Back Where I Began

I am back at the Mono Vista RV Park in Lee Vining, sitting in the dappled sunshine, having just finished a Haagen Daz Coffee Almond Ice Cream Bar (see why I love this place?  Grassy pitch and an ice cream bar) ready to be headed home. 

Last year I never felt like I was ready to head home; I suppose that is because I didn’t really have one.  Part of my agenda last year was to find a winter home.  Now that I found one, I find myself missing my piano, an effortless shower, a queen-size bed that feels like a giant hug, eating on china and drinking from Waterford.  OK, I have one Waterford glass on Beagle, but you get the idea.   I am homesick, I guess.  But this has been a wonderful trip, a healthy mixture of incorporating some new with the old and yesterday’s hike was no exception.

I had traveled down to Bishop to hike the Rock Creek area as I have done on many occasions, most notably, and some of you will remember, last year when I encountered Nick.  Due to my schedule I realized I would only have one full day for hiking and assumed that I would just do the Nick hike again—its beauty is hard to beat and what if?  I mean, it was this time last year, what if? 

But as Saturday dawned I found myself more interested in adventure, in discovering something new, and so set off for Lamarck Lakes in the John Muir Wilderness.  It should have been a short but steep four mile hike but due to my rookie mistake parking, I managed to make a little over six miles out of it.  Ahh well.  Part of why I felt completely justified demolishing a Texas-style BBQ tri-tip sandwich today.

The trail begins within a campground and, unlike most of my hikes in this area, there were plenty of trees and a lovely flowing creek at the beginning.  I saw only one fellow hiker and he was coming down (not even close to Nick.)  This looked like prime bear country to me:  If you were a bear, wouldn’t you live on a shady tree-covered hillside with giant boulders coming together just right to provide a nice den?  And if you got hungry at night all you had to do was lumber down the path to the campground for a midnight snack. More like bear heaven. 

With no other hikers in site and myself not a loud hiker (I don’t talk or sing to keep the bears away), I figured I had better put on my bear bell.  When I took it out of my pack, Opus attempted to run away; he hates the bear bell as I usually strap it on him when he is running free in the wild.  His action made me miss Rosco:  Rosco loved the bear bell, it meant he could run free.  Unlike Opus, Rosco rarely left the trail:  He would dash ahead and then stop until we caught up then dash ahead again.  Once he did dash behind a boulder and bring out a baguette, but what else can you expect in the French Alps?  Ahh, he was a great dog and a wonderful camping dog. 

Not having a great deal to think about I found myself spending a lot of time thinking about Rosco.  A bit of time daydreaming about Nick and “what if” but mostly remembering my Scrunch and the fun the four of us had all over the world.  It is nice to be in a place where memories are fun again.

The hike was ridiculously difficult but so very worth it.  When I got to Lamarck Lake (pictured above), I was the only one there.  It was so quiet you could only hear the babbling water as it found its way to the outlet and down the mountain.  A quintessential High Alpine Lake—given the lack of people I have to rank it my favorite in the area. 

Despite the cold (high 30's and at over 10,000'), I sat and sketched for a bit (suffering for my art as DS would say) but gathered myself up when I heard voices approaching and started back down the mountain. 

On the trail, I was back to thinking about Rosco when I came around a corner and there in front of me was a Wire Fox Terrier.  I thought I was dreaming I had spent so much time thinking of Scrunch and there he was!  He looked exactly like Rosco.  Then, unbelievably (or believably in my life) around came a second woman with three (three!!) Wire Fox Terriers.  My FA would say, “You are such a manifest-er!”

At that point I wished I had spent more time thinking about Nick.

Until next time, my friends!  Thanks for being on the road with me.

-K

Some Days You Need Blueberry Pie

And, truth be told, a cherry cheese Danish.

After two joyous days of hiking and returning to my lovely pitch at Mono Vista, today was time to move on.  I always wonder, when leaving such a perfect spot, if it is the right thing to do, to move on, but once hitched up and back on the road, it always feels right.  The thrill of the open road.  Adventure.  The Unknown in a place you expect to find it.

But it was a low-energy day for me; difficult on moving days as there is a lot that goes into hitching up, emptying the tanks, filling the fresh water and, the most difficult of all, choosing a new spot.  I had spent three days living above 8,000 feet and two days hiking above 10,000 feet, altitudes at which I lose my appetite and my body is rundown by the constant attempt to bring in more oxygen in than the world is offering.  So, plenty of sleep, but lacking energy from food and oxygen, I knew my attitude was not the best.  On top of it all, I felt lonely. 

