Outside Naked

Full Moon Mink

2012-03-09T06:32:00.000-08:00

I sit at the break of day where I can see the opposite bank of the Fisher River. It's only twenty yards away, down a slight hill. Until yesterday my imagination was filled with a sighting of a bobcat on New Years Day. It's always the case. Once I see something in one particular spot my memory seeks to reproduce it. So I'm always looking over there, for one more glimpse of bobcat.

Yesterday had been edgy. The largest solar flare in years bombarded the earth. My body seethed with current. I closed down communication portals following a sweet talk with daughter Hope, took to the couch and switched on a 1946 Sherlock Holmes movie. Turned the house into a metaphorical cave. Darkness fell as I poured myself a glass of Riesling and caught movement out the window; a dark thin form made her way along the bank, west to east, weaving between crusty snow, tawny grass, fallen logs and the bulging river. An otter, I presumed. Because that was my context. Then I realized it didn't move with that familiar river otter hump. It was smaller, sable brown and sleek. Onto Google I went, checking out river otters, martens, fishers and minks. Minks?

She was doing what minks do, moving determinately, working the riverside. I watched for two minutes, which in the world of wildlife sightings, is stupendous. I didn't reach for my camera. I didn't want to take my eyes off the crepuscular creature ... to lose one precious moment of her essence. Almost out of sight, she slipped into the river and swam against the flow.

I'll make my way up that bank today. Check for tracks. A worthy task on this, Hope's birthday; the last full moon of winter. Depending on the culture, this moon is known as the Full Crust Moon, Moon When the Eyes are Sore from Bright Snow (Lakotah), and Moon of the Winds (Celtic). For myself, it will forever be the Mink Moon, linked in memory with the celebration of Hope's birth.

Binocs and camera at my side, my eyes scan the riverbank 'in hope' as I push the buttons on the phone; wait for her to answer that I might break out in one more gregarious birthday song.

Outside Naked on Blood-slick Snow

2012-03-04T13:22:00.000-08:00

I've changed the title of my blog.
Part monumental shift; part seasonal thaw.
Or may be it's the extra cardamon I tossed into the gingerbread yesterday.

The words "Outside Naked" have been swelling my brain for months.

"Outside Naked" because it is here, within the roiling seasons, I am laid bare.
Chickadee. Song Dog. Beaver. Elk. Bobcat. Moose. Whale. Soul is stripped to essence in the presence of the wild ones and the lands they call home.

There's much to say; even more to feel and synthesize in that place beyond words.

I sit at ground zero in NW Montana.

Wolves, the ultimate symbol of what little wild remains, are under assault as men consider poisoning, trapping, extending the season and hiring bounty killers to take down the beast.

We have been there. Done that.

Men killed over 75 million buffalo between 1850 and 1880. Seventy. Five. Million. Not for food. For hides. For fun. Rotting meat and wild spirits strewn across the west. Wolves, of course, proliferated in the protein rich backwoods and plains. Then came ranchers with cattle. 100,000 wolves exterminated between 1870 and 1877 in Montana alone! As of this month's count, there are estimated to be 653 wolves in Montana, 87 more than at last year. 130 packs and 39 breeding pairs. A 15% increase and the guys are riled. They'd like to be paid $100 for every wolf carcass they can deliver; $20 for every pup. Meanwhile, Utah is encouraging hunters to exterminate 20,000 coyotes.

Manifest destiny. The God-given right to control, dominate and conquer.

Scene Two: Rush Limbaugh, who recently screamed slut and whore across the clear channel airwaves, telling a female law student that her parents would be ashamed that she spoke publicly of a woman's right and need for birth control; how those costs should be covered by health insurance. Because you see, at the heart of this madness is woman's freedom. She must be controlled. Shamed to submission. Just ask Santorum, who would compel a woman carry a rape fetus to full term, and give the rapist parental rights.

We have been there; done that.

Today is the warmest day of the year. The gravel roads are thick with slush and water runs free with the magic of thaw. The earth stirs. My ears perk up at new bird songs. I pay attention to Ponderosa's sway in the wind as much as the synchronicity of human-made stories. It's all connected.

I want to believe that everyone is gathering force and placing themselves at their personal ground zero, prepared to watch and witness. I like my vantage point at the crossroads of wisdom and wild.

I stand with the holy feral, outside naked.

Wolf: Defining the Dispossessed

2012-02-24T09:42:00.000-08:00

The gray wolf loped across a pasture 100 yards off the gravel road. Wood Tick stopped the truck as the three of us froze in awe at the size, the mere presence, of the lone wild one. He'd gone as far as our stretched necks could reach when I yelled, "Out of the truck!" Anything for a few more moments. He was focused; soon disappeared. I turned back towards the truck, stunned to see two more wolves behind us, only 50 yards away. They stood, watching us. I slowly moved towards them for a closer look. One turned and sped up the side of the mountain; the other soon followed. Wolf mystique: now you see them, now you don't. Carole and I were ecstatic as we climbed into the truck, deep in the throes of our incredible luck. To get a long, close look is rare. Wood Tick was beside himself. He'd just seen his first wolves at short range and didn't have his rifle. "I could have saved 100 deer," he said. He didn't know that wolf season was due to end at sunset that very day., as the MT game commission would decide against extending the season one more time -- it was mating season.

It has not been easy sharing a domicile with a wolf-hater. I'm hard pressed to find anyone in this neck of the woods who supports their re-introduction. Coming from Colorado, the Montana vitriol has been a shock. But I've listened; stretching my ears to hear the stories, struggling to understand. I also accompanied Wood Tick most everyday of bow and rifle season last fall. To hear him tell it, the populations of deer and elk have been decimated by wolves. He and most Montana hunters say the reintroduction never should have happened. It's true that populations of deer, elk and moose are down in Montana. Some say they have disappeared entirely from certain areas. There's something happening out there in the woods, but I don't believe it's all wolves.

In the second season since wolves were de-listed from the Endangered Species protection, hunters in Montana shot 166 wolves, 75 percent of the statewide quota of 220. That's not counting the bounty of the "SSS Club: Shoot, Shovel, Shut-Up." I've heard stories of locals who collect tails. Make no mistake: for every wolf legally shot more have been poached. While the official wolf season grows in quotas and time spans, a $600,000 predator-prey study is under way at the University of Montana. So far it has shown that mountain lions are the biggest elk calf predator in the area, followed by black bears and wolves (tied). That study continues, as everyone waits for the science to catch up with the guns on the ground. Wood Tick and I didn't see many elk this past hunting season; but we also saw no wolves, and only a few tracks, and no carcasses of eaten game.

The high elk and deer populations were past reflections of an unnatural order; years of nursing populations for hunters. While those who wish should be able to feed their families with wild game, the issue goes beyond statistics. The wolf represents some deep, dark force for men who struggled to lay claim on the west. Around these parts (NW Montana; Libby-Kalispell) those who scorn lobo proudly show off new 'wolf guns,' their hatred laced with excitement. Some believe that dumping wolves and grizzlies is the government's way of pushing marginal white people off the land and into towns; forced to buy mass-produced meat, plunked onto Styrofoam, wrapped in cellophane.

Humans have always defended food sources. A best friend shoots ravens who threaten her chickens. Coyotes, lions and bears are domestic farmer targets. In these parts people farm the forest. Wood Tick feels justified in protecting 'his' elk, deer and moose, which translates into his way of life. But there's something else at work here, that borders the cosmological. Wolf as a lightening rod for people's powerlessness. Wolf symbolizes "Other," fear of what can not be controlled. I've grown accustomed to wolf diatribes sprinkled with the n-word. You'd think the alpha female wore a burka.

I recently sat at a table where middle-aged white men discussed soaking sponges in bacon grease and throwing them where they spotted wolf tracks (they're eaten, expand and animal dies a slow death); rubbing hamburger in an artificial sweetener that kills canines; soaking horse shit in antifreeze. The dominant ones can not stand the wild ones; while they proclaim membership in the kill club they are scared to death of grizzlies wolves and lions, the very essence of their wild home. Meanwhile, management of wildlife becomes the new evolution. Down in Colorado's Rocky Mountain National Park, where the wolf option has been turned down, sharp shooters with night scopes and silencers quietly shoot an elk herd that has grown beyond the park's healthy sustainability.

Wolf in the not-so-wild west has added complication to a not-so-natural world. They howl as I ski through the forest, stop me mid-glide, mesmerized. My psyche longs to hear them, see their sign. I also thrill to see elk and moose, cougar and bear. I believe vehemently in the right to sustain one's self and family from the land; to own guns for protection, food and sport. The once-exterminated have returned to their natural lands to find more prey base than should have been possible. Meanwhile, I wonder if Wood Tick would actually shoot a wolf? He adores canines; doesn't shoot what he can't eat.

Wolves can not help that their reintroduction climaxed in a larger context of a frazzled, fear-laced world. In the midst of a disintegrating status quo, what does the wolf teach us about ourselves? Wolf calls us to task, forces us to recognize the biological, physical and spiritual implications for the wild west we fervently love ... and need.

Lupercalia: Season of the Wolf

2012-02-13T09:20:00.000-08:00

We had just finished a walk on water to a small island; frozen steps across a white world. The only humans were ice fishermen sitting in lawn chairs a half a mile away, ice augers at their sides. I stepped off the bank, into a half foot of snow and drew a ten foot heart with my footsteps -- a valentine to my two companions. Perhaps that's why the magic ones showed up. Valentine's day is the ancient celebration of heat; Lupa, the wolf, the symbol of the instinct to breed. I'd noticed their fist-sized tracks in the snow for weeks, dotted with urine scent marks and digs.

We'd driven several miles from the heart when we spotted him running across a field. Wolf? Could it be? We jumped from the truck, awestruck at his size and grace; watched until he strode out of sight. I turned back to the truck and there stood two more up the road, side-by-side. I began to walk towards them. One fled, one stayed. Our eyes locked, her expression and demeanor were curious; nary a hint of hostility. I moved closer and she disappeared into the thick-pined hill.

Valentine's Day is the remnant of Lupercalia, so named for Goddess Romina, the she-wolf that suckled Romulus and Remus, the founders of Rome; so named, before then, for the holy recognition of sexual heat that drives instinct. The Pope banned the church elite from participating in Lupercalia Festivals in 492 AD. Eventually, like most holidays now in existence, the pagan celebration was tamed and integrated into church, thus, Saint Valentine's Day.

Bird songs have lengthened and become more melodic; urine is tinted with blood. Mating is on. The forest is full of lust. This morn, as I laid in morning's darkness, a low, lonely howl seeped through the bedroom walls. "Lest (lust) you forget me," she implied. Not a chance.

Goddess and the Groundhog

2012-02-02T07:59:00.000-08:00

Ever so gently, the world stirs.
New bird songs are in the air.
Ice recedes from the riversides.
The sun feels hotter upon the skin.
The soul smiles in response longer days.

It is Candlemas; Imbolc to those with Celtic pasts ... the ancient Feast Day of Brighid, Goddess of Poets, Healers and Smiths. She lives deep within old memory, her presence woven this day into whirligig crosses of straw and rushes; hung by the door for protection.

I revel in the richness of this time, the kick-off to the sensual perfecta: Imbolc, Lupercalia (Valentine's Day) and Spring Equinox. As the earth thaws and awakens, so do the bodies that inhabit the planet. Imbolc is the time of foreplay. The great tease. The taste of spring in the midst of winter. She dares us to trust in summer's return.

People once lit candles to give thanks for the sun's return on what was considered the first day of spring. At sundown I will strike a match and burn the once-aromatic Solstice evergreen that symbolized life in winter's dark. I will find moments to place my bare feet on the still-cold earth. And I will take a jar of pesto from the freezer. Made from last season's crop of fresh basil, tonight I'll dollop the taste of summer onto pasta.

Any one whose ancestors came from Europe can lay claim to Celtic influence. On a day when the country awaits word on Pennsylvania's Punxsutawney Phil and his shadow, I prefer to mingle with the Goddess ... to follow the dictates of olden times ... "Go down on your knees, do homage, and let blessed Brigid enter the house."

Irruption of Ghosts

2012-01-25T09:04:00.000-08:00

It was a late start; an indecisive morn. I couldn't decide whether to hit the road or do a bit of research. I'd read of an irruption of Snowy Owls two hours away, at the south end of Flathead Lake. I would have preferred to make a couple of phone calls, get the specific location and take some notes on the Arctic Owls, but that's not the way the new moon morn unfolded. Once a pileated woodpecker swooped by my head it was clear the morning contained magic.Wood Tick was game.

We knew the area from an article description: Skyline Drive, at the top of a hill in a subdivision, overlooking the town of Polson. Subdivision? We drove the hill but didn't spot a bird as we continued south onto barren plains. This is where the owls would prefer to hunt; where the landscape resembles their barren tundra home. Alas, no white birds. I spotted a car ahead on an otherwise empty and straight gravel road. Catch up, I said to Wood Tick ... it's a birder and he'll know where the the owls are. Wood Tick cast me a how-do-you-know-look. I'd been watching the vehicle. I recognize my ilk. Sure enough, the kind man had just spotted seven snowy owls and gave directions. Back we went to Skyline Drive.

We turned onto a side street and there they were, ghost owls perched on snow-blotched roof tops with a 360-view that included Flathead Lake to the north and hunting fields below. Puffy, fluffy magical white sentinels. I counted twelve as we drove around the neighborhood. We parked and walked through snow to a hilltop for another angle. Their beauty ... and presence ... defied description.

I'd never seen a snowy owl. Irruptions are normal every few years, when nomadic groups depart their Arctic home in winter and travel further south than normal. The last irruption to Polson was in 2005-06; they wintered about a mile from this subdivision home, laying claim to fence posts and old farm machinery. Now the solitary birds were hanging out on houses as if they were the most sociable creature alive. Irruptions are usually regional. They might occur in the NW or the NE, but this year thousands of owls have come south, in pockets from coast to coast. Seattle. Kansas. The Ohio River Valley. Boston. In fields north of Denver International Airport.

The Snowy diet is 90% lemmings. If the food supply dwindles in their circumpolar home, they move south in winter. But these primarily diurnal birds were not starving or stressed. It felt like they came to dazzle. To reach into souls with pure white awakening. A female defending her chicks will launch like a stealth bomber at a predator from a half mile away at 25 mph, tearing through cotton layers, down jackets and flesh with ease. No wonder Oglala Sioux warriors who excelled in battle wore a cap of their powerful feathers.

When the subconscious is out of sorts and needs to give us a wake-up call it sends us dreams. To the extent we ignore the dreams, it sends stronger, more outrageous symbols until we can't ignore -- a person we dislike; a nightmare of fright; vivid images in those minutes before we wake up.

Snowy Owls from coast to coast, never before witnessed on such a scale, can not be ignored. They take to silent flight from melting ice caps and land on rooftops that we might marvel and give thought to a planet out of kilter. Just what will it take to open hearts and minds and turn the world around?

Late starts do reap results.

____________

Thank you for reading!
I invite you to check out my updated, spiffy website at www.christinanealson.com
And as always, I love reading your comments.

Assassin's Return: Guatemala Revisited

2012-01-16T14:17:00.000-08:00

I made several trips to Guatemala in the late 1980's. My first solo excursion was to Antigua for a seven week language school. My heart was hooked from the moment I stepped off the dilapidated school bus packed with chickens, mothers and endearing Mayan children. My soul followed suit as I observed Mayan women on the streets, their elaborate cosmos woven into colorful fabrics and finely stitched designs; their solid presence upon the planet; the immaculate simplicity of their swept-clean dirt floors. Several weeks into classes I boarded a bus for the famous market in Chichicastenango when I was stopped short at remote bus stop where rural Mayan women, destined for Guatemala City, held large photos of young boys and men. "Donde esta mi esposo?" the posters read ~~ "Where is my husband?" Where were their sons and mates, kidnapped and disappeared from the face of the earth? The mothers risked their lives to travel days across country and stand silently, holding the remnant of their loved one in public. They journeyed to remind the president and his murderous military that they would not forget. That the holocaust against the indigenous peoples would not go unnoticed.

I continued to Chichi that day as I witnessed sudden stops of buses by the military, including mine. Everyone was ordered off the bus. We few Gringos were not hassled or touched as we were ordered to stand aside while poverty-stricken women, children and men were frisked and intimidated. The following weekend I, too, began to make the weekly sojourns to the City and photograph the courageous women. When I returned to the United States I joined a group called "Women for Guatemala" and began to spread the word through writing and slide show presentations.

I recently read that Otto Perez Molina, the new President of Guatemala, had the support of the United States. An uneasy feeling came over me. Otto was my dad's name; not a name I easily forgot. It stuck in the recesses of my memory.

"If you want to see what's happening to the indigenous peoples of Guatemala, visit the Ixil Triangle," I was told around 1987. And so I did. Call me crazy; Guatemala had a way of bringing out the risk in me. On my second trip to Guatemala I rented a jeep and headed far from the safety of the Gringo trail, into the highlands of Maya-lands where 70-90% of the villages were razed by the military. When I entered the villages the first thing I noticed were men with machine guns in high parapets at the entrance; the second thing I noticed was that there were no Mayan men of military age. They were "disappeared." Perez Molina was the military commander in charge of the Ixil Triangle. He was trained the in the infamous "School of the Americas" in Ft. Benning, Georgia. Also known as the School of Coups; the School of the Assassins.

Over two hundred thousand Guatemalans were slaughtered during the civil war, Mayans as well as anyone who supported human rights: activists, university professors, doctors, religious priests and nuns. According to a recent article by Lauren Carasik, Director of the International Human Rights Clinic at Western New England University School of Law, the new President of Guatemala, Otto Perez Molina denies genocide occurred.

I wrap my fingers around the stunning handwoven bag I purchased from a family of weavers on an unforgettable afternoon in their dark, barren home. I remember the vibrant sharp witty girl children, the stoop in women's walks and the fear in their eyes. I had carried a polaroid camera and spawned joyous scenes of picture taking. The images I handed the giggling youngsters of themselves must have seemed like miracles. Those children would now have children and grandchildren of their own. I pray for miracles in their hands; safety, respect and justice in their villages and homes.

I'm watching you, Otto Perez Molina. Ready to scream bloody murder.

Unlucky Thirteen, Bad Friday

2012-01-13T08:53:00.000-08:00

If 13 people sit down to dinner together, one will die within the year. The Turks so disliked the number 13 that it was practically expunged from their vocabulary (Brewer, 1894). Many cities do not have a 13th Street or a 13th Avenue. Many buildings don't have a 13th floor. If you have 13 letters in your name, you will have the devil's luck (Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer, Theodore Bundy and Albert De Salvo all have 13 letters in their names).

Sorry all you paraskevidekatriaphobics — people afflicted with a morbid, irrational fear of Friday the 13th — I love the edgy magic of the "bad luck" day, the superstition most firmly grounded in our consciousness for reasons most don't fathom but go to great lengths to confirm. In a 1993 English study, the ratio of traffic volume was compared to to the number of automobile accidents on two different days, Friday the 6th and Friday the 13th, over a period of years. Scientists found that even though fewer people chose to drive their cars on Friday the 13th, the number of hospital admissions due to vehicular accidents was significantly higher than on "normal" Fridays. Their conclusion: "Friday 13th is unlucky for some. The risk of hospital admission as a result of a transport accident may be increased by as much as 52 percent. Staying at home is recommended."

It's fun to tie these things together. But fun turns serious when this day is connected to a woman's disconnect from her source. It begins with the 'unlucky' number 13. Imagine, if you will, living by a calendar that is tied to our cycles, as used to be the case. Thirteen months of 28 days (13X28=364 days), in which women ovulated together on the full moon and bled on the new moon. Time when our dreams and bodies corresponded to the ebb and flow of lunar light. There was good reason for all of those raucous full moon fertility dances!

The "Earth Mother of Laussel," — a 27,000-year-old carving found near the Lascaux caves in France, often cited as an icon of matriarchal spirituality — depicts a female figure holding a crescent-shaped horn bearing 13 notches. As the solar calendar triumphed over the lunar with the rise of male-dominated civilization so did the "perfect" number 12 over the "imperfect" number 13. If Friday was a holy day for heathens, the Church fathers felt, it must not be so for Christians (much like Winter Solstice and Christmas, the exchange of worship of the SUN for the SON) — thus it became known in the Middle Ages as the "Witches' Sabbath." Twelve disciples, 13 witches in a coven. You make the connection.

The name "Friday" was derived from a Norse deity, Freya (goddess of sex and fertility). Enter the priests, who recast Freya and her sacred animal the cat, as a witch. So it was, thousands of independent women -- academics like Hypatia, mystic soldier Joan of Arc, common healers and midwives -- died at the hands of Christians. Estimates range upwards from 100,000's of thousands tortured with priest-blessed breast rippers, iron maidens and heretic's forks. Once they admitted they were witches they were burned at the stake in a holocaust of women; lands were seized on behalf of the church. The Inquisition. Fear of those days lives in our genetic memory.

There are three Friday the Thirteenth's in 2012. There's debate on how Unlucky 13 merged with Unlucky Friday to create Unluckiest Friday the 13th. Many point to the stock market crash. Wood Tick says his house burned down a few years ago on Friday the 13th.

As for me, I get a little testy on this day. I feel compelled to shake loose the memory of Freya's day and the number 13; to add another month to the calendar. To purge the past and pet the wild.

_________
Thank you Barbara Walker. What would we do without you?
Thank you David Emery, "Why Friday the 13th is Unlucky."

