I can travel the world without leaving my chair, but nothing beats actually being there—especially if one is a writer. With armchair travel you use two senses, ears and eyes, but when you are physically there, you employ all five senses (and maybe even a little bit of ESP). That can make a huge difference in your perception and description of a setting in your writing.
The azure sea and pristine white beach can dazzle my
eyes, but my toes will miss the silky feel of the warm water tickling my feet
or the powdery hot sand that makes me quicken my step to a shady spot under a
palm tree. In a video or movie I see leaves fluttering or a field of wheat
dancing with the wind, but I don’t feel that seductive breeze combing through my
hair. Dust boils under the pounding hooves of a horse racing across the stretch
of prairie in Monument Valley. The bandana over my mouth and nose helps, but I
cannot taste the grit in my mouth or scrub it from my skin and burning eyes. One
of the sweetest sounds in nature is water rushing and furling over rocks
studding a stream, or the roar of a waterfall with its spray misting my face, the
melodic trill of a robin or the screech of a hawk soaring on an air current.
Being there makes such a difference and can add a richness and realism to one’s writing. This is why I am so grateful that I have been able to visit all the locales except one in which I have set my books. Actually being there has helped me feel what it would be like to be cooped up in a hollowed out wolf cave and breathe in that dirt for hours on end, like my heroine, Molly.
In one of my earlier blogs, I wrote about Sam Kelly’s Cave in the Big Muddy area of southern Saskatchewan. Two enlarged wolf caves situated a few yards from the International Boundary were used by cattle rustlers over a hundred years ago. One cave sheltered a couple of outlaws and the second cave hid their horses from view of the N.W.M.P. or marshals from across the border. I read about these wolf caves in a book written by a lady whose family had lived over a century on the same ranch in the Big Muddy. The cave I visited is situated on private land, but it can be accessed through a guided tour. I was able to stand inside the cave, breathe in the cloying dirt, and used that experience in the third book of my trilogy, Beneath A Desperado Moon. Touring the underground Chinese tunnels in Moose Jaw gave me an even deeper appreciation of the horror of living in those underground tunnels with no whiff of fresh air or blue sky.
However, I took a bit of poetic license and had my
caves in the Bearpaw Mountains of Montana, a little more to the west and south
of the Cypress Hills, the main setting in my trilogy. I regret I was unable to
visit this low range of mountains, a few miles south of Havre, Montana, but I
have visited the town and have a “feel” of the area which is initially prairie
and similar to the terrain surrounding the Cypress Hills. Further into the Bears
Paw backcountry (also spelled as one word), the terrain becomes very rough and
hilly, with lots of trees and hiding places for outlaws in the late 1900s.
My very first historical romance was inspired by a
holiday in New Brunswick. While there, we visited a 19th century working
pioneer village called Kings Landing, about 20 miles west of Fredericton. I
fell in love with the place and used it for the setting of By Love Betrayed. I
have so many memories of that “village”, it being my first experience of how
cooking meals from hooks suspended over burnings logs in a fireplace can fill a
room with the scent of wood smoke that probably lingers, and how bread was baked
in a Dutch oven nestled in the ashes and embers. If one happened to visit a
certain cabin at mealtime, you were invited to partake with the costumed
re-enactors. I had the same pioneer experience at Black Creek Pioneer Village
deep in the heart of Toronto.
Visiting the Bay of Fundy in New Brunswick is an
experience I’ll never forget. I sat on the boulders and rocks that lined the
shore, steno-book in hand, and willed my Muse to provide me with inspiration.
As I waited in the chilly wind off the Bay, I watched how quickly the tide
moved in. By my feet was a dry, elongated rock that reminded me of the hull of
a mast-less ship. Then one drop of water landed on it. And then another, and in
an amazing short time, the rock was wet, then submerged. The water kept creeping
higher. Being a land-locked prairie gal, I watched in fascination. And then I
saw it. A young woman with long, wavy tendrils of blonde hair, bobbing like
seaweed in the water. She wasn’t moving and in danger of drowning. Then off in
the distance I heard a whistle and the scrape of claws as a dog bounded over
the rocks. The jogger whistled again, but the dog kept whining and would not heed
his master. Thus, the man had to get him, saw what had captured the dog’s
attention, lifted the young woman into his arms and strode off into the sunset.
End of vision. No matter how hard I tried, my imagination had strode off with
that handsome, dark-haired stranger.