Even though I enjoy being alone, I still get lonely--I am human after all.  And this morning all I could see were pairs:  Couples huddled around their coffee, holding hands through the park, men and women, two men, two women, but all couples, everyone with a human companion (River only gets me so far and Opus, well, his favorite song is “Can’t Touch This” unless it is twenty degrees at night then you can find him curled behind your knees.)  But, as a dear friend of mine once said to me when I said that I feel like a lucky person, “That’s just a matter of perception, isn’t it?”

Perception.  Ok, let’s try and change it.  As I set off, I tried to notice the single people out there.  Unfortunately, the two that came into my life were not all that welcome.

First of all, for those of you who don’t camp, let me just say that a lot of thought goes into choosing where to stay and, once the place is located, choosing the particular pitch.  We all like something different.  For me, the top of my Place List used to be as far away from people as possible.  This worked great when Alan was with me and we would often head to BLM land and camp without a soul in sight.  But as a single woman driving a rig that gets a lot of attention, being out in the middle of nowhere is not the best idea.  So next comes Forest Service Campgrounds.  They are relatively quiet this time of year and I had one in mind that I was considering. 

I had camped there before with Alan so I knew it had dirt pitches (my least favorite type) but lots of sunshine and should be relatively empty.  But I became uneasy as I drove down Highway 395; debating about how smart it was to be in a campground alone (as opposed to where I stayed last year, a cool RV park with (yeah!) grassy pitches) and not a lot of fellow campers.

Once I arrived in Bishop, a short hour drive from Lee Vining, I pulled into Taco Bell.  Sitting in Wurzig and eating my bean burrito, a man startled me by tapping on my window.   The one time I wished River would have barked her head off, she was quiet.  The man was quiet.  Sinisterly quiet.  He slowly motioned to his white panel van next to me and said,

              “I followed you in because I never seen a trailer like yours.” 

Followed me in?  This man gave me the creeps.  I remained silent.  He continued,

              “What does HMSBEGL mean?”

              “It was the name of Darwin’s boat.”  At this point I am trying to eat as fast as I can so I can start my car and get the hell out of there.

              “Who is Darwin?”

I warned you I was in a bit of a mood today,

“He believed that apes are your ancestors.”  Burrito done, I added, “Excuse me, I have to get going.”

That’s when I knew I wasn’t going to the Forest Service Campground.

I headed to Brown’s Town RV Park where I knew I could find a grassy pitch, lots of fellow campers and managers who toured the park after dark.

Now, some RV parks assign you a spot when you arrive (assuming you haven’t reserved something online) and some let you drive around and attempt to read the “reserved” signs yourself (this is getting more difficult as I age and another reason traveling with someone helps during moving day.)  Brown’s has the best approach:  They hand you a laminated map of the park with the reserved or taken spots marked off.  As people come in, they update the laminated maps and everyone is kept up to date.

I set about finding a good pitch where Beagle’s solar panel could maximize the sunshine between the lovely trees.  This took some time.  I thought I had found a spot, it was a little tight and it took me three tries to back in Beagle safely (another time I missed a companion, but I have learned to line up potential unseen [from the car] hazards such as the fire pit, with taller items like trees or mountain peaks—I am nothing if not adaptable.)  As I sat there pondering the sun’s location a man walked over.

              “Do you need some help?”

              “No, thank you, I am just pondering the sun’s location for my solar panels.”

              “Oh, I thought you wanted some help getting the rig in straight.”

My eyes narrowed.
  
              “I tend to park at a jaunty angle whenever possible.”  Snark, snark, snarky.

              “Well, I am right here if you need anything.”

I decided I would have to make sure he was gone before I opened Wurzig’s hood to add some oil (no laughter from the peanut gallery about the oil, please) otherwise he would be at my side again.

Even easier, I decided to change pitches.  That one just didn’t feel right, so I pulled out and parked in the middle of a large grassy field, clearly something designed for a group.  Before I unhitched I went back to the office to make sure it was ok that I parked there.

              “I am parked in 136 or 137, I can’t tell which, clearly it is a group area.”

              “Oh, that’s fine, darling”, she replied.  (Why is that endearment so much more enjoyable when it comes from a woman?)

              “Will there be other people coming into the group area?”

              “Not now!”, she exclaimed as she took her marker and drew a line through the entire area.  “It’s all yours.”  Ahh, Kitness.

After that I just had to buy a piece of her homemade blueberry-peach pie despite the fact that I had begun the drive with a cherry cheese Danish.  Clearly dropping a couple thousand feet of altitude has improved my appetite.

-K

PS:  The photo above was taken yesterday in the Hoover Wilderness.  Sometimes humans can enhance Nature; I sat in one of those seats and sketched the lake during lunch.

Ode to Granny

Years ago I was driving my 80 year old Granny to her happy place, the hardware store (some relatives might think her happy place was the landscape store, which she did adore, but not as much as she adored the men in the hardware store—FA you know I am right) when she said, “I love painting because it makes me notice the clouds.”  I thought of her today.