Bobcat Bounty

2012-01-04T09:32:00.000-08:00

I didn't take any chances this New Year's Eve. Janus, the cantankerous keeper of the gateway between the old and new years, has thrown me a curve ball more than once. So it was I prepared. I spent luscious time on the phone with girlfriends. I went online and ordered up a box of dark chocolate bars with cherries, girlfriend-recommended reads -- A Discovery of Witches, A Tiger's Wife -- and a portable reading light.

Tucked in for the night by ten p.m., I awoke serene, gazing into a Montana pine-spiked, cloudy sky. I made my way to the kitchen and began grinding coffee beans when movement caught my eye. About thirty yards outside the sliding door, across the little river, was a bobcat. She was perusing the area, sniffing grasses and alder thickets, taking her time. I grabbed my binocs and glassed her exquisitely striped body. She was small with sharp edges. She sniffed the deer block, looked across at me for a few seconds, and disappeared into the brush.

I had just received my totem for 2012. Not that I was looking for one; I had java on the brain and the smell of fresh-ground beans. But spirit has a way of knocking me off routine. So it was my next few hours were spent delving into Lynx Rufus research, pulling up memories, honing insights. Cat energy permeates my soul. I am a Tiger by the Chinese calendar. I have had several potent encounters with mountain lions, one with a mother and three yearlings. With this sighting I dropped from big cats to small. To ones with thick, mighty tails, off of which they spring unbelievable distances, to ones with minute bobs and powerful legs.

Bobcats are crepuscular. They are solitary prowlers of the dawn and dusk, immersed in a silent, secretive world. The same could be said of me. It is my preferred time, when muse and magic reign. While they prowl on legs through the river bottom, I prowl the mind, pen in hand through thickets of imagination. Bobcats are stealth hunters, with keen senses. They have an uncanny ability to blend in and survive their environment. They are 2-4 feet long (including the tail), 14-16 inches tall, and 15-30 pounds. This feline was on the small end of those figures.

I see large, round snowshoe hare tracks on my daily walks. I've been excitedly anticipating a white-wonder, which I haven't seen in years. Now I read that bobcat has been my competition, as snowshoes are her main diet. She also feasts on rabbits, rodents and insects. In mythology the bobcat is associated with wind. He is often paired with coyote as the opposite. Coyote as chaos, bobcat as order. Bobcat is a protector of Venus, the evening star, which happens to be my ruling planet. In Norse mythology (my ancestry) bobcat is associated with Freya, Goddess of love, beauty and destiny, who rides a chariot pulled by two cats.

Bobcats travel up to 7-miles a day and have a range of 100-square miles. I'll be fortunate to see her again. I'm working on sensing her prowl. I know the camouflaged creature is nearby, cocooned in her secretive world as I perfect the properties she represents: stealth, power, camouflage and clairaudience -- hearing sounds and voices not audible to most. Lynx Rufus. Lynx, from the word for light. So named for gleaming eyes; the ability to see in the dark.

When I mentioned bobcat's visitation to Wood Tick he said, "That's a $300 bill!" "Too small," I stammered, shocked by his automatic response. "May be more than that ... the small ones have the best coats." "Don't you dare tell a soul," I said, as I confirmed trapping season was over. He promised silence. He's not a trapper, although plenty around here are.

Janus is alive and well, looking back and forward simultaneously. From dollar signs to totems. In my world, the bounty of the wild is the holy.

Slush and Pollo

2011-12-28T07:40:00.000-08:00

The deep rush resembled a groan. The sound grew as it gathered speed, overhead growls hit the ground with sharp thuds. The dogs stood with sharp ears; let loose with occasional midnight barks. It rained all night. It's raining now. Rain on top of old snow. Rain on the metal roof. Sliding piles mush ice. In this chrysalis time 'tween solstice and 2012, the world is reduced to inbetween states.

So it was I stepped into the dim kitchen this morn, ready to bone the chicken I'd simmered with fresh ginger, jalapeno, garlic and onion. Except Wood Tick had pulled the plug sometime in the night. A cold-flesh white blob bobbed in the middle of floating onions. Half cooked. Slush and pollo. It's as if the Goddess Herself is caught in a matrix of indecision. Neither here nor there on the cusp of 2012.

I will don a raincoat today on my walk to the mailbox. Rain in northern Montana in late December. At least my snow boots are waterproof. What do the beavers think? Does the nursing griz sow wonder if she's gotten the season wrong as a suckling cub nudges into her fur? Seasons meld and shift with alarm; we are left with the one true compass: the hours of dark and light.

Slush slides down the roof with death rattle vibes; I, rapt in dark.

Swallowing Solstice

2011-12-15T07:31:00.000-08:00

Last week in Costco I bought a half gallon of heavy whipping cream. I'd never purchased more than a pint at one time in my life. Winter in Montana was hitting me hard. The shortest days had just arrived, two weeks earlier than the official start of winter. The landscape was as flat as could be. No shadows. The sun hung in the sky like a 20-watt bulb under a veil. And there I was, buying whipping cream by the half gallon.

A teaspoon of cream was wonderful in my espresso. But how many teaspoons are in a half gallon? I wasn't gonna freeze it. I've tried that before to uecky results. And so yesterday I scoured the internet for recipes that use whipping cream. I settled on a chocolate cream pie, something I'd never made. But I couldn't find a recipe that zinged. After a half day of pondering I opened the 1950 Betty Crocker's cookbook that Aunt Clara had given me when I was first married at age 19. Of course there was a recipe for a chocolate cream pie. It could have appeared on any farm counter back in Iowa where Aunt Clara lived. I started to work on making it my own: dark chocolate powder instead of squares or chips; whipping cream instead of milk; a half cup of espresso. But the process was all Betty's.

I cooked up the cauldron of midnight-dark pudding. It was thick and rich, unlike any concoction I had ever tasted. Once cool, I poured it into the pastry shell and covered with a high coat of whipped cream. I cut the first two pieces and Wood Tick and I drove several miles over two-track, snow-packed dirt roads to deliver them to friends nestled into a lonely cabin in a mountain meadow surrounded by thick forest. They could not believe their eyes to see headlights in the night; pie at their door. "It's Doug's favorite!" said Roni. A scream of delight broke the silence of the woods as I walked back to the truck.

I later served up a slice and sat by the fire. It was as if I was tasting solstice. Swallowing the creamy dark. Tis the season, is it not? To gestate, cocoon within the womb-void. To place the eternal green life of pine on the hearth; savor the darkness as we re-member the sun. Follow the impulses that make no sense. They just might lead to undreamed places. Darkness re-defined.

~~~

A Taste of Solstice
Mix in saucepan:
1 1/2 c sugar
1/2 t salt
4 T cornstarch
9 T Hershey's dark chocolate powder

Stir in gradually:
2 1/2 c whipping cream
1/2 c coffee or espresso

Cook over moderate heat, stirring constantly until mixture thickens and boils. Boil 1 miniute. Remove from heat. Slowly stir half mixture into 3 egg yolks, slightly beaten.

Blend into hot mixture in saucepan. Boil 1 minute more, stirring constantly. Remove from heat.

Cool; stir occasionally. Pour into coled baked pie shell. Chill thoroughly (2 hrs). Top with whipped cream.
blend in: 1 T butter and 1 1/2 t vanilla.

Our Lady of Guadalupe ~~ From Mazatlan to Montana

2011-12-12T08:14:00.000-08:00

I headed for the ancient Basilicain old Mazatlanon December 12^th, just as the celebrations in honor of Our Lady ofGuadalupe were gearing up. The Virgen of Guadalupe’s birthday was a long-standing traditionfor me. I’d attended masses in Colorado andjourneyed with girlfriends to Tortuga Mountain in Las Cruces, New Mexico,where I joined several hundred others in reverent pilgrimage to the summit.Guadalupe was the dark-skinned Goddess of Mexico, and mother to all Mexicans.I’d adopted her as well; had read every book I could find on of this Mother Goddess who stood upon a crescent moon.

The Basilica brimmed with statuesand pictures of Our Lady, the ultimate Mother-love of All. Vases of long-stemmed red roses and votive candles ofevery size and color covered the altar. The air was sweet with perfume. Thepews were full, even though there was no Mass. I stared up at the statue ofGuadalupe as tears filled my eyes. I squeezed them shut and folded my hands inprayer. “Here I am,” I imparted. “Welcome me into your arms, Mi Madre.” I gavethanks for my life, rich in possibility; and for my health. I asked forblessings on my daughter, Hope.Then I sat and breathed in holy, reverent moment.

Exit was slow, the line was long. Infront of me was a mother holding her brown-eyed baby boy. His thick lashesslowly opened and closed as he peered over her shoulder let loose with anangelic smile. I smiled back and did a double take as I saw a black mustachepainted above his lip. A glance around revealed dozens of little Juan Diegos, thepeasant man to whom Our Lady of Guadalupe first appeared in the mountains.The story goes that She presentedJuan with fresh roses in the middle of December in order for him to prove herexistence to the church officials. Boy babes and toddlers wore whitecotton peasant clothes and donned ‘Juan’ mustaches. A hilarious, heartrendering scene!

The little girls, on the otherhand, wore kerchiefs on their heads and strutted in theirmulticolored peasant skirts. On their backs, positioned between their shoulderblades, hung intriguing little cages about ten inches wide and eight inchestall. Later that day, in the packed, bustling market, I saw these cages forsale, bought one and hung it above my writing space.

The cage was called a java(pronounced hă-ba). It replicated the items one carried for spiritualpilgrimage. Affixed to this little wood and wire crate were miniature replicasof necessities for a sacred journey: a sombrero to protect one from the sun, atortilla press, a clay water jug, a straw basket and a lava stone molcajete tocook stews over a fire. A plate and various pieces of cookware dangled from thebottom. A rolled up lime green sleeping mat stretched across the top. Aturquoise and pink striped serape adorned the side, next to a tiny picture of -who else? - Our Lady. The java was a symbol of one who rids herself ofpossessions and embarks on a spiritual pilgrimage.

That java is the centerpiece of my dayup here in snowy Montana.A reminder that no matter where I am, sitting still or moving down the road, Icontinue my journey. “Is there anything you need?” Our Lady invokes. Yes. To come upon a blood red rose in the freshly fallen snow.

Eclipse

2011-12-10T05:29:00.001-08:00

Moon
scraped by a layer of fog
ever slowly
shadow cuts across her brow
deepening darkness
obliteration of the
pearl in the sky.

I know she is still there
but I must cross milleniums
to conjure the power that is
and was
return to the time when
women ovulated as One
as she rolled and waxed through the stars
rendered Venus and Jupiter dull
faint in the swell of tides and eggs

Damn, it's dark out here.
I sit cross-legged on the womb-silent earth
a purring cat snuggles tween my breasts
nibbles my chin
I await her return
a brilliant Luna sliver
to slice the eons
that I might re-member

follow the winter night light
into streaks of dawn.

Turvy Topsy

2011-12-05T05:15:00.001-08:00

Up at 5:00, I open the slider door and step onto the deck. The moon has long set; the sky is the ebony dark of new birth. Pleiades, the Seven Doves, hangs in the west. The Goddess' kite, I have long depended on her for a keen word or two to make my mind's eye blink. The seven degree morn pushes me around as I notice the Big Dipper straight above, upside down. As if he's pouring, showering my soul with ... ? I spread my arms, open to the rain of that-I-can-not-name.

I return to the ember-red wood stove where an bare wood book case with rusty nail heads is set to dry. Several weeks ago, in the midst of autumn's peak, Wood Tick and I discovered an old growth larch and ponderosa (they call them yellow pine up here) sanctuary. Remnants of an old hunting camp were strewn about, and in the middle of the camp was a weathered, two-shelf bookcase. A strange thing to find near a meat pole. It could have stored beans, knives and dish soap. Or perhaps it held tablets from the likes of a Montana-Thoreau. I'd been thinking about that book case ever since; finally realized it wasn't going to sprout legs and walk several miles to my door. A few days ago we drove along icy two-tracks to pick it up. By then it was frozen to the ground and layered with snow. We nudged it loose and awkwardly carried it to the truck across slick, chunky snow. Once thawed, it will begin to tell tales. The great gray owl that perched on a larch limb; the wolf that loped towards a snowshoe hare.

My soul responds to the isolation, beauty, wild and cocoon of winter as it did many years ago at "Dancing Raven" in Colorado's San Luis Valley; my solo five year mountain retreat. (Living on the Spine: A Woman's Life in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. I have copies of that. My other book, NM Sanctuaries, Retreats and Sacred Places is sold out. I had to order one used from Amazon a couple of weeks ago. How do you spell irony?) I unfold my writing life in Wood Tick's extra room. He has gifted me the space, yet I feel more strung out than ever. La Perla is covered with a sheet of plastic. My few worldly possessions are stowed away in Colorado where a girlfriend (read: savior) recently boxed and sent my snowshoes and gators cuz here I sit with my snorkel gear, evidence of earlier plans for winter south of the border.

Plans knocked askew. I am not alone. I take the pulse of the world, as well as that of friends far and near, and the word metamorphosis comes to mind. No matter how settled one is, we are called in this spiral time to receive. To ferret and hold dear the few things essential to the soul. This is what I know. It feels right to stand still and dip my hands in warm dishwater. It is essential to walk to the beaver pond at nightfall, take note of the progression of wood chips and slides, the ever-changing coat of ice on the dam. Today I will write an article on wildlife watching. In days to come I will organize my Africa photos and post them onto Flickr. When that bookcase dries of dampness I will carry it into my study.

Winter's dictate: be worthy of the holy moment; step into the stony darkness and raise my face to the Big Dipper's effervescent shower.

~~~~~~~~

I love to receive and respond to your comments. Please try. Many readers continue to have problems posting. For that I apologize.
Heart, Christina

Recipe for Planetary Peace (Miracles From the Gnarly Brown Tin Box)

2011-11-23T10:41:00.001-08:00

Thanksgiving is tomorrow. I'll travel with Wood Tick to his friend John's house outside of Kalispell; a mountaintop where John has patiently constructed a western town replica for a dozen years. There's a saloon, land and law office, trading post and a block house. There's an old hotel (where visitors stay) and his simple little two-room cabin. Every building is filled with antiques authentic to the theme of the shelter. It's a site to behold, and tomorrow his efforts will be graced with a couple dozen people and a big outdoor fire.

I've just chopped two heads of red cabbage. It' simmers away on the stove, filling the house with an unmistakeable aroma. I grew up with this Danish dish, a recipe passed on from my Grandma Nealson and who knows, perhaps her mother from Northern Denmark, Andrea. Aunt Sarina had her version. So did Minnie and Aunt Clara. As much as Thanksgiving and the holiday season cuts deep with remembrances, nothing pierces my heart like opening up my small brown file box and pulling out a recipe in a beloved's handwriting. Mom's mincemeat cookies. Willie Mae's Chess Pie. Aunt Fondelete's Baked Corn. Chlo's sweet potato casserole. Inga's Danish Pancakes. Just the names are enough to send one reeling. And today, it's Aunt Clara's Red Cabbage, scrolled in red ink and large, swirling handwriting. She comes alive on the stained index card, where cups and teaspoons are interspersed with comments and mild admonishments. "You notice the recipe calls for red cabbage but I use the white," she wrote, "the red is always so high priced." Or her final words, "I don't know if you can figure this out. Wish you had watched. It's hard to explain. You know how I cook."

Yes Aunt Clara. I know how you cooked. I spent infinite hours in your kitchen as you kneaded bread and mixed cookies. There was no place else on earth I wanted to be but next to you. But somehow I missed the days before Thanksgiving when you started the red cabbage. Just like I never saw you make my tall angel food birthday cake with clouds of double-boiler frosting that magically appeared on October 23rd. A handful of this, a dash of that. A taste to adjust. Life permeated with heart.

Thanksgiving. I give thanks for the potent combination of creativity and love. For those with the courage to live their dreams. To lay their passions upon this planet, from kitchens to mountaintops. On behalf of all life upon this planet.

Blessed Be.

AUNT CLARA'S RED CABBAGE (in her own words)
1 head good sized cabbage
2 T butter or oleo
1/3 c vinegar; 1/4 c water
1 tsp salt
1/3 c sugar
2 T grape jelly
Shred the cabbage. Melt butter in large pan and add cabbage; stir to coat.
Add everything except the jelly and cook at least 3 hours over low heat. Then, if it doesn't taste right I just add a little sugar, vinegar or whatever I think it needs. The jelly I put in last hour or so. It helps to color it. (If you use white cabbage.)

