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