#like weed critter or sleepy critter
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Introduction (2024)
This will be pinned later
Hello, my name is T-weed and no it’s not Tweed welcome to my Tumblr blog I’ll just be doing silly little art related things, so don’t check my account you seriously also, this account is a mess and I would also like to say that this is a very safe place for everyone but if you want to interact with my blog, I do ask that you follow my rules and respect my boundaries.
Personal introduction:
Name: tweed (uncomfy, giving my irl name out)
Age: 14(but turning 15 on August 4)
Sexuality: bisexual and aroace
Personal pronouns: she/her
Race:  African-American/Puerto Rican
Current hyperfixated: the smiling critters
Favorite hobby : art/music/being cringe and dumb at the same time/being sleepy as fuck/Being autistic trash (I was diagnosed last year)
 Fandoms: (I’m a multi fandom girlybut you’re my favorite Fandoms)
Final space
Atavistic
Romeo and Juliet 1993
 trolls (only in it for velvet and veneer)
 TMNT
Dhmis
Fnaf
 poppy playtime
Captain Lazerhawk (blood dragon remix)
Welcome home
Home alone
Solarball 
Octonauts 
Tf2
And ect.
Rules:
(don’t have that many rules)
#1: pls be respectful of everybody’s 
#2: if you are an NSFW account, do not follow me or to make NSFW artwork 
#3: if you’re a kid, (8/11) please don’t follow me or an adult (20+)
#4: please don’t expect constant post bc I get lazy and I lose motivation
#5: do you expect me to be posting my art a lot.
Boundaries
Comfortable
☆Please use my pronouns properly
☆NSFW artwork and suggestive artwork I just won’t be doing it here on my blog  (puberty a dickhead plus I don’t give a fuck just keep it away from me)
☆Asking to be moots just don’t be weird about it
☆Asking for my other social media
☆Making fanart of my oc (just don’t tag me in any NSFW artwork)
☆I’m comfortable with DM as long as they stay respectful
☆Re-posting my art is OK as long as you tag me and ask for my consent, same goes with pfp
Uncomfortable
Inappropriate DM’s from anyone
NSFW accounts following me (pls don’t follow me)
 not using my proper pronouns
Children following me (pls read the rules)
Asking for personal information(I am uncomfy)
Sending me NSFW art work(again pls read the rules)
Spam likes/spam comment (they overwhelmed me)
Asking for a face reveal or voice reveal (

Heavy/basic dni:
 Those Wally, darling Simp
Fake claimers
therian (nothing against you,)
Those Christians(I have nothing against your religion, but please don’t try to force it on me. Also no I’m not an atheist.)
Those welcome home fan
Racist
Homophobic
LGBTQ discriminators
Vivipop supporter
Ect.
Pls interact:
Furries(y’all are chill and cool as hell)
Cosplayers/poc cosplayer
Multi fandom
LGBTQ 🏳️🌈
Age regressors
Autistic people (where are y’all at?)
Neurodivergent people ( again where the fuck are y’all at?)
Ect.
That’s it for now bye
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Hi (you need a nickname)
When you're not writing, but just daydreaming, what kinds of daydreams do you have? Are they detailed and specific? Do you repeat the same ones or explore new worlds?
Hi Sleepy! (yay for nicknames!)
Oooh interesting. I'm gonna give my best shot at an answer and it's probably gonna be rambly lol. It's a mix. Like...the things I'm focusing on in the daydream is usually detailed, but the rest of it is fuzzy. If I'm staring at the grass in my yard and dreaming up a society of humanoid-like critters are making cities based on the specific weed I'm looking at, I'll have very detailed sculpted thoughts around that weed and what humanoids would look and act like and what they'd build and how they'd interact with the thing that's the staple of their city...but the world around said city is a bit blank.
Sometimes I'm daydreaming about being in the world of the latest game I've been playing, sometimes it's running through scenarios of a plotline in a movie or show, sometimes it's just how characters in a book would react to characters of this other book. I think it's rare that I visit the same one. Mostly I think my daydreams stay within the bounds of the four worlds that are my main (still in development) project. And I'm pretty sure it's just because I know I haven't explored the full length of each world and a lot of times something in this world will make me go 'huh' and then I'll spend the next week thinking and dreaming up answers to questions that my brain asked.
So I guess the real answer is that I have worldbuilding daydreams, lol. And they're probably overly-detailed depending on the subject matter and because there's always a new question but I go back to one of the four worlds, they're new parts of a repeated landscape (if that makes sense 😂)
#Sleepy asks#daydreaming#I once came up with frost bees for my ice planet because I saw a thing in the back of the frozen meat isle at the store#that looked like a honeycomb but it was blue and frozen and my mind went#oh#what if there were bee-like creatures on the ice planet that collected water during the warmer months and had a way to freeze it#and then I came up with an entire section of the ecosystem in a specific part of the world based on frost-bees#and they look like snowflakes#because I was at the store and got distracted by a funny looking thingy#pretty sure I forgot to buy meat that day too
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should i decritterfy weed critter
#aaand post#a non critter weed critter would just be named weed......#critters kinda have like fraggle name rules#everyones last name is critter and usually they go by their full name#like weed critter or sleepy critter
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Do you have any HC/imagines about riding around with Chop? 💗 Like late night drives or something! ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ TYY
Here ya gooooo
Riding Around with Chop Top HCs
It just so happens that every now and then, Chop gets a particular yearning to go out in the truck at night, and of course, he always invites you.
The night air is cool, so he has the windows rolled down when he drives along. If you get chilled, he'll cover you up with one of the blankets he has in his backseat. They might smell a little questionable, but they're warm.
He has to clear off the passenger seat when you ride with him, it's usually covered in various bits and pieces of trash.
The radio is playing at all times.
One time, when you were going along on the dusty night road, he braked suddenly. When you turned to him, you noticed his eyes were fixed on the road. There was a mother opossum and her babies on her back crossing the road.
"Whoaaaa. Far out critter." He whispered.
When not braking for opossums, he sometimes likes to drive at a ridiculously high speed, whooping as he tears down the deserted road. That always manages to wake you up if you ever felt sleepy at night.
Sometimes, he pulls over in a cool spot he found, then takes you out to sit with him on the hood of the truck or in the truck bed. Might even share his weed with you if you're so inclined.
#horror tag 2#my writing#tcm 2#tcm headcanons#tcm#texas chainsaw#texas chainsaw massacre#texas chainsaw 2#slashers#slasher headcanons#headcanons#imagines#slasher imagines#chop top#chop top sawyer#chop top sawyer x reader#chop top x reader
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PART VIII - BAD DREAMIN’
PREVIOUS CHAPTER | NEXT CHAPTER
It was happening again; the bad dreaming. It was the third night in a row Tre awoke in a cold sweat panicked and breathing heavy. Taking a deep breath to slow his heart rate he stands only to be startled by the sound of thunder.
