Westward Ho! Day 15

Kansas City, KS (7:30 AM) to Marshalltown, IA (11:45 AM). 252 miles.
Notables: Total Miles Traveled: 5031.

A short day on the road.  Honestly, I should have planned more of those, but oh well.   Live and Learn.

adultorientalcockroachIt was a frantic start as prehistoric-sized cockroaches scuttled out of the way when I turned on the bathroom light. Okay, I thought, no shower today.

I saw another one—doberman-sized—in the “living room.”  And when I shook out my robe, his bigger brother fell out.

Now, I’m not an insect weenie, generally.  I either squish bugs or catch and release to the outside.  But, this was sort of the Last Straw on my Exhausted Camel’s back.  I packed up in record time (checking to make sure I had no hitchhikers) and got the hell out of Dodge.  Or Kansas City, as it were.

Once I was on the road, I texted my host, said it was too bad we didn’t actually meet (he’d brought someone home with him last night.  You know bachelors.  I didn’t think it was cool to stick my head up from the basement to say hi), and why I bugged out so fast.

In all fairness, he apologized sweetly and gave me a partial refund (Okay, I did sleep in the bed, but really?).

Me&CorvusIn no time, I found myself back in familiar territory.  I stopped at my gas station, took a small token of thanks to The Cat Whisperer, put my valiant Corvus through the car wash, and went home to my boys.

And, of course, there’s a notice on my door that Radar, the bedbug sniffing hound, will be here tomorrow.  Sigh.  There’s no rest for the bug-conscious.

Home HenryBack to Real Life tonight—Chinese take-out, a movie, and purring cats.

It’s good to be home.

Westward Ho! Day 14

Lamar, CO (8:30 AM Mountain) to Roeland Park (Kansas City), KS (6:30 PM Central).  474 miles.
Notables: Jim Butcher’s audiobook Small Favor (laugh-out-loud supernatural fun).

Mourning Dove, Cabin Lake Viewing Blinds, Deschutes National Forest, Near Fort Rock, Oregon

Eastern Colorado got hot yesterday; upper 80s and dry as shed rattlesnake skin.  So, it was pure d-lite to open the windows of my shabby-chic turret room and sleep with the night air washing everything cool and clean.  Mourning doves woke me this morning; a sound I grew up on and always says home to me.  I’m close now.

Jane, my host, made a real breakfast for me and the family staying downstairs; a wedge of watermelon with blackberries and strawberries sprinkled on top, French toast with a warm orange/lemon sauce; bacon; and really good coffee.

Sour-Cream-Chocolate-Bread-from-ChocolateChocolateandmore-34aJane started B&B-ing twelve years ago, and like the other pro-hosts I’ve met on this journey, her hospitality far exceeds expectations.  She carried my heavy bag upstairs for me, even though I tried to stop her.  She came back in a few minutes with a cut-crystal glass of ice water when she saw my little fridge was out of bottled water.  A slice of her chocolate bread waited for me on an antique breakfast-in-bed tray.

Like Doris in Roseburg, Oregon, Jane did all these wonderful extras matter-of-factly.  Just part of the job.  But their businesslike demeanors cover fonts of generosity and genuine kindness.  These are the kind of ladies you want for neighbors, who show up when disaster strikes and get to work doing what needs to be done.

th736MWWNCI met the family staying in the downstairs room briefly when I arrived; a dad with a tween daughter and younger son.  Breakfast was pleasant with kids who weren’t too shy or too bored to talk.  And the dad had lovely manners (Jane and I were both “ma’am”).

He mentioned in passing that he wrote crime novels.  My ears perked up, but I didn’t pry; he didn’t seem inclined to talk about it.  I looked him up, though.  The blurb for his latest novel, Cry Father, claims:cry-father-9781476734354_hr

In the tradition of Cormac McCarthy and Larry Brown comes a haunting story about men, their fathers, their sons, and the legacy of violence.

Cool!  I’m downloading that book tonight!

(He looks like a total bad-ass in that PR photo, but he was quite shy with a nervous giggle).

That was the fun part of the day.  The rest was… Kansas.  Like Iowa, there’s not much to see; a few cattle grazing, lots of wide spots on the highway that have names, gas stations and rest stops.  But my audiobook and the pull of home made me cheerful.  And a new witticism from my Navigator.

thDNKM0U8QA stretch of I70 is a tollway.  John announced, “Congested traffic ahead.  Cough it up.  That’s medical humour.”  And he gave a very Cleesian snort of disgust.  Just when I thought I’d heard all his funnies.

