This morning my husband and I are going to jump in our son’s 4-wheel drive and head into the mountains–unless the upcoming storm pushes its deadline.  We have a meeting at a lakeside lodge, and even with the weather breathing down our necks, I’m looking forward to the drive.  We have a cabin at the other side of the lake but don’t try to get into it in the winter.  The lodge is just fine, thank you very much.  I love getting out of the valley and being surrounded by evergreens and snow, slowing down and putting civilization behind me.  When I was a child, my mother, sister, and I lived in what had once been a gold mining camp and stayed alive because of the logging and the memories of those trips are still with me.  With my mother driving, I’d stare out the window and imagine all kinds of wonderful adventures: on the run from faceless bad guys, part of a search and rescue team, tracking elk with the rest of my tribe, etc.  In my imagination, I was more at home in the wilderness than any town, could move soundlessly and leave no tracks. 

My writing gene was nourished during those drives, especially my love of adventure, and if I don’t have to keep an eye out for snow plows or idiot drivers tomorrow, I intend to slip back in time and again become that child with the dream of becoming a writer.

For me, there’s something magical about being alone in the car for a long trip, stereo cranked up with my favorite CDs going full blast. A couple of years ago I was making a 12 hour round trip about every month to see my mother, and although my eyes and rear end protested, my mind was a happy camper.

Question: where do you go to court the muse?

Vonna,  www.vonnaharper.com