Get it together he tells himself looking out the window. The street below him is asleep and devoid of any movement aside from the rain that keeps falling. Its settling as he sits on the edge of the bed having a glass of water.
He knew his options very well. Go for a walk or workout. Those were the only things that helped at times like this. But the rain and his exhaustion made both options equally unfavourable. A knock at his door takes him out of his thoughts.
3:14am the clock reads.
He swallows heading to the door slowly and turning on his security monitor to see who it is. Elle stands outside with her hair piled into a messy bun and silk pj’s. He opens the door before she can knock again.
“Can’t sleep, I’ve been trying for two hours but the storm won’t let up” she reasons. He’d come to learn one thing about Elle in the time of her being his neighbour. She’d always be direct and say exactly what she wanted. Her word was good too. It’d been two weeks since the hotel and she’d left him alone, left his washer alone and been occupied by her work. Now here she was two weeks later needing to sleep. Tre couldn’t be mad - it was some shit he’d do. Fuck a bitch and not call again until he needed a re-up. He steps aside allowing her to come in before locking up.
“This way” he says in a sleepy voice when she makes no efforts to explore his apartment like women usually do. She doesn’t make an effort to look at anything she just follows making him feel more at ease.
“Where all the sinning happens” she mumbles with a small smile. “Which side?” She asks and he points to the left letting her get comfortable first before he lays down. Worry washes over him when he feels her breathing and heart rate slow. Last thing he ever wanted was to wake up panting and panicked with a woman next to him. It’s why he never let them stay the night, why he liked to go so hard during the day so the exhaustion would ensure a good sleep at night. “It’s freezing in here do you have more blankets?” Elle snaps him out of his daze.
“One sec” he gets up pulling down a heavier one from the closet. He’d cranked up the AC to stop himself from sweating initiatively and cool down.
“Thanks” she says getting cozy until she feels his energy change again. A flash of lightening strikes before terrible thunder startles her. “Tomorrows a big day at the museum and I’m going to look like shit because … well, nature” she groans.
“Stop being dramatic. Bitchy maybe. Look like shit? Nah” he comments serving a back handed compliment.
“I guess thats sweet, for you. So I’ll take it without making a smart remark” she reasons closing her eyes only for thunder to rumble again. “For fuck sake” Elle groans completely exhausted and seconds away from losing it.
“You owe me for this” Tre mumbles in response pulling her to him.
“Ok” she agrees taking his hand and pulling it around her. He tightens the hold instinctively getting comfortable on the pillow. He’d never done this before - been the big spoon or even cuddled anyone. But he felt his heart-rate slowing to match hers, his arms hold her tighter as his heavy eyelids shut.
The sun streams in bright making Elle stir. Her eyes opening slowly in response to the overbearing sunlight. Their position vastly different from how they started last night. Her head was on his chest as he slept on his back mouth slightly ajar and lips looking soft - begging to be kissed. She couldn’t help but smile at how different he looked asleep. She’d take a picture if it wasn’t sure to piss him right off. His arm still around her waist protectively and holding her at his side. She runs her hand up his cut abs and his eyes flutter open. He lets go instinctively pointing in the direction of his ensuite.
He uses his other washroom doing his own morning routine and getting back in the bed to check his phone before Elle is out her messy bun now a neatly braided ponytail. She resumes her position despite the night being over. Head on his chest as she checks her phone using him as a pillow to push his buttons. Her phone rings revealing Kizzy’s name and making her eyes close in frustration. She ignores it only for Kizzy to proceed.
“I’m outside your door where are you?” Kizzy snaps
Fuck
Elle sits up looking at Tre. Kizzy made it clear despite his good looks he was no longer anyone to be associated with. Elle waking out in her night dress would beg questions she didn’t want to answer.
“Something came up and I’m out - call you when I get back” Elle lies cringing and looking at her phone in utter horror.
“ELLE!”
Elle hangs up abruptly.
FML
Theres a knock at Tre’s door and he pulls on a pair of sweatpants heading to the open it. Elle continues checking her phone when he comes back tossing something on the bed.
“Kizzy just invited me to the event tonight” he comments sitting down. Its hard for Elle to concentrate when he’s a walking male model.
“Kizzy? Who thinks you’re an ass and is really offended by you Kizzy?” Elle clarifies skeptically.
“It ain’t the first time she’s knocked on my door either” Tre shrugs.
“Traaaaayyyyyy” Elle groans closing her eyes. “If you’re fucking my cousin I’m going to turn into the Tasmanian devil do you know how messy that is?” Elle snaps getting out of the bed.
“I’m letting you know that your cousin has a thing for me so it doesn’t have to be messy. She’s not my type” he shrugs.
“You don’t have a type” Elle reminds folding her arms and sighing relieved. “Thanks for telling me” she relents looking down at him.
“You keep it a buck with me” he shrugs pulling her to him gently. His hands cup her ass lifting her onto his lap so she’s straddling him. Another knock on the door interrupts and his phone starts ringing. His body language changes immediately. All the softness is gone and he lifts Elle off of him.
“Stay in here and stay quiet” he says suddenly annoyed making the bed in record time and pulling on a shirt as he’s on his way out. Voices make their way in the apartment and Elle stands heading into his closet just to be extra safe.
Music starts causing her to check her phone for the time and get more uneasy. Its something her stepdad did when he was in questionable company to keep things secretive.
“Elle?” Tre’s voice calls hushed.
“I’m in here” she whispers coming out. His demeanour is still all business and not like how she’d seen him when it was just them. He puts a set of keys in her hand.
“Don’t make me regret this. Take these follow the stairs unlock the door put something on leave, lock up and head into your apartment. Take the elevators to the garage before coming up first” he says intentionally staring into her eyes in a hushed voice before revealing a hidden door behind the show boxes in his closet. Theres no time to gawk.
“Are you aright?” She hesitates turning back to him genuinely concerned. It was code - friends never let friends behind.
“You don’t ever have to worry about me okay” he assures with kinder eyes before shutting the door back and getting the weed like he’d said he was going to. The corridor was dark and dank, not the kind of place Elle would ever frequent. It was spacious she could tell and old. The stairs seemed never-ending but she was relieved that there was no evidence of critters through the normal smell. She finds a light revealing a rather nice staircase she heads up in a light jog. The door at the top is another trap door but this time in a study. Its old fashioned and there are a lot of books. Her curiosity is peeked but she doesn’t snoop around. She finds a bedroom and looks through the drawers to find some sweats and a t-shirt. Its not even a little convincing - she’d never wear this out but his instructions were clear as she pocketed her phone and keys. Leaving like he’d told her to she heads to the elevator realizing this is the highest floor and private suite. Her stomach sways of the implications of it all as she emerges from the basement joking up the stairs to her floor. A man waits outside Tres door eyeing her down suggestively.
Is he serious?
She thinks remembering what she has on before getting into her own place locking the door and taking a deep breath. It was the kind of thing her and Jesse used to live for. He was the only one good enough at keeping a secret but he wasn’t here to hear it. Deep down the idea of Tre being wrapped up in something dangerous didn’t excite her either.
