Random Pictures and Ancillary Notes

The road pix throughout the journal were taken out the window at 75 mph with my I-Phone, hanging on for dear life. The random joke is that we argue over who was driving and who had the camera during the great shots.

#12 - ORVIS - Petering Out (Ridgeway, CO)

"But you simply must finish. You've always had completion issues with your projects." My mother is half scolding, half encouraging, but I am never sure which half is which.

"Well, I'm hung up on Nashville. It's basically four days of nothing but exile."

"Just pretend the trip stops there, and keep writing!" she fake chirps, which would be her second half.

"I can tell you - I got very good at two things during 30 days and 8000 miles."

"What is that?" she perks up, in what what sounds like a sincere effort.

"Sitting on my ass and giving directions. I think it might be in my DNA." I shoot Mom a wink and grin, even though she is on the other end of the telephone. "Just kidding!"

"You know what they say about kidding. It's how you tell the truth without getting slapped."

OK - that is the 38% creative license. This would be the other 62%~

Final Itinerary: 

1) Nashville, TN (his mother's place - 3)
2) Vail, CO (friend - 4 days - COTTONWOOD HOT SPRINGS)
3) ORVIS HOT SPRINGS - Ridgeway, CO (camp - 3)
4) Moab, UT (Canyonlands campground - 2)
5) Scipio, UT (1)
6) Reno, NV - (Circus Circus - 2)
7) San Francisco (all right - Mill Valley, CA - close enough - 2)
8) PCH 1 Campground (Ocean Cove - 1)
9) Eureka, CA (1)
10) Medford, OR (Crater Lake - 1)
11) Wendover, NV That place at the Nevada border with the casino - Wild West Dodge House "Home of the Cowboy" (1)
12) ORVIS HOT SPRINGS - Ridgeway, CO (3)
13) Salida, CO (1)
14) Memphis (1)
15) Nashville (some hotel - 3)

So I think I am up to #11 with the journal, which I will combine with #12.

#11 at the casino - at some point in a journey like this, certain things become a blur. I was asleep when we got there after 850 miles of travel. All I remember is pools and volleyball nets and groovy lighting for the hotel rooms that encircle everything, including ping pong tables and skee ball! Did I mention this splendorous party palace is ALL INDOORS? Great concept, however...

Dang get me to this room and please - let the sheets not smell like chlorine. There are no notes in the elephant journal for this evening, but I do remember this: we got in late at night, and this time we parked in the right place in one of many parking garages.

Once again we find ourselves among people stuffed like sausages in shiny polyester suits, doing a lot of jeers and cheers in front of flashing lights while cheesy cocktail waitresses bustle about. We maneuver our luggage among old school gamblers and other semi-lost people meandering around assorted tables where money is lost. Within minutes we are in our hotel room (no tent) and asleep - and that's all I have to say about that.

Numbers 13 and 14 on the list are also unmemorable ventures, other than busting a move across the country to the birthday party - #15, which is like Voldemort: "That of which we do not speak." I was incredibly disappointed that we weren't able to carouse in my old stomping grounds in Forrest City, AR or see the walking ducks at that hotel in Memphis, but at some point you have to make time.

 #12 - ORVIS HOT SPRINGS (Part 2 - Eastward Bound)

Three nights of camping and it goes like clockwork. The lovely staff knows us, and I can navigate the stone trails blindfolded - foot is on the mend. We have found the best spot in the best hot spring, which is where we navigate each time. Even some of the locals recognize us and give the familiar nod.

However, both Wayne and Garth the Orvis Cats gave me grief last night. That wasn't supposed to be a complaint, so I will attempt to disguise it as a funny story.

"We just love Wayne and Garth!" she says, referring to the feisty felines who have been pestering me. They are both lounging in the sunshine chair in the the front room (the best one), trying to belie all of the havoc they have wrought during our nights of camping here. However, no one dares disturb them.

The black cat (Wayne) has taken a liking to me, and won't leave me alone. The first time we were here three weeks ago, he tried to break into our tent in the middle of the night, and then jumped into the innards of the van when I needed a flash light. 4:30 in the morning, sub-freezing temps, and I am chasing a black cat around inside a dark van. With no glasses on.

OK - cat is out, glasses are on and I am wide awake. Damn, it's cold. The creepy crawlies (heebie jeebies?) have arrived, so I go to the lodge to warm up, stretch and perhaps read. I am enjoying the solitude - umm - electric heat - when the striped cat (Garth) comes out of nowhere and won't shut up. That cat was going to wake up all of the people who paid real money to stay here in a real room! Back to the tent I trudge.