Tonight I occupy the basement of a young, professional bachelor.  He’s out to dinner at the moment, so I’ve let myself in (per his kind instructions) and set up shop.  Soon, my Ramen noodles will be burbling, and I’ll see about finding Ben’s book.

A good day.

Tomorrow… home.

Westward Ho! Day 13

Durango, CO (10:00 AM) to Lamar, CO (4:45PM). 351 miles.Spike
Notables:  Van Morrison’s Keep it Simple (thank you, Robert)
Jim Butcher’s Harry Dresden novel Small Favor (read by James Marsters, for all you Buffy fans)

CoffeeMeeting my bloggy friend, Robert, was like coming home.  None of the emotional crap I wrestled last night took that away.  He was the thoughtful, mindful, funny, articulate man I knew from his blog and mine.  His voice sounded exactly as I imagined, his clear gaze looked and saw.

We sat at Durango Coffee Company for about an hour, shedding the distance of friends who only know each other through letters. We asked big questions and dove deep for the answers.  And we laughed.

Robert wanted me to have some Van Morrison for the rest of my trip (I love how music-people know when you need a piece of music).  We strolled down to the music store, still talking, but we were too early.  And I needed to be on my way.  So, we took a detour to his truck where he pulled out Keep it Simple from his CD player and handed it over.

IMG_0552I was so enthralled, I forgot to have a barista take our picture.  Crap.  Next time.  Because there will be a next time.

The rest of the day took me through the Colorado Rockies, through lots of little burgs, and into a scape that looked almost like home.  Rock still juts out of Eastern Colorado’s skin, but the grass and trees are turning Prairie.  Soon all that tectonic majesty will be behind me and the sea of fields will take over.

IMG_0562Tonight, I get to cook my Ramen noodles in a sweet, shabby-chic B&B.  Lace curtains, antique furniture, quilt on the bed, and a retro bathroom all just for me.  There’s a house cat on the porch.  What Traveling Girl could ask for more?

Westward Ho! Day 12

Golden Valley, AZ (9:00 AM Pacific) to Durango, CO (6:30 PM Mountain).  469 miles.
Notables: (for singing loud) Wailin’ Jennys Live

IMG_0264 (1)So much for good intentions.

Melanie, my host in Golden Valley, lassoed me as I was loading the car, and we ended up gabbing for an hour in a sort of open-air living room;  old couch, recliner, and side table under a trellis in the front yard.  Magnificent view and another magical connection.

I cut loose before she could give me a tour of the property, though.  Like Mr. Frost, I had promises to keep.  And miles to go before I sleep.  Miles to go before I sleep.

So off I went across Arizona, through Hopi, Navajo and Ute land. There, buttes and mesas dominate; brick-red sedimentary formations.  Sometimes ponies pastured on top of them, which made for an unbelievably cinematic silhouette against the cloudy sky.

MV_dramatic_sky_jan_2011I spent most of the day on a two-lane highway with no rest stops and long patches of nothing between gas stations.  We women of a certain age don’t do well without regular “rest” stops.  Luckily, I grew up on a farm and knew how to duck into a cow path off the road.  Some skills never die.

I had texted my friend, Robert, and my Durango hosts about being late.  Robert said not to worry.  I never heard back from my hosts.  So, when I got to their drive, and the gate was chained and locked, I fretted.  Soon, Ginger drove down the lane toward me.  They thought I was coming the next night.  What worried me even more was that Robert said the same thing; he thought I was coming the next day and couldn’t have dinner with me tonight.

Did I get my dates mixed up?  It would have been so easy to do with all these B&Bs to keep straight.  I had a text exchange with my sister earlier in the day, and she noted that I didn’t give myself much down-time or slack in my schedule.  True.  And no place for fuck-ups.

All this really threw me.  Even though Robert and I made plans to meet for coffee tomorrow morning, even though Ginger apologized and said they’d looked at their AirBNB calendar wrong, I had to sit in my car for a while and bawl.

I know I’m tired, which makes me more reactive.  It also makes me more rigid (Go With The Flow went).  I felt choked by disappointment and embarrassed by weeping in front of strangers.  And really bipolar.

A teensy part of me watched all of it happen.  That part cooked Ramen noodles.  That part talked to Ginger and Phil about their old dog, Zeke.  That part took a deep breath and held the exhaustion tenderly.  That part of me is okay.

It’s getting bigger by the minute, that teensy part.  Pretty soon, all of me will be okay.

Again.

And still.