Not anymore.
AN: Let me know when you want the next part - It’s already cooking. As always Thanks in advance for your feedback :) xx
_____
TAGS: @bugngiz @lifelover4u @l-auteuse @notsomellowmushroom @princessasaani @heavensangelxo @bakarilennox @chaneajoyyy @thehomierobbstark @jad3djay @thickemadame @doublesidedscoobysnacks @aanairb @hooliemooliedonutshawp @quietstorm-73 @thememoireeofme @tip222u
#trevante rhodes x reader#Trevante Rhodes#pulseseries#pulsefc#trevanterhodesimagine#trevante x black reader
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Incorporeal Punishment
Located some miles outside of Salem, Massachusetts lies an isolated graveyard whose legends have become ignored and forgotten under the shadow of the infamous Salem Witch Trials. Weeds slowly suffocate the faded headstones as a couple of bedraggled apple trees preside over their dilapidated domain. The caretaker occasionally comes in to do a half-assed cleanup because he, like the graveyard, have largely faded into obscurity.
The area surrounding is mostly overgrown woods. A small reform school for boys used to stand close to it, but over the years, the local vegetation slowly took over until it all but disappeared. The school lasted for some two hundred years, but out of its’ long history comes one particularly notorious headmaster.
His name was James Pearson, and a stricter headmaster couldn’t be found inthe rest of the state. He religiously abided by the saying “spare the rod, spoil the child.” Many boys, guilty or innocent, felt the sting of his rod. He soon became known as the “Birchmaster.” His pale visage would quickly turn plum in anger, and his crown of steely gray hair and long, slender spiderhands were a sight to be dreaded and avoided.
The nickname “Birchmaster” didn’t remain a secret for long, but he took great delight in it. When he died, it was engraved on his tombstone between his first and last name. He was buried in the adjacent graveyard, and rumors soon circulated that his ghost remained and would lay his rod on any who disturbed his grave at night. Local teenagers still slip in at night hoping for a glimpse, but none have dared to disturb his grave in the hundred plus years since his death.
Bob Floyd didn’t believe the stories of the “Birchmaster”, except for one. James Pearson was a very frugal man and kept most of his salary locked in an office vault. He spent so little that many began to suspect he had a great hoard tucked away. His office was ransacked not even a couple of hours after his burial. However, nothing of value was ever found. Some of the mourners suspected he was buried with the money, but no one wanted the unpleasant task of digging him up.
Bob needed money and fast. His gambling debts and get rich quick schemes were catching up with him. He swindled and cheated so many people that none rushed to his aid. The banks wouldn’t even lend him money because of his poor credit score. Out of desperation, he would do anything.
He arrived nearly an hour before midnight in a clunky heap of scrap metal that vaguely resembled a station wagon. It was one of the few jalopies that he failed to push on reluctant, resistant customers. He would’ve had to pay a junkyard to take it so he simply kept it. The isolation of the graveyard and the negligent caretaker meant not a living soul would hear the approach of his clunker. He parked and strode through the weeds, heedless of snakes and other hidden critters, with the smug assuredness of a sluggard who believes the world owes him wealth without work.
He was so confident that he left his car unlocked and shined a bright flashlight searching for the entrance. He found it, a rusted gate, sagging off its’ hinges, tied loosely together with a shaggy, faded rope. Bob nearly busted out laughing at the pitiful sight. Damn, that old booze-hound, Silas McDoogle, has really let the place go, he thought as he cut the rope and slipped in. He carried a sack that contained a shovel and crowbar. He had to walk a few yards into the graveyard because James Pearson was buried in the middle. After some searching, he found it.
Bob chuckled with glee as he set his burden down and pulled out the shovel. Now, this is easy money, he thought as he began to dig. Suddenly, he heard odd swishing sound behind him, like the sound of a switch hitting a headstone. He looked around and shrugged. It must have been the wind. He continued to dig. He had the strangest sensation of feeling like a naughty schoolboy caught by his headmaster. He turned around sharply. He was alone. Yet, he still felt like he was being watched. “Pull yourself together, Bob. Quit being a wimp. There’s no one around for miles,” he muttered, picking the shovel up again.
He dug for a few more minutes without interruption. All was still and silent. He grew relaxed and developed a rhythm to his digging. Then, a strong, cold gust of wind engulfed him and blew his hair about wildly. Bon threw his shovel down in frustration and looked around. Once again, he failed to see anyone else. He rolled his eyes and rubbed his arms to warm himself against the cold. Back to work. Without warning, an invisible force pushed him over the headstone. He struggled to get up, but whatever it was held him there. Bent over the headstone, he suddenly felt his jeans being pulled down. Next came his boxers. His broad backside was exposed. This time he was filled with fear. He turned his head, but he still couldn’t see the force that held him captive.
He heard a swishing sound, and something sharp connected with his backside. It stung like fire and felt like a switch. He yelped and tried to wiggle around, but he was still stuck. The unseen object struck him again and again. This time it definitely felt like a switch. Lines of pain began to form, and no matter how loudly he howled or how hard he struggled, he couldn’t escape. The strikes rained down, and he became angry. The night air became filled with his foul language. It didn’t last long, though. A bar of lye soap, like that used in the days of the reform school, flew into his mouth and sealed off his cussing. It tasted of mould and dust and was covered in spiderwebs. He thought he felt something with legs crawl from one of the webs on to his face. He froze and held still, despite the continued switching. He feared a spider more than whatever persisted in tanning his hide.
The ordeal last for what seemed like an eternity, and just when he thought he couldn’t endure anymore, it ended as quickly as it began. Bob winced and wiggled about and managed to spit the soap out. Whatever crawled on him had long since vanished. Whether out of sympathy or extended spite, Mother Nature chose at that moment to release a rainstorm on Bob’s head. The water cooled his burning bottom, and whether out of relief or exhaustion, he passed out.
When Bob awoke, it was a few hours past midnight. A cloud passed over the moon, and it was completely dark. A light was weaving in and out the headstones in front of him. It came nearer, and Bob’s frightened voice rose over the other night sounds. He wasn’t the only one to shout, though. He saw the light go flying through the air and heard someone shout the name of a saint as a dark figure crashed to the ground. It slowly got up and stumbled towards him.
It fumbled for the light that turned out to be a flashlight and shined it in Bob’s face. Bob found himself staring into the bloodshot eyes of Silas McDoogle, the caretaker. His breath reeked of rum and whiskey, and he scratched his unkempt, grizzled beard of confusion.
“Well, you ain’t the Birchmaster,” he said as he awkwardly peered into Bob’s face, “Who the devil are you?”
“I’m one of his victims I guess” said Bob as he craned his to neck to peer at his sore backside.
“It looks he tied you down,” Silas said as he pointed to a new, pristine rope that was coiled around Bob’s waist.
“He, or whatever it was, must have tied me up while I was passed out,” muttered Bob grumpily, wishing there was a way he could relieve the stinging.
