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Kathleen Meyer

     . . . longtime river guide, sea kayaker, draft horse teamster, and author of the international bestselling outdoor guide How to Shit in the Woods: An Environmentally Sound Approach to a Lost Art (with more than 2.5 million copies sold in 8 languages) and the Wild West memoir Barefoot Hearted: A Wild Life Among Wildlife.
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All tastefully-written illuminations, rants, and questions are welcome. (Tasteful, of course, is elastic in this case, but we’ll try to mind most of our manners.

Feel free to address prickly problems, toss out new ideas, comment with candor on products and locations, regale success stories, network with fervor, and—above all—dream up backcountry sanitation that achieves the ultimate in ecological and aesthetic preservation of those precious places in our shrinking wild.


Shooting the Shit
will post in a relaxed fashion, leaving us all time for rivers, mountains, oceans, and that old thing “making a living.” I realize that anything snail-like these days is bucking the trend but the offbeat path, now and again, screams to be followed. How I know it!
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Please bare with; I’m in the process of moving the rest of the Archives (below) over to this site and to mobile compatible.
Heartbreaking, Crap in Paradise
Mushrooms & Bathrooms
Least Publicized Job of Wilderness Rangers
A Short Non-History of Underwear
Poop Can Save the World? You Bet!
What’s Up? A Festival and
FUDs . . .
A Dog Owner’s Shreeek
Giardia, Myth or Mystery?
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Celebrations!
By Kathleen Meyer, December 2017
It’s been awhile. Last year’s presidential election creamed my ambition to blog. Resistance, however, in this household, has been in high gear throughout the months. But enough of that. I’m taking a moment here to focus on our personal joys and the great gratitude we feel toward all those who lent us support in so many different ways.

In celebration of Patrick’s tenth year cancer-free—that is, surviving Stage 4 throat cancer and being now in great shape for anything that’s coming—I’m again posting the astounding St. Patrick’s Hospital one-minute promotional video, filmed in June 2008, by Chisel Industries of Bozeman, MT. (Patrick finished his six months of brutal chemo and radiation on December 5, 2007.)
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By the time of the June filming, Patrick had also survived a broken neck and shoulder blade, four broken ribs, two concussions, extensive road-rash to the bone, and an ear almost ripped off—all from slamming into a deer on his bicycle. He’s not one to recover in front of a TV; in fact, we don’t have one. So he was out pedaling, blasting down a hill. Had he been without head protection, he’d now be a vegetable. As it was, I found his silver helmet strung along the road in four pieces, his red-framed, prescription sunglasses in ten. He’d taken the bike with him in a couple 360s. Thanks to the first car that came upon him, driven fortuitously for us by an ER nurse—who blocked off traffic on the curvy two-lane, called 911, and, when Patrick came to, called me—I arrived before the ambulance (I watched it turn north right in front of me and go around the long way), yet not before Stevensville’s heroic First Responders, who already had him strapped to a board and were poised to cut off his only-pair-in-the-universe size-16 bike shoes made for clips. I snapped them right open.

Meanwhile, between Patrick’s cancer treatment and his broken neck, I was waylaid by appendicitis, gone way wrong, toughing it out through Christmas and the New Year to the local doc’s tune of “It’s kidney stones.” Nothing like holidays riddled with straining your pee, searching for crystals. On January 8th, Patrick came home with a friend-driver from a PET scan in Missoula. He hadn’t been behind the wheel in seven months but loaded me into the truck and drove us right back to Missoula and St. Pat’s ER. A CAT scan, immediate surgery, a seven-day stay.

I might as well tell you the rest. Two years ago, Patrick, of all people, underwent open-heart surgery to replace his aortic valve. The cause? Perhaps hereditary or sleep apnea. He has a new relationship, he says, with bovines. Six months later, I got a new hip. Needless to say, we’re fair wore out with medical issues. And yet, there’s one more, it appears. A little lumbar surgery. And then, I’ll be good to go—to row and pedal and write and RESIST until I’m ninety.

But back to the film, celebrating more than we ever could have imagined. It was released with much fanfare during the Beijing Olympics. Patrick shoed the Clydesdales pictured for years, with hand-forged beauties made in the shop you will see. In the film, our friend farrier Ron White is the stand-in at the anvil when the sparks fly. The Chisel film crew hung here for three days, laying out tracks for dollies and directing. For us, it was a snap education in filming and wonderful fun. The producer stayed armed with a can of smoke and fired it off—for atmosphere!—before each take in the shop. We had to laugh—when Patrick wasn’t busy choking.
You’ll notice that I’m mostly lurking in the shadows. That’s because, as soon as Patrick was diagnosed, our lawyer looked at us and said, “You have to get divorced.” To save the farm, so to speak. Thus one morning, while my sweetie was in chemo by himself, I sat in divorce court with the lawyer and stated to the judge that Patrick and I were “irreconcilable” (my mind firmly focused on our eternal argument over the radio volume). After that, for three or four years, we were afraid to hold hands in public. Nowadays, we’re just two aging only-children, no families remaining, shacked up, taking care of each other.