(She made this at least a day ahead of time; let it sit, reheated and adjusted it the next day. It's a luscious sweet and sour dish; the kind of thing you either loved or disdained. Dis-Daned. :^)

~~~

Dear Readers, I'd love to see your comments. There's a problem. Many can not post. Hope you'll try. I've exhausted remedies on my end. Christina

Be Here, Shovel Now

2011-11-19T05:56:00.001-08:00

Silent woods cloaked in a foot of new powder. It is twelve degrees. The inside is warmed with a wood fire; the spirit with candlelight, fed with hot coffee. When darkness lifts I will step outside into crystalline clearness; earth dons a sheath of quartz points upon her brow. My urge to pack and move south to warmth and ease is strong. The necessity to stay in this world of white looms larger. Be here, shovel now. The grip of physical exertion; the disappearance of blockage, row by row. Palpable progress. Like watching the beaver, checking his work every day as he downs willow and lodgepole pines. His slides, first through long grass and mud, are now deep troughs through snow. Progress deeply apt on the cusp of 2012 and its unprecedented evolutionary push. Stay with instinct. Stop rolling tires down the road. At least until Candlemas, when light is palpable and the spirit might see her way clear.

Yesterday I made a pot of venison chile. Ground meat from the doe that Wood Tick shot with his bow several weeks ago. Red and green chile, oregano, some bacon grease, a few beans, tomatoes in various forms, jalapeno, onion, lots of garlic. It is the most delicious I have ever made, and my first venture into cooking the wild. I was surprised how mild the deer tasted. I'd always heard how venison was gamey. I now know that's the price you pay if you're looking for horns to mount (larger, older deer) as opposed to animal sustenance. And spirit. I taste her and these forests she grazed.

I receive emails from friends who think I have lost my mind. It's been a decade since I've chosen winter in northern climes. One friend emails with the idea to spend Thanksgiving in Death Valley and a piece of my spirit leaps. How I'd love to return to that magical land.

But it feels that this winter is not about ease or new adventure of the physical travel kind. It is about organizing photos; writing; new book preparations and the next realm of work to come down the pike. Tracking down a thrift store to find some winter boots, buying a new battery for my truck, dragging deer blocks across the little river to watch the beauties feed. I will mine dreams that come from deep dark forests and skies alight with the Milky Way. Step outside with Wood Tick into drifts of white.

I see snow angels in my near future.

Hunting Camp

2011-11-10T13:15:00.001-08:00

I'm still in Montana. Friends are starting betting pools, guessing my day of departure and southern migration. Daylight savings time is a (grateful) thing of the past, as dazzling Jupiter hangs in the sky next to the Hunter's Full Moon. Recent spectacle includes two pileated woodpeckers swooping from pine to pine, a sighting of the beaver that has constructed an impressive dam 100-yards upstream from the house, and a moonlight-drenched elk herd at dusk...cows and calves at peace in nearby mountain meadow.

This place continues to enthrall. The human interface with the wild is like none I have witnessed. Woodtick reminds me, as he smiles and stretches his utilitarian elastic suspenders with his fingers, that I'm in the midst of a ultra hunting culture. People hunt huckleberries for food and shed horns for art and cash; they hunt character wood for furniture and big game for sustenance. They hunt mushrooms, herbs and trap small game for pelts. There's a bumper sticker around here that says it all: "I Farm the Forest." It's a serious bunch.

"This place is hard on horses and women," is a common refrain. Many men have been abandoned by their mates and live in trailers or shacks with no running water or amenities. Couples that stay together make due with one of them working in a city, sometimes several states away. The women I've met are a striking, spirited group. I ran into feisty Donna yesterday. She'd been laid off from a newspaper management job in Missouri, collected unemployment for awhile but found her bored-self in the job service office after a few weeks, hunting for a new life. They had a list of jobs by pay scale. Her professional job was in the lower 25% and she said by the time she figured in overtime, she'd been lucky to make minimum wage. She looked at the top of the money list: heavy equipment operator. "Wish I could do that," she laughed. "Why couldn't you?" countered the job counselor. "Oh no, I couldn't do that." "Why not?" came the coy reply. Donna applied a government unemployment grant to the one year school and found her tiny, 50-something frame in southern Montana on a road project twelve months later. She said she made more in her first week than in six weeks at her prior job. She also said she got seasick her first few weeks from driving the water truck that never stopped rocking back and forth. She explained that she didn't get breaks and had to eat on the fly; she lost twenty pounds the first few weeks. But she loves it. She gets winters off, on unemployment. She joins hiking and gem clubs in new towns. Said she's going to try a gold panning group. She returns home to visit the hubby on the occasional weekend but said it didn't happen often: "Why work all week and come home to housework?"

There's another woman I want to talk to soon. She offers refuge to the primo hunter of this area, wolves. A subject of volatile proportions in this neck of the woods, she keeps a low profile.

A hefty breeze fills the air with magical sheets of half-inch, soft golden needles from giant larch trees. The sky is filled with glints of gold; my walk silent, through the forest on a soft, yellow carpet. Today I hunted down a pair of red sequin suspenders on-line. My campy response to this place on edge.

Amis Pour La Vie

2011-10-20T18:13:00.000-07:00

Autumn is the season of my most vivid dreams. I'd always assumed it was because October is my birthday month. But this year the dreams haven't shown themselves. I awaken with bits and pieces but not with that revelation-pay-attention energy. I've been waiting. A girlfriend commented that perhaps it's because I'm living my dreams. That comment didn't resonate until recently. She wasn't far off the mark.

Far as I can tell, movement of the waking dream-kind began on my morning walk two days ago, when I was submersed in the smells and electric energy of a perfect fall day. Born in October, I pondered ... I hope I die in October, too. It was one of those moments when the veil between worlds was sheer; when I was 100-per cent certain that spirit puts me where I need to be. It was the beginning of a chain of signs and omens.

Wood Tick and I walked several miles into the forest yesterday, to the confluence of two small creeks. We saw no one, as our tracks melded with elk, bear, wolf and deer. Light waned on the return, as my eye caught a shiny edge in the mud. I stopped, dug with my finger and pulled out an oblong silver charm engraved with the words, "Amis pour la vie." I was stunned. How could it be that I looked down at the exact moment and noticed a tiny corner of silver? It reminded me of when I had attempted to stick an eagle feather into the bark of an old growth ponderosa pine several years ago and hit something hard. Encased deep in the bark was a quartz crystal about two inches in length. Miracle energies.

The following morning I woke in the dark and made my way to the beaver ponds a few yards upstream from the house. Their dam was a work of art, but I had yet to see the ghost-contractors. I sat on the chilly ground and heard an elk bugle. The loooooooong call of sex. With rifle hunting season two days away it might have been a hunter practicing and checking the proximity of game. But no, this call was strong and clear with a hint of forlorn; unlike those from the lips of hunters. Another call, as waves appeared on the glassy water and a small beaver swam into view.

I mentioned the beaver and bugle to Wood Tick. Ya, probably a hunter he surmised, as I smiled. I headed out on my daily walk with the dogs. A bald eagle flew low overhead. Shortly into the walk Teak balked, as she picked up a scent that made her uncomfortable. Instead of my usual loop I dropped into a marshy creek side with a faint two track next to a lake called Banana. I'd gone about twenty yards when I heard loud splashing in the creek. Too loud to be the dogs. I hurried to find a window through the thickets. My eyes fell upon three frisky cow elk. As they stepped out of view, in stepped a stately six-point bull to complete an unbelievable scene. Bull and harem stepping upstream, using the river as their pathway. It was mid-day, when no one expects to see them. I placed my hand over my heart; muttered prayers for their safety as I urged them towards the sanctity of a steep mountain gorge before the bullets would fly.

I climbed a steep bank from the riverbed to the gravel road, light-footing it through a rain of lemon yellow cottonwood leaves. Two ravens dipped and glided above, calling back and forth. My friend was right: my life is a waking dream, immersed in nature's sanctuary of the extraordinary. Blessed be, on the cusp of 61. "Friends for life."

From Zero to Hero

2011-10-13T07:18:00.000-07:00

Darkness descended on the cusp of the October full moon. Cold drizzle had ceased as Wood Tick and I prepared to turn around on a mountain two-track. We were creeping along, looking for deer when I spotted a doe feeding amidst lodge pole and ponderosa pine. I announced the rangefinder's conclusion of 44 feet, good enough for Wood Tick and his bow. He stepped from the truck and positioned his body. This was a first for me. First bow hunt. New approach to game. Unfamiliar sounds as the arrow snapped and zinged. The doe kicked up her back quarters and ran. Was she hit? We weren't sure.

We hurried to where she had stood. No blood. No arrow. No deer. We walked further, looking for her in desperation. A yearling deer came into view behind me, from the direction of the parked truck. The little one approached, stood and starred at me across the grass. Eye to eye, she called me to spiritual task, as I questioned every element of that moment. Scenes of "Bambi" flashed through my mind.

We found nothing; headed back to Wood Tick's house in the dark. I was nauseous; my nerves on edge. I'm alright with killing, in reverence, for a freezer full of meat, but slow death and possible waste ran counter to every grain of my being. We entered the house, I retreated to the bedroom and burst into tears. Then I questioned Wood Tick's judgement as we both flipped out. He said it wasn't the best angle of a shot, that may be he shouldn't have taken it. "Bad things happen out there in the woods," he said. We vowed to return first thing in the morning and look for her. I tossed and turned under the rising moon, quintessential madwoman.

The drizzle continued off and on the next morning as we loaded the dogs into the truck to aid the search. The drive was slick with mud and deep puddles of water. Wood Tick was full of remorse. He talked of hanging up the bow for good. "I should have practiced more," he ruminated. We departed the truck and followed a game trail on the opposite side of the stream from where he had taken his shot. Within five minutes Teak's nose went into the air. "She's got a scent," I said. Wood Tick spotted the doe off trail about twenty feet, in long grass by small pine. She had run a short ways, crossed the stream and fallen. His shot had been a perfectly placed, quick kill. His relief was palpable. He'd gone from a zero to a hero.

He knelt next to her glassy-eyed body, solemn, as I laid my hands upon her and gave thanks. Then Wood Tick pulled his knives from his pack and began to field dress her as I held the hind legs taut. She had not been nursing. The yearling that had darted off the night before did not reappear. I prayed the young one had learned not to trust a halting pick-up truck.

I understand and admire the necessity to eat wild meat and place myself within the food chain (grizzly attacks in Montana are not uncommon in the process of field dressing); but I admit that when Wood Tick stepped out of the truck for his shot, I had opened my window, lowered my arm and waved, hoping the doe would dart away, out of reach.

Ladybug, Ladybug

2011-09-29T09:14:00.000-07:00

It is truly autumn; the equinox has come and gone. Frost crystals coat the morning grass. The air has turned sharp with a clearness that wallops the spirit. Wood Tick drives us into the mountains every day for a dose of awe. We recently traveled five hours in the high country and didn't meet one vehicle. Amazing, considering it is hunting season. It speaks to the scope of the woods in N. Montana, the land of endless Englemann spruce, lodgepole, fir, balsam and larch.

A few days ago we traveled slowly by ATV to the top of Meadow Mountain. A dilapitated wooden lookout tower loomed above treeline. Krumholz pine, gnarled and bent with years of wind and the gravity of heavy snows, gave hints of the winter to come. It took a moment to focus from the 360-degree view and settle into the warm rocks where I was perched. A Ladybug landed on my arm. Then another. The sun burst from behind the clouds and reflected off thousands of swarming wings. I was in the middle of a ladybird migration!

No one knows the whys and wherefores. I'd only witnessed one other, in the foothills near Boulder, CO, over twenty years ago. Ladybirds fly from the lowlands to the highlands by the thousands and coat trees, rocks and bushes. The world turns orange as they burrow into crevasses and holes to winter and emerge with spring.

It is one of the world's spectacles. Like the bull moose that stepped in front of the pickup truck the next day. We sped up to get closer and he began to run up the two-track ahead of us. He did so for over a mile, allowing a once-in-a-lifetime look at his power-packed run as his 40-inch rack tore branches from alder that lined the road. He took a sudden left turn down a steep precipice and instantaneously disappeared into a larch forest. All that remained was the crash of hooves and cracking branches. Ghost moose.

The forests brim with wood chickens (grouse), mule and white-tailed deer. Glossy, black bears frequent the damp ravines, fattening up for winter. Service berry bushes are neon yellow and the aspen are not far behind. The air smells of seasonal of transition; of cow elk in estrus.

"Ladybug Ladybug
Spread your wings it's time to take flight
Ladybug Ladybug
you better fly away home ... "

Perspehone Has Nothing on Me

2011-09-22T11:18:00.000-07:00

I'm sitting in LaPerla with the heater on and the screen door open. Such is autumn in Montana, were it frosts at night and gets up to 80 in the day time. It's easy to get caught in between, an apt metaphor for the moment as I contemplate a myriad of contradictions and mind-spinning observations, compliments of my friend, Wood Tick.

Autumn is my favorite time of year. I'm an October Libra and the drift of falling of leaves, the smell of nature's death and the movement of migration has long stirred my soul. I have all that, outside the door at Wood Tick's house on the river, looking into forest and mountains where it's dark and silent at night. I'm immersed in the wild once more. The past week I've witnessed moose crossing a lake, glossy black bears, an eagle's nest on the top of a snag and elk bugles echoing through the night. It's bow hunting season as well, when males in camo take to the woods. I must be wary of where I stop to squat.

It's a strange man-scene in this neck of the woods. Every one I've met so far is divorced and single by choice. With the energy of a mountain man frat, they've turned their libido into wood of the tree falling kind, building huge, strange creations that are off balance. One has built a humongous open air work shed that houses a saw mill and a room accessible by ladders three stories up. Inside that glass room is a pool table and I'm sure, a view to die for. I declined the invitation to travel up construction ladders and smoke a bong. The room was not made with females in mind since there was no bathroom and women can't hang it over the non-existent railing. Nope, not venturing down three stories of ladders in a sober OR altered state, and I haven't done a bong in decades. Another man took a simple, beautiful 1200 sq ft log cabin perched on a mountainside and proceeded to dwarf it with a dick, er deck with logs three times larger than myself. On top of that deck was going to be a, you guessed it, pool table room. On top of that was a loft. On top of that would be a fire lookout observation room. Another man lives on an isolated lake surrounded by old growth larch in a rabbit-warren house jam-packed with stuff. The wooden porch leading to the door was covered with rat scat. I dare say, he has become a pack rat. I could go on. I've met another half dozen. Wood cutters. Engineers. Craftsmen. Contractors. Welders. Suffice to say there's something off kilter here. I hear rumors of women in the background of some men's lives, but have yet to see proof. Wood tick tells me that the news of a woman in the area spreads like wildfire. Stay tuned.

We make daily trips into the mountains. Wood Tick is a bow hunter and has gone out a few times. He promised not to divulge the location of the bear I photographed from 20-feet yesterday to his hunter/trapper friends. What's shocked me most, however, is the subject of wolves. Thus far I've lived in areas where wolf re-introduction is an ecological and spiritual goal; efforts that stem from decades of blood lust extermination. In Montana I've come face-to-face with the effects of wolf predation in the form of plummeting elk, moose and deer populations. This year Fish and Game opened a limited wolf hunt and sold $19.00 tags. The word 'wolves' is on the tongues of everyone I meet and fills the editorial pages of newspapers, with many professing to love them, while overwhelmed with the speed at which their populations and predation have spread. This has caught me off guard and I'm set to delve into more research. Stay tuned.

Tomorrow is the Equinox. The first day of autumn returns with equal minutes of daylight and darkness. Wood Tick and I plan to head to a special spot with the dogs on the river to swim and laze in the unseasonably hot sun. Record highs are predicted by weathermen, while astrologers warn of intense cosmic chaos. I'm happy to be anchored at Wood Tick's house on the river with the resident beaver and swooping Kingfisher. His burned biscuits make me laugh; his wit and lay of the land are a gift. Stay tuned.

Satellite Blue

2011-09-04T08:44:00.000-07:00

I snipped a few pink cosmos and black-eyed susans this morning, added them to the morass that's become my kitchen table and lit some candles. Now I sit with a hot steaming cup of espresso trying to sort the events of the past couple of weeks. Teak, outside with the dawn, has come back in. Hobo attacks my right-hand fingers as they tap across the keys. I hope the muse likes laughter.

Okay. I admit, I delved into Chemistry a bit. Well, more than a bit. One of my best friends, an exquisite writer who lives in Florida, was flying to Missoula to visit an Aunt. I hadn't seen her in 20 years and we were intent on a reunion. Turns out Chris (of Carole and Chris where I'm summer-parked) was set to travel across Montana to see his dad. I figured I'd hitch a ride, have him drop me off in 'round Missoula, Elizabeth could hijack a car and we'd meet. On a whim, I contacted "Wood Tick," the Montana Kerouac who had captured my imagination. Why not communicate and possibly set up a coffee along the way? I might have several hours to kill.

He and I emailed as the possibility of seeing my friend dissipated behind an onslaught of serious bronchitis. Wood Tick bemoaned the fact that the "bait to get me out thar had disappeared." There I was: no hope of seeing my friend and the sudden desire to meet this man. The plot thickens. "I'd like to hear your voice, would you like to hear mine?" I typed. Who would blink first? I called and left a message. He called back and did the same, saying that I sounded "pret...tee dy...nam...ic." He spoke with a drawl the likes of which I'd never heard. We decided to meet in Bonners Ferry -- Bombers Ferry to Wood Tick, a reference to Ruby Ridge -- a picnic by the Kootenay River at a little grassy park I'd recently discovered. We'd bring the dogs. In three days.

Carole and I humorously pondered my venture into terra incognito. Was it really his picture on-line, we spoofed? It didn't help that I'd just finished reading John Sanford's, Chosen Prey. I gave Carole his contact information as we agreed on a plan. Leave it open. See how things fly. Pack a bag? We joked about the days when women always packed a bag in case we got laid. Now we pack bags in case we get de-layed. As in airports.

We met at a bakery at a highway intersection. I was an hour late thanks to the back-up at the Canadian/US border crossing. I pulled into the shadeless parking lot, turned off the ignition and took a deep breath. Man and dog were sitting outside at a picnic table. He wore black jeans and a t-shirt w/black suspenders. We met mid-way on the dusty gravel with hellos. I was stunned. He looked nothing like his picture. He had assured me he wasn't "fat, bald or ugly ... yet." He was modest. He possessed sky blue eyes and a smile that melted. We sat outside and talked for an hour and I decided ya, let's move onto the picnic. Doggie Daycare, he called it. Three more hours of talk and laughter. The sun was getting low. We didn't want it to end.

"I don't know what you'd planned to do," he said, "but you're welcome to come to my place and spend some more time," he suggested. I didn't tell him that I had no plan. His place was a 100-miles east in the forest, 30 miles from the nearest town. My cell phone wouldn't work there. I smiled as I overcame my serial killer fears and pointed my body east. I dialed up daughter Hope as I crossed another border, confident in my intuition and ability to readily extricate myself from situations that twist sideways.

I had packed for an overnight; I stayed eight days. Every day he took me deeper into his landscape. He made simple, delicious meals. We made outings to visit friends, hiked, took trips into the forested mountains that enveloped his home; stepped into the hot tub every morning with coffee, watching Bohemian waxwings work the riverside bushes. I photographed as he practiced his bow, readying for the upcoming season and his quest for an elk. Everyday he'd look at me with those piercing blue eyes and ask: "So how's your whirlwind summer romance going?" I told him his presence had the comfort of an old t-shirt. He liked that. Now we're both figuring out where to put this encounter in the context of our fiercely independent lives.

Neither of us had acted on a Chemistry contact. If my Florida-amiga hadn't ended up in Montana this would never had happened. That's the way August was: a strange configuration of out-of-the-blue-happenings. Satellite blue, says my new friend, whose name is not Wood Tick. My subscription to Chemistry expires this morning. They want to know if I'd like a special offer of three months for the price of one? No thanks.

I'm content with the memory of lounging in bed under soft covers, listening to the river outside the door and hearing a lover's footsteps walking up the hallway. Wondering if I could get used to that.

Coalescing Chaos

2011-08-20T10:13:00.000-07:00

A friend lays upon her bed, in and out of consciousness, drifting towards death. Sisters take turns to sit with her and read, their voices low, like a mantra, reciting the river of non-stop Facebook messages, expressions of deep love, reverence and respect. Goodbyes. Words to carry her soul to the other side.

Another friend is catapulted into capitulation and heartbreak upon news of her daughter's recent abortion and a line of text messages that went awry.

Irene recovers from her daughter's death, still sickened with the memory of a liver transplant that couldn't happen in time.

Alexandra departs on a cross country road trip with her husband who is in the throes of brain cancer.

Judith struggles minute to minute with nicotine withdrawal. She prays that tossing cigarettes at 75 will make a difference in the number of sunsets she will witness.

Kathryn travels from the east coast to Montana to visit relatives she hasn't seen in decades. She arrives and falls ill as her great-Aunt has a stroke.

Ellen, her husband, kids and horses, are kicked off their farm that's falling into foreclosure.

I laid in bed last night and pieced these sister-tales together. There are brother-tales too: motorcycle accidents, addiction blow-outs, restraining orders against girlfriends, lymphoma battles.

How to keep peace in these tumultuous times? Every friend is me, as I am her. This summer, predicted to be "down the rabbit hole," took such a turn for me as well. It took six weeks of trauma before I gathered forces and took refuge on a soul sister's land. Glad to have a trailer. The ability to move. I rested and focused on spirit; supported friends who could not extricate themselves from the morass. And I stayed true to my soul, polishing words like the finest silver.

It is not over. Not by a long shot. We and the planet are in the midst of a reckoning; energetic havoc that must be ... what? ridden out? tai chi ed around? I'm watching with vital curiosity. Movement is seen as signs. What was I thinking the moment I stumbled on that walk? Because that's one way spirit gets my attention.