“Well, you shouldn’t have disturbed his grave. I’m gonna have to call the police,” Silas said as he suddenly stumbled over Bob’s shovel, “Trespassing and grave robbing too! I hope he whipped you good!”
‘See for yourself if you like but please untie me!” growled Bob out of frustration.
“Oh he got you good, alright,” Silas laughed shining his flashlight on Bob’s
pert bottom, “Sorry, I can’t do that. You’d escape before the cops got here. Besides, even if I wanted to I can’t. I’m a feeble old man.”
“Not feeble enough to drink yourself stupid,” snapped Bob as Silas simply laughed again and stumbled to his shack to call the police.
The gray dawn was just beginning to approach when a lone squad car pulled up beside Bob’s station wagon. Silas was smoking his third joint along with a breakfast of Twinkies and a couple of beers to relieve his hangover. Bob’s stomach was empty, his bottom was still stinging, and he was sleepy. Plus, Silas refused to untie him. He was extremely grumpy and ready for all of this to be over. He actually welcomed the arrival of the cops.
The officer stepped out his vehicle, lit up a cigarette, and took a long drag. When he smoked it to the filter, he flicked the bud and sighed internally. Another call to the graveyard, and it wasn’t even Halloween. He rolled his eyes as he slipped past the poorly-maintained gate. He picked his way past the grassy headstones and stopped when he saw the reason for his visit.
“Good mornin’ officer,” Silas coughed as he rubbed his joint on a headstone to put it out, “I’ve got a trespasser for ya. And a grave robber too!” he said pointing at Bob’s shovel and crowbar.
The officer snorted when he saw Bob tied to the headstone when his bare backside mooning Mother Nature. “It looks like you were able to catch him. But why’d you have to pants him?” he questioned, unsure if he wanted the answer.
“Well officer…I’m sorry what’s your name?”
“Officer Simmons.”
“Well, Officer Simmons, I found him like this late last night.”
“You found him like this?” Simmons cocked his head, puzzled.
“That’s right!” Silas cracked open a beer, “Want one?”
“Can’t. I’m on duty,” grunted the officer, “So if you didn’t do this? Who did?”
“It was the Birchmaster.”
“The Birchmaster?”
“Ya know! The ghost!”
Simmons dimly remembered talk of the Birchmaster from the teenagers he arrested sneaking into the graveyard. “A ghost?” he rolled his eyes, “How much pot ya been smokin’, Silas?”
“I haven’t smoked in years! I’m clean!”
“Bullshit! I know you been drinkin’ and toking! You smell like a frat party!” Simmons snapped, becoming frustrated, “Now I don’t think a ghost did this! I think you fuckers are playing some kind of prank!”
“Would somebody like to hear my side of the story?” croaked a sleepy, exasperated Bob.
“Ok, punk, what happened?” questioned Simmons.
“First, my name is Bob. Secondly, could you please untie me? I’m not in any condition to run.”
“Why? Are you hurt?”
“Just come over and look!”
Simmons stepped around and froze. Not only was Bob securely tied down, but there were bright red lines all over his ass. They looked to be only a few hours old.
“What the fuck did you to him?” Simmons rounded on the caretaker, “I could arrest you for assault! Answer me, you fuckin’ drunk!”
“It wasn’t me!” Silas insisted, “It was the Birchmaster! This man tried to rob his grave, and the Birchmaster took care of him!”
“Would you quit going on about the Birchmaster!” the officer growled, getting ready to pull out another cigarette.
“His name was James Pearson. He was the headmaster at the old boys reform school. He preferred to discipline the boys with a switch. That’s why he’s called the Birchmaster. He was supposedly buried with a lot of money, and that’s why assholes like him break into my graveyard!” Silas spat in disgust as he looked down at Bob.
“I don’t believe this.” Simmons lit a second cigarette.
“Then ask him!” Silas said, finishing his beer.
“Could someone untie me first?” snapped Bob.
“Ok, hold still,” Officer Simmons said as he took out a knife.
Untied, Bob turned to face Silas, “Do you have some ice?’
“I ain’t wasting my ice on you!”
“Just get him some ice. “Simmons resumed smoking his cigarette, “Or I’ll have you arrested for possession of marijuana.”
“Yes, officer” Silas muttered, stumbling off to his shack.
Silas returned with a medical ice pack. “I use them for my limp, but here ya go,” he grudgingly
handed it to Bob.
“Finally,” Bob sighed as he placed it against the damaged area.
Simmons gave Bob a few minutes to relieve the pain. “So what exactly happened last night?”
Bob lowered his eyes, embarrassed, but he gave the full story, “And when I woke up, the caretaker found me and didn’t bother to release me,” he said, glaring at Silas.
“But then you would’ve escaped!” snickered Simmons, “It’s hard to believe a boozed up old man could’ve subdued you like this. I don’t know about the Birchmaster, but I’ll need to take you into custody.”
“Can I have a pillow to sit on…and another ice pack?” Bob craned his neck to the melting ice.
“Sure. Silas get him a pillow and another icepack.”
“He can’t have my pillow! And I’m not your servant!” protested the caretaker.
“Just do it, or your ass can go in the back with him!” Simmons snapped, deciding he needed another smoke.
Silas grumbled words that could get him arrested as returned to his shack. He passed the items over to Bob, “Is that all, officer?”
“Yes. I’ve already gotten enough from you,” Simmons shook his head at the caretaker, “And you’re coming with me,” he motioned to Bob.
He led Bob to the squad car and gave the grave robber some time to get comfortable. Between the pillow and the icepack, the ride wasn’t too tough on Bob. Simmons finished his fifth cigarette when they reached the police station. “Time to get out,” he opened the door for Bob.
They entered they station and took a seat outside the Chief’s office. Half an hour later, a weary, uniformed man opened the door and led them in. His bulk seated itself in a cheap office chair. “What is it now, Simmons?” he questioned, blinking his bleary eyes.
“Well, Chief Murphy,” Simmons began, “This man, Bob Floyd, was found in the old graveyard after hours by the caretaker.” He told the chief everything, including Bob’s story about being attacked. Murphy listened, guzzling down his coffee, wishing he had gotten more sleep. He was gonna need all of his brain cells for this nonsense.
“It’s too early in the morning to be dealing with this,” the chief sighed, rubbing his temples, “especially a fucking grave robber.” He finished his coffee and glared at Bob. “The judge is not going to be pleased with his time being wasted on this bullshit. Attempted grave robbery is serious. You desecrated a graveyard. And over what? A legend? I don’t care about the Birchmaster stories, and even if the ghost switched you, I’d thank him! You deserve it, scumbag! A good dose of incorporeal punishment,” the chief snarked, laughing at his own joke.
“I wasn’t desecrating much! The entire place is a dump. The caretaker doesn’t even maintain the gate. It’s falling apart. Anyone can get in!” Bob replied harshly.