I am sitting in one of my favorite Beagle stops, Mono Vista RV Park in Lee Vining, California as I write this post.  For the past ten months, I took out Beagle just once; and that was only so I had a place to sleep while Wurzig was at Porsche of Santa Barbara.  For the most part I have been content to spend my time remodeling Kismit, learning ballroom dancing, furthering my tennis game and taking up the piano. 

Wow, did I forget what Beagle brings to me.

(By the way, did you miss me?)

I forgot the joy of setting out with only what you absolutely need (“need” being the operative word—Cheese Itz and gin jump to mind) with no real agenda just the open road and the thought of spending time with Nature.  I forgot the peace of mind that comes to me when, tired after a day of hiking, hot shower completed and dogs fed, I close Beagle’s door and cocoon myself.  I forgot how much I love being alone.  Truly alone, not in between lessons or appointments or, most recently, Hospice Training, but alone with hours stretching ahead of me, waiting for me to settle into them, waiting for me to stop orchestrating, to let Life come and say, “This way, Kit.” 

And I haven’t even had any gin yet. 

So here I am, Owen’s Valley, eastern Sierra Nevadas, again.  One of my happy places on this wonderful, gorgeous planet. 

This morning I set out to hike behind Saddleback Lake as I have done twice before.  Driving up to the trailhead I passed the Lake Gardisky Trailhead, pulled in and checked out the map.  It was a short hike but rated “very difficult” as it went up the side of a mountain to a lake.  I pondered.  Go with the experience you know will be heavenly, or try something new?  What if it isn’t as gorgeous?  On the other hand, what if it is more gorgeous?  Plus the shorter hike would be better for River who is still recovering from her unexplained rear leg paralysis.  It also started at 10,000’ and went straight up for a mile and, given the fact that I just spent ten months at sea-level, figured the shorter hike would be better for me as well. 

We parked.  We started off. 

Much to Opus’ dismay, River was almost immediately released from her leash.  We climbed and climbed with Opus shooting looks of disgust over his shoulder to which I replied, “Remember last Saturday night?  3 AM?  Police?”  He could care less about last Saturday night; he lives in the moment.  And this one was pissing him off.

The climb was indeed very difficult, the altitude combined with my head cold made it very slow going as my lungs felt like lead.  But what a payoff!  We reached the top of the mountain and looked across a grassy meadow to a shimmering blue lake.   We were completely alone.  There wasn’t a cloud in the sky, the sun was doing its gentle Autumn shine but the wind was fierce.  The gusts nearly blew us over and it was sharply cold.  I was happy that I remembered all my “do not ever hike without” items; gloves and a warm hat were immediately adorned.

The picture above was our lunch stop; it is a small section of the much larger lake but the spot afforded a break from the wind.  (More pictures have been added to the HMS Beagle Photo Album.) 

Opus’ need to run free was weighing heavily on my mind.  Just so you understand my reticence, here’s a brief overview of last Saturday night:

              After a lovely evening at the San Luis Obispo Symphony’s Opening Night, still dressed in my navy-blue satin, asymmetrical dress, saying goodnight to my perfect companion (Oh!  We can name him!  I know you all love that.  Let’s go with PC.) when PC held the door open half a second too long and Opus raced out.  Eleven PM. 

              I sighed, encouraged PC to just go on home as it would be hours before Opus came back.  I changed into sweats, exchanged my Prada cocktail shoes for hiking boots and awaited my opportunity.  Many of you know Opus; settle in.  At midnight I heard him barking from afar, I got up and walked around the neighborhood to no avail.  The barking stopped.  At 1:00 AM, he started again.  I went out again, this time I could see him, or more precisely, his tail, as his head was in a hole on the other side of a gully.  He would not come, he set about crying and whining; his behavior when he is about to kill a wild animal.  The police arrived around 1:45.

              The three of us clamor down the 20’ drop into the gully (thankful that no water is flowing.)  We get close, we hear the animal growling from within his den.  The den is mid-way up the other side of the gully, surrounded by nettle bushes and loose rock.  The male officer attempts to climb, slides back down, Opus takes off.  We stupidly give chase.

              The female officer is about twenty yards ahead of me as we run up the gully, the footing is loose rock, each roughly the size of a gallon of milk; not quite enough to balance on.  I am the only one without a flashlight so am trying to keep the female officer in my sites.  I can see her general path but have to move much slower due to the footing.  Apparently she side-stepped a drop-off.  Apparently I did not.  I dropped straight down about three feet, scraping my shin along the rocks and landed, on my ass, in a sticker bush.