Wayne has obviously been waiting on me, and greets me as I exit the warm building. Hissing, "Go away!" didn't work, and he follows me all the way out, past the yurts and the lobster pot, letting his presence be known all along. I had to zip fast and dive into the tent so another black cat scramble wouldn't ensue and wake up my love. For the next 20 minutes, he circled the tent and complained that we wouldn't let him in. Instead of cussing, all he did was chuckle in his sleep.

Next morning - both cats are once again sleeping in in the best seat in the house as I write this. Later, Wayne is roaming about in the kitchen - giving new meaning to the word "communal" (hence the exasperated look in the picture).

"Well isn't that just hilarious?" the girl at the front desk says when I tell her of last night's escapades. Hmmm - no it is not. But perhaps my perspective has become rosy, and it's all in how you frame the picture and tell the story.

"I have seen so much beauty, it could make you cry." ~ Brett Dennon sings to us.

"'Homeward Bound' - name the group."

(Note: I used both sausage and cheese as adjectives. I must be hungry~)

Spooky Dust Campground (Medford, OR)

"Apparently Keith Moon was so wasted at one concert that they had to haul him off, and the band conjured someone from the audience to play a couple of sets."

He is telling me a story I don't know, which both pisses me off and intrigues me at the same time.

A classic Who tune is on the station. "So who is this random drummer dude from the audience, and where is he now? I would love to meet him and write about him. Talk about a story for the rest of your days," I say as I drift off to sleep after what seems like the umpteenth hour and thousands of miles of distance and reflection.

"Petaluma... I know that town..." (really having trouble with the snooze... mind won't stop, but my body is in the half-way zone asleep)

"WINONA RYDER. Amber's Law. They're both from here. Used her star power to get that bill passed. Child abduction, shoplifting... Oh - AMERICAN GRAFFITI was filmed here. Steven Spielberg's second movie, great soundtrack..." within minutes I am snoring again.

"You are so making this shite up," he whispers with a beautiful grin.

Day 21 - We are Halfway Home

Traveling up the Pacific Coast Highway is an amazing experience: steep mountains reaching towards blue skies and falling into jagged cliffs. I turn my head to one side, and it is straight up; I turn my head again and the other is straight down into an ocean with a color I have never seen.

Later that afternoon, we meet with a relative of His close friend from the other side of the country, who greets us like family and welcomes us into their home. He is a renowned chef and local vegetable grower (and goats for milk and meat - yo!) He and his lover are lovely folks, who offered their home for the evening even though we were onwards towards Oregon.

OCEAN COVE CAMPGROUND, CA

The campground we finally find at the end of the day was eerily still and we have little time to set up camp (attached photo was taken upon arrival). I don't mean to burst my buttons, but I have become pretty good at the set-up camp thing, although the trusty lamp refuses to cooperate.

"Sprinkle spooky dust on it." I inform him. "That's what my brother always resorted to in Boy Scouts when all else failed."

"What are you blathering about now?"

"Waggle your fingers and say 'Spooky Dust.' It's like St. Anthony helping you find missing items, except this fixes things when you don't have any duct tape or WD-40."

Lo and behold it works, and we are finished in time to take a short hike and see the sun set on the Pacific Ocean.

Another incredibly cold evening. We usually wake around the same time and always chuckle at the adventure we are on, struggling in our sleeping bags to find one another's "spot" at the top of our mummification so we can kiss each other "Good Day Sunshine."

"Great birth control: sleeping bags and close proximity of complete strangers!" Steam rises as we both quietly hoot and holler, if that is possible: we love each other's company so much, some times it is hard to contain ourselves in a tent, even in the middle of Oregon.

He goes on a bike ride and I explore our new digs. There is a low hanging mist all around and within a short walk past the privvies and garbage/recyclables, I find myself on the edge of the cliffs. There are huge campers and small pop-ups that seem to be suspended with only ghosts that drift about when no one is there. That is when I hear children's laughter. Campsites with tree cover obscure all activity, and with the fog as thick as pea soup through the morning light, I am unable to watch the people who belong to this place and time... it is all very dreamy.

As I reach the precipice, there is a break in the clouds and I can see the sea. Huge boulders with trees growing out of them jut out of the breakers and hang on for dear life as rollocking saltwater waves incessantly pound them day after day, year after year. Somewhere, I hear Tom Petty wailing, "I Won't Back Down."

It's not 'clean' like the Atlantic. There are no white beaches to walk on, and the water is littered with lots of fungus. "That's a sign of a healthy biosphere," he informs me. "I don't care - it looks like crap. I mean - you make out on that beach - if you can find a beach - it's gonna be more AIRPLANE that FROM HERE TO ETERNITY. And forget swimming... you'd emerge looking like something out of a creature feature as opposed to a Bond flick."