“What a waste of tax dollars,” Murphy sighed absently, “Well, we can do something about that,” he said snapping back to reality, “I’ll recommend sentencing you to community service, and you can clean it up.”
Bob groaned, but what could he do? Anything was better than jail time. Chief Murphy got on the phone with the judge, and Officer Simmons led him into a holding cell. They let him keep the pillow and the icepack. A couple of hours passed before Murphy and the judge reached an agreement.
“Well Bob, Judge Wesner is willing to put this case on his docket,” the chief announced, “provided that it happen at three o’clock after his lunch.”
“Today?”
“Yes, today.”
Bob was quiet for a moment, “Will I have to stay here ‘till then?”
“The judge and I discussed it. Your bail has been set at two thousand dollars. You can leave if you can pay.”
Bob gritted his teeth. He didn’t have that kind of money. Why did they think he tried to rob a grave? He bit back the sarcasm as he mumbled, “No.”
“Well, then I guess you’ll be staying.”
“Can I at least have another ice pack?”
The chief shrugged, “Simmons get an icepack from the medical room.”
Simmons returned and passed Bob the icepack through the cell bars. Bob took it without a word and shut his eyes, hoping to get some rest.
The time crawled by like a turtle with arthritis. Simmons went out of his way to get Bob a couple of meals from McDonald’s to make up for breakfast and lunch. Bob mumbled his thanks. Another icepack. More sleep. Some cream for his wounds. More sleep. Then, half past two, it was time to leave.
Simmons brought Bob to the courthouse. The Honorable Judge Wesner was picking at the remains of a Subway sandwich when they entered.
“Please be seated,” his Honor coughed, fighting acid reflux.
When the clock reached three, the bailiff ordered, “All rise.” Bob and Simmons rose.
The judge banged his gavel and said, “Be seated.”
After they were seated, Judge Wesner opened a file and looked down at Bob, “So you’re the grave robber?”
“Would-be grave robber, your Honor,” Simmons gently corrected.
“Ah Officer Simmons, I understand you were the one who brought him in?” Wesner replied.
“Yes, your Honor.”
“Are there any witnesses?”
“Just the caretaker, Silas McDoogle, but he was too intoxicated to testify.”
“Not much of a surprise. I assume he told you why he called for the police?”
“Yes, your Honor.”
“Well, what happened?”
Once again, Officer Simmons gave every detail of the incident and what he saw while he interrogated Bob and Silas. The judge’s face was a martini mix of anger, amusement, and exasperation.
“Unbelievable,” Wesner said as the story ended, “Disgraceful. And what led you to attempt such a heinous act?”
Bob shuffled his feet, “I needed the money.”
“Yes, of course. Money. I’m aware of your background, Mr. Floyd,” sneered the judge, “Gambling debt. Credit card debt. The scams. The get-rich-quick schemes. All at 35 years old. Not to mention your used car business went bankrupt. And your morals, too,” Wesner ended the lecture in a snide tone.
“Your Honor, may I speak?” offered Simmons.
“Of course. Proceed.” His Honor replied.
“Mr. Floyd was able to enter the graveyard because the gate is falling apart, and the caretaker is beyond negligent. It does not excuse his actions. But, perhaps as Chief Murphy suggested, measures could be taken to prevent another incident like this.”
“Yes,” Wesner nodded, “I recall the conversation. And based on Mr. Floyd’s reputation, he’s never worked a day in his life. The Chief’s a smart man.”
This caught Bob’s attention, “Wait, what’s going on?”
“Per the Chief’s recommendation, I’m sentencing you to six months of community service. You will clean up the graveyard and repair the facilities. Silas McDoogle and Officer Simmons will oversee the service until your debt to society has been paid. You will be on probation during that time. If you do anything to disturb that hallow ground, you’ll be heavily fined and sent to prison. Good old fashioned hard work will teach you some long overdue life lessons, Mr. Floyd,” Judge Wesner concluded the proceedings.
“Your Honor, can it at least wait until my wounds are healed?” Bob protested.
“Wounds?” the judge said skeptically,
“Yes, your Honor. The switch marks I was telling you about,” replied Simmons.
“Oh right. The so-called ghost attack,” snickered Wesner, “I’ll have to see them first.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Bob snapped.
“Be careful, Mr. Floyd. One more outburst like that, and I’ll hold you in contempt of court,” warned the judge.
“His Honor is right, Mr. Floyd. You’ll need to drop your trousers,” Simmons said with a hint of sympathy.
Bob shut his eyes so he wouldn’t see the judge’s gloating face. He hissed in pain as he slowly lowered his pants and boxers. Bob tried not to think about the situation. This was his worst humiliation. He awkwardly turned around so Wesner could see the damage.
His Honor was taken aback. The marks were somewhat faded but still noticeable. Bob’s backside was nearly hidden under pink lines.
“What could’ve caused this?” Wesner stuttered.
“Well your Honor, Mr. Floyd and Silas claim it was the Birchmaster’s ghost,” said Simmons.
“It was,” Bob said in a hushed tone.
“And he was tied to the headstone?” His Honor was close to speechless.
“Yes, and the rope was very secure. Silas was too intoxicated to commit these acts. It had to be someone else…or something.” Simmons concluded.
“It was the ghost,” Bob was becoming impatient, “Can I please pull up my pants?”
“Yes, of course,” the judge said having gone pale, “You can start community service in two weeks. Your wounds will be healed, and the press won’t accuse us of cruelty.”
“Thank you, your Honor,” Simmons said resisting the urge to laugh at the frightened judge.
“Yes, of course. It’s my duty by law. Now, please leave!” Jude Wesner snapped, attempting to hide his shaking hands.
It was the shortest two weeks in Bob’s life. His sentence began, and he spent six months mowing the grounds, uprooting shrubbery, repairing the fence, replacing broken headstones. His wounds were healed when he started community service. He experienced the occasional sting bending over. He hated it. Prison would’ve been better.
Silas McDoogle offered no help, only sarcasm. He would get drunk by the afternoon and amuse himself watching Bob suffer. The presence of Officer Simmons kept both men in check. Silas eventually relented and shared his pot with Bob every time Simmons left to get everybody food.
Bob cussed under his breath and focused on how miserable he was. It was the hardest he ever worked, and the worst part was that when he began to slack off or curse too loud, he would hear the sound of a switch against the headstones. And if he ever spit in frustration or kicked a headstone, he would feel a quick sting from the Birchmaster’s switch.
It was unpleasant, but Bob had a plan. After seeing the judge, he went home and took pictures of his wounds and wrote about his encounter. He took pictures of the graveyard and even found the ruins of the reform school. He did his research and got more Birchmaster stories from Silas. That ghost was gonna make him rich!
He was gonna write a book and bring his story to the ghost hunting community, including the pictures. Maybe he could get a tv crew to visit the graveyard and the old school. He could get permission from the city to bring ghost tours out there! Ghosts were easy money, and Bob Floyd knew all about easy money.