Westward Ho! Day 11

Mill Valley, CA (9:30AM) to Golden Valley, AZ (9:10 PM).  623 miles.
Tunes: The California Mix (Eagles, Linda Ronstadt & Jackson Browne)
Audiobook: The Number One Ladies Detective Agency by Alexander McCall Smith

I forgot that today was going to be my longest day on the road, so I really kicked myself for getting a late start.  I texted my host in Golden Valley along the way to update her on my ETA.  Unlike other AirBNB hosts, she was totally cool with a late arrival.  So, then, I just relaxed into the day.

John navigated us smoothly through the Bay area snarl (maybe it was a good thing to have missed rush hour) and got us headed in the direction of Stockton.  This excited me to no end as visions of Jared, Nick, Heath and Audra danced like sugar plum fairies in my memory. The Big Valley (or The Pig Valley, as I called it, starring Miss Barbara Stan-pig) played a seminal role in developing my fan-girl.  What is it about middle-school girls and horses?

However, we turned south towards L.A. before getting to Stockton.  Sigh.  I tipped my proverbial hat in the Barkleys’ direction.

Freeway signs warned that the ticket for texting while driving was $161.  As I am now a reformed seatbelt-wearer, I kept my phone in my purse and hoped fiddling with my GPS didn’t count.

Mojave_0551The highlight of yesterdays trek down most of California was entering the Mojave desert at dusk.  The mountains there were a completely different kind of animal as compared to their cousins up north; bare, tumbled rock stacked like the spines of prehistoric lizards.  At first the landscape seemed stark, but it owned every color of brown (slate, white sand, bloody rust).  Sage, scrub and Joshua trees dotted the sear plains.  I rolled down my window in the 93° heat to get a whiff of the parched, pure air.  And as darkness crept out from the rocky shadows, the thrill of it–me in the desert with nothing but stars and a few trucks trundling beside me–snapped me awake with joy.

IMG_0526To get to Melanie and Mel’s place, I had to take a twisty, two-lane highway through a tip of Nevada (instant Casino-land) and into Arizona.  We didn’t get lost once.  Melanie ran out of the house with her arms wide in greeting.  How lovely to have this funny, caring stranger waiting for me!I got a big basement room, complete with kitchenette and composting toilet, with a walk-out onto a fabulous garden.  Very cool art on the walls, too.

IMG_0527I’m sorry I can’t stay and enjoy the desert ambiance.  It’s 7:14 and I’ve got to shower and get going.  Today I go to Durango and meet another bloggy friend, Robert.

And I shant be late.

Westward Ho! Day 10

IMG_0503This was my day.  I could do whatever I wanted.  So, of course I woke up at 3:00.

My host, Mary, had suggested I get to Muir Woods early before the crowds (on a Tuesday morning in April?), but I took my time and lounged.  Still I got there a few minutes before the park opened, and the ranger let me in free of charge.  Score!

I don’t know if it was the super-oxygenated air, or the urpy switchback road down to the forest floor, or the incredibly ancient energy, or just kickback from my “special cookie,” but had a little difficulty navigating.  I finally took off my tri-focals, which helped tons.  Watching an uneven path through reading-strength lenses would make anyone trip over the wildlife.IMG_0490

It was cool and dark.  Shafts of morning sun sliced through the canopy, but few reached the forest floor.  A shallow stream burbled along one side of the path.  Birds layered their voices unseen high above.

IMG_0499Whenever a tree was close to the trail, I reached out for it.  Redwood bark is dry and rough–papery.  It reinforced how old they were, these sentinels with their fragile skin.

IMG_0485I stopped at the same bench on the way out and back to sit with a Guardian at my back and meditate.  The cool, scented air. The quiet footsteps of others on the boardwalk trail. The massive presence behind me.  I was there completely.  Grounded.  Alive.

I hiked for about three hours.  After sitting for a week, it felt glorious to move (even if I was a little dipsey-doodle).  I felt the muscles of my legs and back sigh.

Soon enough, more hikers and lookie-loos wandered in.  I heard German and Japanese, Swedish (maybe, Norwegian), Spanish and Russian.  I smiled as one young dad admonished his little boys to “keep your eyes open now.”  What good advice in this place.IMG_0487

I ate lunch in the café; all organic and locally grown delights, shopped in the gift shop, then made my way back to Mill Valley without John’s help.  I found a teeny, tiny Whole Foods, bought fruit and a salad, then camped out on my little deck to play with my journal and talk to the crow fussing in the trees.

A perfect day.

Westward Ho! Day 9.5

Roseburg, OR (9:30 AM) to Mill Valley, CA (7:00 PM). 462 miles.
Other Notables: Sting’s Brand New Day.

