. And evenings are extra cozy, as we read and play cards by the light of the lanterns.

Safe from the elements! It’s a luxury to chill in the shady tent after a long day in the sun, lounging in camp chairs to read or snack. Or to escape a rainstorm in comfort. The canvas withstands wind, rain, and snow much better than small nylon tents. The screens on the doors and windows keep out any bugs and most of the dust, too.

Best Times To Use One

During the spring, fall or winter: camping can be chilly during these shoulder seasons, when weather may be inclement and the nights are longer.

On camping trips where you plan to stay in one place for more than 3 nights: this makes it worth the added set-up and take-down time.

With a baby or toddler: the big tent provides a safe “play pen” to contain little tots, as well as a much more convenient place to change diapers and put them down for naps.

If any team members have an injury or disability: it’s easier to enter and exit the big door on the wall tent rather than crawling through a small flap, and the sleeping cots are easier to get off and on, too, compared to sleeping on the ground.

Tips & Advice

The more hands, the better. With just Rob and me, it takes about 90 minutes to fully set up our tent (including all the the interior “decor”, like kitchen, beds, tables, and wood stove. But it goes twice as fast if you have more people on hand! Kids can help by holding the frame in place, fitting poles together to build the sides and rafters, or simply sorting different-sized poles into piles.

Bring hooks, shelves, and organizing options. Even a few extra crates or boxes help keep the clutter to a minimum while living in a tiny house. Hooks are awesome for keeping hats, sunglasses, and jackets off the floor (and out of the dirt!).

Make a floor. Bring a big tarp or two, as well as any spare mats or a cheap rug to cover the dirt and gravel. We bought an 8×10-foot outdoor carpet at Lowe’s for $20 that works well.

Pack extra tables. We have a card table, a roll-up river table, and a lightweight folding camping table—and we always wish we had a couple more elevated spaces to store all the knick-knacks that accumulate during our camping trips.

Stock lots of metal stakes. We’ve been caught in big winds (especially in the Utah desert) several times, and it’s important to have plenty of stakes to tie down the wall tent’s sides. If it’s windy while you’re putting up and taking down the tent, consider staking two corners temporarily as you drape it over the poles, so the big canvas doesn’t sail away!

Reflections on Life

How To Be A Rebel

Last Monday, my friend Gillian Kessler played a cover of John Mayer singing Free Fallin’ during her evening dance class. She dedicated it to me. Naturally, I started crying.

I bet you would have, too, especially if Gillian had just led you through an hour of movement-based soul-searching centered around the theme “rebel.” For me, I feel most free when I’m a little–or a lot–rebellious. As John Mayer caressed several octaves, I cried because I realized that I’d lost my inner rebel. You know the one: the little voice that tells you to take risks, laugh louder, dance bigger, show the world you don’t give a shit. The one that tells you the occasional free-fall is as vital as breath. The one that tells you to live your truth.

off the rack afro brazilian dance bri randall — Dancing with Gillian a few years back at the Wilma Theater in Missoula.

My inner rebel disappeared when we returned from our adventures overseas. I want her back. This week, I got to work figuring out how to be a rebel again.

STEP 1: Remember when I felt most free.

That’s easy: when I first moved to Missoula. I was cartwheeling in happy mental circles, giggly with glee at the world. I was 22. I belonged to only me. I could free-fall wherever and whenever I wanted to. Where’d the giggles go? They got slowly buried in layers of responsibility and connection as adulthood progressed. We start to promise pieces of ourselves to lovers, friends, siblings, parents, children. I now belong to so many others that I no longer belong to myself.

STEP 2: Go camp alone for 24 hours.

Alone time is the panacea that soothes my soul. But I haven’t had 24 hours alone in 14 months, which is likely why my inner rebel is buried. To uncover her, I spent a night camping on the Blackfoot River. The golden leaves and flowing water lulled me into a long sleep–13 hours!–that illustrated why it’s tough to be rebellious when you’re massively sleep deprived. The next morning, I started to find the path back to freedom by making a new, improved vision board for my life.

camping on blackfoot river brianna randall — Everything a girl needs for 24 hours alone.

STEP 3: Just say no to ‘spirit suck.’

It’s time to take back some of those pieces of me I’ve parsed out lately, namely to commitments that don’t feed my inner rebel. I rarely say no. It’s because I suffer from FOMO–the clinical term for the ‘fear of missing out’. But I’ve started to cut out anything that doesn’t make me smile (even if it’s just a little, bitty smile down deep). This is hardest to do with work-related commitments, as the temptation of more money can be the ultimate spirit suck.

This scene is the opposite of spirit suck.

STEP 4: Say yes to what gives me energy.