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Legal Weed Resources
Check out... http://legalweed.gq/420/night-train/
Night Train
Information about Night Train:
Effects
Fragrance
Flavors
Adverse reactions
Medical
Growing
Flowering time
Night Train is truly a strain that lives up to its name. Users who smoke it are immediately issued a ticket to the land of dreams with its heavy-hitting bodily effects. Not only that, passengers enjoy the ride for its calming head high that swarms the mind with a feeling of euphoria.
It was not difficult to create Night Train. Elemental Seeds only had to choose a strain with effects that fully enveloped the body in relaxation. And what better product is there than Jasmine which is named after the brewed leaves that helped users sleep? Trainwreck was later added to enhance potency as well as improve its anxiety-relieving effects.
While it is mostly known for its high THC of up to 22%, Night Train is also an impressive performer in the grow room. It is a hardy strain that yields high and flowers quickly. Not to mention, it eases various mental and physical ailments.
Information about Night Train:
ORIGIN Jasmine and Trainwreck EFFECTS Sleepy – 10 Euphoric – 10 Relaxed �� 3 Tingly – 1 Uplifted – 1 FRAGRANCE Pungent, woody, pine, nutty FLAVORS Woody, pine, hash, chocolate, coffee, nutty MEDICAL Insomnia – 10 Pain – 10 Muscle spasms – 9 Headaches – 1 Stress – 1 FLOWERING TIME INDOORS 7 to 9 weeks FLOWERING TIME OUTDOORS Late September to mid-October PLANT HEIGHT 3 to 5 feet THC CONTENT % 20% to 22% INDICA / SATIVA % 60%/40% INDOOR YIELD 10 to 12 ounces per square meter OUTDOOR YIELD 12 ounces or more per plant CLIMATE Warm climate GROWTH LEVEL Easy to grow
* 10 is the highest * 1 is the lowest
Effects
Interestingly, it does not take long for Night Train to work its magic. In fact, despite being an Indica-dominant strain, its rapid cerebral onset that rarely takes 15 minutes to hold. An uplifting head high wraps the mind in a blanket of euphoria. It encourages a clam but happy disposition.
TIP: Looking to buy Night Train seeds? Visit the ILGM weed seed shop
After about an hour or two, a tingling sensation builds from between the temples. It ebbs down slowly in waves and soothes each muscle until the body is fully enveloped in relaxation. In the limbs, a heaviness sets in that makes the eyes droop. Free of tension, users eventually fall into a deep asleep.
Night Train Effects – Image powered by Medicalmarijuanastrains.com
Because of its heavily sedating effects, it is better to use Night Train at night. Otherwise, those who choose to smoke it during the day will have difficulty resisting the urge to sleep. Moreover, it will hamper productivity and interfere with plans set for the day.
Fragrance
Night Train is no doubt a pungent strain because of its potent levels of THC. Breaking apart the buds reveal its woody notes of refreshing pine. Combusting it, however, releases a surprisingly strong nutty fragrance that fills the room.
Flavors
In the palate, Night Train explodes with various flavors of hash, chocolate, and coffee. Overpowering all three, however, are woody overtones that swarm the mouth with the refreshing taste of pine. On the exhale, it leaves a nutty aftertaste.
Adverse Reaction
Dehydration is a side effect that comes with the use of all strains. Its symptoms are reflected in the form of a cottonmouth and dry eyes. Although often ignored by many seasoned users, it is not uncommon for novices to experience discomfort. In such cases, it is better to stay hydrated by downing a few glasses of water.
Night Train Adverse Reaction – Image powered by Potguide.com
Because of its potency, Night Train can sometimes make induce dizziness and paranoid especially when it is used excessively. Most of the time, however, users only experience a headache. Still, it is best to refrain from overindulging and, instead, practice pacing and moderation.
Medical
Presumably, Night Train is a recreational strain. Still, this does not mean it is without therapeutic value. Through the combined efforts of its THC, CBD, and cannabinoids like terpenes, it provides a reprieve to users against a variety of mental and health conditions.
TIP: Looking to buy Night Train seeds? Visit the ILGM weed seed shop
Like many Indica-dominant strains, Night Train excels at mitigating physical afflictions. Its soothing buzz eases pain beginning from the temples. In relieving the body through and through, it relaxes the muscles to keep it from contracting and causing sharp spasms.
Night Train Medical – Image powered by Allbud.com
Apart from the physical, Night Train also has behavioral benefits. It reduces stress by encouraging users to lay back and relax which, if left unattended, can lead to more complicated conditions like insomnia. At the same time, the strain also encourages a good night’s rest while enhancing the quantity of sleep.
Growing
Night Train is a wonderful strain for beginners. A hardy plant, it can withstand various environmental problems such as strong gusts of wind, fluctuations in temperature, and sudden changes in weather conditions. Not only that, it is highly resilient in the face of mold, mildew, and moisture-related issues such as root rot.
It may require some protection against pests. And, for this reason, many growers are inclined to grow the plant indoors where there is added protection against critters. Moreover, controllable environments allow one to easily adjust factors such as temperature, lighting, and humidity which are important in bringing out the full potential of a plant.
The strain performs best when the Sea of Green method is used. It increases trichome production, encourages better yields, and saves a lot of time. As for mediums, one may hydroponic or aeroponic systems to get “cleaner buds.”
Flowering Time
Indoors Night Train has an indoor flowering period of 8 to 9 weeks after initiating the flowering stage. Once ready for harvest, it yields 10 to 12 ounces of buds per square meter.
Outdoors Garden or farm grown Night Train usually blossoms from the last week of September to the second or third week of October. Once fully mature, it produces 12 ounces of buds per plant.
Have you ever smoked or grown your own Night Train? Please let me know what you think about this marijuana strain in the comments below.
Robert
The post Night Train appeared first on I Love Growing Marijuana.
0 notes
Text
Night Train
Information about Night Train:
Effects
Fragrance
Flavors
Adverse reactions
Medical
Growing
Flowering time
Night Train is truly a strain that lives up to its name. Users who smoke it are immediately issued a ticket to the land of dreams with its heavy-hitting bodily effects. Not only that, passengers enjoy the ride for its calming head high that swarms the mind with a feeling of euphoria.
It was not difficult to create Night Train. Elemental Seeds only had to choose a strain with effects that fully enveloped the body in relaxation. And what better product is there than Jasmine which is named after the brewed leaves that helped users sleep? Trainwreck was later added to enhance potency as well as improve its anxiety-relieving effects.
While it is mostly known for its high THC of up to 22%, Night Train is also an impressive performer in the grow room. It is a hardy strain that yields high and flowers quickly. Not to mention, it eases various mental and physical ailments.