As I said in my previous post, yesterday started out in bipolar sludge.  But, it didn’t stay there.

IMG_0471I asked my Cat Whisperer to send photos of The Boys, and she responded lickety-split.  It helps to see that, while they miss me (evidenced by nervous spew), they look and act like themselves.  Emmett hides.  Henry dominates.  Eating and drinking and litter-boxing continue.  Nothing there for my worrisome thoughts to stick to.IMG_0468

I abandoned my Great Idea of taking most of my food with me in a borrowed cooler.  What seemed like a frugal adventure in South Dakota got boring food-wise and too high maintenance for me (like finding room in someone’s freezer every night for my ice bag).  In rebellion and shear peevishness, I stopped at KFC for lunch.  Then, at a gas station near Williams, California, I trashed my week-old Clementines and dumped the ice.  Instant relief.

knobAround 6:00, about two hours north of San Francisco, I felt a subtle shift.  Like an old TV channel knob, I felt the click–just one– to a higher frequency.

I noticed how the light, slanting in from the west, lit up the hillsides like chartreuse fire.  Those terran White Whales, furred over by tender spring greenery, breached the flat olive groves with house-sized barnacles casting long emerald shadows.  The beauty of all that blazing green did something to my brain.  Or my brain changed channels enough for me to appreciate it.  Tomato.  Tomahto.

IMG_0447I got to my nest for the next two nights; a  real nest in the middle of the redwoods.  All the houses in this neighborhood hang from the cliffs like aeries.

IMG_0451Mary met me as I parked in her carport as directed.  Thin, with a soft-spoken Scottish burr (yes!), she took me down the stairs from street level to the studio room under the carport.

IMG_0454I get my own little patio to commune with the trees and a completely private space.  More beauty.  More hospitality.  More gratitude.  I cooked up my Ramen noodles (not all foodstuffs ended in a dumpster) and felt better.IMG_0456

I don’t even mind (much) that there’s coffee and a coffee maker, but no cream or sugar. And nothing even remotely resembling breakfast.  There is, however, a tiny bottle of olive oil and a toaster over.  The second “B” in B & B, I find, is open to much interpretation. IMG_0455

I don’t care.  It’s a brand new day.

 

Westward Ho! Day 9

Roseburg, OR (9:30 AM) to Mill Valley, CA (7:00 PM). 462 miles
Notables: Fink’s Time and Distance.

I felt the depression move in like a thunderstorm this morning.  It took forever to sort through my clean clothes, get everything repacked and rearranged.  My body ached and the barometric pressure of my brain thickened like glue.

The night before, Doris and I talked a long time about chronic pain, fibromyalgia, and cannabis.  In Oregon, she’s able to grow and process pot for her own use, which is a complicated affair.  She makes “pot-butter,” an ingredient in therapeutic cookies.  And just like any drug, it took trial and error to determine the right dosage.

I thought about my friend, Duane, who suffers constant, chronic pain as a side effect of his AIDS medications.  He and his husband, Jim, supported the law to make medical marijuana legal in Minnesota.  It’s legal there now, but the process of qualifying, registering, and then paying $300-$500 per month makes it unobtainable.  I thought about Jim cooking up some “pot-butter” in their kitchen and how delicious his cookies would be.

I’ve never thought about trying marijuana for my own pain.  There have been nights on this trip when I could hardly hobble across a room.  I wasn’t thinking about pot before, but I’m thinking about it now.

As I hauled all my crap out to the car this morning, I asked Doris if I could buy some cookies from her.  I didn’t know it was illegal for her to sell it.  When Doris told me that, I felt like so un-street.  And weirdly like an undercover cop.

IMG_0458She pulled a Baggie out of the freezer.  “I’ll give you one, though.”

Then, she went through instructions like my pharmacist.  Only eat half of the cookie.  Don’t eat cookies while driving.  It could take two hours for the cookie to take effect.  Plus a list of possible outcomes.  And another list of cautions.

So, I had my half-cookie about two hours ago.  Feels like I might sleep better tonight.

Oh, yeah.  I also saw Mount Shasta today.

IMG_0436

 

Westward Ho! Day 8

Port Townsend, WA (8:30 AM) to Roseburg, OR (5:00 PM).  386 miles.
Notables:  I’m really sick of The Time Traveler’s Wife audiobook.  I know it’s a big bestseller, but I like the movie better (Plot vs Really Dopey Romance).
Tunes:  The Best of Jackson Browne.