              Eventually (like an hour later) Opus led us back to the original den.  I told him to “wait”, and damned if he didn’t just sit right down and look at us all.  The officers looked at me like, “Why didn’t you do that an hour ago?”  The male officer sarcastically says, "Can you try "come"?" We all laugh, we have tried "come" for an hour; they know it doesn't work.  The male officer starts up the wall of the gully to grab Opus.  Unfortunately, he is utilizing the branches of the tree under which Opus is sitting to haul himself up.  A branch bends down and hits Opus’ head.  He dashes.  But even Opus was tired now; in a few minutes he calmly walked back and stood next to the den as the officer, now safely up the bank, grabbed his scrawny little neck and held him aloft as they both slid down the side.

Hence my hesitation to let him off leash today.  But given the fact that the lake was almost devoid of trees (I could keep my eye on him) and set among mountain peaks (he is in good shape but unlikely to scale the sides), I got to where Opus knew I would, took a deep breath and let him off leash.  (The patience of that dog!)  He did two good returns for a treat, allowing me to leash him up again each time. 

But not the third time.

He had found a den of some small meadow squirrel.  When I got close, he would run away.  Treats didn’t work.  Someone told me once that the only way to catch a terrier is to run away from them.  So River and I ran away.  About 100 yards.  Every five minutes or so Opus would lift his head, sniff the air, locate us on the horizon and go back to digging.  Until the time he didn’t.

He lifted his head, spotted us and raced toward us as if he hadn’t seen us for years.  This is when I thought of Granny noticing the clouds, time slowed down and I noticed how Opus’ right front paw would always reach higher than his head as he engaged his joyful sprint, his eyes flashing like only eyes that are living their life’s purpose can.  He was the epitome of joy.  I tried not to think about how he was likely to carry this joy right on by me.

But he didn’t run by, instead he stopped in front of me and sat down.  I bent down and gave him a good rubbing told him what a good dog he was, a bite of jerky and a leash.

Here’s to living your life’s purpose.  I find my purpose hasn’t changed since I was twenty-five and wrote a mission statement for my life, “To utilize the human experience to further my spiritual growth.”  Being human brings me great joy (and deep sorrow but you cannot have one without the other) and experiencing life on earth is my daily goal.

-K

I Own A Yellow Journal

It is so rare in life that you get the opportunity to knowingly appreciate a pleasant experience for the last time; humans are good at thinking the good stuff is just going to keep on coming.  Recognizing the last of a bad experience is much easier, “I will never taste Campari again.”  You can reasonably be sure that, if you don’t like something, then you will recognize when you are experiencing it for the last time.  But the delightful experiences?  Not so easy to see when those are coming to an end.   Over the last two weeks I was determined to focus on this being the last Beagle trip and found such attention helped me to appreciate the small comforts she affords as well as occasionally providing a much-needed shift in perception.  Of course, there was a great deal of Kitness evident as well.

I believe I last wrote to you from Cachuma Lake, where the Noses and I had hunkered down through four days of epic rainfall.  All told, over six inches of rain fell on the pass where we were located; roads were blocked due to mud slides and a few areas even had mandatory evacuations.  Consequently, it was with some trepidation that I decided, at the last minute and without any Googling, to take the long, back-road way to Ojai.

This was my kind of camping!  Back to driving 100 miles or less, getting into camp early enough for a long walk with the Noses before a hot shower and an iced cocktail.  The few hours it took me to get through Ojai and into the KOA outside of Venture were delightful; I enjoyed the blue sky meeting the top of the rolling, green hills and the tourist-packed Ojai village.  I could see where the mud had blocked many of the roads, the signs of scraping still evident.  But thankfully I had no problem reaching my destination.  And, after four days of quick sponge baths, I thoroughly enjoyed the clean, hot, token free KOA shower. 

I am not a fan of RV parks or KOA’s but this is a nice one; well organized, not too big, helpful staff.  When I pulled into my assigned pitch there was a giant mud puddle through which the dogs would have to cross in order to enter Beagle.  That would not do.  As Kitness would have it, a roving KOA ranger was checking out Beagle and I asked him if I could change pitches.  He immediately radioed the office and determined that I could move a few pitches down—the current occupants were leaving unexpectedly.  And it was ideal:   Beagle sat on a hill with her door opening toward the edge, overlooking the much more crowded area below. 

Two nights there and we were ready to move on.  Forgetting that it was a holiday weekend, I headed to Emma Woods State Beach, where I had camped in early December.  I knew it was a popular campground on the weekends but figured I would be fine as it was Sunday.   I pulled in and greeted the ranger who remembered me from before (another joy of Beagle); it was crowded, he wasn’t sure there was room for me as two-thirds of the campground was missing now (due to the storms eating away at the coastline) but he assured me that I would have enough room to turn around if I couldn’t find a spot.   I took a breath and headed in.

The campground is just one long, narrow road along the ocean.  To the left is a hill and then train tracks and to your right are the few remaining pitches, just a few feet from the crashing waves.