Last night Carole and I sat at her table, sipped wine and jabbered away. She suddenly looked up and said, "It's ready!" She had drawn a hot bath for me; added rose petal bubble bath. WOW! We laughed as I told her no one had done that since a Taos-lover years ago, sun's final blush on his soft adobe walls. I lowered into those bubbles, a queen.

What to do as chaos coalesces? Chris, Carole's husband, is baking peach pies. Carole is meeting with a homeopathy patient. I'm typing away, snickering at a kitten who teeter-tooters between love, light and Cujo. Live the soul; keep moving forward. One can not move backwards or white-knuckle the present and not pay a price in exhaustion and confusion. Cotton up to conscious comrades.

Run bubble baths for one another.

Chemistry, Part II

2011-08-16T08:50:00.000-07:00

I think Chemistry.com is tired of me. I keep pushing the "not really" button when they send me new contacts and I don't give a reason because my reason is never on their drop down list. I don't see options like "the space between his front teeth is too wide," or "he says he's 59 but he looks like an old fart." The end result is that I'm not getting my promised five new prospects a day. They dribble in one or two at a time. Okay. So I'm a finicky bitch. Did they add that in some invisible ink on my profile?

I checked in this morning and saw that "Robert noticed me!" No photo. How can they call themselves chemistry.com and not allow photos? Robert was a "builder" (one of their profiling titles) who barely wrote English. I'm an "explorer" who writes. "NOT REALLY." Another wrote and said to contact him if I get bored. I don't get bored. I get curious.

This morning I used two hands to squeeze the last of the toothpaste out of the tube as my long brown hair fell into my face. My espresso moka pot bubbled away on the stove as the sun broke over the Purcell Mountains and I opened my trailer door to let Teak outside. I like my own company. I don't get lonely but I do have longings. I've been told my body tastes real sweet. Olfactory has everything to do with how I respond to a man. And their smile. And their eyes. And the way they walk. And the cadence to their voice. And here I sit, staring at a computer screen looking at the size of their hands through blurry photos.

I'm in the midst of a mysterious transition. When I close my eyes I see a cabin by water and aspen trees in full autumn color. A partner to love and rowdy around. I know my next book is called Naked Outside and I'm about ready to start writing because it's waking me up in the middle of the night with ideas. I won't go beyond my one month experiment with the online dating world. I opened a window and someone may yet come crawling through. A pilot in Boise popped up on the screen yesterday, the same day that I changed my mail/male forward to Boise in preparation for my southern migration. Perhaps we'll get together. Meet for a walk along the river or an iced coffee at a sidewalk cafe. But Boise ain't Paris.

Meanwhile, I'm having fun with emails from "Wood tick-Butch," a Montana Kerouac who keeps me laughing from a distance. Perfect, for now.

2011-08-06T14:29:00.000-07:00

I was in the final throes of an article entitled, "Unlucky in Love," making a reference to one of my favorite researchers, Helen Fisher, a biological anthropologist. She has the most grounded things to say about why humans have such a hard time being monogamous, and I wanted to catch up on her latest work. In one of the articles was a link to chemistry.com so I went there. It was a personality test, sponsored by her. Pretty cool, I thought. I filled out the cover information and proceeded with the questionnaire, excited to see what insights I could glean. Turns out I was pegged as an, "Explorer/Negotiator." Made sense, my wanderlust crossed with my Libra "the balance Queen" sun. The personalized description hit just about right! ~~

You are a highly spontaneous person who always likes to try new things. Novel and unpredictable situations don't bother you; instead you find them challenging and exciting.

You tend to be focused and resourceful and you are able to juggle a lot of projects at the same time; as a result you are sometimes a whirlwind of activity.

You have a firm grip on reality and enjoy living in the present tense. But you have a keen imagination that enables you to lift off from time and space to be remarkably creative.

You are humorous. You are able to laugh at yourself, and you like entertaining others.

You have a deep sense of compassion. You can show genuine insight into the needs of others; you are good at listening and talking; and you express a genuine desire to be helpful.

Your tolerance for others and their beliefs, your lack of prejudice, your ability to compromise and your occasional antics make you popular with others and a great companion.

So far so good. Then suddenly a screen appeared that said, "Christina, Michael has noticed you! John wants to connect with you! Christina, Meet Shane and see if there is real chemistry!" Yep, I was in the middle of chemistry.com matching service. An online date market sponsored by my heroine.

Remember my write-up about August 2nd? Well, that's the day this happened. As my awning blew over the top of La Perla and I received a book rejection from my favorite agent in NYC this came slapping through the ether.

"You have five people waiting for you!"
"Daniel is also interested in you!"

Didn't I just swear off men, at least for a week?
It was Dan's persistent attention, after all, that had just hooked my ego.

But this was Helen Fisher. I was curious. I signed up for a month, the shortest option of time.

Four days in, I gotta say it's fascinating. I'm watching. Studying. But I'm not going for it. It's Merc in retrograde. The perfect time to slow down, take a step back and study my SELF as communications run amok. This retrograde period has been described as the "Mercury-trickster with a bag full of mushrooms." It's a good time to untie knots.

I'm going to hit up more agents and more publishers for my book. On Tuesday I'm meeting two friends who are driving to Kaslo: one I met last winter in Kino Bay, Mexico (now in Ketchum, ID), the other I met last week at the Kaslo Jazz Festival. She's from Bonner's Ferry and it turns out the two are good friends! How did THAT happen?

So far the most I can say about chemistry.com is what's with all the facial hair? And, men's ability to judge their body type (most say, "normal") is about as accurate as their proverbial measurement of inches.

Up Here in Wild Cuntry

2011-07-31T10:43:00.000-07:00

It's new moon. I awoke to a shaft of sunlight of biblical proportions screaming down the crotch of the Purcell Mountains. I brewed up my first cup of java in my moka pot, added a splash of Half n Half and gazed east, over glassy Kootenay Lake; enveloped in a world reborn.

Cosmologically, it's an edgy time. I'm not an expert in astrology, but I take notice. We're coming off the upending power of three summer eclipses and August 2nd is the heart of a 36-hour void moon, the same day that Mercury joins five additional planets in retrograde. Mercury, which governs communications and turns plans into snafus, is its own full plate. A 36-hr void moon is an unnerving window. VMs are commonly known as the Murphy's Law of Astrology: if anything can go wrong it will. In the past few weeks, one friend cut his finger tip off with a Skilsaw when he got up late in the day to do "just one more cut." I said, "Hey, let's just sit and watch the sunset!" Had I realized it was a VM I would have screamed, "No!" This week another friend on his bike had a head-on collision with a truck. Void moons, and their strange energetic vibration, now have my attention; particularly this upcoming one, with no planetary safety nets.

A few moments ago I walked to the stream that rushes down the mountainside next to La Perla and snuggled my large quartz crystal under a moss-lined waterfall. I call upon her vibrational powers to open and clear chakras. Particularly the heart, the throat, the third eye. I plan to be graceful with myself on Tuesday; positioned so that energies can brush up against me and waft with the softness of Tai Chi. I'll use this time to ponder. It is somewhat of a miracle that I am in Kaslo, BC this summer. I wonder why? What's in store, as the influences of a chaotic planet permeate flesh and spirit. As many are brought to gigantic posturing in a last ditch expressions of ego, others dig into the earth, bastion of instinct and common sense. Of primal wisdom.

It's no surprise that women around the world are organizing "slutwalks," reclaiming a word that has subliminally deterred and defaced women for centuries. Cunt is another. A derivative of the Oriental Goddess Cunti, the Yoni of the Universe, it signified the Goddess' genital opening through which life emerged. In ancient writings the word for "cunt" was synonymous with "woman." It was a holy place.* At last night's Kaslo Jazz Fest singer Toby Beard belted out a salty, erotic song that began with, "It smells like sex in here..." Then Toby told the story of a group of 70-plus old women approaching her after she'd sung that song. She thought they were going to reproach her. Instead they wanted to talk about orgasms.

Here I sit, in pulsating wild cuntry. Bring on that void moon. Let's see what revelations drop in. I might just stay in my jammies on Tuesday. Or nothing at all. Jousting with the naked truth.

*Thank you Barbara Walker and your Women's Encyclopedia of Myths and Secrets, one of the most important books ever written.

Miracle in Canuck-land

2011-07-26T17:21:00.000-07:00

It was a ratchety croak that came from -- from where? A friend and I had pulled over to the side of the highway and stopped to look at an old cemetery. We scanned the grasses and the ditch before us. A bird? A frog? Or perhaps the imagination -- because it stopped as quickly as it began.

We climbed back into the pick-up and continued down the road. Now up to about 30 miles total, we turned off the highway to follow a garage sale sign. We slowed to a stop and the sound came again, as curiosity turned to concern. Were the bearings going out on the truck? I bent to glance underneath but didn't see anything obvious. We went into the garage sale where I purchased a beautiful rag rug. I was carrying it to the truck when the sound pierced the air. Definitely NOT the truck, since it was parked. I edged underneath on my back, further and further, until I spied a terrified little kitten on the frame. I yelled to my friend for help; the garage sale folks came running too. I reached for the fur ball but he launched like a rocket and headed into the thick forest. "Probably won't see him again," said the owners. There are bear, fox, skunks around here ... you name it." So I looked even harder. I spotted the little guy twenty yards away in a ditch drinking furiously from a stream. It was hot where he'd been riding, and how long was he under there? I approached but he bolted, jumped into the ditch stream and swam away. A little survivor.

I left my name and phone number with the garage sale hosts in case he showed up. I didn't want him to die in the forest, especially after he'd gone to the trouble to attach himself to the truck and hitch a ride. I woke up around midnight and decided I was going to drive back the next morning and look for him. At 8:00 a.m. the phone rang. He'd shown up outside the garage saler's window ... coincidentally, around midnight.

What WAS I doing? I lived in my travel trailer and was NOT looking for a cat, but this little fella's mystery got my attention. To hop on the truck and ride at full speed down the highway? To somehow make his way to me? He was about seven weeks old and in sorry shape. His eyes were real weepy and he had a sneeze; his sinus' were congested. From up the road in Kaslo, Carole consulted and prescribed some homeopathics as the symptoms slowly dissipated. His orange marbled coat turned from scruffy to gorgeous. He had a precious kitty spirit: he perched like a parrot on my shoulder. Teak was indifferent and kitty was fearless towards the dog. He took to the litter box in a snap. When I packed to move from Creston to Kaslo my friend offered to take him to the animal shelter. I was sure about that option -- kitty was going with me.

The appearance of two little lumps recently confirmed that he was a he. Named the little guy who hitched a ride HOBO. Everyone who meets him loves him. He's a savvy little stinker. Carole says she'd love to take him, but he would make a good RV cat. Of course, I'd have to sneak him across the border. I have time to think about it. My replacement driver's license has yet to arrive in the mail from my purse being stolen. I won't be driving into the US until it does. Meanwhile, Lil Hobo bores deeper and deeper into my heart.

Rain of Love

2011-07-21T08:35:00.000-07:00

I'm cleaning up the rose petals from three pink posies that Carole brought me from her garden. For several days they filled La Perla with fragrance and color that lifted my oft-sagging spirit. Then the petals began to fall. Onto the table. Into a small Mexican dish. Their velvet softness scattered across the floor. This morning I gathered and tossed them outside the door. I wasn't prepared for the instantaneous response; how the sight of floating petals propelled me to the countryside of Denmark.

Several years ago my cousin Ole from Odense and I were traveling across Jutland in an effort to find some sign of my namesake, Grandma Christina, in old church records. We slowed the car as we entered a picturesque village, the only car on the road in a country that relies mainly on bikes and trains. Three little girls pushed dolls and teddy bears in carriages. They looked up and smiled wide as we slowly drew closer. In a sudden synchronous act, they reached into the buggies, pulled out handfuls of color and tossed rose petals in our path.

It was, simply, one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life, as their faces of glee met our shouts of surprise and laughter.

It was near summer solstice and flowers were thick in yards; small, homemade vegetable stands showed off gardens' first bounties. All across Denmark was the same: take what you want and slip money into the can on the counter. We stopped for gas at the far edge of town. Ole went inside to pay as I stood outside the car and watched teenaged girls canter ponies across fields of emerald green. I did not want to budge.

I would discover a few days later, in the archives of Copenhagen, that my Grandma was born near there. That rose petal welcome was a genuine coming home. My personal ticker-tape parade.

Dig, Squat, Wash

2011-07-19T21:56:00.000-07:00

The pounding hail and sheets of rain finally stopped. A neon band of rainbow appeared over the lake, contrasted by the charcoal sky. The end curved and dropped directly in front of La Perla's door. But as it is with rainbows, you must view the richness from a place called 'away.' If you're in it, you can't see.

I am far afield; seeing rainbows but not touching them. I know they are there, on the cusp of some altered reality. They come and go. As signs and omens come and go. Like when I dropped the moka espresso pot that Dahn and I shared and the plastic handle went flying off. I knew then, we were over. Weeks of trying to forge a relationship culminated in our inability to "get a handle on it." Misplaced loyalties and bad judgements won over our intent to bring out the best in one another.

A good friend reminded me that to answer an invitation to travel to to British Colombia from someone I barely knew came too fast. But I answered Dahn's suggestion for me to retreat. Come and sit for the summer, he said, you could use a rest. And there were 135 emails and countless phone calls from him that spanned three months that proclaimed a magical, eternal love. As I thought about her comment, I realized that my relationships have happened relatively fast. Some lasted a few weeks, but most lasted years; the best and the worst, for many. If waiting has to do with knowing someone I am quick to remind myself that the person I spent the most time with, in the end, turned out to be the one I knew least. If waiting has to do with spying incompatible habits, wrong again. Intuitions ferret those out pretty quickly; much more effectively than time. As in this case, waiting was not going to divulge the man who admitted he was a different person when he returned to his hometown milieu.

Some environs respond to the soul, others don't. Creston didn't fit for me. The vibration never matched, but it was only for the summer, right? I thought Dahn and I would be just fine if we took to the mountains to hike, got onto the lake or rode bikes. But in three short weeks we were deluged by dramas as Dahn cut off his finger tip, his best friend took it upon himself to charge at us like a rampaging bull and evict us from his land, and my purse, with cash, jewelry, cell phone and bank cards, was stolen.

You sit there reading and think: "And she had to wait for the coffee pot to drop?"

You'd be right, if energies hadn't appeared to take a turn. A kitten riding on the frame of the pick-up for miles brought us care and laughs. We shared family gatherings ~~ I dearly loved Anna, Dahn's mom; we made it onto Kootenay Lake in the boat for one glorious day. But it turned out that energies were like the goosenecks in the Kootenay River, swinging around and onto themselves. Dahn and I had different sensibilities. We dealt with stress in different ways that ran counter to the hope of any partnership. The same day Dahn bought a pre-owned truck camper for future excursions we imploded; I packed and skedaddled, saturated with all the trauma I could take.

I arrived Kaslo and my best friend Carole's and parked the trailer whereupon the breakaway cable and box started on fire. The metaphor wasn't lost on me. The amazing coda was a Facebook friend who saw my post and contacted me. He had me get under the trailer, snap pictures of the damage and send them to him. He was concerned about the electrical fire starting again. Once he studied the pictures he talked me through diagnosing, cutting and wrapping cables. Thanks largely to him, the energy has turned. I am hiking, writing and photographing again. A kitty named Hobo sits on my lap and purrs me to wellness, as my nerves and muscles relax beyond shaking spasms and dissolve into calm. Another friend stopped in Port Hill, Idaho, the border stop six miles south of Creston, and picked up my mail. It saved me a day's trip down and back and delivered my new bank card. I now have access to my money again. I still wait for my new driver's license.

I know the rainbows are at my front door. I have only to inhale the color and remember who I am. I'm not going to fault myself for giving love a try. We did the best we could in the midst of circumstances that seemed straight from hell.

Right here, right now, the most important thing I can do is to squat and rinse the new red potatoes just dug from the garden.

Calypso

2011-06-03T11:30:00.000-07:00

I look in the rear view mirror, through time. A ribbon of asphalt extends from the mist and clouds of British Colombia south to Kino Bay, Mexico. The Bahia by the sea ... my recent winter home at the edge of the ocean where I finished my book. A large Ziploc of jingle shells jiggles n giggles from the cupboard next to the bed. Only now do I begin to feel the top of my foot, overcoming the nerve-deadening toxins of the sting ray cut. The foot still swells daily. Five days before I departed Kino friend-Wendy asked if I wanted to accompany her to a party. Sure, I said. Shall I bring someone? You can, she answered, but I wouldn't if I were you. Thus, I met Dan that night, the host of the party. It was one of those looks across the room that changes the course of life. We talked; he asked to come see me the next day and did. He asked to come see me the next week in Bisbee, and did.

From Kino to Arizona and Bisbee/Naco: I miss my little corner of birds where I parked on Emilie and Paul's land. I learned how easy it is to create a sanctuary, and wonder if climate change doesn't make the winged ones more desperate for whatever assistance they can garner in a desert in its 13th year of drought. Emilie just posted a blog (emilievardaman.wordpress.com) on the fire in the near-by Chiracahua Mountains, one of the most bird-rich regions in the country and host to Mexico's Elegant Trogan and myriad hummers. It was a good five weeks on the border. Daughter Hope showed up for Mother's Day and we hit the Sonoita Rodeo, had fun at the Sonoita bar and streamed across wide open Arizona spaces. And, Dan showed up for four days of getting to know ya. Ya.

From Arizona to the Four Corners of SW Colorado and a week with sister-friend Babette. What a gift to weave tales, laughs and cigar smoke. I closed out bank accounts, visited my chiro and finished mundane business. And I discovered that the Ex-named-Tom was intent on stealing my Bengal cat, Pooka. We had decided to leave her with him a year prior. Now that both our lives had shifted, it was time to reconnect and decide her fate. I wanted her back if possible, but I was also open to leaving her behind if that's what was best for Pooka. But EX didn't answer emails or phone calls. Class act. I coulda pushed. I talked to my lawyer. I knew where he lived in the ancient land of pottery shards. I decided, instead, to let it go. There would be no pussy custody fight. His Karma. Theft: it's a metaphor. The universe does work in mysterious ways and I have this sense that she'll make her way back to me.

I picked up Dan at the Durango airport and we began to travel north to Idaho where I planned to visit friends, check out relocating and be closer to Dan's home across the border in Creston, British Colombia. Position myself, if you will, to check out our friendship. We soon found ourselves in the sandstone canyons of Moab; we stopped in Willard Bay, north of Salt Lake City to bird, where we met the sweetest guy from New Orleans: he'd stopped driving a truck after 30-some years, bought a Harley and with his wife's blessing, took off on his solo dream of driving across the United States. I relished his thick Cajun accent and lanky, bearded body adorned with the red bandana and black leathers.We had a glorious time with friend Phyllis in Twin Falls ~~ took in Shoshone Falls and our fav Mystic hot springs. Onto Boise to see Johanna who was in recovery from a raucous graduation party the night before. Didn't stop us from hitting several thrift stores, however. By this time the travel plan was morphing. I'd figured on a stop in Sandpoint and set up my life, 90-minutes south of Creston. Now I found myself accepting Dan's invite to stay on a gorgeous piece of land outside of Creston overlooking the Kootenay River and ringed by mountains. "Whad'ya think he was gonna do, Christina, drop you off in Sandpoint and say, 'See ya later?'" chimed girlfriend Carole. "Whad'ya think I was gonna do," said Dan, "Drop you off in Sandpoint and say, 'See ya later?'" I laughed. "OH CAN A DA" echoed through my ears. Catchy tune I still remembered from my landed immigrant days during the Viet Nam war.

I have been in Creston almost a week. It is a gorgeous little town, lush green with trees, lawns, orchards, vineyards and flowers galore. Five minutes and I'm in tall pine and cedar trees walking up mountainsides. It is a primo bird migratory area at the southern tip of 100-mile long Kootenay Lake. How do you spell 'heaven?' Yesterday Dan and I hiked up to waterfalls where I was reminded of prior trips to BC and the realization that Canuck trail makers don't favor switchbacks. Trails here go straight up, and I wasn't acclimated to gaining altitude in high humidity. The wildflower show, however, was the perfect excuse to catch my breath. Larkspur, paintbrush, lupine, wild violets, shooting stars and waist-high skunk cabbage carpeted mountain and creek sides.

On the toe-crunching trip down the mountain I spotted a Fairy Slipper Orchid at the side of the trail. A shocking sight, for she usually prefers secluded haunts. This flower spirit is also called Calypso, so named for the sea nymph of Homer's Odyssey, who detained the willing Odysseus on his return from Troy. I can relate. The endangered flower's stunning beauty stopped me in my tracks and had me on my belly with my camera. Part of me is still there with her, laying on the mossy ground.

The other part of me continued into town with Dan, where we treated ourselves to dark chocolate and blueberry gelato. When he attempted to withdraw $20 from the ATM it spewed out $80 into the air. As one who reads signs and omens I venture to say I'm right where I need to be. My Mexico tan fades with every passing day, I must drive across the border to my Idaho mailbox and I've switched my Verizon phone plan from US to North American. My southwest friends write of wind, dust and wildfire as I am covered in gray puffs of cloud and frequent rain.

I never stopped saying EH from those earlier Canada days.

Sixty, Sexy, Sacred

2011-04-30T08:11:00.000-07:00

I sit under heaven at dawn. The sky is indigo blue. All that remains of a vast carpet of nocturnal dazzle is Venus and the waning crescent moon. Nighthawk's raspy call serrates the air amidst an avian opera of cactus wrens mockingbirds curve-billed thrashers Inca white-winged rock collared turtle doves. Oh, and the screechy peacocks down the street. I enjoy a fire before the wind kicks up - which will be around 10:00 if I'm lucky and it waits that long - when the sky will fill with dust and smoke and an Armageddon touch.

We create our own sublime.

