No such word, really. Coined by some undergrad comparative lit major, I'm sure, but should be brought into the vernacular so I have a way of explaining what it's like to hike for three miles up a mountain in three feet of snow with only tennis shoes and blue jeans and a fifty-pound camping pack on my back while the trail to Dan Moller cabin vanishes under the avalanche.
That was Monday. And it was wonderful.
Somewhere in the middle of hacking down a tree with an axe (we needed the firewood, what can I say?) I remembered that Helen Hayes was going on at about the same time. Heh. James was our fire-marshall, Dan was the cook, Anne and I were the trailblazers, Gene carried stuff for the weaklings, and everyone chopped wood. The hike back down the mountain was easier, except I got on the wrong path and ended up at a different trail head. Actually, I ended up right between two suburban houses -- which threw me for a minute. One moment I'm in the mountains making noise to keep the bears away, and the next moment I'm in Omaha. So the last leg of my voyage home wasn't through any more snow or rocks or dense forest terrain -- it was through someone's neighborhood. I'm sweaty and strapped down in my second-hand camping pack. Sunburnt. And I'm hiking through what looks like middle America, trying to find the vanished trail head where I parked my car.