Veering Off Course

I thought that I was headed for Moses Lake, WA but I spied a turn off towards a lake and wetlands about 20 miles before. Asphalt turned to a gravel 2-track which narrowed even more so I opted for a steep short uphill, gunned it and ended up on a tight loop by a small dam. VOILA: privacy and water and splendor for free.

La Perla strings along beautifully behind Blue, the Ford F-10 pick up. I can not believe my good fortune. Easy to pull, to turn and I can back up if need be (unlike Tortuga and the Honda tow car). The travel stress is gone. And here I sit, with my little home. Everything I need and want right here. Well, almost...but that's okay for tonight, soon enuf I sense a lover 'round the bend.

A walk along Kootenay Res brought me yellow-headed and red-winged blackbirds, eastern king birds, a great snowy egret, cinnamon teals, blue-winged teals, northern shovelers, coots, phalaropes, white pelicanos and northern harriers. A sunset explosion through charcoal clouds.

I awoke the next morn on the heels of dreams of Victoria Falls, spawned by the sound of rushing water going over that little dam. I laid in bed and remembered "Smoke that Thunders" -- the magnificence of it all. A bull elephant sauntered down the middle of the street, scattering people like pool balls. Panicked runners looking back over their shoulders. He walked up to a vegetable stand, wrapped his trunk around a 50-pound bag of oranges and shot it into his mouth. He chewed on it for a long time, whereupon he brought his trunk back up, reached into his mouth and extracted the nylon net bag.

My life, yes. I chew and savor. Swallow a few seeds. Reach for the remnants and lay them to rest. Eventually, I saunter on.

Haagen- Dazs for One

It took longer than 150 miles to find my groove. It took all the way to Salt Lake City. Seven hours of tears amidst typhoon-like thunderstorms that drove the rain sideways. Mother Nature wasn’t gonna settle for a cheap wash, as she turned on the jets for a turn-my-insides-out cleanse. Tear by tear, I bade goodbye to Tom in my head and the myriad good times we had shared. And Pooka, who had hid in the grass to watch as I had pulled out that morning. Datter Hope with whom I had shared a cup of coffee on my way out of town. The goodbye pit was bottomless, a function of being too damned busy to pay it more than passing attention for the prior few weeks.

The Wal-Mart parking lot never looked so good as I dropped out of the mountains below Price, Utah on old Highway 6. I left the water-filled roads and pulled onto firm concrete. Thus ended my record of avoiding Wal-Mart overnights ever since I started to full-time RV in 2003.  I lost my WM parking lot virginity on the nueva moon of June 12^th.  I crawled out from behind the wheel, opened La Perla's door and fell into bed into instantaneous sleep. I awoke to a new day at 5:00 p.m.. The rain had stopped and I headed for the florescent innards of the big box where I bought a special padlock to lock my hitch. I also decided on a dinner I figured I royally deserved: a pint of Haagen-Dazs rum raisin ice cream, which I ate with glee, perched on the step of La Perla as the sun came out.

Darkness fell and the security lights filled my sleep room with high noon glow as shoppers chattered away and traffic whizzed by on nearby I-15. It was nothing that a blindfold and ear plugs couldn’t remedy.  I was full-bodied exhausted and  went out like a light until dawn, whereupon I opened my eyes, looked out the window and spied Laughing Gulls heckling down from the tops of those light poles. I couldn't help but smile.

The Final 24 Hours

There are waves. Powerful emotional surges that reel me far from center. So deep I can not discern what the feelings are...some mix of fright, excitement and sadness. Sometimes I awaken in the middle of the night paralyzed by panic. It takes a few moments to rouse myself from bed and swing my feet onto the floor in search of something solid. I am intent on their passage. I must ride this groundswell that I might arrive clean on the shore of my new life. I do this with the help of a few friends. Those who call and email to check on me; those whom I can call and say, help. I'm sinking. Let me grab the sound of your voice that I might stay afloat.

Last night I dreamt that I watched Pooka walk along a fence line carrying a black collar in her teeth. Tom said no, it was a fan. (?)  She jumped into a hollow stump and a tiger stalked along, reached the stump and leapt in after her. I ran to rescue Pooka, reached the stump and saw her in the clenches of the Tiger. I reached to grab her from the jaws but was stopped short by her calm, potent green eyes that pierced mine. 'It's okay,' they said. 'It's over. Goodbye.' I awoke in shock. In real time she has not entered my trailer in days. She knows what's happening and it tears me in two.

Girlfriend Emilie phoned two days ago. She said, I give you 150 miles. As in, 150 miles until I move from tears and utter sadness to ecstatic excitement. Then, she said, it'll hit again at 450 but you'll move through fast. We laughed at the prospect. I suggested I call friends and start a pool. At what mileage marker will I move beyond the dead zone and into the thrall of terra infirma?

I do laundry this morning. I dump the grey and black water from the trailer and fill the tank with fresh drinking water.  Out with the old; in with the new. Pooka sits outside the door and anxiously mews...having spent five years with me in a fulltime motorhome life, she knows the drill. She knows this signals departure. I want her to hop into the trailer and hide until I am so far away I can not drive her back. I guess that to be, saaaay, 150 miles.