I am only too aware of the fragile tether that binds me to this earth as the personal soul seeks convergence with the planetary soul. This is an excruciatingly intense time. The prophecies of 2012 speak of a grand energetic transition under a cosmic conjunction of planetary line-ups and Milky Way events. I prefer to think of it as soul integration. With evolutionary transitions come chaos. A culling is underway. The past few months have exploded in revolutionary fervor on behalf of human freedom; we have witnessed mass destruction and weather events that the darkest of imaginations could not have dreamed up. Tsunamis, earthquakes, nuclear meltdowns, super tornadoes, floods, blizzards. The earth shakes and quakes. Yet, the hare saunters down the stony railroad bed. The roadrunner comes to the bowl of water I have placed for the birds; part of the little outdoor sanctuary I have created in my tiny corner of the world.

It is important that we clear our lives of dead zones. Rid our lives of those things (and people) of low vibration. Pare away stale energy and build a core of fresh. I start with my body, because it's the one thing that I have control over. Taking care of her prepares me for the spiritual tasks at hand; and so I give priority to healthy foods that maximize the body's energy, exercise, laughter, a sexual sacred existence. A bond with the planet that embodies life and death in the same breath.

For the goal is not personal longevity, is it? The goal is to live a good death. I have only to glance the morning sky to get it. The sliver moon disappears ever so slowly, peacefully giving way to sun's grand entry. It is the art of holy surrender. Like Venus, I slowly, eventually dissolve into nothingness. I will die and become invisible to the earth-bound eye. Until then, I will ignite the flame within and work like there's no tomorrow on behalf of this planet and the beings who call her home.

________________________

My latest offering:

Sixty, Sexy, Sacred

Flourishing forties, feisty fifties? You don’t have to be sixty to be a part of this extraordinary day for women. All you have to be is curious, willing to identify the dead zones in your life & explore the realms of your personal spiritual vibrator. Join me for a day of physical and spiritual fitness and teachings as we integrate body and spirit to access a vigor-inspired power of oneness. We will raise vibrational levels through the drum and crystal tuning; talk diet wisdom. We will speak of the soul, intent on her karmic completion before she departs our physical body.

We stand at the spiritual confluence of personal soul and the soul of the planet. It is time to unearth the s/healer within. This, our special time together, to practice the art of obedience, from the Latin word oboedire, meaning ‘to listen, to hear’ and by implication, acting on what is heard.

Bisbee, Arizona, May 14th

Peace be with you,

Christina

2011-04-20T13:44:00.000-07:00

Vermilion Flycatcher

The desert has swallowed me whole. I am in the belly of blooms and birds, awash in chirps and the calls of spring. A few days ago I ventured to the San Pedro River riparian area, a vital western migratory route, and happened into a flycatcher exodus. Hammond's, Duskies and Grays dripped from large-canopied cottonwood trees and riverside willows. A newly-arrived Gray Hawk split the air with calls of mate near his established nest. A family of five javelina haughtily trotted across the tawny grass plain to a near-by watering hole.

Grasslands to Bosque

Migration hasn't been confined to the winged ones. I hadn't realized how many of the people I'd met last winter in Kino Bay, Mexico, lived in Southern Arizona; probably because I met them in snatches. It turns out Marcela lives outside of Nogales. She works on a 30,000 acre ranch with an adobe hacienda that is chock full of stunning 18th and 19th century antiques from around the world; George and Wendy are tucked away by their pool and gorgeous screen house near Hereford; Ken and Russ enjoy killer mountain views north of Douglas. We meet and greet again north of the border; play and share. New Kino-friend Dan even detoured from Yuma to spend four days on the Chihuahua desert before continuing home to Creston, BC. We spent one day washing the Bahia salt water off LaPerla; cleaning her to make way, it turned out, for desert dust. Hey, wash my rig and I'll follow you anywhere! A summer excursion to British Columbia is in the cards to visit Dan and friends Carole and Chris, up the road in Kaslo. I'm putting the finishing touches on my 'low gas price' boogie.

A third migration is the Mexican one. I have parked in Naco with Em and Paul for seven years, two blocks from the infamous border wall. This year I notice fewer helicopters in the air and more horses and Border Patrol feet on the ground. Teak frequently barks in the night, alerting me to wall climbers who have dropped to the dirt and made it two blocks deeper into the US. I hear the short burst of sirens 24/7, about once an hour, signaling someone has been spotted. Meanwhile, the 4-gallon water jug outside of La Perla needs a regular refill. The biggest change on the border, however, is travel into Mexico. The Mexican side is fervently checking vehicles for guns, resulting in huge delays. Em and I walk across to get our fresh tortillas and groceries. Easier, faster and no hassle from either border side. We've crossed this border on foot since the first time we met, over thirty years ago. We've gone in search of creamy Mexican ice cream, fresh fruit bars, pure vanilla, or more recently, to get a bug pulled out of Em's ear (2 Dr. visits: $26!). I will make an appointment with a Mexican dentist before I depart next month and save a few hundred dollars.

San Pedro Riparian Area

This part of the world tantalizes and teases the senses. Cool, crystal crisp mornings give way to piercingly hot afternoons. Ocotillos cover dry, craggy mountainsides, their neon orange flowers exploding from the tips of dead-like, spindly arched sticks. Sonoita grasslands beckon visions of bison while the Huachuca mountain canyons shelter myriad songbirds, hummers and the rare ocelot. Perhaps the most poignant metaphor, however, is the diminutive, wildlife-rich San Pedro. It flows north from the Sierra Madre in Mexico, a mind-bending route that eventually joins the Gila River near Wickenburg and meets up with the Colorado near Yuma.

The smell of smoke fills the air today; a dry hot wind whips the contours of the earth. It is wise to be on edge. I re-work drafts of a workshop I plan to offer in Historic Bisbee and make mental notes for a freelance essay for "High Country News." I will hold off on my migratory schedule until Mercury passes out of retrograde on Saturday and the cosmic Mercury-murkiness clears. It's still snowing sporadically in Colorado and points north. I'll stay put and hang with the birds, who hang where there's water and the green buds of new life. I'll follow their lead of rest and replenish before continuing north. I'll make it a point to follow the signs --

2011-04-07T08:33:00.000-07:00

I wasn't quite done with Kino. Or perhaps Kino wasn't quite done with me.

I stayed one more day. Yes. After a fire, whereupon I'd invited my many new friends to say goodbye and treated them to a reading of the introduction to my new book; I awoke the next morn, rolled over and looked at the mystery I'd been reading. I wasn't leaving. I had to finish it in Kino; end of the discussion with the voice in my head.

I light-footed it down the beach, happy for my reprieve. First stop, the nest of osprey I'd viewed every day. Two little heads popped up in the midst of the parent's daily tending. I had hoped they would fledge while I was there, under my excited eye. That didn't happen, but at least I was granted one more look as both parents watched and I sent them my goodbye across the ethers. I made my way another mile to the row of palapas where I had done morning stretches for three months. My eyes strayed to a row of condos on the beach, home of my buddy, Mike, who made it a habit to sit on his deck, ply me with ice water, fresh fruit and the occasional granola bar. We'd spent many hours staring out to sea as we shared our laments for the state of the world. We often jumped into his car for a birding beach romp and a chance for him to drop his line and hook a fish.

This morning I met him and his fluffy old dog on the beach. He was surprised to see me since I was supposed to be tooling up the road towards Nogales. "I'm staying," I declared, "I've decided to look for a house in Kino." His jaw dropped. "April Fools!" It was March 31st, but I wasn't going to be there to catch him the next day. We went out to dinner that night with friends; a questionable (in my mind - I had my heart set on the potato place next door) little dirt-floored place. We were sitting chewing away on overdone carne asada (that's redundant) when he grabbed my hand from across the table and whispered, "I can't breathe!" I kept hold of that hand and sprang to my feet as my CPR class flashed across my brain. Heimlich, yes. But before that, the hard palm slap between the shoulder blades. "Here it comes," I said, hoping I wouldn't topple him into the bushes. He bent over, threw up, coughed and stood up. Windpipe was cleared. It happened so fast. We were back at the table and the color returned to his face as I wrapped the rest of my shoe leather in a napkin for Teak. We shared a shot of Damiana back at La Perla, a hug and a kiss. "Keep smiling, Christina," he said, "something tells me I'll see you again." Right. I figure the man who called me a hopeless romantic owes me big time.

I awoke to the deep thump, thump of pangas on the waves. All breakables stowed and ready to depart, Teak and I walked to the old stone pier where I had tenderly watched countless, gentle lovers embrace at sunset. It was my turn to walk the wet rock. I made my way to the end as high tide surged and splashed; jostled shells enveloped me in jingles akin to an Australian water stick. The new sun glanced the water and all of a sudden jumping sardines glimmered like so many silver fairy wands. Pelicans dove head first a few feet away as gulls and terns cried joy at the prospect of their breakfast.

I turned away from the sea with ecstatic sadness. I wondered how my body would do without the pulse of the tide through my bloodstream. Goodbye willets, herons and those eye-bending roseate spoonbills. Hello yellow-lined asphalt, toll booths and military checkpoints with shy smiling teenage soldiers toting machine guns.

Silly me...I thought I could finish the mystery in Kino.

Kino Farewell

2011-03-29T13:33:00.000-07:00

I awoke in a panic this morning thinking I had to start packing. It wasn't true. Today is Tuesday and I leave Thursday morning. I have two more days to walk this glorious shore to the beat of the surf; the cries of terns and sea gulls. Once calmed down I wrote a bit, climbed out of bed and proceeded to toss my carefully-crafted Greek meatballs into the dishwater. I'd forgotten they were in a pan that was underneath another pan and well, you get the picture. Meatballs floating in the suds.

The idea of leaving has me in a tizzy. I'm ready to go on some levels. My shampoo is almost gone and I'm down to the final few squeezes of my Colgate. But the thought of leaving new friends, Brant's geese, jingle shells and loons weighs heavily on the soul. My heart has been stolen by this quirky old village on Bahia de Kino. It is at once vibrant and edgy. Charming and ugly. Trash washes up on the beach and a small squadron of four men with garbage bags make their way down shore to pick up cans, paper and plastic. Pelicans wash onshore and within hours the turkey vultures have picked bones clean; the leftover feathers and bones carried back to sea by the changing tide.

My foot is still swollen from the sting ray cut two weeks ago. I'm told it may be weeks...that ray cuts are deep and the toxins are extremely potent. Some folks have nerve damage for years. I was lucky...that tail hammered me on top of my foot so I could still function close to normal. The Red Cross doctor was a miracle worker. He deadened the cut and spent a half hour cleaning, extracting toxins and shooting it with antibiotic. The cost was whatever I wanted to contribute in a little metal box that was affixed to the wall. The doctor had gotten his medical school for free with the understanding that he would serve a community for five years and live on a pauper's salary.

It is safe down here. There is some petty crime, yes, but nothing comes close to bodily harm. The people are terribly strapped because the North Americans are staying home. My friend Connie's computer was stolen from her casita. She drove 30 miles to file a police report. The police came and dusted for prints and we thought that would be the end of it. But yesterday, 4 weeks later, the detectives came back with her computer. The man who had it is in jail until he coughs up who sold it to him.

I came to Bahia de Kino to finish a book, MotorHome Zen, which I did. I even sold a bunch of Living on the Spine. I'll leave minus a good paring knife and skillet (taken out of my dish drainer by someone who reached inside my kitchen window in the middle of the night) and a pair of sandy Saucony running shoes I left outside my door. Couldn't have worn them anyhow, with that ray cut on the top of my foot.

I will sorely miss this place of come and go. Every few hours the beach is new with a zillion shells, shapely dunes and exposed rock. Kids make sculptures, young women show up in wedding dresses and inflatable banana boats skim the shore with rollicking children. It will take more than a drug lord to rip the fabric of joy that permeates these lands. The people here are used to upheaval. They celebrate their revolutionaries, like Benito Juarez and Pancho Villa.

The pangas leave with dawn, their fishermen facing into the salt-laden breeze. I have watched the daily bouncing of boats and bodies on wind-ravaged seas, engines that would not start, trailers that got stuck in the sand up to their frames. No matter the problem, I have not heard one fisherman yell or loose his temper with his comrades. There's no blame; no anger. They merely work it and methodically do what they can with what little they have. I want to remember this. I dream of having bumper stickers made that say, "Think like a Mexican."

Sailor Du Jour

2011-03-22T09:16:00.000-07:00

I turned off my lights last night, ready to crawl into bed but not before I glanced out my window. I was checking the ocean about a half-mile up shore, looking for the light in watery darkness that marked a sign of life. A catamaran had sailed into the bay and anchored the day before spring. I'd been walking up the playa on my morning jaunt. The full moon was quickly disappearing into daylight as a man in cut-off sweat pants beached a little white dingy. Beautiful boat, I said, pointing to the mother ship. Thanks, he answered. His bushy blond eyebrows arched high over small brown eyes. He was sweet, almost shy. And strong. He asked where he might find a haircut, groceries and a hardware store. I directed him down the beach and told him if he had any problems to stop by my trailer, about halfway to the pier. He came ambling down the beach later that day in jeans and sneakers. Took off his straw hat and smiled, I found a haircut! We stood at the seawall and talked for a bit. Found out his name was Stacy. He asked about where to find internet and I said he was welcome to come back and use mine the next day.

It was the weekend of revolutionary Benito Juarez's birthday. A three day mob scene on the beach of Bahia de Kino. The playa filled with families and college students. All good. All fun. And danged if Stacy didn't make his way up the beach the next morn. This time he dragged that dingy up in front of my trailer. He didn't want espresso and cream. He drank Nescafe, he said. I suppose he didn't want to get used to the good stuff. He had sailed up from San Carlos and was on a practice run before he headed down to Panama. He was a one-man show. He not only captained the boat solo, but he'd never been married at age 58. Neither had two of his siblings out of a total of five. He called himself Stephen (Esteban) in Mexico, where the locals didn't get 'Stacy' as a man's name. I mentioned I was heading to the grocery store to get a few things and yes, he said, he'd love to ride along. Good thing, because shelves were empty due to holiday crowds. We drove around until we found a store that didn't look like it'd been hit by a hurricane preparedness frenzy.

Stacy insisted on taking me out to dinner for my generosity. He headed back to his boat at sundown, rowing into the setting sun, gulls and pelicans fore and aft. He came back the next day, Skyped his mother and walked into town with his Trader Joe's shopping bag. When he returned I offered to take him out to the estuary a few miles out of town. One of my favorite places for seabirds. We grabbed a bucket, stopped downtown and filled it with cold beer. I shoveled in the crushed ice, compliments of the beer store, as he held the bottles upright. Then we went looking for a bottle opener. Found one in a stall selling junk on the corner that looked like something from a 50's carnival. A ceramic onion with an opener on top.It was either that or a replica of a Corona beer bottle. The onion thing was hilarious.

The tide was high; the beach was peppered with families, fishermen and kite fliers. We walked along shore, laughing, talking, sharing stories of our travels throughout the world - my perspective from the interior of countries; his from bays and docks. Guatemala. Tanzania and Kenya. Nicaragua. He treated me to dinner again, this time at the estuary...old picnic tables covered in oil cloth. We shared fish and large shrimp split down the middle, 'cooked' in lime juice that was one of the best dishes I've had.

Stacy rowed back at sundown again, into a strong westerly wind. He'd mentioned something about another restless night on board. I didn't know if he was hinting for an invitation to stay. I just know I was content to close the door on a wondrous day and crawl into bed alone. I watched his slow-going trip, marveling at his strength and perseverance and was relieved to finally see that light come on.

This morning's sunlight fell upon his boat, a splendid scene on calm waters. I hung out my laundry and came back to pour a second up of coffee as I glanced out the window. His boat was gone. I grabbed my binoculars and made my way outside to see him rounding Alcatraz Island, heading south towards San Carlos. It feels like a dream. A friend here and gone. A man floating in and out of my life. But I know it was real. I have that kitschy onion opener to prove it. And a deep drag line in the sand in front of the trailer that leads straight into the ocean.

Beach Walk thru Millineums

2011-03-06T14:36:00.000-08:00

I'd barely made it to the gate when a reddish brown sea shell came spiraling out of the palm tree from above. I looked up to see a grackle. Grackle! Dropping shells from on high was the domain of the gulls. I'd almost been hit several times on the beach as gulls winged straight up into the sky and dropped their mollusk to the ground. It took 2 or 3 tries but they eventually split the shell and made their way to the meat. But a grackle? I inspected the shell and sure enough there was a critter inside.

I continued down the long stretch of sand. My friend Joe's shocking discovery was on my mind. Two days before, on the new moon (high, strong tides) he'd found a Seri Indian axe head, beautifully chipped. It was partially submerged in the sand at shoreline; the hewn sharp edge had caught his eye. Come to find out, many Seri treasures wash to shore, including their dolls. It makes sense. These lands and waters were their domain. Their Isla Tiburon (Shark Island), traditional Seri lands for millennia, is within site of my trailer. But this canyonland's woman hadn't made the connection. Ruins were in cliff side hideaways or on top of dusty, isolated plateaus; in sandy ravines and washes after rain. "Just look for the rocks," Joe said. Do you know how many rocks are on a beach when you really look? Furthermore, how could I find jingle shells if I was looking for rocks? One was heavy, rough and stony; the other translucent and angelic. My eye/brain connection was totally confused. Best to look to the sea.

And I did. Swimming in the distance was a small pod of dolphins. They dipped, dove and rose to the surface in wet arches of grace. They moved down the coast with me for awhile. I took a seat on the sand and watched for magical minutes as they circled and fed in one place just 20 yards away. I could have waded out and touched them. Then, in a fit of sudden leaps, they were on their way.

"Did you see the dolphins?" asked the sweet old woman in broken English. I'd seen her hunched figure from a distance. She wore a sack dress like my Danish Aunts used to wear. It was probably handmade, too, like theirs. "This bay used to be filled with them," she said with sadness. I don't doubt her words for a moment. Yesterday I'd seen two giant sea lions skimming the shoreline; and the same day Joe found that axe head I rescued a little octopus that had washed ashore clinging to a scallop shell. I've seen a pilot whales several times and one pod of over forty dolphins. It sounds like a lot but I've been here since Christmas and extensively covered beaches north and south of Kino. This bay should bubble with dolphin.

I had walked a ways further when a rock caught my eye. It had a significant worn groove down the middle. No way! A grinding or sharpening stone? I picked it up and carried it back. I'll show it to Joe. Either way, Seri tool or no, I'll return it to the ocean. It belongs there, with the dolphins, whales and octopi.

Dog Gone, Stolen Heart

2011-02-21T11:18:00.000-08:00

I'd just come back from my morning beach walk, a three mile jaunt up the beach topped off with a series of stretches. I usually come inside and begin to write but this morning I made my second cup of coffee and went outside to read, facing the beach and the incoming tide. The old stone pier that usually launches boats was empty except for an old man and a dog. I glanced and glanced again; sensing something wrong with the picture. The Mexican man was disheveled and dressed in clothes that didn't fit him. The dog was a purebred springer spaniel, well fed, obviously cared for and expensive. The picture didn't fit. I continued to watch as I grew more nervous. The dog was constantly looking afar as if expecting someone to come into view. He was not at home with the man in charge.

Eventually the man grabbed the long chain attached to the dog and walked past, crossing in front of me. I continued to watch him jerk the dog as he faded out of sight. About 45 minutes later I heard someone yelling and went outside to see him pass by again. This time the chain was replaced with nylon fishing rope and he was pulling the recalcitrant dog along. He had a new red baseball cap on; the dark kerchief around his neck was gone. He stopped and yelled at the dog and beat him with a stick as my stomach turned.

No more benefit of the doubt. I ran inside, grabbed my camera and snapped some shots of the man and dog as they made their way down the beach, then I went to the Islandia Office. "Marta," I asked, "If I lost my dog where would I go for help? Who would I call?" She told me the police. I told her the story, showed her the pictures and she picked up the phone. The police said they would check it out.

I'm posting this blog with pictures in case someone is searching the web for their stolen dog, then I'm climbing into my truck and driving into New Kino. I'll stop at Club Deportivo...someone might have tacked up a lost dog flier. I know how sick to death I would be if it were Teak. I had recently heard several stories of dogs being stolen in Kino. When I checked the internet I saw notices for lost and stolen dogs all over Mexico and the Baja.

I plan to be relentless.

Valentine from the Sea

2011-02-12T06:31:00.000-08:00

I finished the end of MotorHome Zen today. A draft, mind you, but a vibrant culmination of energies. Enough to terrify and exhilarate me. For that's what writing does, and if one can not walk those serrated edges one isn't cut out for life with the written word. It happens when I sit in the morning, pen in hand, and wonder where the ink will lead. Or if. It happens when I send my work to readers and wonder if the text will land with a thud or alight simple upon their souls. It happens in the face of wait from agents and publishers, when I receive gushing glowing letters from fans, or when rejection swamps my door.

I've been especially anxious this week because I knew the end of the book was near. Another ending, as if losing a lover wasn't enough. I also said goodbye to dear friends who stopped by to visit from Vancouver Island and five more buddies cranked their ignitions and headed back to the States. It felt like piling on as I mourned the loss of two deep loves, one in real time, one through the written pages of my book.

This morning I walked the beach and pleaded with the waves to salve my heartache. No beach combing for me. Couldn't make out shells through tears. My walk was almost complete when I stopped to stare out to sea. That's when my eyes turned down and I spotted the largest jingle shell I have ever seen, as big as the palm of my hand. I bent down and pulled it from it's sandy grave to find it was shaped like a heart!

That's when I knew I would garner the courage to finish the book.

My heart would be whole again, said my valentine from the sea.

Pesto-Chango

2011-02-02T13:28:00.000-08:00

Yesterday morning I walked the beach and came upon a gull, one bloodied wing, dangling at his his side. I was angry at myself for not having the ability to catch him, pick him up and twist his neck. To save him from a long, slow death. Then I realized the poignancy of the moment. It was Candlemas Eve.

February 2nd and the damned groundhog gets all of the attention. For those in the know, however, it's all about Brighid, the triple fire goddess of smithcraft, poetry and healing. It's about a celebration called Imbolc and later referred to as Candlemas; a festival of light to honor longer days and the hope of spring. Traditionally, lanterns were lit in front of houses and rituals used many candles. It is a cross-quarter holiday, mid-way between winter solstice and spring equinox. It beckons one to sense the subtleties; feel the stirring within.