Dancing. Yoga. Staring into Talon’s eyes and kissing his toes. Walking alone on trails. Cooking dinner with Rob. Those are the easy ones to pinpoint. As for work, I’ve realized that my passion is telling stories. It’s easy to figure out from there which contracts will allow me to write compelling stories and which won’t.

talon randall roberts hiking in missoula — Hiking in the sun with Talon makes my inner rebel happy.

STEP 5: Give myself permission to take time–and risks.

Here’s the crux of what my inner rebel wants: a book. I want to write my own book, full of my own stories. And that’s a huge risk, both emotionally–can I actually just do that?–and financially, since writing a book may never provide money for me or my family. But I’ve given myself permission to try. Steps 1-4 will hopefully give me the time and motivation to take the risk. Meanwhile, I’m pretty excited to practice free-falling again–even if it’s a short, sweet fall into my own bed or into my baby’s eyes.

It’s a lifelong journey to cultivate my inner rebel. I got off-trail there for a bit, but luckily Gillian and John Mayer came to the rescue and helped get me back on course toward finding my truest self.

talon randall roberts by rattlesnake creek in missoula — Talon and Rattlesnake Creek = stories waiting to happen.

Off the Rack in Missoula dance bodypaint brianna randall — Back in the days of bodypaint and dancing in front of big crowds: Off the Rack 2012.

Pregnancy, Reflections on Life

Beauty Has a Bite – Walking Into Nettles

Sometimes you walk through the wildflowers and straight into stinging nettles. I did it this weekend. I never looked down at the path below, focusing instead on the creek ahead. My inner thighs tingled for hours, pinpricks reminding me that beauty has a bite.

Rob tells me that maybe I shouldn’t write about the depressing parts. That no one wants to read woe-is-me shit. I get that, and agreed. But then I didn’t have anything I felt like writing about for the past two weeks. Nothing seemed as relevant, as prescient, as the bite lurking in the flowers. So I reneged. I write for the release and the uncovering. For the process and the parting. No one pays me for this blog, no one dictates deadlines and content — that’s the rest of my writing. This is real. The real me, right now, who wants to write about the nettle pricks.

The road is winding closer to the next stream. Five weeks and a wee person pops out, ready or not. I feel not more than ready. Maybe it’s understandable when you consider that this is the only irrevocable choice I’ve ever made. You can give away plants, sell a house, loan out your pets. You can’t not be a mother once you’ve grown a baby inside of you. That’s terrifying. No outs. No timeouts. No “I changed my mind.”

I am grateful to have more wildflowers than nettles in my life. Truly. What a wimp, I tell myself, to whimper over a bit of sting after a truckload of laughter and light. That’s not me. I don’t whimper.

What I’m really scared of, though, is the big ghost nettle lurking in the wildflowers of upcoming parenthood. How can we hold on to that laughter and light during 3am feedings? When the baby cries uncontrollably and inexplicably? When we’re tired to the bone in the dark and the horizon seems so very far away?

Then I remind myself that all I have to do is just try, with an open mind and a clear heart and legs stinging with the reminder that nettles nestle in the flowers. But they won’t kill me — just help me appreciate the space between the stings more gracefully and more genuinely. Just nudge me into looking at the path I am on instead of all the possibilities ahead. This is the path we chose. It will be beautiful, even when it bites.

On the Horizon Line - Brianna Randall and Rob Roberts Blog - Rock Creek Montana

Reflections on Life

Burning Down the Box

I want to burn the box. What box, you wonder? Our new house? Well, yes, some days. But I’m actually referring to the box that many middle-class Americans live within. The 9-to-5, drive-a-sedan, own-a-home box that beckons us to join the masses that do the same.

We’ve been back in the States for almost two months now. That box is firmly overhead. It feels like we suddenly mounted tricycles and are trying to stay within the lines of a track we can’t quite find. “The Loop,” one friend calls it – a circular, never-ending track of mortgage, groceries, errands, bills, and all the income, smiles and tears that makes the wheels spin.

We broke outta The Loop. Hell, we gleefully smashed it to pieces. The problem is that we didn’t leave much left to pick up when we returned. I look around now at our near-empty cupboards and our way-bigger-than-a-boat living space, and wonder what possessed me to give away my cookie sheet. The paid-off car. The speakers and stereo. The really good job. Our favorite spider plant.

But mostly, I look at what we still have and am overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stuff we don’t need. Why, for instance, do I have 22 tank tops when I lived in 2 for a year? How could we ever have needed pint glasses and coffee mugs and wine glasses? Sometimes I feel like all the stuff is taunting us as we struggle with merging back into The Loop.