Above Timberline

It is six days until I depart for Alaska on June's newmoon. The to-do list is daunting. I'm down to the little things that require much more concentration. Like checking my Verizon coverage along my route; figuring out cd's (the bank kind); doing mail forwarding...those mundane tasks that gobble up one's life.I didn't let them do that yesterday. I answered, instead, the desire to climb to the saddle of Sharkstooth Peak. One more time into the high mountains, through the virginal green of newly-leafed aspens; across rushing streams of snow melt and mountain meadows lush with marsh marigold. It was just what the soul required. For there is nothing like stepping out of the trees at 11,500 feet and into the barren expanse above timberline.

It is about exposure. Moving beyond the protective cover of the forest. Like in the summer during storm season when I'm the tallest thing on loose rock and lightening makes my hair stand on end. Yesterday it was more about the vulnerability of movement, apt metaphor for my life. The trail disappeared under snowfields as I was forced to bushwhack my way up the mountain. At times I stepped onto slushy drifts and sunk up to my crotch, glad I had the wisdom to carry a hiking stick.

Up, up...one foot in front of the next, from mud to rock to snow under a sun that was eerily hot for this time of year. I took a seat on the saddle at 12,000 feet, below Sharkstooth's craggy point. The feel was one of stunning rawness as I viewed 360-degrees, south into New Mexico and west towards the Sangre de Cristos. Then I faced northwest, Alaska-way and an unknown future that yawned before me.

There will be no map for this journey. I can't even be sure my footprints going up will be there to follow going down. Perhaps, like this day, they would melt into the earth, leaving me exposed amidst nature's grandeur.

Who Are the Terrorists?

The Mancos Valley reverberates with the gush of her namesake river in a ritual rite of spring melt. These snow-melt waters are nothing short of a metaphoric cleanse; a spiritual barometer that prods one to let winter’s frozen issues melt and wash away. And of course, in this high mountain ranching valley, it signals the first spouts of water through irrigation spigots and onto dormant hay fields. The swallows return and rebuild their mud nests under the eaves of the barn; foals hug their mothers’ sides under newly-leafed cottonwoods. All is rebirth and rejuvenation.

This, as the black, slimy gush fills the Gulf of Mexico. A flood of oil so gargantuan it is difficult to wrap our minds around it until we go online or turn on the television. The video of Philippe Cousteau (grandson of Jacques Costeau who brought the mysterious oceans into our living rooms) diving into the sullied waters makes even the toughest heart gasp as he moves through suspended particles of oil and muck, a few large fish in the background. “It’s a nightmare,” he says.

Susan Shaw, a marine toxicologist and Director of the marine Environmental Research Institute took a dive last week as well. She described a, “surreal and sickening scene” as she passed through an orange brown pudding mix of oil and dispersants. She witnessed phytoplankton, zooplankton and shrimp enveloped in dark oil, and larger fish feeding on the poisonous oil dispersal droplets mistaking them for food.

Ask the creatures of the sea: “Who are the terrorists?”

This is not a trick question. As much as we want to dump the blame on some other, it is not simply British Petroleum Oil executives trying to save an extra day and pushing forth on a bad decision to fore go safety measures; it’s not simply Dick Cheney’s secretive Energy Task Force who apparently determined that the $500,000 acoustic shut off switches (mandated in Norway and Brazil to prevent catastrophes like this one) were an economic burden on the industry and passed on requiring them in U.S. waters. As Buddhist monk Thich Nhat Hanh says, “We are here to awaken from our illusion of separateness."

I sit and type away, gazing out at newly greened sage, the La Plata mountains in the background, well aware that this “nightmare” has everything to do with my addiction to oil. I am an enabler. Through my consumptive habits I enable the oil companies to keep racking up profits, playing the greed game. Several years ago I limited my plane flights to one a year and encouraged friends to do the same. “Oh but I can’t,” they replied. “So and so” would be hurt if I didn’t show up for their (fill in the blank: wedding, graduation, funeral, reunion). And of course being baby boomers: “I’ve got to see the grandkids!” topped the list.

But where will change start if not from us who are cognizant of issues? It is time to BE the message. Imagine a phone call to that niece, cousin or sister telling them that you won’t be attending their gradation because of energy consumption; that it’s imperative to switch gears and make choices on behalf of the earth. Take one round trip plane trip a year and make it count. Or if family is a top priority, move and live closer to them.

Close your eyes and visualize what Philippe Cousteau saw 25 feet down: clouds of granular water the likes of which researchers say now forms two massive plumes hundreds of feet deep that stretches for miles. The pungent smell of diesel fuel, gasoline and oil. His hazmat and diving suite needed to be degreased; his skin cleaned because the touch of the water would cause the skin to burn.

Over thirty two thousand barrels of oil continue to pour into the ocean every day. No, says Philippe Cousteau, the ocean can not take this. No, he says, a hurricane will not wash it all away and make it clean again. Unlike the pristine Mancos River Valley, the Gulf has no ritual rite of spring; no seasonal clean-up.

It’s rafting season here in the Four Corners region of the southwest. Rafts made from petroleum products. Petroleum tires under the car and gasoline to drive to the put-ins. Don’t forget the poly-pro wet suits for warmth and those large, soft inflatable pads to sleep on.

It’s springtime in the Rockies. Ask the creatures of the sea, “Who are the terrorists?” While you still can.