I know in my head that the sun has turned around at winter's solstice but there's no way it feels like it. Cold, harsh January is still to come, despite slightly longer days. Welcome, February! I actually feel the sun's heat upon my flesh. Bird plumage turns bright with the urge to mate. With spring on the horizon and thaw a state of mind, I think about what I want to cut loose. Easier sometimes to take an ice pick to something rather than wait for it to melt and drip all around. More compassionate to wring the neck and give death than opt for slow torture. Especially so this year because it's also New Moon, a time of new beginnings.

So it is I light candles to beckon the sun. I will burn my dried holiday wreath in the firepit (when I have one, I burn my Christmas/Solstice tree). This was traditionally a time when sheep began to lactate in the old country. Thus, milk and cheese were part of the holy-day feast. I have no RV-sheep; but I will continue my tradition and take pesto from the freezer...basil and pinyon nut sauce I made this summer in Kaslo, BC with Carole and Chris.

I will chew slowly; savor sun and earth in every bite of pungent basil.
I will twist the neck of hopeless dreams.

Awash in Waves

2011-01-26T11:19:00.000-08:00

"He left without saying goodbye."
Those words had always conjured up images of a beloved sneaking away in the middle of the night; a scribbled mea culpa left amongst forgotten socks. Now I know it can mean otherwise, like: I was standing right there while he packed and made various trips to his van, and then he got in and drove away. Yes, he left without saying goodbye.

Perhaps I shouldn't be surprised since I asked him to leave. But I always think that we lowly humans should be "better than that." Which means I'm repeatedly disappointed.

Just two night's ago we had had a long, meaningful talk. One of the best of our one year friendship. The next day we drove out to a series of deserted Mexico beaches to explore and beach comb and fish under gloriously azure skies. Ron grilled ribeye for dinner and I poured lip-smacking good "Pieces of Red" Cabernet. All was perfect, until it wasn't. Until he said something about making a fire outside and I said sure I'd be there in a few minutes after I finished a phone call to my daughter. The next thing I knew I stepped outside to see him driving off with the neighbors to take them to dinner.

It's not that specific event, per se. That didn't matter in the scheme of things. It didn't matter because if it hadn't been that event it would have been another. Because no matter how many talks we garnered under our belts, alcohol trumped good intentions. His drinking all day and into the night made mincemeat of love. My marriage of 15 years had ended last year; turned on my words, "I'm not growing old with a mean drunk." That partner was a suave drinker with a cynical edge. This one was a beer and gin explosion of disparaging words and scoffs; or, the sweetest most fun man and lover in the world. I never knew which one would show up. I only knew that every night I faced the question.

Do you get it yet, Christina? By golly, I think I do.

His departure yesterday morn coincided with the lowest tide since I arrived Bahia de Kino. I haven't eaten real food since, which reminds me, I must squeeze myself some juice. I walk the beach and cry, missing fisherman Ron, the birder with eagle eyes and a little boy smile that turned my heart. This morning I Skyped my girlfriend Sandra in Thailand. I suggested laughter therapy for her to move some post-divorce energy. Then, voila! I took my own advice. I made myself laugh out there on the beach at nothing in particular. And laugh. Out loud from the belly.

That final unforgettable day with Ron I had picked up the shell of my life. It looked like a spiral pendant, about the size of a quarter. I held onto it as if I'd found a gold nugget. Then, this morning's walk and forced laughter led into a deep crying jag. I grew quiet, cowgirled-up and bam, out of the blue came the point.

Life force energy moves in a spiral. It comes around, full cycle, but never returns to the exact same point...it travels outward from a dynamic core, an evolutionary surge. This part I knew. What I got this morning was how serious addiction was circular energy. Round and round and round you go. New movement may spawn, but redundancy takes over. It's always back to the same place. There is no progress.

How I wish we could have joined in a spiral dance.

Thieves of the Night

2011-01-19T06:59:00.000-08:00

Full moon set and espresso. A candle, flame whipped by the gentle breeze, not enough to light my journal. The mind is given to simple questions. I wonder when a hummer will zip by my head on the way to his first sip of nectar? How many shells ride each wave on its way to the beach? I collect a few shells everyday. My heart's lust of the day is a sorta-round, paper thin 'potato chip'. Translucent wonders, they force a slow down on my beach walk; just the right angle of light to reveal their delicate repose. Jingle shells. When gathered together they tinkle and call forth fairies.

I am also drawn to pick up half-dollar-sized, thick grayish sea-carved scallop shells that look like they belong next to my gastrolith on my altar...the dinosaur gizzard stone.

The moon deepens into yellow as she lowers herself upon the sea. La Luna casts shadows of want across the sand. Spiky palm fronds. My body in the folding chair. A lone beach walker silhouette. Myriad roosters crow from afar but the loudest sound is the incoming tide. The lips of waves kiss moonlight moments before they uncurl and give themselves to shore.

This, my first full moon on the shore of Bahia de Kino. Three weeks here. Ebony pilot whales swim the coastline sending thrill through my heart. I have seen my first Brant (goose) and walked miles of lonesome beach. I have been sandblasted by ferocious winds and had my good paring knife stolen by an arm that reached through my kitchen window in the night, knocking over the coffee grinder...which in the scheme of things, is MUCH more important.

I reckon life by words written and scenes witnessed. Thieves are many; not all bad.

Face the Cake

2011-01-04T05:48:00.000-08:00

It is the first new moon of 2011. Waves hit shore, flow out of pre-dawn darkness. It is good to be in Bahia de Kino. I have returned to the pages of MotorHome Zen. When I traveled south I wasn't sure what book project would grab me by the scruff of the neck. This one that I have re-written three times, or a new one that I've been scribbling about. It is this one, and I am ecstatic. That stronger narrative arc that the publishers wanted has become clear. It feels like coming home...immersed in words again.

La Perla is parked at the far eastern end of the RV Park where there are only three palm-tree studded spots that face the ocean a stone's throw from the water. Or rather, a dog ball's throw. I prefer it here, away from the nucleus of the larger RV park that sits a little higher a few minute's walk away. Two rental casitas are between me and them. I sit under the palapa, read and watch the hypnotic waves; who needs television with the little piece of world that passes by on the beach? A few walkers in the morning and the Mexican fishermen that launch pangas at sunrise and return at dusk.

And then there's the children and Teak. The look of joy she brings to their faces is priceless as she heaves herself into the waves after her ball, returns and drops the ball at my feet. I hand them the ball, they throw, she retrieves. Yesterday a teenage boy was batting his hardball into a net and Teak kept going to the fence, signaling that she wanted in to play. He came out and threw the ball for her a few times before he realized his good fortune. A four-legged ball return! He took for the beach where he batted the ball and Teak retrieved. He called his sisters and mom who took videos.

Yes, the children. Neighbors Russell and Ken attended a 10-year old's birthday party. Thirty children and not one whined, cried or misbehaved. Their account reminded me of what I have witnessed in Guatemala with the Mayans. There was a pinata but it was not filled with candy...it contained two presents. Once broken, the mother went outside and stood at a window which was opened and the children lined up inside to receive a bag of goodies from her that included a ticket. They took the ticket to the hot dog cart where they traded it for a bacon-wrapped Sonoran hot dog. The climax of the party, however, was the birthday cake, a large rectangular cake that sat upon a card table. The children gathered around the birthday boy, led him to the cake and proceeded to push his face into the sugar frosted desert. The laughter was uncontrollable.

Old Kino, the Mexican town. Palm trees and roosters crow at dawn. Dogs that show every rib and epitomize the word cur. Carts that sell fresh scallops and oysters and clams. Men hocking blankets and ironwood carvings of dolphins Yesterday I purchased a mobile made from coconuts...brightly painted fish that sway whimsy above the table where I sit and tap out changes to my book.

I think about those kids pushing the birthday boy's face into his cake. What an amazing ritual and lesson in the ability to laugh at ourselves...to not get caught up in being the star...to be humble. It's the perfect introduction to 2011, as the ocean turns blood red with dawn and the first new moon rises with the sun.

Sol y Sonbrisas

2010-12-29T05:59:00.000-08:00

It is dream time. This week since Winter's Solstice has been packed with images I can't ignore. The sub-conscious does this. Just try to snub dreams and they flip you one with flying cats or syringes. And this time of long nights? It's the dream's handmaiden. I sit with my latest: I am reading an article that sizzles with beauty and realize it is MY article and the author is another woman. Someone has stolen my words. So I fight like mad; contact the magazine and they send me the appropriate forms to make it right. I have only to fill them out. Do what I must, but take back my writing.

I journeyed at dawn on the first day of winter to the high-lonesome desert valley of Whitewater Draw. I have been there many times but this dawn, intended to greet the new sun, was as spectacular as it gets. The eastern sky turned neon tangerine as thousands of wading, waking sand hill cranes roused and exploded into Rorschach lines of wing. Their prehistoric calls were deafening. The metaphor of birth gets no more powerful than this. Who needs a static nativity scene?

On Christmas Day, Emilie, her Kansas City friend Cece, Ron (as in Alaska Ron), Teak and I formed a caravan in Nogales, USA and headed for Kino Bay in Mexico. Three vehicles and La Perla, we breezed through the border and all check points. It was my usual easy entry into Mexico, although it's no longer typically as simple. There are more border checks; and I keep to the new rules for safety...stick to the toll roads and travel from 9:00 a.m. until 4:00 p.m. when the most traffic is on the road.

Kino Beach at Sunrise

Destination: Islandia RV Park. Emilie's trailer is parked permanently here; Cece rented a casita (as I have always done until now) while Ron and I looked for a place to park La Perla, my truck and his van. And, a place large enough to put up the 10 X 10 tent he gifted me...a separate space for my study or whatever purpose might appear. We are just a few feet from the ocean; the sound of gentle waves is a constant; and the beach scene of Mexican fishermen and children fills my heart. It's Kino Viejo (Old Kino), the original Mexican town; as opposed to Kino Nuevo (New Kino), the blinding white line of gringo condos that lines the beach a few miles to the north.

Whale Bone Skull on Isla Alcatraz

I seek a rhythm. I walk the beach every morning for several miles and stop somewhere along the way to do my stretches. I listen to one or two language tapes a day. And, I gear up to write daily. But that hasn't happened yet. Yesterday morning Ron stepped onto the ancient stone boat ramp, cast his fishing line and came up with two beautiful flounder within twenty minutes. And so we had fish and eggs for breakfast (which followed a dinner the night before with Em and Cece of shrimp, calvina fish and chocolate). Then we boarded a panga and Mexican fisherman Saul took us to Alcatraz Island, across the bay to a shipwreck and to a beach with sand dunes several stories high. I collected exquisite shiny reddish brown snail shells, two ribs from a sea turtle shell and a bleached breast bone from a pelican. I await inspiration. I have long wanted to make a shell and bone wind chime.

Dawn's first light lays gently upon the water. I see the silhouette of neighbor Russell who sits in wait. He and Larry are a couple I've come to to love. On the other side is Dave from Durango/Tucson, sweet man, albeit more subdued. He and I share memories of beaches in Baja and other points south, including the Bay of Concepcion.

Teak Swims for the Fishermen

I am humbled by the richness of it all. Excited to be here on the cusp of many writing days. Sun and beach and a dog who draws a crowd. Teak takes her ball to one and all who walk down the beach. She drops it in front of them and beams her brown expectant eyes into theirs. Her entire body says, "Throw it! PLEASE." Kids thrill. Yesterday the ball dropped in front of a short, sweet Mexican man with a cane. He looked at me as if to ask, "Okay?" "Si, si," I smiled. The man's grin filled his face. Sonbrisa grande!

Teak brings joy to one and all. And that is the point of our time on this earth, is it not? I am smack dab where I need to be.

Migration Maximus

2010-12-20T08:54:00.000-08:00

So here I am in Naco, a teeny town on the border south of Bisbee. It's the home of one of my dearest friends, Emilie. We're making fun forays across the border and enjoying fires outside at night. (Carrying around my fire pit is one of the smartest things I have ever done...everyone thirsts for a fire!) I've been preparing for the Winter Solstice, which is my celebration of the season...a distant second to Christmas. This year solstice is joined by a full moon. And as if that weren't intense enough, there is a full moon eclipse tonight shortly after midnight. Eclipses signal huge change. The last one to occur at 29 degrees Gemini was 18.5 years ago. If you want to get some idea of what tonight's has in store go back to that point in time. I was on my land at Dancing Raven, finishing my cabin in the midst of my five year retreat.Clearing away trash.

I digress. My solstice ritual began last night with a trip to Whitewater Draw to view thousands of wintering sand hill cranes. Em and I took cameras and binoculars and immersed ourselves in the primal calls of the prehistoric birds. There were shovelers and pintails and songbirds and owls as this place served up one orgasmic, sunset-tangerine scene after another. I came home so full I bypassed another fire in favor of a shower and my head upon the pillow. Before I slumbered, however, I read a piece on the upcoming eclipse. Note, I am not an astrologer. I probably know enough to be dangerous. But I do enjoy reading the wisdom of those in the know. Thus the information on the 29 degrees; and the clarification that change may come suddenly or gradually over the next few days or weeks.

I went to sleep and woke up with one of the most mind-blowing, spirit-rousing dreams of my life. Short version: I injected myself with a clear liquid from a vial and said goodbye to this world. I was serene, confident and fully ready to leave this reality and cross over into another. I awoke with a jolt, intrigued and edgy. Context: I've been asking for a sign...clarification of my next work as I enter my 60's, open to new opportunities and portals. Reality: be careful what you ask for.

The eclipse is tonight. I'm set to leave for Mexico on Saturday to winter on the beach. My friend Carole just sent me an article on the weather intensities of 2010. http://www.nytimes.com/aponline/2010/12/19/science/AP-YE-SCI-Disastrous-Year.html?_r=1&hp
My friend Ron, as in Alaska Ron who introduced me wild SE Alaska this past summer, is due to arrive in a couple of days to join the caravan of friends to Kino Bay. And every chance she gets my dog Teak jumps up on the bed to sleep and she KNOWS she's not supposed to be there. Birds tweet. Coyotes yip. Another friend has cancer. And I repeat, the eclipse is tonight.

I think I'll find the darkest solstice long shadow and hide there for awhile. But the dreams, they always find us, don't they?

Migration, Con't.

2010-12-16T11:56:00.000-08:00

It was a quick dip into Black Meadow Landing to pick up my kayak. I'd canceled my winter reservation a few months prior when points further south beckoned. I made the rounds from camper to camper to visit friends; shared laughs, dog swims and a yummy steak dinner with Johanna. (Yep, as in Boise-Johanna, where I spent my 60th b-day upon my return from Alaska)...world adventurer Johanna, who kisses everyone on the lips. Deal with it!

I eventually made my way up the hill to the cliffside stone circle I'd constructed 3 years hence; where I had stood daily at dawn and said hello to the day. This is where I placed some of dad's ashes. The Iowa farmer had an Arizona kick-ass view overlooking Lake Havasu. I sat on a small boulder and we talked the afternoon away. Mostly, he talked, I listened.

It was only a couple hour's drive south to Palm Canyon, north of Yuma. I'd wanted to go in there for years to explore and photograph. Now I had another intention: to write about it. This was the seven-mile stutter bump stretch that sent my recipe cards flying like snow flakes across the inside of La Perla. It also wiggled one cupboard door right off the hinges. Worth every dusty washboard to be back in the Sonoran Desert, in the company of stately, mind-blowing saguaros. I parked at the mouth of the canyon overlooking the valley below, positioned for the sunset to come. The palms were dramatic, tucked in a narrow canyon crevasse amidst steep cliffs. I went off trail to explore and quickly re-learned the ferocious flesh-grab and tear of cats claw acacia. Long cuts and streaks of blood criss-crossed my legs, nothing that a little peroxide didn't handle. I sat in my chair back at camp, ate my favorite quick dinner of popcorn and cheese and waited. Absolutely nothing could have prepared me for the spectacular colors to come as the sun bade farewell to the day.

The following two nights I parked on my old friend Frank's land that borders the Sonoran National Monument west of Tucson. Frank and I had started the Salida Audubon Society back in the early 80's. We'd climbed Kit Carson and Challenger Peaks (2 of Colorado's 14,000-foot peaks) in the '90's. Nothing compared, however, to one memorable Thanksgiving backpack to the bottom of the Grand Canyon with friends. When---exhausted, blistered and totally spent, Frank and the guys pulled a cooked turkey and all the trimmings out of their packs. Even cranberries!

Panther Peak

I had the first night to myself, immersed in the lush forest of saguaros in the magnificent shadow of Panther Peak. Coyotes yipped and howled through the darkness; javelina brushed by La Perla and up the arroyo. The next morn I was awash in birdsong~~thrashers, cactus wrens, doves, gila woodpeckers, mockingbirds. Too much to resist, I pulled my fire pit from the back of truck and commenced to light a morning fire. It was flame, espresso and a sit with the desert spirits.

Frank made it out later that day and we commenced to catch up on a friendship too long ignored. He commented that care his land and the straw bale house he's building were the most important things he'd ever done. A big statement, given the children's books and photographs he'd contributed to the world. It was December 12th, Our Lady of Guadalupe's birthday. I had this sense that all of this beauty and special feeling was a direct blessing from her. Indeed, if I couldn't be in Mexico on this celebratory day, being here was as perfect as it got.

Maverick Migration

2010-12-14T08:30:00.000-08:00

"I want to sleep with you in the desert tonite, with a million stars all around..."

I'm having a series of Eagle's moments now that I've hit the road headed south. That's good. Because if I learned anything from five weeks back in Mancos it's that living in a travel trailer with the night-temp hovering around zero sooo sucks. No running water, ditto. Only a pot to piss in, so to speak. Still and all, departing Mancos was wrenching. The time with Hope was a gift. The chance to drop in on one another with "just walking by with the dog" smile. To watch 'Dexter' and drink wine. Travel to one Thanksgiving with dearest friends and then whip up our own TG recipes and a ritual meal that brimmed with family flavors. Speaking of recipes...my tin file of recipe cards took wing as I scurried down a stutter-bump gravel road a few days ago...which sent me on an unplanned meditation into sorting years worth of taste-bud, hand scribbled cards. I culled the cards with dishes I could easily get off the internet, and kept the gems in Aunt Clara's or Inga's swirling handwriting. Mom's sheath cake and holiday brisket. Aunt Dollie's oatmeal rocks. Good to revisit those index cards and remember the 3-layer lemon bars I'd forgotten.

It was good, very good, to work again. To give that talk at the Mancos library and get down and detailed with women in a workshop. "Life in the Spiritual Crosshairs," indeed. It's happening. It's intense. Beware of dead zones and drama. Mine hovered around Tom-the-Ex, who seemed convinced that I had returned to Mancos to burglar and pillage, right down to the 2-inch dowel in the sliding glass door that happened to be on the second floor of a deck with no stairs. Did he really think I'd gone to Spiderman school? My girlfriend's Ex, on the other hand, died his gray chest hair before meeting his young girlfriend's parents on Turkey day. See what I mean? Drama and dead zones. (More to come on that dowel.)

The remainder of Mancos time was house sits at stunning ranches that included a parrot who laughed like me by the time my five days were up. He also lovingly asked "Is everything alright?" when I walked in the door. Who needs a man? Or a therapist? Whoops, strike that. I loved working with folks one-on-one again. And o my, I cherished laughing until I cried, hiking, hot-tubbing, drumming and sharing meals with sisters. Champagne and cigar nights. Sweet and raucous.

A few days before I left Hope and I grabbed the saw and sojourned into the La Plata's to cut her a Solstice tree. Snow had melted in Mancos but was knee-deep-beautiful at 10,000 feet amidst the spare, silver aspen trunks. A lovely, prickly blue spruce now tickles her ceiling...the gift of ever-green and new life in the dead of winter.

Goodbye to all that.
Hello warm-lands.

I was surprised at what an easy half-day drive Natural Bridges National Monument was to Mancos. We were the only visitors on the one-way loop on a shirt sleeve-warmth day. I passed on the campground in the park in favor of a cottonwood-studded wash I'd spied on the drive in. Parked and intent on capturing the final minutes of sun, I jumped on the bike and headed up the dirt 2-track as Teak ran along side. No birds or wildlife, rock was the awe of the day as sandstone turned blood red with sunset. As usual in the inner-mtn west...it got cold once the sun went down. Read: we didn't dally the next morning. I fired up the pick-up and continued south through Monument Valley.

It was into Flagstaff for the final, cold night camp. Unbeknownst to me, my destination ended up a sublime Ponderosa forest, where I followed up on an invitation of a sorta-stranger. Thanks to the magic of Facebook, I now count my magazine editor among good friends. DRUM ROLLLLL....once beyond Flag I de-winterized the trailer. YAZZA! Hot and cold running water. Warm sun against the flesh. Sleeveless tops. And more than a little wonder to where this is all leads. Besides south and 'peaceful easy feelings.' Time to start playing those Spanish language Cd's.

(You can see more pics on my Facebook page)

Don the Chaps and Climb Aboard

2010-11-23T07:45:00.000-08:00

The wind is supposed to gust to 55 mph tonight; a wind chill of minus 15-degrees. It will be the greatest test of La Perla; of my down sleeping bag; of Teak curled up on the floor beside the bed. As if in preparation, last night I hung the words, "Cowgirl Up" above the window next to the bed. A cursive spread of wire letters sculpted by Babette. And yesterday I bought two poinsettas to cheer the soul. One white, one red. They sit on my table next to four candles that cast their primal flame across this little space. Another squat, salmon-orange one burns next to the bed where I type. My tribute to chilly dawn.

In my final act of preparation, I gave up on the easy-to-clean-and-set plastic mousetraps and bought four of the old fashioned wooden Victor's. I was tired of waking up to a trap licked clean of chunky peanut butter. Within ten minutes I'd nabbed a little gray culprit. I wouldn't mind em, really, if they didn't chew into my life and leave turds in the cupboards. The metaphor isn't lost on me.

It's not the easiest living in a winterized trailer. The pipes are full of RV anti-freeze and I have no running water. But I remind myself of my vow of simplicity; of a debt-free life and of plans to head for Mexico on December 5th's new moon. I have one more house sit the week after Thanksgiving. It is on a ranch in the country overlooking the Mancos River. It is where "Target" hangs out. I plan to snap some pictures of the arrow-breasted gobbler and write an article.