Information about Night Train:
ORIGINJasmine and TrainwreckEFFECTSSleepy - 10 Euphoric - 10 Relaxed - 3 Tingly - 1 Uplifted - 1FRAGRANCEPungent, woody, pine, nuttyFLAVORSWoody, pine, hash, chocolate, coffee, nuttyMEDICALInsomnia - 10 Pain - 10 Muscle spasms - 9 Headaches - 1 Stress - 1FLOWERING TIME INDOORS7 to 9 weeksFLOWERING TIME OUTDOORSLate September to mid-OctoberPLANT HEIGHT3 to 5 feetTHC CONTENT %20% to 22%INDICA / SATIVA %60%/40%INDOOR YIELD10 to 12 ounces per square meterOUTDOOR YIELD12 ounces or more per plantCLIMATEWarm climateGROWTH LEVELEasy to grow
* 10 is the highest * 1 is the lowest
Effects
Interestingly, it does not take long for Night Train to work its magic. In fact, despite being an Indica-dominant strain, its rapid cerebral onset that rarely takes 15 minutes to hold. An uplifting head high wraps the mind in a blanket of euphoria. It encourages a clam but happy disposition.
TIP: Looking to buy Night Train seeds? Visit the ILGM weed seed shop
After about an hour or two, a tingling sensation builds from between the temples. It ebbs down slowly in waves and soothes each muscle until the body is fully enveloped in relaxation. In the limbs, a heaviness sets in that makes the eyes droop. Free of tension, users eventually fall into a deep asleep.
Night Train Effects - Image powered by Medicalmarijuanastrains.com
Because of its heavily sedating effects, it is better to use Night Train at night. Otherwise, those who choose to smoke it during the day will have difficulty resisting the urge to sleep. Moreover, it will hamper productivity and interfere with plans set for the day.
Fragrance
Night Train is no doubt a pungent strain because of its potent levels of THC. Breaking apart the buds reveal its woody notes of refreshing pine. Combusting it, however, releases a surprisingly strong nutty fragrance that fills the room.
Flavors
In the palate, Night Train explodes with various flavors of hash, chocolate, and coffee. Overpowering all three, however, are woody overtones that swarm the mouth with the refreshing taste of pine. On the exhale, it leaves a nutty aftertaste.
Adverse Reaction
Dehydration is a side effect that comes with the use of all strains. Its symptoms are reflected in the form of a cottonmouth and dry eyes. Although often ignored by many seasoned users, it is not uncommon for novices to experience discomfort. In such cases, it is better to stay hydrated by downing a few glasses of water.
Night Train Adverse Reaction - Image powered by Potguide.com
Because of its potency, Night Train can sometimes make induce dizziness and paranoid especially when it is used excessively. Most of the time, however, users only experience a headache. Still, it is best to refrain from overindulging and, instead, practice pacing and moderation.
Medical
Presumably, Night Train is a recreational strain. Still, this does not mean it is without therapeutic value. Through the combined efforts of its THC, CBD, and cannabinoids like terpenes, it provides a reprieve to users against a variety of mental and health conditions.
TIP: Looking to buy Night Train seeds? Visit the ILGM weed seed shop
Like many Indica-dominant strains, Night Train excels at mitigating physical afflictions. Its soothing buzz eases pain beginning from the temples. In relieving the body through and through, it relaxes the muscles to keep it from contracting and causing sharp spasms.
Night Train Medical - Image powered by Allbud.com
Apart from the physical, Night Train also has behavioral benefits. It reduces stress by encouraging users to lay back and relax which, if left unattended, can lead to more complicated conditions like insomnia. At the same time, the strain also encourages a good night’s rest while enhancing the quantity of sleep.
Growing
Night Train is a wonderful strain for beginners. A hardy plant, it can withstand various environmental problems such as strong gusts of wind, fluctuations in temperature, and sudden changes in weather conditions. Not only that, it is highly resilient in the face of mold, mildew, and moisture-related issues such as root rot.
It may require some protection against pests. And, for this reason, many growers are inclined to grow the plant indoors where there is added protection against critters. Moreover, controllable environments allow one to easily adjust factors such as temperature, lighting, and humidity which are important in bringing out the full potential of a plant.
The strain performs best when the Sea of Green method is used. It increases trichome production, encourages better yields, and saves a lot of time. As for mediums, one may hydroponic or aeroponic systems to get “cleaner buds.”
Flowering Time
Indoors Night Train has an indoor flowering period of 8 to 9 weeks after initiating the flowering stage. Once ready for harvest, it yields 10 to 12 ounces of buds per square meter.
Outdoors Garden or farm grown Night Train usually blossoms from the last week of September to the second or third week of October. Once fully mature, it produces 12 ounces of buds per plant.
Have you ever smoked or grown your own Night Train? Please let me know what you think about this marijuana strain in the comments below.
Robert
The post Night Train appeared first on I Love Growing Marijuana.
0 notes
Text
Do every stupid thing that makes you feel alive
Let people call you crazy for the choices that you make Climb limits past the limits Jump in front of trains all day And stay alive (from "Amy A.K.A. Spent Gladiator 1" by the Mountain Goats)
Riding the Idaho Hot Springs Mountain Bike Route
My photo set is here. Q’s photo set is here. Q’s writeup is here. Route info is here.
1. Altitude, full sun, no clouds, no shade, burn zones, holy shit I am turning to dust, I’m a human raisin, I need sunglasses. We bought three tubes of sunblock. The dust makes my mouth taste bad and the only thing I want to eat is sour patch kids to obliterate the taste so by the end of the trip I’m starting to get acid sores in my mouth. This doesn't happen at home. In a span of two hours, we see a small rattlesnake in the shade in the canyon, and watch two bald eagles fly above the river and land in a tree. This also does not happen at home, and I’m so grateful that Dan taught me how to spot eagles when we were backpacking this spring.
2. On a long hot dusty sandy steep slog up our third climb of the day, pushing our bikes in the sun, a pickup truck pulls over. They offer but really actually insist on giving us a ride over the mountain. They give us cold drinks, and the fella hands me a chunk of ice and points to Q, saying “now I don’t know him so you’ll have to do this: you put that ice right on his neck.” Their dog licks the sweat from my knees as they tell us stories of their Idaho lives, and before sending us on our way, they hug us and point us toward the ice cream shop.
3. One of the things I wanted to learn to get comfortable with on this trip was having less access to water. But record snowfall in Idaho this winter meant epic snowmelt, and the rivers and creeks were raging. There was water everywhere. It was thrilling and kind of scary. And in a way, disappointing. But just a little time passes, it gets hot, we take a few days off route, and suddenly there is way less water available. I start feeling anxious. It’s a hundred degrees! What will we do if we run out? We can’t run out! I calm a bit when I realize that this is exactly what I wanted, that this is what I want to practice getting comfortable with. The route is still largely along creeks and rivers, so I know that I can get water, even if it involves a shitty long scramble. I am pleased that we turn out to be reassuringly good at monitoring how much we have and where to get more.