I decided to pull into the first spot I saw, got Beagle backed in, hopped out to check level and realized that I was crammed between two giant fifth-wheels with all their bump-outs bumped out; one with a generator running.  I looked longingly down the road.  And then I saw someone pulling out of my original pitch from months ago.  Number 17!  The last one on the edge so that, instead of Beagle’s front door opening into someone’s bump-out, it would open to a view south along the shore-line.  Kitness prevails once again. 

It was a loud two nights with the waves crashing on the rocks just behind us, occasionally sending ocean spray against Beagle’s rear door.  Not even the Noses wanted to be outside despite the warm sunshine, so after our long morning walks, we hopped inside Beagle, left the screen doors open and enjoyed the cave-like comfort as the sun streamed through the windows and I caught up on my reading.  (The picture above was taken from there.)

I finally started Homo Deus - A Brief History of Tomorrow, the book I purchased following Sam Harris’s interview with the author, Yuval Noah Harari; you may remember it was the interview that ended most of my dairy digestion.  What a phenomenal book:  Not only due to what he has to say which is well-written, entertaining and provocative, but also the book itself.  The pages are thick and slightly glossy, making it a joy to highlight and leave notes in the margins.  The whole experience makes me happy to be human.

My original plan was to stop next in Mugu State Park, just an hour or so south of Emma Woods.  After a brief stop in Oxnard to wash the salt spray off of Beagle, I jumped on Highway 1.   Much like its northern cousin, this portion of Highway 1 winds along a cliff but we eventually dropped down to sea level.  Coming around a curve, I could see the campground ahead; it too had been ransacked by the storms, mounds of sand were competing with the RV’s lined up next to the ocean.  I didn’t even stop, all three of us were tired of the crashing surf and Beagle was free of salt.  Plus, it was early in the day and I knew I could make it to Laguna Beach by three; I only needed a bit more Kitness as I was showing up two days early for my reservation at what is always a busy campground.

Not only could they fit me in, but I was able to spend two nights in the same pitch as my reservation, so I didn’t have to move Beagle for five nights.  The weather was sunny and warm, I knew where the dog park was, the dog wash, the best huevos rancheros and all cotton t-shirts.   There is a lot about Laguna that still feels like home but I appreciate it much more now that I only pay $45 per night.

Alas, the weekend came and the campground, like all southern California campgrounds I have been in, became Party Central.  One night I was sitting outside enjoying a cocktail at sunset when a couple pulled in below me.  (The campground sits on a hill so each row of pitches has a beautiful ocean view.)  They proceeded to set up not just the ordinary things like camp chairs and coolers, but also gas fired heat lamps.  Plural.  Then they did the unthinkable:  They fired up their generator (at sunset!) and drove off in their truck.  Drove off, leaving the rest of us to listen to that horrible sound.

After five minutes I walked down to their pitch.  I wasn’t sure if both people had left, so I knocked on their door.  No response.  I stood for a moment looking at the generator then I leaned down and turned it off.

There was a short applause from my fellow purists.

I had just made it back to my gin when the couple returned, looked a bit puzzled, shrugged, and fired up their generator again.  Ahh well.

Once the sun went down the partying began.  I was sandwiched between two large groups, one had three tents and three cars crammed into a one-tent spot and the other had two tents and an Airstream.  Both sets proceeded to get high and drunk and, around nine, the pure tent group began to sing.

Rather than get frustrated (you can’t really get mad, quiet hours aren’t until ten and then are rarely enforced) I reminded myself how good a Friday night could feel when you had been working all week.  Remember that feeling?  That ahhh, like the last day of school.  I miss that about working; how well it defined Not Working.  I gave up trying to read and decided to watch some Mrs. Maisel while I enjoyed the sounds of happiness.

My last day in Laguna was supposed to be spent with my brother and girlfriend but my Kitness was in short supply; while driving out of camp a terrible metal on metal grating noise began emanating from my right front wheel.  I stopped on the campground road, looked under the car, into the wheel well, couldn’t see anything.  Tried to go again.  Even worse.  The sound so bad people were coming out of their sites to see what was going on.

A man came up to see if he could be of any help.  We discussed the issue and decided it would be better to leave Wurzig where it was and call a tow truck.  He had AAA and would call them from his RV.  Once he left I realized that I had Porsche Roadside Assistance, so I set off to find him, Noses in tow.  After knocking on the wrong RV door, I found him already talking to Porsche.  He realized, given the year of Wurzig, that it must be covered and he was right. 

Eventually the tow truck showed up.  A male chauvinist like I have not seen in years.  Some kind of eastern European giant with cold blue eyes and a thick accent.  I explained the sound.

               “I think maybe you drive with parking brake on.”

You can imagine how well that went over.