In the middle of the night I had such a vivid dream
that I woke up, excited. I had my story, no doubt triggered by senses-overload
from all the sights we had explored that day. I shook my husband’s shoulder,
eager to tell him, but he told me to go back to sleep. I couldn’t because I
knew I’d forget the dream. I had to stay awake—but my notebook was out in the
car. I didn’t want to go downstairs and risk waking anyone up, so I lay awake
for hours, running the dream over and over in my head until everyone was finally
up, and I could get my notebook. I wrote down everything I could remember of
the dream. But it had nothing to do with the unconscious lady in the bay!
Another plus to visiting the Bay of Fundy was not only the amazing “flower pots” at Hopewell Cape where the powerful 5-storey high incoming tides have carved out chunks of the rock. At low tide, one can see how the cliffs have been eroded over the centuries, leaving the beach dotted with vulnerable chiseled rocks, with pines growing at the top, ready to be knocked over by the next surge of the tide. Best get off the beach when the tide starts rushing in. My husband’s brother was stranded overnight on one of the “flower pots” until the tide went out again.
Near the Bay of Fundy is another bay which has a
distinct “fishy” smell to the air, so unlike Fundy Bay and the water has a
reddish cast to it, probably because of the high iron content. I would never
have known that if I hadn’t personally experienced it by being there. We walked
along the beach at low tide and saw saltwater draining from tiny shells and
various seaweeds, some pod-like clusters like a bunch of grapes, all over the
beach. Cape Enrage is well known for the tides flinging huge waves against the
cliffs, but the night we went to see it, the bay was calm as a sleeping baby.
After our return home, I related all this to my friend
over the telephone. Judith said, “I hope this is an historical!” It wasn’t, but
I knew instantly I could convert it to an historical, instead of the
contemporary romances I had been writing. Rachel could ride the train instead
of driving a white sports car. And several weeks later, to my forehead-slap
amazement, I realized that my lady in the bay was the beginning of the
story after all. I finished writing the book, but, alas, I no longer have the
word processor on which I wrote it. However, I do have the hard copy— but it’s
a long, daunting job I’ve avoided in retyping from scratch. That is my some
day project because I still love that story and would like to see it
published.
In the meantime, I’ll share an excerpt from my latest
published book, Josh and Molly’s story, in which I hope I’ve employed all five
senses.
Excerpt: Beneath A Desperado Moon:
Riding
further south into the wooded foothills of a low mountain range, Josh searched
the distant rocky bluffs for a familiar landmark. He finally spotted the lone
pine in a shadowed fold of the cliffs and aimed his horse in that direction. He
let his horse pick his way over the rocks, climbing higher, and wasn’t surprised
when a man stepped out from a screen of bushes and aimed his rifle at Josh’s
chest.
“That’s
far enough.”
“You
know me, Charlie. I have been here before.”
“Don’t
mean nuthin’. You could be bringin’ the law with ya.”
“Do
you see anyone behind me?” Josh snapped, knowing full well Chase was a long way
back, observing through his spy glass. They’d agreed it was safer that way for
Josh not to be followed.
“That
don’t mean nuthin’.”
“Bloody
hell, you fool, I am not the only one wanted by the law. He killed three men on
the stage this morning and kidnapped a woman. The law will be crawling all over
the prairie like ants on an anthill.”
“She’s
sure a spitfire,” Charlie said, smirking.
Josh’s
stomach clenched. Charlie’s words confirmed Josh’s worst fears. At least she
was alive. He nudged his horse past the outlook.
“Hold
your horses. I didn’t say you could pass.”
“Take
it up with Rocky. And don’t even think to use that rifle on me. The shot will
be heard for miles.” Josh urged the horse around the overlapping jut of rock
that shadowed the opening, making the entrance invisible to the casual
observer.
A
few more feet brought him around another boulder and into a small sunlit valley
lush with grass. A stream meandered through, providing water for animals and
humans alike. Several horses and two cows gathered in the shade of huge
cottonwoods that had roots nourished by the stream.
Most
of the outlaws preferred living in tents scattered near the entrance or out in
the open while some had claimed the few caves that pockmarked the hills.
Ignoring
the curious looks of the men and women in the camp, Josh rode directly to Rocky’s
tent, which had one side nearly touching the cliff wall. He didn’t have a full
plan of action, just hoped the element of surprise and sheer guts would work in
his favor.
He
needn’t have worried. The argument going on inside the tent could drown out a
stampede of horses.
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