PART SEVENTEEN:
We head off to the Roaring Fork snack bar, on the way to the pool, to get our refillable mug.
That’s right. I said mug.
As in mug singular.
We will be at the lodge two half days, and one full day, and there’s no way in our value-conscious minds that we can drink enough to justify buying two. Don’t forget I brought real coffee with me. And I’m not keen on sugary drinks. So, all things considered, if I have a few sips from Lowell’s, that should be OK, don’t you think? Shall we take a reader’s poll?
I think the refillable mug is responsible for more angst, and more creative rationalizations, than any object on Earth.
Or in the solar system.
Maybe the entire Cosmos.
Disney had no idea the Pandora’s box they were opening when they devised the refillable mug program. Despite my rationalizations, my conscience is not convinced. It tells me I will be arrested and hauled away in handcuffs to have my
mug shot taken.
Roaring Forks is not a big place. They have one room with drink dispensers and food, and a modest size adjoining dining room.
In most resort food courts, refillable mugs are prominently displayed as if to say: BUY ME. Not so here. I get the impression they expect to be on the losing end of this transaction, and they want to minimize their losses. They stock only a handful of mugs, on a shelf behind the cash register. Hoping you won’t notice them. If you didn’t already know about the refillable mug program, you sure wouldn’t learn about it here.
The mugs are just a Program to Disney, but to resort guests, they’re an Investment. If a guest can’t buy a mug and get back his principle plus make a profit, (consume more than it’s cost) it’s No Sale. People know how many drinks it takes for the mug to pay for itself. It’s the rare individual who doesn’t hope to “double his money.” An uncommonly good Investor can earn a return of several hundred percent. So, perhaps the Wilderness Lodge has the right idea, hiding the mugs.
I had never seen a Wilderness Lodge mug. They’re tall with a narrow base that fits into the drink holder of your car. The color and design are neutral, tasteful and rather plain. As soon as the people in the check out line are gone, I step up to the cashier and ask to buy a mug. She looks rather reluctant, but turns to the shelf behind her. Then she pauses and asks nonchalantly, perhaps too nonchalantly, “Only one?”
“Yes,” I say firmly to the back of her head. “Only one.” Uneasiness washes through me as she turns, mug in hand, and her eyes meet mine with an intensity that renders me motionless. Laser eyes bore straight into my forehead. She probes my mind searching for information. Is the mug for me? Will it be shared by a family of eight? How many days are we staying? I am transfixed by her gaze, unable to move or breathe until she finishes the mind probe and her eyes release me. “One mug,” she says. “That will be $11.99.”
I stagger back, but manage to steady myself. My hands shake slightly as I dig inside my wallet on a string. I manage to extract $15.00 and hand it to her. She makes change, hands me my receipt and the mug, and I walk wobbily-legged to the door. Lowell follows me, blissfully unaware of the ordeal I just endured.
I pause outside the door. Fool! The mug is still empty. Someone will have to go back inside and fill it! Past the gargoyle with the laser eyes. I almost ask Lowell to do it, but since the gargoyle assumes I bought the mug for myself, I should be the one to go. I may need to lie down for a while to recover from this trauma before I swim.
“Wait outside,” I tell Lowell through clenched teeth. “I’ll get us a drink while we’re here.”
I take a deep breath and force myself to walk into the room, past the cashier, all the way to the far wall lined with drink dispensers. I feel her eyes following me. The dispenser seems to take forever, and I break into a sweat by the time I finally pull the mug away and snap on the lid. Now I have to cross the vast wasteland again between the drink dispensers and the door to Roaring Fork. Will I make it without cracking and blurting out my guilty confession that Lowell and I may share this drink? I glance at the cashier but avoid her eyes as I walk by.
“Have a nice day,” she says.
I mumble something incoherent which may have been, “Thanks, you too,” then slip out into the hallway where I pause to collect what little wits I have left. I push open the outside door. The sun and the warm breeze do much to restore my composure. Lowell waits near the door. I hand him the mug with the air of having just pulled off a diamond heist. “Here’s your Sprite.”
We walk down to the pool, stop to pick up towels, then assess the lounge chair situation. The pool is fairly crowded and lounge chairs are a rare commodity mid afternoon when so many families take a mid-day break from the parks. At the moment, I see two unclaimed chairs, under a tree, and they are not together. A towel is draped over the one in between. Lowell heads for the empty lounges and I tag behind protesting, “but they’re not together.”
“So we move the towel over.”