               “No.”  Was my short reply; my green eyes now equally cold.

He set about hooking up Wurzig’s rear to the tow line and began to pull it up the ramp.  There was no grating sound.  I asked him to stop, unhook the car and let me drive it forward a bit. 

No grating sound.

               “I think maybe you had rock stuck on rotor.”

               “Yes.”

And so my last day in Laguna was spent dealing with Wurzig; I opted to drive it over to Porsche and get their opinion.  They agreed it was no longer a problem. 

But what was a problem all of a sudden was living on the road.  When something goes wrong with your tow vehicle you are stuck and it is a terrible feeling, particularly for someone like me.  I have had enough.

The next day we made it all the way back to Morro Bay, complete with a stop at Bob’s Well Bread Bakery (again!) where, after standing in line for twenty minutes, I snagged the last lemon curd tart (Kitness returned!), a pain au chocolat and a loaf of fig, raisin and walnut bread.  I also had a nice chat with Bob who agreed with me that Thursdays in the bakery are much more fun than crowded Sundays but he hoped it would get better now that he was opening a store in Ballard. 

“Ballard?!  As in Seattle’s Ballard?”  Talk about Kitness!

“No, Ballard, California.”

Ahh well.

So here we are, in the Morro Bay State Park Campground, a few nights away from sleeping in Kismit.  If you have enjoyed this blog, take note—you are experiencing this for the last time.  It is time to settle in for a while, get to work on the house and back to work on my book.  (It is still my intention to camp with Beagle while going to and from Seattle but the first of those trips won’t be until May.)

Thank you for reading and for the kind comments.

-K

PS:  Some of you know my love of the Ciak journals, I have made my way through at least three of them now.  On my last trip up to Seattle (the only place I can find them for sale in person), I purchased two more, one for myself and one for a friend.  They only had two colors left, orange and yellow.  I chose the lesser of two evils for myself and enjoyed a private joke in sending the orange one to its owner.  I would never have thought I would own a yellow journal.  Or a house.  Welcome to 2019.

A Nose Between Two Storms

(Two actually, but where is the fun in that title?)

Good thing we hunkered down:  The pass on which this campground nestles received three inches of rain in thirty-six hours. 

The first storm rolled in with high winds and pouring rain for twenty-four hours; the Noses and I were outside for a total of fifteen minutes.  The force of the storm was aimed at Beagle’s front door; getting outside was difficult and being outside nearly impossible.  With the Noses leashed I opened the door about four inches before the wind yanked it from my hand and slammed it against Beagle’s side.  Rain came flying in, drenching everything from my bed to the stove. 

Opus refused to go out a second time.

The morning following the first storm dawned bright and sunny but the weather map showed the second storm would be hitting within three short hours.  Time to prioritize!  First off, mental health and well-being.  Thankfully terriers and I agree that mental health starts with physical exertion.  After wolfing down one piece of peanut butter toast and guzzling a cup of coffee, I leashed up the Noses and off we went.

First stop was the dog park where Opus, rather than racing around, chose to dig after the moles.  It is delightful to witness him doing what he was bred for; his single-minded intent to kill is always astonishing.  None-the-less, I stopped this earlier than usual since my need for physical exertion would not be satisfied by using my eyes alone.  

We walked down to the lake shore where I decided to let them off leash.  I had two reasons:  Other than the one night that Opus got loose in the campground, he has been excellent at returning on command; and I cannot run with them on a leash.  The trail ahead was an old road, relatively flat and I could not wait to sprint until my legs hurt and my lungs felt like bursting. 

The Noses took off, Opus quickly sticking his head down a hole and digging away.  River and I raced along the road running as fast as we could, whistling for Opus now and again.  Sure enough, after a minute or so a white blur raced by—Opus, completely horizontal to the ground, all four legs stretched out as far as they could go until they had to meet, briefly touching the ground, to keep the streak alive.  It makes me laugh every single time.

After three and a half miles we returned to Beagle where the Noses could sit outside while I took care of Priority #2:  Cleanliness.  I vacuumed out Beagle, washed the floor, then set about washing my hair and having a delightful sponge bath.  (Not enough water for a shower given my four night hunker-fest and I was sure to emerge filthier from the showers in the campground.)

Refreshed and lunched we walked another two miles simply because it was only sprinkling.

Later, sitting inside Beagle, frustrated at not being able to complete a Fidelity transaction online, I decided to head into the Fidelity office in Santa Barbara.  It was only twenty minutes away and what the heck, it was raining.  So off we went, enjoying Wurzig without Beagle on the curve-filled road down to Santa Barbara.

Usually my interactions with Fidelity representatives are excellent; I find them to be knowledgeable and well coached in customer service.   I anticipated a quick interaction.  The (very) young lady was friendly enough although she quickly exhibited a pet peeve of mine:  She was a “we” person.  As in, “How are we today?”, or “Oh, I see we are from Washington, are we enjoying our vacation?”