In addition to their lovely sense of humor and zest for life, there is a mystical mist that hangs over the British Isles: now I know why Scotch-Irish age so gracefully.

She-Dracula on the Oakland Bridge (San Fran, CA)

"Name the singer."

"Joe Walsh."

"OK - that was soooo easy," as JW's distinctive guitar style is wailing on the radio and his nasal love song to the five boroughs of NYC fills the car.

"What movie was it written for? Perhaps one of the best/worst movies of all time." There is a short pause - I already know the answer, since I am the moderator of this here game. "WARRIORS!" And of course I have to waggle my fingers with pretend bottles and do the shout-out in falsetto: "Come out to plaaaaaay."

DAYS 18 & 19 - SAN FRANCISCO (In the City)

I have spent much time in New York's Chinatown, familiar with the layout, and know all of my favorite shops and restaurants. But this is a parallel universe: a major metropolis with hilly terrain unfamiliar to me, trolley cars clanging, blue sky everywhere and the Pacific Ocean always looming in the distance. Same smells, same vendors with familiar tchotka, same thickly accented epithets urging you into their place of business. I feel like I am in the Wookie bar in Star Wars, twice removed.

We meander about and find a great local restaurant - it is incredibly busy and we are the only Caucasians in the place. My veggie lo mein is some of the best I have had since teaching in the mid 80's in Liaoning province. However, His dish is nasty. NOTE TO SELF: always get the veggies because you never know when there is a homeless cat wandering about in the back (lame joke from teaching in China.)

We manage to find the most awesome Halloween party ever. It must be - since hundreds of people in some of the most outrageous costumes are snaking their way around every venue of a mega hotel: escalators and cattle chutes, camera bulbs flashing and people posing. After nearly two hours in pre-party mode with the escalation already in progress, we get to the front of the line.

"That will be $100," a female Dracula tells us.

"Like... for both of us?!" He asks. We look at each other with horrified grins.

"No - that's $100 apiece."

"You mean - there's a DJ?... I don't know what live performer I would see for that kind of money," I whisper to him.

And the Walk of Shame back down the escalator and cattle chutes isn't so much that, because the night has been splendid with humorous folks we met along the way - and the pictures were better.

Son of a Preacher Man (Reno, NV)

“D. Her name begins with D. She’s white and she’s from England.”

“Noooo – Aretha Franklin. I know this intro; I know these chords.”

We managed to find another good radio station with familiar songs and another source of pointless conversation to keep us bemused for this particular, peculiar 900-mile journey.

“Listen–these horns aren’t nasty enough – way too refined. (Pause) Definitely the Duh lady from England. (What’s her name?!) Although no one knew she was white until her first live performance. They always said Hall and Oates are blue-eyed soul. They had nothing on this lady.” 

 This is even before the first words are sung. Another 11 hour day, and we are bored silly.

“Do you know why they paint the porch ceilings light blue?”

“Because it looks like the sky?” He asks skeptically.

“Precisely correct. It looks like the sky to spiders, and so they don’t spin their webs there.”

“You are so making that up,” He retorts.

“That’s what they told me when I lived in Pennsylvania Dutch country getting my Master’s at Lehigh. "I mean, I didn't learn the spider thing at university - that came from the Mennonite family next door," I clarify. "DUSTY SPRINGFIELD!” 

And sure enough, I use my new $7 app, put the phone against the speaker, and win another round of our music game.

"I loved that show - NAME THAT TUNE. Why don't they have a show like that now?" He asks.

"There are all these lyrics shows where you have to know the words, and I am terrible at the lyrics. Great with chords; shite with words. I had this one Van Morrison tune I sang in the Pennsylvania group. Three lousy verses - actually it's beautiful poetry AND you have to carry a tune! and I always broke out in a flop sweat every time we performed. I wanna be the Na Na Girl. Kathy Lee Gifford was the Na Na girl."

"What on earth are you blathering about?"

Days 15 – 17 – RENO, NEVADA

Trip: I must have slept a lot, because there are precious little notes from this time period. I do recall salt flats with stone memorials and messages for miles and miles on the side of the road. We are going too fast and they are too small to get a good image, but I notice it is mostly love notes and remembrances of lost ones.

When we arrive at CIRCUS CIRCUS, we enter in an entirely different arena than we are scheduled to be in. We walk for what seems like miles through lots of overweight people in polyester outfits and cowboys in wheelchairs (“The Wheelchair Rugby Nationals!” someone informs us at the front desk.) Lights are flashing and bells are ringing, and there are more jeers than cheers from a fascinated flummox of fairly older folks.

"Do you see all of this splendor?" my wise uncle from Idaho said when we visited Vegas. "Who do you think pays for all of this?" I can still see his sly smile today: "It isn't the winners, that's for sure." And then they move to the outskirts of town and live in the Long Holiday Motel, which reminds me of LEAVING LAS VEGAS.