Apparently he doesn’t mind risking his life for the sake of a lounge chair. We pause by the chair and look around, half expecting its owner to rise up out of the pavement and run toward us shrieking and stabbing the air with an ice pick. But no one approaches. No one speaks. I glance down at the towel. It has probably been here since 1992 holding this chair. Lowell fearlessly sweeps the towel aside and tosses it onto the next chair. That’s my man. Mighty hunter of lounge chairs.
While I would prefer a spot in the sun, Lowell doesn’t mind sitting under the tree. He hates sun in his face, he doesn’t like to get too hot, and it takes no effort whatever for him to tan. He is half German, half Hungarian, and we think the Hungarian side is responsible for him tanning easily. As for me, I am a crazy mongrel combination of Scotch-Irish, English, Dutch and German, and am tan resistant. I don’t tan so much as I pink. If I get a little sun gradually, and don’t overdo it, the pink slowly fades into tan.
Lowell likes the water but doesn’t swim well, and he can’t float at all. He says he sinks like a rock unless he sucks in a huge gulp of air and holds his breath. More than once he has reminded me that women have an extra layer of fat that aids our buoyancy, and a couple of natural floatation devices. Sometimes I tow him around in the water which is bad for his self-esteem. The rest of the time he does the “doggie paddle.” Poor man, no self-respecting dog would be seen with him. Many times, he just sits in a lounge and relaxes while I swim.
I am pleasantly surprised that he will swim with me today. He didn’t put up a fight at all. Maybe it’s because this is a very nice pool, with neat rock formations, a slide, and a creek flowing into the deep end. And let’s face it, since we’re paying so much to stay here, we should take advantage of it.
I park our nylon tote bag on one of the chairs. Lowell, who is almost as near-sighted as I, decides to wear his glasses in the pool so he can find me. I always buy bright colored swimsuits, so if he wants to leave his glasses behind he’s less likely to mistake a total stranger for me and pinch some unsuspecting woman’s behind. I wear contacts, or I would be a danger to myself and everyone around me. When I take an eye test and the optometrist asks me to read the smallest possible line, I say, “Okay, where’s the chart?”
I’ve told you a million times, I don’t exaggerate.
Wrapping my T-shirt around our $11.99 Investment to keep it cold as long as possible, I scan the neighboring chairs, wondering if any pool hoppers could be lurking in our midst. No one arouses my suspicion. I see no tell-tale mugs from other resorts or people with towels from the Day’s Inn. I’ve read a lot on the DIS about pool hoppers at deluxe resorts. Some people claim the practice is widespread, others say it rarely occurs. I plan to keep a wary eye out and play detective while I’m here, so I can make a first-hand report when I get home. I have my magnifying glass, FM transmitter, envelope X-Ray spray, and secret decoder ring handy, so I’m all set.
We enter the water at the shallow end, where all the children are splashing, because I can’t stand to jump straight into the deep end. Lowell’s glasses serve as a windshield, catching drops of water, but I have to dodge to avoid the spray. I still manage to get a few drops in one eye, but I try to blink them away, rather than rub my eye. Nothing beats spending thirty minutes at the pool trying to find a contact lens that has slid up under your eyelid and disappeared. Your only hope is to grab your eyelashes, pull your eyelid away from your eyeball, and get someone to look underneath all the way up to your brain and see if they can spot it anywhere.
After paddling around for awhile with parents and tykes, we decide to check out the deep end. I cast a longing gaze at the waterslide. Too bad I left my electronic signal-jamming device at home. Now I can’t disable the hidden waterslide camera. There are too many people here today, anyway. If I get up my nerve at all, it will be when it’s less crowded.
There is always a rope between the shallow and deep ends, which presents a challenge if you don’t want to put your head under water. I put on my contortionist show, cranking my head around at an odd angle to get under the rope without submerging my face. Behind me I hear a lot of furious splashing, so Lowell can’t be far behind. Suddenly I’m on the other side, where it’s blissfully deserted. A young couple relax along the edge on my right, and Mom, Dad, and a teenage girl stand at the far end where the creek flows into the pool.
Soft Western themed music plays discretely in the background and I sigh at the loveliness of this place. I love the massive log walls shielded by shrubs and pine trees, the rocky creek meandering downhill until it spills over a ledge into the pool. I love the sheer earthiness of the lodge. It feels so solid and permanent, as if it has been here a very long time. I feel lucky to be here. This has always been a resort where “other people stayed.” It feels nice to belong.