Practicing tolerance and adaptability, I decided to let the decimation of the English language float right on by.  I also declined to get involved in the story of my life; I was still hoping this was going to be quick and you all know my story is not a quick one.

I clearly stated my issue:  A form I should be able to submit online was not working.  She clearly thought I didn’t know what I was talking about.  She insisted that we try it online together. 

Tolerance.  Adaptability.  Fine.

Click, click, click.

        “Oh, I see we cannot do this transaction online, we will have to fill out the form, print it and mail it to the main office.” 

She begins to fill out the form online, asking me questions now and again.

“Do we want to use the amortization method or the life expectancy method?”  Tolerance.

“What address are we going to use?”  Tolerance.

         “Are we married?”

This one did me in.  Looking at her with a twinkle in my eye, and in the nicest tone possible, I replied, “I am pretty sure if you married me you would remember it.”

She looked puzzled, “I have to ask the question, it is a Federal requirement for the form.”

          “I understand that you have to ask the question, but how you ask it is…odd.”

She still looked puzzled.

          “You say, “we” when you just mean “you”; as in, how are we today?  Versus how are you today?”

At this point her eyes went from triumphant (she really is stupid!) to pity in two point five seconds.  She put on her excellent Fidelity Customer Service face and, in a sing-song voice, said, “I am sorry you don’t understand the question.  I need to know whether we are married in order to complete the form.”

Good grief.

          “I am not married.  I do not know about you.”  My entire being now devoid of twinkle. 

Suddenly being stuck alone in Beagle through another rain storm sounded heavenly.

Hours later, somewhere in the pitch-black night I woke to Beagle shaking and the continual crashing sound of a waterfall.  The second storm.  At first I could not figure out where I was and began to panic.  Realizing I was in Beagle and that she was holding up ok did little to calm my racing heart.  It was, frankly, unnerving.  The force of the water hitting the side felt like a fire hose was being aimed across Beagle, sending a jet of water from one end to the other, causing her to shake.  I was thankful Beagle, like all Airstreams, is unusually heavy.  

It lasted for hours.  Both dogs were on me; Opus between my knees and River curled as tight as she could next to my side.  I calmed down.  

We were warm and dry; I was content.

-K

And Again Now

Having reached an understanding about the roles of Fate and Free Will in my life I have decided to move on (figuratively and literally as it turns out.)  Two other topics have kept my mind busy over the last few months, one I call Pixilization (not to be confused with pixilation which can refer to “a state of being crazy or confused” although you might end up there) and the other, Dreams as Reality.  Pixilization will have to wait, first up is Dreams as Reality.

But not quite yet.  I know some of you like to know where I am when I am writing; I am sitting at Cachuma Lake Recreation Area just outside of Santa Barbara off Highway 154.  You might remember that I drove this road about a month ago on my way up to Morro Bay.  I love this area:  Rolling green hills (green in the winter around here), farms, orchards, vineyards, an occasional glimpse of the ocean and usually blue skies.  But no blue skies today—there is a monster storm rolling in so the noses and I are tucked into a pitch, hooked up to electric and delightfully alone in an enormous campground adjacent to a lake.  

As I mentioned last time, I decided to stop living like a poor college student.  I think Darlene was a bit sad about me taking off but her daughter, Kat agreed it was probably best.  Easier for them to move things out of the house without having to worry about Opus attacking Kiki (their cat.)  A glass door thwarted their mutual charge on at least one occasion.  (I hate to admit that Kiki jumped against the glass with paws forward while Opus lunged head first.)  

I left this morning in the pouring rain.  Yep, multiple trips from my bedroom to Beagle, everything getting soaking wet.  I was getting a bit grumpy with the whole endeavor but then thought, “Somewhere tonight (I had no idea where) I will be tucked into Beagle with the heater going and a gin coming”, and that made it all better.  I do love my Beagle—nothing makes me feel more like me than sitting in Beagle, laptop on my lap desk, herbal tea on the table, writing to you.

Initially I was just going to drive twelve or so miles and stop for the night in San Luis Obispo at my favorite hook up site (El Chorro County Park) hunkering down to ride out the two-day storm.  El Chorro’s dog park is handy when it is pouring rain—both dogs do their business much faster when they can run free.  But after drying out while sharing a coffee with Kat at Top Dog, my sense of adventure returned.  Plus, I remembered that it was Monday and Bob’s Well Bread Bakery in Los Alamos would be open, conveniently located off the 101 and before my exit for Cachuma.  Done.

