Day One: The Chronicles of the Glovebox Gnome

The journey, as most journeys do, began with small sprinklings of friction and stress. Crossing thresholds or Continental Divides takes Sacajawean level of diplomacy: CD Rogue intended to cart more whatnots, whoopidoos, gizmogs and wingding-a-trons than the Irate Mage anticipated. How do I know I was traveling with a mage you ask? Well at 3AM when she went to use the facilities upon return she blinked into a wall. Indeed. She did. Just like home. To be fair, the mage had traveled quite a fair poke without even a rocket booster! Oh how primitive! I can attest I gave them no trouble at all -- they barely noticed I was there! All right, there was the incident at the rest stop when the rattlesnake signs spooked me and I tossed out my fan of knives, poking a poodle in the eye and killing a valuable king snake (or two). The good people in Missoula, Montana may wonder why their vermin population has a slight increase over the next few weeks. My bad.

Regardless, the tiny vehicle, packed stem to stern left the Irate Mage feeling irritable, not to mention she ate some bad oysters...Rocky Mountain* were they?.....and was feeling quite ill. She ventured into a local apothecary shop and bought out the supply of Tums. No avail. Mages are known to have digestive issues -- must be the sampling of all the herbs and potions leaves them with very confused stomachs. At one point she ridiculously trusted a purveyor of fine cold beverages and portable snack food to buy Dorito chile/lime XTREME spicy chips --the good man behind the counter, complete with plaid flannel shirt, and a model of a schooner on the shelf, recommended those were his favorite. Life is about choices, dear mage...I tried to warn you, but was myself trying to procure a Cherry-Coke Slurpee. I was unsuccessful. Turns out Cherry Coke Slurpees with their red dye make gnomes hyper and well...there was an incident with the air pump hose that shall go unrecorded.

The trip is going fabulously, however; I know the mage is aware of my presence and it comforts her as the chili-lime XTREME chips settle and her thigh is bruised by a laptop and power cord. She was too pampered if you want my honest opinion, and this little trek into the wild will do her good --

Till tomorrow - G

Editor's Note: *No, I have never eaten Rocky Mountain oysters, and don't plan to. There was a billboard for a local "Testicle Festival" however. Dear god.