John and catUp at 4:00 to pack and sit with my journal (I do wish I could be one of those people who oversleep once in a while. I might as well wish I was 23 and French).  Then, it was one last meal at the Fort’s big dining hall (another delicious breakfast of scrambled eggs with salmon and fresh greens, fresh fruit, toast and good coffee), one more round table of laughs with my new art-buddies from all over the country, and I was back on the road.

IMG_0424

John was in top form as we threaded our way through the forests.  We pointedly avoided any more ferries or tollways.  One bollixed crossing was quite enough.  And I love forests even more than the desert, so it was like driving through my personal version of heaven.  Even the rest stops offered a bit of forest to explore between dumping car-garbage and visiting the loo (I’m afraid John’s rubbed off on me a bit).

IMG_0429We paused at this lovely stop just north of the Washington/Oregon border.  Everything was so green.  And it was 73°.  Green and warm and foresty.  Tiny angels whistled in my ear.

And tonight, another mind-blowing bed and breakfast.  Doris and Mike live a little outside of town.  As I followed the proper twisty country road, I spied a huge buffalo chewing its cud on some guy’s front lawn.  Or pasture.  Whatever the green stuff is that swaddles a buffalo.  I was too intent on finding Doris and Mike to think anything other than, “Huh.  Folks do things a little different out here.”

Doris is what my grandma would have called Just Good Folks; hard-working, generous, no-nonsense.  The house is gorgeous, filled with antiques and Doris’ oil paintings (we nattered about art for a while).  She showed me to the laundry room and invited me to eat supper with them, their son, and another AirBNB couple.  This is not standard B&B fare.

IMG_0431Supper was delicious with lively conversation.  I imagine boarding houses must have been like this in the Long Ago; strangers gathered at a table and resting, safe, under the roof of a Good Woman (and her Good Man).  It feels very homey here.

And now the smell of fresh laundry dominates my room.  Clean undies!  I can fall asleep with the window cracked to let in the Very Different scent of the Pacific Northwest; more ozone, more oxygen, more ocean-washed than Flatland air.

IMG_0435The chickens out in their pen are quiet now (um… yes, we ate chicken for supper).  I visited them before they tucked their beaks under for the night, because chickens this fat and beautiful deserved to be visited.  And I knew Cheryl would love them (you’re welcome).

Now it’s time for me to tuck my beak under my wing.  Sweet Dreams and Pleasant Poultry.  And may you feel the road rush under your wheels.

Westward Ho! Day 7

Our last day of classes.

I skipped breakfast this morning to write about yesterday and ease into the day.  The Fort has a little coffee shop, so I stopped there for a latte and scone before heading to Jesse’s class; a quiet walk through the morning mist to the other side of campus with only my bag’s wheels grumbling on the asphalt and the gulls calling overhead.  Lots of crows here, too.  And owls.  The Flying Ones offer lots of singing practice.

I think Jess’s class was my favorite.  We worked in black and white acrylic paint using a fan brush and our hands.  Primitive mark-making.  And like Michael deMeng’s class, we started looking for areas of interest and larger images.  I loved the energy and immediacy of it.  Black and white felt so much easier than color.  And Jesse was a hoot.  He told stories in different accents, so of course I loved him.

IMG_0412

Details from the pages; lots of little Mr. Bills getting out of the thorny, pregnant monster’s way.

IMG_0413IMG_0414

After lunch, it was finally time for Tracy Moore’s class.  This was the watershed moment. Could he teach/inspire/goad me into art journaling?  Was there a way to incorporate art into my daily journal practice?  Or were these two modes of expression forever separate for me?

Tracy’s very low-key, but passionate about art journaling.  He just wanted us to keep our hand moving over the page, doodling, trying different simple shapes while he told stories about his own process.  He talked about how journaling for him is a social experience, hanging out in coffee shops and bars with his journal and pens, inviting people he meets to draw something in them.  Some of his pages have lots of text, some don’t.  He admits that he gets bored easily and switches things up.

He also gave us a list of his favorite stuff; pens, techno doo-dads, stamp-making tools, online stores.  I made a list.

IMG_0416

Later I talked to him about being a writer who also does art and whether I could combine the two.  “Keep it simple,” he suggested.  “Try it and see what happens.”

So at the Last Night Party,  I sat with everyone else and wrote in my newly minted art journal and pondered this question.  The Seattle band, Surrealized, provided mood music and the door between my words and my art cracked open.  Is the separation illusion?  If both are allowed to play together, what else might join them?  What else might have been sacrificed to my bipolar scramble for survival?  What else waits for room?

I’m willing to push the door open a little wider and invite everyone to come play.

 

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