I ate lunch at Bob’s and grabbed a baguette, a pain au chocolat and a blackberry lemon curd pastry to help me weather the storm.  Nothing says Storm Fun like butter encrusted pastries; you can see now why I am so content.  The wind outside is picking up, I am looking forward to the storm, to playing music as loud as I want and to hearing the rain on Beagle's roof.  And, of course, to the butter encrusted pastries.

Enough pleasure, let’s get down to business.  Dreams as Reality.  

In life we have memories of past experiences, these memories can cause us pain or pleasure and no one doubts their importance in making us part of who we are.  I posit that experiences we have while dreaming are just as important as waking moments in our development as humans; dreams create emotions, reactions, and memories and therefore shape who we are.

Take a moment and think of a dream you had, one that produced some kind of strong emotion (good or bad.)

Do you feel your body reacting?  Is there a slight smile because your dream was sweet?  Is there anxiety in the pit of your stomach because your dream was frightening?  Why should this be any less important than an experience you had while awake?  What if experiencing life while asleep was just as valuable as experiencing life while awake?  Who is to say that they are different?  In a dream you can feel just as elated or scared as you can in a waking moment and yet dreams so often get dismissed as inconsequential experiences.

When I think of a wonderful dream that brought me joy, I treat it like a memory derived while awake.  And again now, I can feel the joy, it feels real, that memory has a consequence in my life; it reveals something that makes me happy.

I feel I may have lost some of you but I am not alone in pondering this.  Robert Lanza, M.D., (an actual doctor not just some woman touring around in her Airstream) wrote about the topic in his paper, ‘Are Dreams an Extension of Physical Reality?’ published online by the Huffington Post.  (I found this after my writing and included it as proof that I am not in a state of pixilation.)

Perhaps just sleep on it.

-K

PS:  The picture is from my apartment in Seattle.  I flew up and did a gut check on living in the city for the winter versus Morro Bay.  As delightful as my apartment is, Morro wins.  But I will miss that view.

The Love Affair Continues

Normally I would take a bit of sadistic pleasure in leaving you wondering what happened between RG and me.  But, because the reason for us not seeing each other anymore is the same reason we saw each other to begin with, and said reason is a primary driver of this trip, I have decided to share a bit more. 

If you have been reading along, you know that we started dating mostly because I took a giant breath of free will and, as my brother so eloquently said, hunted RG down.  As I wrote, he was not trying to ditch me and, even better, was happy that I had found him.  What I did not tell you was how he chose to spend his time while I was busy tracking him down.

He took a nap.

Yep, he was saddened by the fact that I was apparently not going to contact him for dinner and, instead of, oh I don’t know, driving to the two campgrounds in Morro Bay looking for a red Cayenne towing an Airstream (utilizing the few facts he knew about me), he decided fate had dealt the cards and he took a nap.

We came to laugh about this over the short course of our involvement but, in the end, it was his fatalistic approach to life versus my free will approach that ultimately closed the door.

Having both been runners out of relationships in our pasts (with my one exception being Alan, of course) we would often joke about who would run out the door first.   RG once noted that we could end up running at the same time and, like a scene from The Three Stooges, get crammed into the door frame, legs and arms flailing, stuck together.  That appealed to both of us; the getting stuck together.

As it happened, following a civil conversation on our different approaches to life, both of us heavy with disbelief and disappointment, he held the door while I walked through.  There are some things about growing older that are nice; knowing what works for you is one of them.

Of course, the fatalist would read these stories and just see Fate.  The fatalist might say it was Fate that made me put his telephone number incorrectly into my phone and therefore Fate ultimately won because we did not stay together.  Silly Kit, thinking she could use Free Will to make things different.

But I would not change a thing.  Having rediscovered the pleasure of experiencing life with another person last summer, I am happy to report the trend continued.  In less than four weeks I had three perfect moments in time.  Moments when I stopped to appreciate life through my human senses:  The touch of another person; the smell of warm dirt; the sight of a star filled night; the sound of dogs quietly playing; a taste of contentment.  This time I mentioned the moments as they occurred and RG was right there with me.  We knew how fortunate we were.

So sorry Fate, you don’t get to call this a win.  Without Free Will my one precious life would be decidedly less precious.  It is the combination of the two that makes life so interesting:  I may believe Fate will give me what it gives me but I know how much fun I have in between is entirely up to me.

In other news, my new neighbors invited me and the seller over to dinner a few nights ago.  Darlene and I ended up sitting next to each other at the table and, when someone asked how long it took to sell her house, we immediately leaned into each other, hugging with one arm, heads bent together, as Darlene said, “Just long enough to find Kit.”

-K

PS:  I have decided not to live like a poor college student anymore.  After a brief visit to Seattle, I will be hitching up the Beagle and heading out for two weeks until Kismit is truly mine.  Darlene has been incredibly gracious but I think it best to give her the freedom to completely enjoy her home; it is not an easy thing she is doing.