4. A thunderstorm rolls in, and we wait it out on the porch of a saloon. A local tells us that the road to the summit we were planning to climb the next day has washed out. He painstakingly maps out a dirt road detour before the storm knocks out the power, and we sit, waiting, watching the sky, deliberating, contemplating the maps and the miles, and eventually I ask the other folks on the porch if anybody has a pickup truck and some free time tomorrow. I’ll buy you breakfast and a tank of gas in exchange for a ride to Ketchum. I strike a deal, and we hobo-camp by the river that night, wondering if our agreement will be forgotten in the harsh sober light of day.
5. We get some really helpful route info from the bike shop: so far this year, nobody’s been on the section of trail we want to ride, and the main intersection of trails still has six feet of snow. Ok. We’ll take pavement up to the top of Galena. Our tallest summit on this trip, 8700 feet, and it feels like total redemption -- the climb is amazing and smooth, we feel strong, everything feels amazing and possible. We climb like champs, gleeful and proud and punchy in gusting winds. Maybe altitude makes us wacky, I don’t know, or maybe we like being reminded that we are capable. The overlook is glorious, and though we are pretty sure the dirt track back down off the mountain would be clear, I am so excited for a fast smooth paved descent that Q acquiesces and we blaze down the highway, getting pushed around by the wind and chilled from the speed, hearts pounding, eyes watering.
6. Maggie and Rajal join us to look at books of wildflowers, helping us identify what we’ve seen so far. We start talking about birds too, and they mention seeing a western tanager. We look at photos and I get distracted by learning to identify thrush songs. A few days later, after accidentally barreling past the turnoff to a planned stopping point, we find a perfect dirt road with a perfect swimming hole and two perfect shaded sitting rocks in Silver Creek. We dunk our heads in the water, filter some ice cold water to drink, and sit quietly at the edge of the creek, cooling down and listening to the churn of the water. Q points to a branch on the other side of the creek. Hello, western tanager, we have only just learned your name!
7. We bomb down the wildest dirt road I’ve ever met - washboards and washout ruts across the track, deep channels in the same direction as the road, big humps like a pump track, tightly switchbacked, deep gravel and sand in places, and I LOVE IT. Grinning like an idiot, just utterly thrilled. Just a few years ago, I would have been out and out terrified of riding stuff like this. Part of it of course is having the right kind of equipment for the conditions, but a lot of it is just practice and experience and also learning to read the terrain, a skill I really worked on this spring. It feels so good to be enjoying it and unafraid and riding well, after a spring of fear-limited riding. It’s so easy to forget where you started and how much you’ve learned and grown. I sing out loud, “don’t be fooled by the rocks that I got, I’m still I’m still jenny from the block. I used to have a little now i have a lot, but everywhere I go I know where I came from!”
8. Rolling out of camp early one morning, rippin’ down a dirt road all fired up and fresh, we see something in the road ahead and slow way down. Q says “ohhhhhhhhhh shit” as the shapes take form and we see long long mammal legs. But as the shapes come into focus, we see it’s a mama elk and four babies. FOUR! As I am busy being astounded by the sight of four elk calves, more elk come out of the woods and onto the road. And more. And more. A full herd of elk! Holy shit! Well, I guess we’ll just wait this out and watch for a while. But at the sound of our tires on gravel as we roll our bikes to a tree to lean them against, the herd scatters and disappears as if it never even existed. We wait another minute or two, and then I start singing at the top of my lungs as we ride down to the spot where they’d just been. The road surface is entirely covered, edge to edge, with clear impressions of big and little tracks.
9. I wake up to a rustling sound that I thought was maybe the wind. I look over to Q’s side of the tent and WHOA, there’s an animal right by his head! Something has crawled under the rainfly and is curiously pawing at a bag. I wake Q up with my sleepy efforts to shoo it away, basically just shouting at it and patting the side of the tent. WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! exclaims Q, as we realize the critter is a skunk. “DON’T SCARE IT!” Eventually, through some combination of our noises and movements, the skunk saunters away: not the retreat of a scared animal, but the bored sashay of someone who’s got something better to do in the weeds anyway.
10. A blazing hot day, after we’d ridden most of the day’s miles and stopped to swim in a lake, we cranked out ten or twelve miles on a dirt road so washboarded that I felt like it was going to rattle the teeth right out of my mouth. It was so dusty, and I was so hot. I was too spent to enjoy the ride. I was feeling a little sorry for myself and started singing “if i get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight.” Q seemed to be doing fine, and it was so hard for me and I didn’t even know why. That evening, as we set up camp and started prepping dinner, I realized I forgot to pack the fucking vegetables and burst into tears. This is no big deal! What the fuck! Why am I crying? We put it together later. Carrying the Camelbak just makes everything so much harder when it’s hot out. You don’t realize you’re overheated, and everything is a struggle. The times each of us struggled most were the times we were wearing the pack. Q calls it the Crybaby Bag and I laugh.
11. Our first choice campsite was closed due to a bridge out with a ten-foot drop, and our backup option was fully booked for a wedding. Contemplated stealth camping, and even stopped to chat with a local family at their swimmin’ hole on the river to inquire (they directed me to a cave on the side of the highway where the kids party on the weekends) but the closer to town you get, the more exposed the terrain is and the more private land there is -- and everyone in Idaho has a gun and I just didn’t wanna mess up. We decided to road dog it all the way back to Boise, around 80 miles total on a 100 degree day. So onward, onward, onward, past all the trucks with boats, past the reservoir, past a lookout where a family stopped to take in the view and said “wow, how long did that last climb take you?” and we sort of blinked like, that was no climb! We just spent 500 miles on dirt roads in the mountains, this was just sort of like floating! That was the moment I realized that we were leaving Idaho tougher than when we arrived. We climbed the last summit, pushing hard to get to the top before the little store at the top closed, downed tall boys of sweet tea, and asked about pitching a tent behind the shop. Nope, not allowed. Ok, we’re really doing this. We roll fast down the paved descent toward town, on the highway’s narrow shoulder, in between fast traffic and a rock wall with a jersey barrier to keep falling rocks off of the roadway. And shit, that’s a fucking rattlesnake. Holy shit holy shit oh thank god it’s dead. I say a tiny thank you to the dead rattler. I’m sorry you’re dead but THANK YOU FOR BEING DEAD so I don’t have to choose between the dangers of a live rattler and a road full of pickups with trailers racing by. I think of it as one last gift from Idaho to me directly. Suddenly and incredibly, we are on the greenbelt that goes right into town, close enough to have cell signal finally, and we get in touch with our pal in town and confirm that we can crash at her place for the night. The sun erupted into the most glorious sunset I’ve ever seen, unfolding before us, and the temperature dropped at least ten degrees as we rode along the river, and a huge clear nearly-full moon appeared, and I felt jubilant, couldn’t stop laughing. I felt amazed by the bounty of beauty in the world made accessible to me by luck and effort, just triumphant and strong and capable and grateful and astonished by what our bodies and minds are capable of, what an incredible thing it is to have this opportunity to learn and grow and become stronger and smarter and more connected and more open hearted. Bursting at the seams of my being, filled to the brim with joy. Idaho really pulled out all the stops for us, like it was giving everything it had, to make us fall in love.
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