It was a rather fitting end to our marriage, when you grasp that we never had a wedding. Montana lacks a seven-year common law statute; if you happen to present yourselves in public as married, you’re married. The year we settled into the barn, we were quietly wed at Rocky Mountain Bank, across the large, glossy desk from the loan officer, while filling out the forms for the money to build the shoeing shop. Now it’s just a matter of not uttering a sentence containing the word “husband,” or “wife.”

Be well, everyone! We’re intending to, too. Make sure to spread the love around, and always remember to vote, while we still have the privilege—together, perhaps they can save us.
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Kathleen Meyer

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Celebrations!
By Kathleen Meyer, December 2017
It’s been awhile. Last year’s presidential election creamed my ambition to blog. Resistance, however, in this household, has been in high gear throughout the months. But enough of that. I’m taking a moment here to focus on our personal joys and the great gratitude we feel toward all those who lent us support in so many different ways.

In celebration of Patrick’s tenth year cancer-free—that is, surviving Stage 4 throat cancer and being now in great shape for anything that’s coming—I’m again posting the astounding St. Patrick’s Hospital one-minute promotional video, filmed in June 2008, by Chisel Industries of Bozeman, MT. (Patrick finished his six months of brutal chemo and radiation on December 5, 2007.)
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By the time of the June filming, Patrick had also survived a broken neck and shoulder blade, four broken ribs, two concussions, extensive road-rash to the bone, and an ear almost ripped off—all from slamming into a deer on his bicycle. He’s not one to recover in front of a TV; in fact, we don’t have one. So he was out pedaling, blasting down a hill. Had he been without head protection, he’d now be a vegetable. As it was, I found his silver helmet strung along the road in four pieces, his red-framed, prescription sunglasses in ten. He’d taken the bike with him in a couple 360s. Thanks to the first car that came upon him, driven fortuitously for us by an ER nurse—who blocked off traffic on the curvy two-lane, called 911, and, when Patrick came to, called me—I arrived before the ambulance (I watched it turn north right in front of me and go around the long way), yet not before Stevensville’s heroic First Responders, who already had him strapped to a board and were poised to cut off his only-pair-in-the-universe size-16 bike shoes made for clips. I snapped them right open.

Meanwhile, between Patrick’s cancer treatment and his broken neck, I was waylaid by appendicitis, gone way wrong, toughing it out through Christmas and the New Year to the local doc’s tune of “It’s kidney stones.” Nothing like holidays riddled with straining your pee, searching for crystals. On January 8th, Patrick came home with a friend-driver from a PET scan in Missoula. He hadn’t been behind the wheel in seven months but loaded me into the truck and drove us right back to Missoula and St. Pat’s ER. A CAT scan, immediate surgery, a seven-day stay.

I might as well tell you the rest. Two years ago, Patrick, of all people, underwent open-heart surgery to replace his aortic valve. The cause? Perhaps hereditary or sleep apnea. He has a new relationship, he says, with bovines. Six months later, I got a new hip. Needless to say, we’re fair wore out with medical issues. And yet, there’s one more, it appears. A little lumbar surgery. And then, I’ll be good to go—to row and pedal and write and RESIST until I’m ninety.

But back to the film, celebrating more than we ever could have imagined. It was released with much fanfare during the Beijing Olympics. Patrick shoed the Clydesdales pictured for years, with hand-forged beauties made in the shop you will see. In the film, our friend farrier Ron White is the stand-in at the anvil when the sparks fly. The Chisel film crew hung here for three days, laying out tracks for dollies and directing. For us, it was a snap education in filming and wonderful fun. The producer stayed armed with a can of smoke and fired it off—for atmosphere!—before each take in the shop. We had to laugh—when Patrick wasn’t busy choking.
You’ll notice that I’m mostly lurking in the shadows. That’s because, as soon as Patrick was diagnosed, our lawyer looked at us and said, “You have to get divorced.” To save the farm, so to speak. Thus one morning, while my sweetie was in chemo by himself, I sat in divorce court with the lawyer and stated to the judge that Patrick and I were “irreconcilable” (my mind firmly focused on our eternal argument over the radio volume). After that, for three or four years, we were afraid to hold hands in public. Nowadays, we’re just two aging only-children, no families remaining, shacked up, taking care of each other.

It was a rather fitting end to our marriage, when you grasp that we never had a wedding. Montana lacks a seven-year common law statute; if you happen to present yourselves in public as married, you’re married. The year we settled into the barn, we were quietly wed at Rocky Mountain Bank, across the large, glossy desk from the loan officer, while filling out the forms for the money to build the shoeing shop. Now it’s just a matter of not uttering a sentence containing the word “husband,” or “wife.”

Be well, everyone! We’re intending to, too. Make sure to spread the love around, and always remember to vote, while we still have the privilege—together, perhaps they can save us.
To comment, type in the box “Join the Discussion”; then enter your name (or a handle, if you prefer) and your email address, which will not be published. There’s no need to join DISQUS. Skip Password and check “I’d rather post as a guest.”
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Whoops! Comments from my previous site have not made it here yet.

Comments

© 2011 by Author Kathleen Meyer  •  All Rights Reserved 
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© 2011 by Author Kathleen Meyer  •  All Rights Reserved 
Web site design by
RapidRiver.us