Plugged In

I tilt my head back and look up the tall mountain.

There’s snow on the peak, it’s the middle of July. There’s a motionless big horned sheep.

Down in the foothills I see a wolf, a coyote, even a bear.

Deer graze in the meadow.

“This is the closest we’ve been to nature in a long time,” I say, and Chad laughs.

We’re in Cabela’s, where all your huntin’ fishin’ campin’ outdoorsin’ and yes, taxidermy dreams come true.

He walks through the camo section – an array of patterns designed to conceal you – except there’s a ton of bright orange vests on racks in the same section as well.

Confusing, but I get it. I resonate with the dichotomy of hoping to blend in while also wanting to be seen.

Chad disappears into the ammo isle, and as I wander the store I feel as though I’m in some sort of modern anthropology museum. My desire to buy stuff is so far removed, that I’m merely observing: this is what people buy.

The women’s clothing section screams Good Christian Wife. Wholesome, practical, not too flashy. Borderline frumpy.

I move on, briefly stopping to examine the costume jewelry.

Not far from that are sugary snacks.

The perimeter of the store seems mainly dedicated to guns and sharp things. There’s a lot going on.

We leave, and walk out into the parking lot. Heat radiates from the blacktop as we make our way through a sea of cars lined up in neat rows, and hop in the truck.

After turning on the AC and buckling up, we sit quiet for a moment.

Both of us thinking the same thing: we miss nature.

The feeling of being in the middle of nowhere.

We’ve plugged back in.

The next morning, I wake up at 4:30am.

Both Chad and I are laying on top of our well-worn gray sheets, rumpled and twisted from us booting them off sometime during the night. Who needs any blanket coverage when the humidity does it for you, cloaking you in a constant warm damp hug?

We’d decided to sleep with the AC turned off. Instead of falling asleep to it’s cool low hum, we drifted off listening to the high-voltage buzzing sounds of the cicadas in the trees above.

Our AC is the unsung hero of this month in Alabama.

It’s a big bulky portable unit intended for a house. It’s the size of a garbage bin at a Holiday Inn, the kind you’d dump your continental breakfast plate, still sticky with maple syrup and remnants of that 3^rd waffle you didn’t need.

The AC has an elephant trunk-like hose that pushes all the hot air out the window, sometimes running 72 hours with no respite.

It needs much more power than our solar provides, so we’ve plugged back in. It occupies a whole bench seat, but keeps us alive in the stifling heat.

I kick my way out of the rumpled sheets and fill a tin cup with water. I drink it slowly. It’s still dark outside, save for the soft yellow porch light which filters through the window, illuminating a spot on the wood countertop.

I close the windows, and turn on the AC.

We’ll be unplugged again, soon.