Sometimes I write about vaginas. And sometimes I write about great places to air them out.

Like the Gallows Cove Trail in Torbay, NL. These snaps were taken just a stone’s throw from our house. In our backyard’s backyard, if you will. If all the homes between our house and this trail were to mysteriously burn down, we’d have a fabulous view of the Atlantic Ocean. (And a whole lot of explaining to do.)

Sears called; they want the cover of their spring catalog back.

So I said, Show me the money, Sears!

And they said, Screw you. Nobody wants to see GINGERS on the cover anyways!

Then I cried, but not before I planted a dirty diaper somewhere in the bedding section. Never fu*k with a ginger.

The photo session went pretty smoothly. But our walks on this trail are rarely turbulence-free. Like last weekend’s nutty jaunt.

The very name of this picturesque seaside pathway should be a hint: The Gallow’s Cove Trail. Hmmm. Somebody’s probbbbbbably going to get maimed.

Gallows: a structure, typically of two uprights and a crosspiece, for the hanging of criminals.

By the way, connected to the Gallow’s Cove Trail are the Disembowelment Path and the Breast Ripper Roadway. If you lose your way, no worries – there’s a trail of blood you can follow back to civilization.

The Town of Torbay used the money for the orphanage to rebuild the gallows on the trail, so you can take your husband there to show him how it works. You put your head right in here, honey. Isn’t that just CRAZY?

I kid, I kid. They took the money from the bypass road fund, which is why it’s taking LIGHT YEARS to finish the fu*ken thing. If they don’t finish it soon, I’ll be paving it with my victims.

I’m joking. There are no gallows here. The only thing hanging here now are my boobs, jangling around like half-empty water balloons as I chase the wee one who sucked ‘em southward. Ironically, my boobs look a lot like rope. Rope was used to hang people at the gallows. Coincidence? I think knot.

And so we begin our Sunday morning stroll: yours truly, Turbo Ginger, and Splash the Portuguese Water Dog who, if given the choice between a floating hamburger and a drowning you, would certainly choose the meat. But damn she’s cute.

We linked onto the trail near the house, so the first leg of our journey was downhill, which quickly became a metaphor.

First, the dog shits. (I’ll spare you the photo.) The moment our feet go from pavement to grass, her bowels give way, when we are still in full view of a few houses. She always does this to me. Nothing like a relaxing 40-minute stroll with a bag of dog shit in your hand the whoooooole way. Why can’t she wait and do her business when we are fully secluded by rocks and trees? And of course this morning I have no poop bag. So I did a quick window check – nope, nobody looking, carry on. I shake my head exaggeratedly and exclaim, “oh Splash, you’re such a faker.” Just in case someone saw us. And if someone sees the chocolate steamer later, come on – cows graze here all the time; it could be a teeny tiny turd from the teeny tiny sphincter of a baby cow. Ironically, Splash looks a lot like a cow. Or at least she used to… That’s Splash on the left.

Okay, I’m confused. Enough about this shit; there’s more to come.

I let Max loose, too, once we get past the jagged cliffs where Turbo Ginger could fall and Ginger Snap in half. We’re safe now on the trail, protected by an old rickety fence lashed with rusty barbed wire. Hey, a few facial lacerations are better than full-body shark bait.

It was a beautiful morning. The kind of morning you see in orange juice and Viagra commercials. Splash ran ahead then circled back repeatedly, excited to be free. (There was certainly nothing weighing her down after the loaf she pinched back there.) Max lumbered alongside in his favourite rubber boots, traversing rocks and small streams and fallen branches.

But the rubber boots, while cute, were not a wise footwear choice for a bumpy path. A douchebag move indeed. And I’d soon pay for it.

Ten minutes in, Turbo Ginger was begging to be carried. That never happens. Oh look – a flying pig!

And then he wanted his boots off altogether.

So I carried everything: backpack, boots, dog leash, and 30-pound human, all the while still trying to take photos – always a major priority in my books. Clearly, I can juggle it all. Look at this dandy shot I took.

Okay, that’s Max’s hat on the left. But I have no idea what part of my body that is on the right. It may very well be my vagina.

I was sweating like a (flying?) pig, lugging this load, and threatening the dog not to stray too far off; there was no way I could work the leash too.

Profuse sweating.

Eventually Max was ready to get back down, so I leaned forward and gently tossed him into the soft grass that skirted the trail. I threw the camera down nearby and proceeded to put his boots back on his feet. Swoop! The distinct sound of teeth on metal. Splash had snatched up the camera. F-bombs echoed from the headlands. You furry little fu*ker, get back here or I’ll turn you into a bath mat!

She was very obedient. I had pulled the bath mat card. She came running right back to me. Without the camera.

I scoured the grass and surroundings for it, all the while threatening both Splash and Max not to go far. But Max was already running full tilt, his feet clearly rejuvenated.

I found the camera lying near the trail, bathed in slobber but intact, and I ran to catch up to my Mini Pooper.

Yes, that’s right. That’s what I said. When I caught up to him, he was squatting down – and not because he was looking at rocks.

What’s that sound – a moose grunting in the trees? Nope, just my kid’s vociferous arse and its toxic emissions.

But there’d be no diaper-changing out here, no sir. He’d just have to take that shit home with him. Somehow I knew he wouldn’t mind; getting his diaper changed when he’s having fun is a fate worse than death.

Good thing, because it was going to be a long walk home; he had to bend down to pick up every friggin’ rock along the way. A rock in his left, a rock in his right: double-fisted. Oh, but then he sees another one that he wants. But he only has two hands. Hmmm, one’s gotta go. He thinks for a second, throws one down, picks up the new one, and we’re moving on. Until he sees another rock. And the trading-up continues. He’ll be doing this with women one day, if he’s lucky.

But I hope to God he has better taste in the ladies. Why does he pick all the butt-ugly rocks? WHY??? Nevermind the smooth, coloured, unique ones. He likes the ones you find after a construction company has done blasting – the sharp, dull grey ones covered in dust. The ones that poke holes in your pockets like ninja death stars.

I tried not to rush my curious little explorer. Stop and smell the flowers, my little darling. Or the jagged, dusty rocks, whatever. Working in a world of technology and instantaneous everything, I need to retrain my own brain at times like these. Slow down, Self. Savour the moments. It’s why you chose to live in the sticks, remember? No wait, that’s not right; you chose to live here because it was the only housing you could afford. Nonetheless, embrace this time, this place, this privilege.

So I start looking more closely, too, to see what he sees. Nature at its finest. Hard to believe that just ten kilometres that-a-way (see my finger pointing?) is a Walmart full of people buying Jiffy Pop and chicken fingers. In Ontario, you’d have to drive many miles from the city centre to find this kind of natural majesty.

There are trees all around us, some dead and beautifully twisted. Birds flicker from twig to twig. A big blue ocean cheers us on.

Holy shit – a gigantic wasp’s next – RUN FOR YOUR LIFE!!!

Okay calm yourself. This is Utopia, damn it. Screaming is not cool.

And look at that view. Mon Dieu.

How did Mother Nature make such a masterpiece? The landscape’s not bad either.

In fact, when my husband and I liked each other – I mean, when we first started dating – we walked out to the edge of that cliff in the distance. We probably shouldn’t walk out there anymore, just to make sure both of us come back.

And speaking of my husband, oh look – here’s something on the trail he might enjoy.

Probably a bit big, but he could make use of that, I’m sure.

God I love Mother Nature. So spectacular, yet so practical.


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