For instance, one quickly maturing seed pod from the list is "Visit Utah Canyonlands in April." Obviously, in this case, there's but a short period between gestation and harvest. On the other hand, the one that says "Hike To Boulder Pass" must wait until August for swathing because of late-clinging snowdrifts in the highest of Glacier Park's high country.

Keeping a formal list of to-do's is largely my idea, prompted by an orderly mind that was constantly embarrassed by an appetite for adventure exceeding both available means and time. But, as one might assume, even an orderly to-do list turned expansive to a fault; so much that Jane, hands on hips, surveyed our yard and muttered, "About two more years -- that's what I'll give it -- before this place reverts back to the pre-Columbus era."

But being deeply engaged in my new to-do list, I ignored her and wrote, "Lubec Hills in March," "Many Glacier in April," "Kintla Lake on Mother's Day," "Packtrip to Pretty Prairie in late May," "Inspiration Point in early June."

Then one day I picked up the notepad holding my to-do list and found scribbled just below "Inspiration Point," "Replace broken corral rails." I smiled. What else could be done? So many rails were broken or hanging loose, the corral would no longer hold a spirited pony.

So I left it and penciled beneath, "Big Belts ranch in late July." When next I picked up the pad, it had two strange notations: "Cut fallen trees from south pasture fence," and "Replace faulty watertank faucet."

I shook my head sadly and wrote, "Pack into Salmon Forks Labor Day weekend."

Then the notation, "Plug air leaks beneath house" mysteriously appeared. In a fit of pique, I penciled "Ride Firebrand Pass and Ole Creek in September." She countered with "Firewood! When do we cut firewood for the winter?"

I wrote: "When do we hike Triple Divide?" She wrote: "Book signings -- when do we sell books?"

I wrote: "Hunting season comes in October." She countered with: "So does the Christmas sale season -- sell more books."

By this time we were hardly speaking. So we called a truce; our Panmunjom was the Kitchen table. She set out the coffee; I cradled the overflowing to-do list. "It's only mid-March," I said, by way of opening the debate.

"And there's already more on that list than we can possibly get done this year," she added.

"We'll have to find someone to help," I said.

She sighed. "It will probably be easier to find a boy to replace corral rails and watertank faucets than someone different to hike with me to Triple Divide."

I breathed a sigh of relief. At least our truce talks were opening on the right foot!

 

Next week? Another walk on the wild side.