We had our first Amazing Race moment when we went to the wrong door after more than 11 hours of driving. I am at the top of a flight of stairs with a bad foot and the following:

1.     My Computer

2.     Heavy nap sack

3.     Mini cooler

4.     Suitcase pocket book

5.     His computer

6.     Leather Coat

He has already descended and there is no way I can maneuver my way downwards. Before I realize it, He is long gone. Not even the crab walk is helping at this point, as bags keep slipping off my shoulders (don't spill that drink!) and I am balancing with the handrail - quite a sight, for sure. When I finally catch up to him, our first real argument ensues. It isn’t until much reflection that I understand that in his former life, He never walked with her (or she with Him).

“I guess you’ll have to retrain me,” He grins and says sheepishly.

My Love and I are both exhausted in many different realms: please recall the past 22 hours in the car and miles of casino walk with the bad foot, Amazing Race moment, etc. We finally get all our stuff moved into our lovely hotel room, even the ukulele, despite his protest.

"When are you even going to play that thing," He asks. "I never know. But when when the mood strikes, the uke needs to be there." And that is that.

Settling in after a long hot shower to clean off all the exhaustion and road grime and Oooh - these sheets are high thread cotton - great pillows! Oh yes - We are finally horizontal on a serious mattress. BONUS! Within steps there is a real bathroom with running water.

The people next door didn't share our view of the universe at this point. They have been yelling at one another since our beleagered arrival - you can even hear their words and epithets. It becomes so awkward listening to the demise of whatever they are dealing with, that we changed everything up.

I grab the headboard of the bed and start banging it against the wall, and it's difficult to contain our laughter. Our fake sex noises overcome their argumentation, and that calms that room right down. I think I might have even heard some giggles. Nighty-Night.

The next day, we lost $5 on the slots and were mesmerized by Baccarrat… and that’s all I have to say about that.

(the Erotic Exotic Halloween party on the second night will come at a later time) 

Arches and Marching Bands (Moab, UT)

Moab, Utah – Days 13 and 14

CANYONLANDS (dusty) Campground, lovely folks, 50 cent coffee; 100% rating!

The Moab Husky Marching Band woke us up before dawn when it was still dark. Hell’s Bells: the football field lights are still on to help them navigate their maneuvers. We couldn’t stop laughing in the early morning hour, as they played the same song over and over again. He is in a mummy sleeping bag, and I am wrapped up in whatever I can find to stay warm. As a former drum major of a competitive band, my ass was out of the tent and in the stands watching the dynamics of an incredibly small, yet tight unit. Later, we went to breakfast at the "historic Golden burro Cafe," where five presidents have dined since the (last) turn of the century.

We visited the National Arches Park twice, and each time was completely different. The first day was “severe clear,” with gnarly, jagged red rocks starkly contrasting against a Carolina blue sky. Despite my goofy foot, we manage a nice two-mile hike. On the second day in the park, there is a passing thunderstorm so this is going to be a drive-through. Despite losing our pass, we were able to tap dance our way with the older ranger lady with the long silver braids into entering again.  The sun is dancing through the clouds, casting a mosaic of shadows against the hills.

One evening, there is another frantic moment when I couldn’t get out of the tent. He is so calm and loving, and helps me with soothing words and kind gestures. It was completely anathema to my former life, when I was made to cry for my goofiness and inabilities and would pee myself because there was no partnership with little concern.

Occasionally I would have to set up shop in the middle of the campground to recharge my computer, making me vulnerable in the middle of Colorado mountains and strangers from another time zone. Somehow, I didn’t mind because it wasn’t so strange.

Today we are getting a pair of prescription sunglasses to replace the ones He lost at the Orvis Hot Springs. We drive 10 minutes outside of town and are immediately in the desert, down a couple of side dirt roads, a wooden sign with a pair of glasses burned into it. 

"Are you sure this is it?" I ask hesitantly.

There is a double wide, and further down the dirt driveway is a log mansion.  A man somewhere between 38 and 60 with a long gray ponytail comes out to greet us. Dad gum if he isn’t barefoot and in a tye-dye. Barefoot in November! leading Him into the trailer. He casts a skeptical smirk across his shoulder back at me, and I smile and shrug my shoulders: “UTAH!” I mouth.

I listen to the local Ute Rez radio station, and 10 minutes later He emerges with a pair of Ray Bans with blue-block lenses and a huge grin, thumbs up.

Breaking camp once again goes without incident. A wonderful day so far, even though the Moab Huskie marching band woke us up again with that damn tune. And of course, those are the ones you can never get out of your head for the rest of the day.