We swim for a while then Lowell and I paddle toward the far end to watch the creek spill over the ledge. The stream creates just enough current that swimming takes more effort the closer we come. At last we reach the edge. Water cascades into the pool, gently pushing us away. The family standing farther down the ledge moves off after a few minutes and we have the entire ledge to ourselves. We rest our arms on top and hold onto the rocks to keep from drifting away with the current. The creek flows over us. It’s like bathing in a refreshing mountain stream. I let go and turn around so the water washes over my shoulders. What a wonderful feeling. Epcot seems a million miles away, and home is more distant still.
I’m not sure how most people define “Disney Magic.” Some say it’s a sense of being totally free of cares or responsibilities, of being in a place where fun and happiness rule. You feel more alive, more in touch with your family. I feel that now, but I have felt it at other times and in other places. Disney does not have a patent on “magic.” They merely help you find it. There have been many moments and many places I wish I could capture and preserve. I think at those times of an old fashioned camera, the kind from the 1800s where a black cloth shrouds the camera to keep out light. The photographer inserts a glass plate negative into the camera, then removes the lens cap briefly to expose the image onto the plate. That’s what I do now. With my mind. I see the massive log walls of the Lodge bordering three sides of the courtyard. I see the rocks and trees, the creek, the pool, the blue sunny sky. It’s a beautiful scene, and a perfect moment. I take off that lens cap in my mind and let the image form there, captured perfectly, so perfectly that I can recall this moment a year or ten years from now, just as it is today.
I look at Lowell and he smiles contentedly. It has been a wonderful day, and it’s only half over. A few more people cross over to the deep end and swim toward us. We wordlessly decide that we’ve been in long enough. We’ll lie in our chairs for a while and dry off, then think about where to have dinner. Having food from the Food & Wine Festival for dinner is out of the question, so we need to come up with a new plan.
After about a half hour in our chairs, I glance at my watch and discover it’s a little past 4:30. I prod Lowell to wake him. Lunch was merely a series of snacks, so I’m starting to get hungry. We head back to our room to unpack.
The good thing about vacation is that you can look casual, even a tad rumpled, and no one cares. I used to be fanatical about packing in a manner to avoid creases and wrinkles, but I don’t bother anymore. And I make a firm rule never to iron on vacation, even if the resort provides one. Not just because ironing is work; irons and I don’t get along well. Once I iron something and put it on, it drives me crazy if I find a crease or wrinkle I missed. Unfortunately I am much too lazy to take the garment back off, so I touch up the wrinkle with the clothing still on me.
This always ends badly.
I have a collection of odd little scars in assorted places. A couple near my collar bone, a few on my arm and wrist, one on my stomach. I think there are more, but I can’t be certain since I can’t crane my head around far enough to look.
Lowell flops on the bed with remote in hand while I unpack. As is his custom. I open the suitcase, hang a few shirts, then shovel the rest of our clothes into drawers. The empty suitcase finds a home on the closet shelf, out of the way.
Now for the tweed bag.
Good grief! Stand back, you impatient readers!
I see you, TiggerandTink and bunnysmum. How can I unpack with you crowding me, hanging over my shoulder, trying to see what’s inside the bag? When I said you readers were like barnacles, traveling along to experience our adventures, I didn’t think it would seem quite this real! Maybe I caused this anomaly by disturbing the space-time continuum, jumping ahead in my story. SunKat and barndweller, I refuse to continue until you back up and give me some elbow room. Bari, you’re standing on my foot. Okay, now everyone step away from the bag.
That’s better.
Now where was I. Oh, yes. Fresh ground coffee in a plastic container, a few coffee filters, some Oatmeal to Go bars and assorted breakfast treats to be used tomorrow at our own Redneck Concierge, the rest of my trail mix concoction, cell phone charger, digital camera charger, a spare pair of shoes to wear to Afternoon Tea. Wow. There sure is a lot in here. I’m starving, and truthfully, a little rattled from finding all you people in our room.
I think I’ll unpack the rest later, after dinner.
Time to read more trip reports!!!
and if he did, why didn't he open it and take a whiff? although honestly, i'd much rather be standing in the security line at WDW right now, than sitting at my desk! 
at home alone - kids are finally back in school after two days of 'too cold for school', husband at work, cat is off sleeping somewhere....
Can't wait for the rest of the WL story. I just managed to convince DH that just MAYBE we can afford it.
Hello from Eastern upstate NY. I loved your whole test track segment. Especially about putting in 3 deer instead of 1 because they never travel alone 
but it's OK because you're doing something educational and worthwhile: you're reading my trip report! 
