I'm No Cinderella

How many different ways can I express the disparity between the wild wild west and the easy easy east? Perhaps a list will better illustrate my point...

West
•Unguarded winding roads
•Dirt roads
•Wind storms
•Elevation (poisoning)
•Grizzlys, mountain lions, wolves, etc.
East
•Smoothly paved roads no matter where you are
•"Brad's dirt driveway is so cute"
•Wow it's breezy today
•That hill really gave me a run for my money
•Awe look at the cute chipmunk

But the kicker. The real kicker? They wear their cowboy hats. While driving. I'm not sure about you, but I find it difficult to drive with a baseball cap on, let alone a full brimmed, block out the haters, don't talk to me unless you keep beef jerky in your glove compartment, cowboy hat. I feel like I need to be drinking whiskey neat to fit in here.

Even the tiniest of the western creatures elicits quite a disturbance out of little ol' east coast me...
Glacier National Park - in all of its pristine glory - drove me away not via grizzly encounter or even the snow that I continuously fell thigh deep into while attempting to walk to the dazzling edges of Lake McDonald. Oh no. It was none other than a small, inconspicuous, perhaps even adorable (if you're into that sort of thing) mouse.

I lay beneath the covers on a cool 30 degree night dreaming frantically along the currents of my melatonin-induced slumber. As my internal world grew into a heartache, I was awoken by the dream's intensity or perhaps the shuffling taking place somewhere nearby. Both?

Anyway, my eyes immediately grew into saucers as I listened for what could be a number of things according to my imagination: a bear trying to enter Honey (ironic), a wolf devouring the remnants of poor Bambi, an axe murderer lurking in the shadows waiting for his chance to strike. But alas, I was not so lucky. The noise was coming from inside the van. I flicked on a light and held my breath. The patter of tiny claws brought my attention to the kitchen. No, the sink. And there it ran. A mouse darted from the sink towards the safety of the covered stovetop. So I did the only thing I could do. I screamed. I racked my brain for my next plan of action, settling on what I've learned from watching many movies based in Manhattan. I grabbed a frying pan.

With my new weapon, I lit the stovetop, hoping I could smoke the sucker out - back out the way he
came, mind you; I wasn't trying to eat fried mouse that night. I slammed cabinet drawers, waited with my frying pan in the ready position, and even went so far as to hiss like a cat, considering Eyore was no help as he slept soundly in the midst of this hoopla. When I thought I no longer heard the shuffling of my interloper, I crawled back into bed, trying to ignore the fact that I could see my breath in the night air. Despite my best efforts, the 4 am hour did not seem to quiet down, and even my own body warmth (as I played twister inside my giant sweatshirt) was non-existent. Sleep would not be returning.

By 5:17 am I was driving the dark roads of northern Montana as the radio sang "Lets Get it On" by Marvin Gaye. Never before have I looked forward to 6:00 am as this would provide the necessary sunlight to navigate the sharp turnes and large dark figures looming in the distance. The saddest part of it all? The mouse has refused to acknowledge its eviction notice. Thus, I have taken drastic measures in the form of cheddar cheese and mouse traps. Perhaps there is hope for me yet in becoming a calloused-handed, survival of the fittest, wide-brimmed wearing hat gal of the west.