In the meantime I spend precious days and evenings with daughter Hope. I count my blessings as Thanksgiving closes in. I cherish love in my life. Excellent health. Teak. Even clean teeth and the $140 it cost to get them that way. I will join hands with the universe on Thursday. Toast friends as I look into their eyes; pray THANKS to the earth, Mother Ultimate.

I feel a poignancy this year. An edge, as grace and urgency converge. I sense that our free ride upon this planet has come to an end. That we are in for some bucking bronco days. As yesterday, today and tomorrow enfold into holy now, we might all do well to ...

On Target

2010-11-15T08:03:00.000-08:00

I talk and teach of the confluence of the planetary and personal souls. Of intense times. How we are in this reckoning together. So why would my life be any different? I say yes to one thing that should be simple, even freeing, and just like that a wave of new details comes from out of the blue and swamps my life. As if one moment I'm standing outside taking in the spectacle of the backlit, snow-capped La Plata peaks and ker-plunk, a wave of the white stuff slides off the roof and buries me up to my crotch. Ya. Kinda like that.

Last week I spoke at the Mancos Libray on the subject of "Saced Place, Holy Wild: Caught in the Spiritual Crosshairs." I followed that up with a workshop for women in which we dove ever deeper into the call of the times; how to maneuver and cushion ourselves in the midst of muddle. The same week my x-husband took a stroll down flip-out lane and I found myself moving my things out of storage at our home. And as if the universe wasn't quite satisfied with the mix, I received an invitation to house sit and care for the beautiful farm home of two dear people. Thus, this past weekend I moved twice (from house to storage; from La Perla to house sit) and conducted the most amazing workshop I have ever done.

It is Monday morning. I have claimed my writing space in the farmhouse. Green chili beef stew simmers in the crock pot (this farm raises organic beef) and a light snow falls outside, draping the earth in a veil of peace. I am cocooned in silence except for the occasional sound of the frig; the muted tic-toc of the clock on the wall. Down the road a bit is a wild turkey scavenging for acorns along the Mancos River. She has an arrow through her breast that protrudes several inches into the air from both sides; compliments of an autumn bow-hunter. She eats. She follows along with her flock. She flies into the cottonwood trees to roost at night. In short, she carries on with pierced flesh, learning to live with her role of target.

She, the ultimate teacher. We must all learn to live these days with an arrow through our breast.

Taking Heart

2010-11-07T09:07:00.000-08:00

My movement from Juneau to Mancos, CO was an elegant cascade; a waterfall of feminine. I hadn't planned to travel from one hot water spring to another, but that is what I ended up doing. I soaked in warm water pools; basked in the glow of friendship with women-friends.

There was Carole in Kaslo at her homestead on the edge of wilderness. Everyday she donned her cute rubber boots (not at all like my he-man Alaska boots) and made her way down the hill to collect eggs and feed the chickens, turkeys and sheep. Many late mornings, following my writing and her chores, we departed for the skyline...Monica Meadow's wilderness of ancient alpine larch, treeline valleys surrounded by snow-capped marshmallow creme peaks. We walked wildlife sanctuaries (appropriate title!) awash in geese and ducks; shopped organic, fresh-picked apples and made stops at roadside pubs. And every night she transformed her kitchen and garden into a luscious meal as her husband Chris and I stayed carefully on the periphery. Carole was territorial about her kitchen. Best to sit on the sidelines and cajole. Set the table. Clear the table and load the dishwasher. But leave the kitchen alchemist to her creative cauldrons.

Three more seductive hot springs south and I landed in Boise and the home of friend Johanna. Johanna with her RV cleaned, packed and pointed south for the winter. Seventy yr old Johanna whose biggest chunk of spirit still lodged in her prior home of Homer, Alaska. This women has traveled all over the world outback, oft times with one or two of her child-daughters. For years she drove from Homer to the tip of the Baja for a winter's stay. This is where I spent my 60th b-day; close to this trail-blazing woman.

A two-hour trip down the highway delivered me to Twin Falls and the home of effervescent Phyllis. This woman, true teacher. She cares for her elderly mother who lives on the other side of her duplex. Cares, as in dresses, bathes, cooks, checks in on her, takes her to the doctor and helps to make the difficult decisions that relate to quality and length of life. This, as her 41-year old daughter deteriorated in the throes of liver disease, collapsing as she was assessed for a transplant. As one part of Phyllis waited anxiously by the phone for a progress report from her grandson, the other part attended to mom. Every evening Phyllis and I had cocktails and dinner with the sweet, diminutive woman who continued to grasp life with gusto. And every day we made an excursion to a hot springs or a walk along the Snake River. Made room for Phyllis. Snagged some laughs on the winds of change.

I'm in Mancos now, parked a few blocks from my daughter, Hope where we're walking our dogs and sharing meals. Watching football and movies. Talking and laughing, heart to heart. Mother and daughter, sans shopping. Neither of us has the extra change to shop, altho we did walk into a yard sale yesterday where I found a sleeky, sexy dress for $3.00 and Hope, a couple of wine glasses for a quarter. God knows where I'll wear the dress. It will be fun to see what circumstances pull it onto my body.

Mancos also means Babette, my wine-drinking, cigar-smoking, get down truth-telling, hike-and-bike-Sister. I found her several years ago in her little coffee shop in downtown Cortez. She found me several years ago when I walked into her little coffee shop in downtown Cortez. Not long thereafter she closed the shop. It served its purpose.

Friday was Lunar Samhain, the new moon in Scorpio and the Celtic New Year. If your roots are in Europe you're Celt. This time of autumn descent has forever been my favorite. I savor the the year turning over as the spirit world closes in. Babette and I sojourned to Song Haven, the organic farm home of splendorous, Venus-of-Willendorf-Michelle. Twenty of us feasted, danced and drummed for six hours. Phyllis' daughter, Debbie, crossed over in the midst of that dance. As the drums beat loud and deep, Johanna pulled into her winter camp in Arizona and a package arrived at my door from Carole. It was my 60th birthday present, a hand-quilted pillow of songbirds and owls and shiny golden suns and stars.

Carole, Johanna, Phyllis, Hope, Babette...we are a microcosm of life, movement and change. Of love. We are the ultimate test of relationship---we who bring out the best in one another. Even as life resembles more of a pin ball machine than a sweet linear line. I shoot up and over roads, land in a welcome-hole for awhile until POP, it launches me down the road again. I gaze south, towards Emilie and Mexico. Towards some vision of myself reborn.

I lay my head on the love-stitched pillow and dream.

Hallowmass

2010-11-01T07:35:00.000-07:00

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. I am in Mancos. Colorado. The snowline dips ominously low and the final autumn holdouts reluctantly turn yellow and await the next next gust of wind to render them leafless. My daughter Hope cooked me up a birthday meal of Mediterranean Pork with a sizzling delicious olive, raisin and balsamic vinegar sauce; a spice cake with maple syrup frosting. I am here. But my spirit isn't so sure. She and I, we've been on the road since last June-Juneau-bound. She needs a few days of repetition before she trusts that stop is stop; that the 6000-mile circle of wonder is closed.

Yesterday, barely 12 hours back, I drove the truck and trailer to my once-shared casa with Tom. The purpose was to off-load things I no longer needed; to see Pooka my Bengal cat. She followed me like a shadow. We went for our once-ritualized walk and she did as always..mewed to be picked up about a quarter mile down the two-track. I lifted and swung her onto my shoulders; held onto her tail in our familiar precarious game of balance. Eventually she climbed onto my back, her signal that she was ready to jump onto the road and walk again. I bent over to provide a platform for her to leap but she didn't. This time she sat upright on my back and held me in place. I wiggled. She would not budge. And so I let her...realizing I deserved this. I'd left her behind and she was going to make me pay. She didn't budge from my back for ten minutes. Me bent over in the road. She and I, alone in the world.

We walked back to the house and I took a seat on an old stump in the sun. She made little peep purrs I'd not heard before. Then she walked to the door and looked back at me. Mewed. She wanted me in that house again. Like old times. But I could not follow. "Ours" was no longer a label that applied. I rose, loaded Teak into the truck and performed my best job of backing the trailer yet.

I stepped on the gas, drove a short ways, stopped and looked back. Pooka was still sitting by that door as I drove away. Sunlight etched her golden leopard-spotted flecks.

Birth Day

2010-10-24T15:37:00.000-07:00

Gracious, NOT. My delivery into the decade of my 60's was more like a breech birth. Rather than the traditional smooth splash and celebration this birthday unfolded more like an origami swan caught in a typhoon. No form; it resembled an exercise in empty space.A whiteout on the landscape of the soul. I had no plans; I couldn't decide what I wanted to do. Babette encouraged me get out and do something fun for myself. Pedicure? Massage? I landed on the idea to get my butterfly tattoo recolored. So it was I jumped on my bike and took off in the rain for a tattoo parlor several blocks away. They were booked for the day. I continued to pedal downtown to another that had been recommended but they, normally open on Saturday's, were closed. I stood outside the store for a bit; as if my presence would magically open the door and produce a palette of colored needles. No cigar; I climbed aboard my bike for a soggy ride home through soft rain. Eventually I figured it best they weren't open since I couldn't decide if the proper action was to re-color the old or put my imagination towards something completely new. I, mired in the space between decades. Like Janus, not sure to face forward or back.

What WAS going on? 30, 40, 50...none of those gateways were big deals. 60? "So round," said Susan. I'd worked damned hard to meet it with vigor and good health, ensuring an entry with panache, and there I was, languishing. Facebook messages popped up on my wall, wishing me happy birthday; heartfelt emails, poems and phone calls peppered my day. I felt like I was letting everyone down.

My enthusiasm picked up as I dressed for the dinner party Johanna had planned. By the time I walked through her door I was ready to hang with the females from 70 to 17. Johanna's exhausted granddaughter had taken her ACT's that morning as her mother had watched the cooking shows. Phyllis had found care for her elderly mother and made her way from Twin Falls; Darlene had layered mascara onto her thick lashes and laughed a hearty hello through the doorway. Six women, six lives who managed to meet in the same living room amidst a world of chaos.

Its a miracle when you think about it. What brought us to that point in time. What possessed us to pick up the plastic kazoos and serenade one another with, "Row, Row, Row Your Boat," and laugh until our sides hurt. In this world where every second of our life is a competition for our attention, I pay close attention to who shows up. It was an honor sit among those women who bestowed me with their presence. The space no longer empty.

Wander Lust

2010-10-20T10:47:00.000-07:00

I'm celebrating my b-day for a week. Or more. Once, may be twice, it will be overt, like a party; but most times I'm the only one who knows.

The day before I left Kaslo I discovered damp walls in my closet. Inspection revealed not jut seams that needed caulked but a dozen tears in my roof. Go figure---not a clue to their origin. Ken and Bob, friends with whom I'd shared wine and dinners at Carole and Chris', proceeded to show up the next morn and work for 5 hours cleaning, drying and sealing. My angels. My first b-day present. That night Bob "collected" me (don't you love Canadian-speak?) and treated me to a farewell dinner at the Kaslo Pub. We talked RV's---it's his dream to spend less time tied down and more time rolling down the asphalt. No one deserves it more. He was the RCMP guard for Margaret Trudeau when he was young; but more recently the point person in Bosnia for identifying corpses in mass graves. My time with him, gift #2.

Numero 3 was the piece of homemade apple pie Chris slipped me on my way down the road. Number 4 was the friendly female reception at the US border. She took my limes with a smile and surprised me with a sudden question about Iowa, my birth state. I know she didn't read my solar return chart for this year. It had to be the quick check button on their computers. A little scary. Had they also skimmed my emails of the past 90 days as I waited in line?

Present #5 was the sudden connection with a friend in Sandpoint; a dinner of steaks and wine. My only regret was that I didn't choose the wine called, "Layer Cake."

I'm still a couple of days in front of BIG 60, in mosey-mode. I'm hitting the hot springs of northern and central Idaho, making spontaneous pilgrimages through neon-golden Larch, hunting camps and high mountain meadows coated in thick morning frost. Last night I parked on a serene lakeside shore, complete with migrating white pelicans, ponderosa pine and goldeneye ducks. And every night a fire.

Today I follow a serpentine road to Golden Fork Hot Springs. I'll stay one more night in the wild before I hit Boise and return to the smile of my dear friend Johanna. It will be full circle since I departed for Alaska on June's new moon.

It doesn't take a birthday to accept each day as a gift. Every snow white pelicano's wing flap is a miracle of the moment. The waxing moon soaks the night in molten light. Wraps me snugly in the ... present.

Winged Redeemer

2010-10-11T08:54:00.000-07:00

Carole and I were chatting away on the porch in the morning sun when she noticed it from afar: a bird on the fence looking down on the chicken coop, but this one smaller than the recent ravens and great-horned owls that had threatened the egg layers. I reckoned it to be a sharp-shinned hawk but what we discovered was a tiny saw-whet owl caught in the roof netting, her wings and talons a web of tangled string.

Leather gloves and a cinder block on which to stand, I started to extract, unsure of the outcome. Broken wing? Sliced neck? Impossible to pull or maneuver, I directed Carole where to cut as the little one stared at us with huge, golden eyes. She did not struggle; her only sound was an occasional click. Four cuts and the feathered one fell into my hands. I pulled her to my chest and carried her to a near-by log to sit.

Northern saw-whet owls are around 8-inches tall. They live in abandoned cavities in pine, aspen, fir, spruce, larch, cottonwood...you name it. The varied forest that surrounded Carole and Chris' land was saw-whet heaven. And so was their cleared space, providing a constant diet of insects, voles and mice for the little one. Most active right before dawn and after dusk, it was around 8:00 a.m. when this one became tangled...probably after a mouse that in turn, was after some chicken feed on the ground. Easy pickings.

The little bird was most content against my beating heart. Around ten precious minutes had passed when I held out my hand and her razor sharp talons clasped my gloved finger. So far so good. She didn't appear to be damaged, but could she fly? She perched for awhile longer before spreading her soft wings.Eighteen inches of winged feathers spread horizontally across the air but she did not fly. She continued to clasp my finger and sit. She and I, trusting spirits in the fullness of time. She turned her head, gazed those golden eyes into mine and cocked her head. I smiled. "You're welcome," I said, and she lifted effortlessly and rested on a nearby spruce branch.

Carole and I continued to watch and talk to her. She perched, relaxed, no doubt collecting herself, overcoming her shock. Her eyes were closed. When I moved closer to change the photo angle she barely registered my movement, sometimes opening an eye.

We left her alone. I continued to watch for her through the binoculars. A couple of hours later I scanned the branches and the brown-feathered miracle was gone.

Blessed BE

2010-10-05T07:50:00.000-07:00

Two nights ago I dreamed that an alcoholic lover was shut in a dark room in a corner in a basement of an old farm house. I entered the house in jail break fashion and was stopped by a decrepit, lanky man in work clothes who said I couldn't go down there and I was to leave him alone to die. I told him to F O, pushed by him and made my way down the dark wooden steps to his locked room. Outside the door was a lit waiting room akin to one you'd see in a modern Dr's office; little children were playing. There were no adults. I took a seat outside his door.

The next night Carole dreamed that she and I were in a warehouse in a small town hanging out with Leonard Cohen. We were talking the night away having the time of our lives. (We've been listening to the 2-cd set of his concert for days). The only conversation she could remember that morning was that he said, "You choose your drama."

Indeed. We. Do.

I love the way our dreams play off of one another. We used to do this when we both lived in Boulder; and later when I moved to the San Luis Valley and she would visit. True Sisters, We.

And our time together comes to an end. She says I can't leave until after Thanksgiving. That's next Monday here in Canada. And in case I don't get the point, she and Chris have my hitch. Tomorrow she and I will take a day and bird watch, go to her favorite Pub and a near-by winery. Friday we will take the three sweet turkeys from the pen, chop off their heads and pluck away. Hens Tilly and Tilly (because we can't tell them apart) for the freezer, Ted for Monday's dinner.

Friends ask me of my plans. It is hard to pin me down. My life is more of an unfolding these days than a linear set of dates. Boise, Mancos until Thanksgiving, winter in Tucson, Bisbee and Kino Bay, Mexico. All possibilities. What matters is that I have an introduction drafted to a new book and will begin to send it out. I have laid the ground work for further marketing of my photos (pro shots on flickr; friend shots on Picasa); and I will have a draft of a publishable essay done by the time I depart. I have been working long days.

What matters...are my friends; my daughter. Those who love me. Especially at this time of limbo. My mood swings are great. Life might be described as breaths between chasms. As another sister, Emilie, reminded me: the 15 years with Tom was a quarter of my life. It's going to take time.

Interesting, that dream. I was aggressive and true to task until I arrived at the door, where I sat and waited for him to come into the light. As Leonard Cohen sings: "Waiting for a miracle to come."

Wisdom is knowing when to wait and when to act. The old moon crescent hangs in this morning's dawn sky; reminds me that every day begins anew; every moon wanes, dies and is reborn.

2010-09-29T09:13:00.000-07:00

It was a 50-mile drive from the banks of Kootenay Lake up, up to the Monica Meadows trail head. Carole, Tom and I had tried this hike three years before, only to have the two-track access road closed by a landslide and a pissed off land owner. As Carole and I approached the turnoff again and there was another CLOSED sign...this time announcing road closure for a bridge replacement, 3 days hence. The fates were with us, as we continued the slow-going drive up the crotch of Meadow Creek Basin, into the heart of the Purcell Wilderness. The raging creek, strewn with house-sized boulders, made me wonder just how the lazy streams of Colorado justified the label, 'river.' This mountain-scape, home to the likes of Loki and Jumbo Peaks, was another scale of wild.

The hike was a sweat-driven, steep-stepped romp. Huckleberry bushes, deep red and gold with autumn, lined the damp path. Endless snow-laden peaks and receding glaciers framed our views. It took a couple of hours for the trail to gentle. We caught our breath, followed around the mountain curve and dropped into a basin of rare Alpine Larch. It was the perfect rendezvous, immersed in the death and descent of autumn.

The Alpine Larch grows in inhospitable places at treeline in the Canadian Rockies. She's stunted and wind-hewn compared to her towering, heavily-logged family to the south. She clings to rocky cliffs, her stance so precariously natural it was hard to tell which came first, the tree or the precipice.

Carole whispered, "It's like walking into caramel." The golden needles conjured fairy dust upon my soul. Another world at treeline, as the gentle breeze kicked up and loosed a shower of soft, golden needles upon my skin.

Three ancient Larch graced the barren landscape above, lookouts from stone perches. We rested by a pool of reflective water, ate a meager lunch of nuts, cheese and pears and soaked in the sun. Turns out we'd forgotten our usual celebratory foods and treats. No flasks of port. No cigars. No cold beers waiting in the cooler in the car. The mood was exhilarating-somber as we traversed the rocky clefts and climbed from one Old One to the other. I approached, leaned into the thickened trunks and touched the fire-scarred bark. I starred up into their golden crowns; murmured a prayer of thanks.

The afternoon sun waned as Carole and I took a seat beneath the outstretched branches of the third Old One. We were on the cusp of departure when our silent reverence exploded into existential reflections, corralling our lives in the context of deep grief and fears. For our little selves. The Mother Planet. The children, the wild, on and on into bottomless pockets of question. We'd come to the tree to pay homage and to keep her company. Turned out she was was keeping ours; overseeing our despair with steadfast presence. Guiding us back to potent possibility: the germ of hope, cocooned in the ephemeral.

To Hear the Unspoken

2010-09-23T10:53:00.000-07:00

We chose the equinox for our outing. A seasonal energetic window, followed six hours later by the full moon, a harvest orb so strong that prognosticators predicted it's power would infect daily routine for another two weeks.

I drove. It was 40 miles up. And up. A narrow, ledge-hanging 4-wheel drive road. Carole had only been to Meadow Mountain once; we took our time, choosing forks in the road with care. "We're almost there," became her the mantra of the morn. I suggested it was more like the mantra for my life right now. You're almost there, Christina. You're almost there. But of course I'm not. I still have a long ways to go. We climbed to breathtaking views of lakes below; then into streams of clouds. We finally broke through to a glorious 360-degree view of mountain peaks reminiscent of the Alps. And the season's first snow.

We followed the two-track; made our way towards two groves of glowing larch that burned like golden torches amidst small lakes and clumps of tight and twisted pine. We parked by a lake, next to a lone picnic table covered with a layer of snow. The sun was hot. The table dried fast. We spread our fresh pears (picked from the tree earlier in the week), brie, crackers and crab I'd thawed from Alaska-days. The sweet, light Moscado wine was perfect.

Bliss. We hiked to the soft-needled larch and said hello; made our way across rock and grass-covered expanses to small saddles and views of deep chasms. Then we returned to the table, faced the warm sun and drummed.

It had been many years. Carole and I had drummed regularly for workshops we used to facilitate in Boulder, CO. Our women's group of days past could have easily been called a drumming group. And here we were, at the top of the world, setting a drumbeat to match the heartbeat of the universe. One of us held steady while the other riffed; and vice versa. Intensity and speed rose and fell. Ultimately we fell back into a shared beat; softened and stopped as if someone lifted our leather-covered beaters simultaneously. We set aside the drums; hugged tightly. There could not have been a better metaphor for friendship. For this woman I call "Sister."

The equinox is an edgy window between light and darkness. One would think on this day of equal day and night that balance would rein, but it ain't necessarily so. One must take effort to ground and yet ride the energetic channels that zip about. Especially with the moon at it's most powerful, a few hours before full. Thus it was that the Tarot cards were spread upon the table.

Tarot is Carole's forte'. I've never owned a deck but love the shuffle and spread as she interprets the details. Like drumming, we've been doing this for many years. I'm always a little nervous. And just as surprised that they catch my soul's drift with uncanny perfection. There was no need to fret. Ya, a mental block wall showed up that must be walked around (not climbed) in what I envision as a Tai Chi-like move; and big karmic knots with family that must be cut loose. But ultimately, keep with the wild that nurtures me and the universe will provide.

And fun. Follow fun, the cards advised. Last December Carole advised me to follow the light as I stood on the precipice of divorce. A few months later I found myself in Alaska where the sun never seemed to set. Fun, eh? Just what might THAT look like?