None of the pictures look good on the wall because I don’t like looking at walls instead of horizon. The carpet seems odd because it’s not sand. The nights are too quiet to sleep without hearing roosters calling or wind in the stays. The Loop feels eerily desolate, even as our favorite friends pedal alongside.

Last weekend, I joined a few girlfriends for an overnight in the Rattlesnake National Forest. I packed a pad, a one-person tent, my ukelele and some food. Off I rode from the front yard, belly as my bowsprit. A mere six miles later, I stopped at a divine creekside camp spot. I rejoiced at how lucky we are to live so close to these familiar mountains. I felt light again. Free. Like Bri. It felt safer to have only the belongings on my back. To look at a panorama of sky instead of a landscape of unsatisfying walls.

When I turned home the next day, I felt stronger and more inspired than ever to trash the tricycle and burn down the box. The problem is that I don’t quite know what to replace them with. At seven months pregnant, I can’t exactly wander into the sunset with a backpack. Supposedly, that fabled “nesting” instinct is going to kick in soon. But right now, I long to be a gypsy still. To be the family that never has going-away or welcome-home parties because you never know if we are coming or going.

Rob and I are learning our way back home through a thicket of expectations, new and old. We prop each other up. On good days, we find morels in river bottoms and sheep skulls beneath pine logs. We appreciate the wildflowers and have dinner with friends who listen well and hug us hard.

On bad days, we try to stagger which one of us wobbles on this new track. We alternate between who wants to burn down the house and who can deal with the daily chores. We dwell too often on “should haves,” even though we know full well that “can dos” will serve us better.

Would we take our sailing trip again? Of course. Would we have done things a bit differently? No question. Hindsight is the clearest vision of all. Now we’re working on not letting it blind our way forward.

Hiking, Outdoor Adventures, Videos

Land of the Alpine Nymphs

Four days. Four lakes. Three bachelors. Two pack-rafts. One climbing rope. A lot of hiking.

This is the story of an epic off-trail traverse in the Mission Mountains Wilderness with my friends, Kipp and Josh.

Watch our adventure below.

Fishing, Hiking

Solo Backpack from Our Home to My Headwaters

Bear hangs in the wilderness are like anchors at sea — it’s what let’s me sleep comfortably in the middle of the woods.

I made this connection during a solo journey into the Rattlesnake Wilderness the first weekend in August. Rob was busy driving a forklift and playing with power tools, helping our friends build a cabin in Southwestern Montana. So, I seized the glorious summer weekend, threw some gear in a backpack, threw a trailer on my bike, and headed out the front door at 3pm after work.

I ride my mountain bike up 5 miles of pavement, and then 16 miles of bumpy trail along Rattlesnake Creek, towing my heavy pack. Around 7pm, I reached the Wilderness boundary, locked the bike to fir tree, and strapped on my backpack. I hiked up Wrangell Creek about 5 miles, and reached Little Lake, a gorgeous high mountain lake, just as night fell. Which meant I had to HURRY to set up camp, make dinner, and then get dinner hung out of the reach of hungry bears and curious critters.

For me, I have to hang a rope right away, so I know my food will be out of range of hungry bears. That way I can sleep more soundly, especially when I’m all alone in the middle of the woods. Plus, I suck at throwing, so I figure I should get the dreaded (but critical!) chore out of the way first.

I finally found a good snag halfway around Little Lake (high elevation areas = subalpine firs = tiny branches that don’t hold the weight of my hefty food bag). Whew. Food safe for the night. I settled in my sleeping bag to read, and fell asleep as a lightening storm gave way to gentle rain in my cozy tent.

The next morning, after retrieving the food from it’s bear-proof spot, I decided to hike to the next lake, Glacier Lake. The first day alone in the mountains I’m usually jumpy, clapping and singing to scare away lions, tigers, and bears (and moose).

But then I settle into the rhythm of silence. By day two and day three, I almost forget I’m not a part of the forest, and rarely make noise. Maybe this is just because I feel slightly invincible by not getting killed on the way in.

On the second night, my comfort level was tested by 5 mountain goats that interrupted

the silence of sunset as the scrambled over a sheer cliff about 100 yards from my tent. Awesome creatures.

On the hike out, I catalog what I forgot in my rush to leave my home for the headwaters of my backyard creek: a compass, a utensil (good thing twigs make good chopsticks), a bandana. And what I was most glad to have with me: a fly rod, my bear hang rope, and a good book.

The reason I love backpacking–and sailing, for that matter–is that you must live in exactly that moment. You’re only mission is to survive, to plan the next meal and find the next shelter. There’s a beauty in that, a simplicity and a purpose that leaves me satisfied…and ready to do it all over again.