My Eggs in One Basket

2010-09-16T22:43:00.000-07:00

I think I understand why people have chickens. It's not just the eggs. It's the overwhelming feeling of being needed and greeted when one approaches the coop. I don my rubber boots (ala Juneau)and head down the slippery wet hill with a basket in hand. The hens see me coming about half way down and come running to the gate. Ya ya, I KNOW they aren't really glad to see me; they want food. But I can't help but smile as I start jabbering away at them. Their priorities are simple, the deal is made: give me grass, bugs and grain and I'll lay you an egg. Let me out the gate to roam the pasture for the day and my yolk will be EXTRA golden.

The brownish-red chickens will lay one egg a day for two years, wrap it up and die. The black and white ones won't lay quite as regularly but they'll live around six years. They have fancy names, like Andalusian, Brahma and Wyandote. Some are capable of raising chicks from their eggs and others, like the Rhode Islands, have had the mother-thing bred out of them. This chicken business is serious.

And the eggs. Still warm in the straw, I place them into the basket. Usually about 14 every morning. Sometimes I find eggs protruding from the grass like some faded remnant from Easter. The hens don't seem to care where they lay. Some days two or three eggs line the fence edge.

I make my way to the kitchen and head for the cast iron skillet where I crack the hard shells of two eggs into hot butter and olive oil. The whites are firm and raised; the large circles of yolks, deep orange. Sometimes I add a tangy hard cheese and fresh veggies; some days it's just flip'em over and eat. Flavor-full.

One plump, red hen closes her eyes tonight in the dark chicken coop. She's three years old; managed to miss the kill cull every time it came around. She labors to get up, steps slowly, leans and pecks with great effort. Her eyes look small and glassy. Tomorrow morning when I make my way down the hill the geriatric hen may very well be dead.

No longer laying and too old to stew.

Landlocked at Sea

2010-09-12T08:15:00.000-07:00

It is gray here. It's been gray and rainy since I arrived with sporadic explosions of sun. I wonder if I'm cursed. Or may be some spirit thinks it's high time I balance out the 30-plus sunshine years that hit my flesh in the arid southwest.

The rain falls differently in every place. Looking outside the window in Juneau I could not tell it was raining until I opened the door. Opaque droplets fell straight down; it poured and the leaves on the trees didn't move. The sound was a light swoosh. The weather comes from behind me on this mountainside in Kaslo. The drops are heavier and land with a discernible splat. A breeze plays accompaniment on the wind chimes that hang in Carole's carport.

Carole and Chris departed this morn for Montreal via Denver to pick up Chris' son. They are on their way to get their landed immigrant status; the end of a long, exasperating, expensive process. Their license plates will change from Colorado to British Colombia. Their primary identity will now be BC as they join the ranks of ex-pats. I am in charge of the lambs that fatten on the pasture, the 3 turkeys, 2 cats, 1 dog and myriad chickens that produce a dozen fresh eggs a day. It's a hoot!

I plan to get a lot of work done these 5 days that they are gone. Marketing photos and writing queries. I am also deep into two phenomenal books. One about Sharon Matola's effort to save the scarlet macaws of Belize; the other an account of the renegade cutting of the golden Sitka Spruce on the Queen Charlotte Islands. I pay attention to what books come to me at different times. Whose words I am drawn to. I remember my first year in my cabin at Dancing Raven I read only the words of women. How I ended that year and dove directly into Falkner and Hemingway. Now these two books on the last remnants of the sacred wild capture my imagination.

As I was threading my way down Icy Strait amidst those sea otters on their backs John Vaillant's account awaited me. In 1730 millions flourished in the kelp beds from Baja to Alaska; one century later they were all but gone due to a rush for greed and domination. For while beaver, fox and ermine trade opened the west, it was the sea otter that stimulated the gold rush on the seas, with their unparalleled soft coat of 600,000 hairs per square inch. (Humans have 100,000.)

That creature that stole my heart, drifting on her back with a babe on her chest in the middle of the sea spends her life doing just that. Sea otters rarely go ashore. They eat, sleep, and 'hold hands' for hours floating on their backs. They store flat stones in skin flaps which they use to break open shell fish. They now exist only in the fog-laden north Pacific.

Once as "plentiful as blackberries," I remember how my eyes scanned and scanned the cold waves for a glance at their playful spirits as they stroked their dense coats with heat-retaining air bubbles.

I sit in landlocked Kaslo with books, photos and memories of my summer at sea. The word "extraction" takes the number one spot in the vocabulary of greed.

Kaslo Sublime

2010-09-09T09:25:00.000-07:00

I've landed in the epicenter of domesticity. Chris and Carole's 13 acres are on the side of a steep mountain overlooking Kootenay Lake, over 100-miles long. The rugged peaks of the Purcell Wilderness rise across the lake. Yet, here is farmville. A half dozen sheep and 3 turkeys roam the hillside, being lovingly fattened for slaughter. A dozen varieties of hens lay fresh eggs daily. The meat birds (fast-growing chickens) are already butchered and froze for the winter.

A bouquet of fresh cut flowers graces my table---pink cosmos, black-eyed daisies and scarlet begonias. The expansive garden produce includes sweet tomatoes, broccoli, eggplant, onions, garlic, and all the salad greens one could want. Yesterday Carole walked up the hill from the garden with a bucket of beautiful heads of savoy cabbage. "Sweeter than the average cabbage," she said. I can't wait to taste. I am overwhelmed by freshness and humbled by their commitment to land, garden and the community that surrounds them.

I am also relieved to be parked. There is much work to do: writing, market photographs, organize notes. It's sweet to awaken into a La Perla that is unpacked and satisfies my aesthetic eye. Color, texture and function. It is the greatest gift to see my 'sister' Carole again. To be in the beam of her and Chris' love.

In quiet moments, however, I miss my slippery solitude. The gaze onto the sea. A whale breaching in the distance; even the low tide, steep descent down the ramp to work on the Thea G. The final journey to Swan Island has not made it into words. The trip of giant brown bears and Ron's sacred tree hidden inland on Admiralty Island. Of 1000's of salmon swishing in shallow waters waiting for a turn of the tide to make their way into their home stream to spawn and die---ejecting from the water like kernels of popcorn over high heat. Of me-who-doesn't-fish catching my first and only halibut as we rounded Pt. Hugh.

My body aches with memory. I dream of being on the boat, awaken and believe I am there. There is more than I realized to unstow.

New Moon Prayer

2010-09-08T08:36:00.000-07:00

I am in the grand stillness of the ancient forest. Trees 1,000-2,000 years old... before Copernicus declared that the sun didn't revolve around earth. Western Red Cedar, "arborvitae," Tree of Life. They grow in circles. Sacred circles. And no one quite knows why. I walk amidst their powerful presence and look up to see a canopy that forms a perfect circle in the sky. The hole in the middle, gateway to the cosmos. Potent channel to other realms.

Gold dust lichen covers the stately trunks. The tree must be 250 years old to attain this magical veil. Here, no tree grows without it. I approach the largest and oldest in this arboreal temple. She is at least 2000 years old and 16 feet in diameter. What does one do before such a humbling presence? I lean into her. Kiss her smooth trunk. Give thanks for being with her.

She is threatened, of course. Just as the gigantic glaciers recede and the seas turn acidic, her rain forest interior wetbelt climate shifts. Undisturbed for centuries, like some hidden tribe in Borneo, the effects of modern consumptive life have found her. I know, there will be no future forests like this.

I return to the truck and La Perla; remove my rain coat and rubber boots. I realize that one silver and amber earring no longer hangs from my lobe. These are dear to me. I purchased them years ago on the Taos Pueblo at the San Geronimo autumn ritual pole climb. That amber of the ocean was at least as old as that tree.

I like to imagine that it escaped to the crotch in the trunk where I leaned. One ancient spirit joining another. Gathering force.

2010-09-05T12:23:00.000-07:00

Sept 1st
Moseyed across the Yukon and B.C. Found beautiful places to boondock two nights in a row, thrilled to be back with interior forests---aspen in full color, black spruce, poplar. Autumn...YES.

I arrived Liard Hot Springs late morning, my only planned stop along the way to Kaslo. It served up a forested camping spot and hot water in a lush wild setting for $21. Yep. Died and went to heaven. Gorged on popcorn cooked in olive oil and provolone cheese for dinner. I was in NO-meal-making-mode, as I've been since I left Juneau. No shopping either. Hadn't come close to a store.

Rufous-backed and boreal chickadees, thrush, yellow warblers, rufous-crowned sparrow, and Canada Goose, which look much more sleek and wild in their home habitat. An honest to god thunderstorm crashed down from the sky that night; rainbows and a covey of spruce grouse (new sighting!). Sable brown, gentle birds who walked the mossy ground with no concern of me. They didn't bolt. Their MO.

I cut the plastic ties on the awning that Ron had affixed and let her down for the first time ever. Teak and I sat outside in the rain. A candle burned on the table. I, deep into Paco Taibo's "Leonardo's Bicycle," with a glass of Dubonnet.

I soaked three tims in one day. Slept ten hours that night. I debated whether or not to stay two nights but decided no...the road awaited. I realize that I bird to be surprised. Just as I write to be surprised. It's the same with road trips. Or may be it's just that I choose to BE suprised no matter what I do. Awestruck. Yes.

Departure from Juneau

2010-09-04T09:52:00.000-07:00

August 30th.
Up at 3:45 to catch the 6:30 ferry for Skagway. Yesterday's final day was a flurry. I'd finished LaPerla prep by noon so we'd have the rest of the day to play but a call from Ron's friend detoured us to his house to pick up 18 crab he'd just collected from his pots. They were cleaned and cooked; now we had to pick them of their meat. Ron dropped off 8 to friends (their lucky day!) and back to the house we went to get to work. Sunny afternoon sacrificed to the crab goddess. No bike ride. No final walk through the old growth forest to the spawning pond. But I had six packages of fresh crab. Ron wrapped them up good, marked them and stuck them into the freezer.

To bed early. Up early. One last sniff of the Sitka rose on the table.

I dressed in four shades of grey with a red scarf. A ton of sadness weighed me down. I'm terrible at goodbyes. At times I've skipped them completely -- pissed off some friends and hurt others. I'm not proud of that.

I drove into the bowels of the Columbia, locked up the truck and marched 3 stories to the viewing lounge where I hid far away from chatter in a rear back seat. Tears began to stream as whales breached in the distance. The shore passed by as I remembered Ron's instruction on how to tell if you're drifting while setting anchor on the Thea G. Line up a near point with a far point and watch to see if they separate. I was definitely drifting. Oh, was I ever. The rain battered the windows as the Columbia rolled north towards Skagway.

A couple of hours passed before I moved. I found a kid's play area with gymnastic mats and did my stretches. I passed by the chef eating from the vending machine, glad I hadn't planned to eat on board. I returned to my seat to hear a forest service woman give a talk about glaciers. All of the ferries were named after glaciers, she said. The Columbia glacier was in Prince William Sound. The Juneau Ice Field, with 38 major glaciers, extended 100 miles north and covered an area the size of Rhode Island. 37 of those glaciers were in retreat.

I debarked in Haines to walk Teak. We came upon six 20-somethings loading their skiff onto a trailer when they suddenly cranked up the tunes and started dancing. A crazy, hilarious scene. What to do? I joined them. One of the guys told me they were celebrating their big catch. I didn't ask what. I didn't even take a picture. Damn.

Four cruise ships were docked in Skagway harbor. I got outa dodge as quickly as possible, working my way through throngs of people toting t-shirt sacks. The drive up the mountains was a stunning array of sharp (glacial) peaks, standing water, and clouds. I made the border mid-aftenoon and my luck, was pulled over for what they called a random check. A woman searched La Perla; a man was assigned to the truck. Ninety minutes later (I was pissed!) I heard a loud crash inside of La Perla. An agent from the office came out and handed me my passport; said I could go after he checked with the other two. The woman in charge of La Perla had a strange look on her face that I couldn't put my finger on. I went inside and saw a boken ice cube tray on the floor that explained the crash. At least she'd put the ice in the sink. I opened the freezer to see she'd been through it and burst out laughing.

Ron had labeled the packages of crab accordingly: deer, musk ox, sheep, moose, caribou. He'd added 'cock' to every one of them.

I was ready to leave when another Colorado truck pulling a trailer was pulled over and the agents began their drill all over again. If it hadn't been crab I'd have given some to the old man from Littleton to put into his freezer. Made her day TWICE.

Alaska Goodbye

2010-08-29T07:46:00.000-07:00

This post is the confluence of endings. I reach the final day of sea journey in my blog writings as I come to the final day in Juneau. This post is in present time. But then, the present is nothing if not the encapsulation of past and future. All three are contained in my breath. And metaphor has no clock. The peace and ultimate calm of Oliver's Inlet, a several mile side trip into a sublime, narrow waterway through a 4-ft shallow entry is the same calm I found walking the seaside labyrinth at the Shrine of St. Therese a few miles north of town. The sanctuary of the sea knows no bounds.

It is the sounds I will miss the most. The piercing cry and chirp song of the bald eagle; the salt water peep of the murrelet; the deep-pitched raven chatter from atop a Sitka Spruce that resembles a bass drum. Seal's liquid light, moon shaped eyes breaking the surface of the water as she rises, exhales and inspires. The whales...their groans and song; tidal swishes and slaps. Slap, the sound of disappearance in the oceanic Serengeti.

My friend Don Snow emailed me a couple of weeks ago. He said to be careful of Juneau, that it's a sticky place. He had several friends who came to visit and never returned. I understand. This place is cloaked in magic. Glaciers thread down steep mountains and seemingly pour into fields of Fireweed. Rain falls and falls yet the leaves don't move to its touch. Bears appear and disappear so quickly I wonder if they were really there.

I'm not enamored of Juneau itself; hard to attach to a place ruled by cruise ships. I've seen the moon just twice in 8 weeks and my flesh needs more than fifteen days of summer sunshine. But I love how the tendrils of the wild creep into her civilized edges. The night of constant light when I arrived now gains 7 minutes of darkness a day. I can't say how it would feel to stay longer. One thing's for certain: you must love gray to stay. In this way, the vast untamed lands and waters of SE Alaska have been perfect. If limbo had a color it would be gray.

Now to pack. An oppressive weight bears down upon my soul. The avalanche of memories that has eluded damp writing paper. Tastes beyond description as I ate my weight in crab; savored Dall sheep and venison, the gifts of the hunt from Ron's freezer. The smell of dead salmon that line the creeks. The utter joy of catching my first halibut; the twist of flesh as I removed my first shrimp head; coming upon quarter-sized wild berries of red, purple and orange; mama bear with tiny triplets; the wisdom contained within the changing tide.

The ferry departs at 6:00 tomorrow morning. I need to be at the terminal at 4:00. It is six hours to Skagway. I must go north in order to head south. To reach a road that will take La Perla, Teak and I away from chilled waters. From witches hair lichen that hangs loose from spruce.

Now if that eagle will just release my heart from her talons.

2010-08-26T09:01:00.000-07:00

We continued down Icy Strait bound for Hoonah, a Tlingit Indian village with a harbor and spic n'span facilities. Read: shower! We stopped along the way to fish and drop shrimp pots. Ron caught a shimmery silver salmon. As for the shrimp pots, they came up on the motorized pulley brim full. "The most I've ever gotten in one pull," he said. Followed by, "Not a word." Shrimp hot spots were guarded with a cloak of secrecy akin to mushrooming sites in the Lower-48. We grabbed the wiggling shrimp and tossed them into a 5-gallon bucket of salt water. Then Ron took his place on the back of the boat at a piece of plywood laid over the cooler and methodically cleaned and filleted the dark orange flesh of the salmon. Tiny silver scales dotted the deck like pieces of mica in the sun.

I steered the boat by now, and ran the motor that pulled the shrimp and crab pots. I was at the gears at the steering wheel when we dropped anchor and ever watchful for floating debris that could cause engine damage. I pulled in the raft that followed behind us and tied her up close with a nifty knot when we sat still to fish. Proud of that knot! Dang proud of all the progress! Capt. Ron was an unforgiving task master who had no patience for my reticence or confusion. At times he'd bark an order, referring to an object on the boat and I hadn't a clue what he was talking about. As in, "Grab me that gaff," as he was reeling in a fish with fight. Say what? I'd used the gaff; seen both of them on the deck and watched him hook a fish at boatside through the gills. I just didn't know what the sharp hook on the end of a pole was called. Gaff, indeed.

All this to say, my exasperation was excruciating at times. Exaggerated, no doubt, by my tender emotions, as I turned my head and broke into tears. Hard to have a man barking orders just a few months past divorce. Part of me felt it's good to have the structure and security; for sure to be with ultra-competent hands at sea. The other part of me wanted to jump overboard when I couldn't respond in my usual smooth, competent way. There was a huge learning curve out here; I was SO out of my element, balancing awe with survival. Overboard was sure death of course. Well, unless you figured on a Humpback Whale coming to the rescue. Which I did.

I climbed the ladder to the upper deck when I needed space. I gathered up my camera, notebook and pen and escaped into the writer's role of witness and communed with the likes of the marbled murrelets, small chunky seabirds that graced the sea in pairs. When separated, their loud peeps pierced the air. There they were, out there in the middle of nowhere, floating and diving in unison as the boat neared within a few feet. These little wonders lived in old growth forests of Western Hemlock and Sitka Spruce up to 45 miles inland from shore. They laid one egg in a lichen nest, fed their chick herring and other small fish for about 40 days. Then, miraculously, the chick fledged and flew alone to the ocean. Here they were, gliding effortlessly upon glassy waters. The perfect little couples. I smiled...taunting me, perhaps?

We passed teensy Honnah Island and turned south towards the island town located on larger Chichagof Island. It was almost too much to take, a gargantuan cruise ship anchored off shore, boating their 1000's onto shore to partake of their private zip line, seaside bar and cafe. Around the bend was the picturesque, quiet harbor of Honnah. The most beautiful I'd seen. I immediately loved this place. Couldn't wait to jump onto the dock and make my way with Teak into town. Less than 1000 people, Honnah was about 2/3 Indian but Ron remembered when all but 3 people were Native.

I entered a fishing supply store looking for postcards. It was 7:00 p.m. and they were officially closed but the owner let me in. She told me of coming to Honnah from Connecticut with her new husband over 30 years ago. Such a big move to this isolated village, reached only by sea or air. She was thrilled to hear I was a writer and told me of her son traveling to Sitka years ago when James Michener was writing, Alaska. Her boy wanted to be a writer and spent the afternoon at JM's knee despite showing up unannounced. Had we been staying another day we would have shared dinner. As for me, I was basking in the this conversation with a woman and trying to get that cruise ship out of my mind. She told me only about 60 people from each ship make it into town. It's a couple mile hike.

I understood her settling into this place that means, "village by the cliff," in Tlingit. I had the feeling that I could do the same. I thought of those Murrelets flying many miles to sea to dive for sandeels, herring and shiner perch. Sometimes one must travel far for nourishment.

2010-08-24T10:31:00.000-07:00

The ocean lapped a hypnotic lullaby a few inches from my head as the boat gently rocked me to sleep. If I wished a place to birth anew my narrow v-berth sleeping space in the forepeak of the boat was the perfect delivery room. It wasn't much larger than a mother's womb. Dark. One small round hole of daylight. A ceiling so low I couldn't sit up. I had to push hard to roll out of bed, feet first to hit the deck. Okay, well, a rather clumsy breach birth.

I rose before Ron who snored away in the 'house' of the boat, tucked in behind the captain's seat. I stepped quietly past him with Teak and onto the fog-shrouded dock. Mist fell gently upon my flesh as I gazed upon a stunning large, white fishing boat docked ghost-like across from the Thea G. Her name in large red letters was a stark and beautiful sight: PAGAN.

My spirit soared, as if viewing a message from the water spirits. A sister-ship if there ever was. There have been several boats I've wanted to board based upon their names: 'Invictus,' a little fishing boat and 'White Raven,' a spiffy sailboat with sleek, quiet lines. But this vision through the fog topped them all. I never saw a person on board. All the better...it left me to imagine who haunted the galley; who dreamed within her decks. If I hadn't snapped a picture I'd be left wondering if the boat existed at all...a vision conjured up by my wild woman mind.

Ron tells the story of trying to come up for a name for his last boat. He sat in Swanson Harbor, pondering names like I've seen on other boats: Angoon Trader, Wilderness Spirit, Mermaid Song, when in floated a 50-ft. gorgeous sailboat named, BOB. Too funny. Bob...my new metaphor for no pretense.

I walked Teak and shot more pictures while Ron secured ice for the coolers from an old friend who had extra in his fish hold. We turned the boat around and headed inland, threading our way through fog as it gave way to blue sky and utterly fascinating streams and formations over the mountains.

The Humpbacks were bubble feeding off Pt. Adolphous again. This time a pod of six or seven who lifted their tails split seconds apart in a flurry of curves and fins...a ballet of shiny black flesh. Then the miraculous rise from water, gulping their herring quarry rounded up through their movement and bubbles of breath.

2010-08-19T22:37:00.000-07:00

I've taken to drinking Cokes again. First time in years. My body craves sugar, perhaps in a last ditch effort to balance the salt water and salt air. My taste buds take on Coke, chocolate, ju jubes, sweets in any form it can conjure. I don't fight it.

It felt good to be out of contact with the world. No cell. No computer. It seemed right since I already felt on the edge of civilization. Slippery boardwalks and all. All, including dog shit. Couldn't figure out why locals didn't train their dogs to poop in the trees. Wet dog crap, well, it made me slide right by the gift shop. In a metaphoric sense.

The fog lifted enough the next day that we headed south to a rocky area with irregular bottoms and ledges for Ron's favorite, rock fish. I'd never heard of them. He claimed them to be the firmest, tastiest white fish. Off we went into the gray day. Humpback whales breached and mixed it up with sea lions. Circling, circling they rose from the sea, mouths gaping, water and seaweed dripping down their bodies in waterfalls of green. We halted the boat opposite rock outcroppings; one stone island lined in cormorants and gulls. Ron dropped the line and began his rhythmic setting of the hook a few feet above the bottom. Back and forth went his arm, his thumb on the spool, slowly letting out line. Back and forth in hypnotic zen-like motion. Puffins squawked, lifted from the water and shook their wings. Otters floated on the waves.

There is never one thing going on in this sanctuary of the wild. It is a constant feast that moves the soul, challenging the senses to just try to take it in. Yes, the fish was the sweetest I have had; the memories of that rocky shore contained in every bite. Right down to the rain that began to fall. The liquid sun.