Things That Strike Back

The Noses and I are pretending that it is raining outside.  We are enclosed within Beagle at 10:45 AM, having done our four mile morning walk (everyone), bit of a race around the off-leash area here in the RV Park (Opus) and second cup of coffee in the sun (me.)  Now we all need a break from this unrelenting sunshine.  (Apologies to my readers in Seattle.)  Beagle is amazingly accommodating; with the shades down, windows open and the ceiling fan keeping the air circulating, it is only about 70 degrees in here, I don’t even need the A/C…yet.

This trip has taught me that wherever I land, my first instinct is to run away.  Landing here was no different.  If it hadn’t been for seeing my wonderful friends, I would have high-tailed it out of here the day after my arrival.   Looking back on my life, I see this desire to flee strikes me often—and is usually heeded—but when I cannot (like here or like my solo trip to St. Kitts shortly after Alan’s death when I spent the first morning in a failed attempt to fly back to Colorado) it is usually for a good reason.  As with St. Kitt’s so it is with Amado, Arizona, but that is where the similarities end.

After discovering my delightful table, which is now officially named 501 and meticulously stored in Wurzig’s passenger seat when not in use (a damn good thing I am alone on this trip—“sorry travel partner, you have to leave now, I have a cocktail table”) I figured there were more rewards to be discovered.

As planned, I took the Noses on “the one hike I could find”—a snarky comment from my last post.  I had asked AllTrails for a hike of at least five miles that allowed dogs and it came back with only one:  Old Baldy Trail in Madera Canyon. 

To my joy, the directions pulled us to the East and into the hills I am accustomed to enjoying from a distance on my morning walks.  Set in Madera Canyon, the Mount Wrightson Wilderness Area is a delight of interlinking trails, many offering precious shade before climbing to the crest of the hills.  (It is difficult to call these mountains after being in the Sierra Nevada.)   Being prepared for only a five mile hike, I didn’t bring along my morning coffee or lunch.  (Alltrails failed to mention that this trail links to about ten others.)  With no water flowing in the creeks, I had to share my water with the Noses, so despite a strong desire to continue on another trail once we reached the top, I made myself come back down the way we came.  Better the trail you know when out of food and water.

Which made me wonder, on the way down the hill, if I believe so strongly that everything happens for a reason, that life turns on a dime and bad things don’t happen to me, why am I not always prepared for life turning to my advantage?  Why not pack a PB&J?  You know, just in case?

I was alternating this thought with the fact that Opus hasn’t killed anything in two months when, right on cue, Opus lunged forward, striking out at a snake.  (Being in the land of coyotes, javelinas, deer and snakes the Noses were on leash.)

The snake struck back before quickly coiling, leaving his fangs on display.  Opus’ fangs were also on display as were my vocal cords as an involuntary scream leapt from my throat.  We backed up—much to Opus’ dismay.  The picture above has the snake in it although you have to zoom to see it.

I could not tell if it was a rattlesnake, it wasn’t shaking its tail.  But it was aggressive.  Growing up in Southern California, I have seen plenty of snakes.  And even rattlers would rather move away than engage.   Not this snake—he wanted to engage as much as Opus. 

So I waited.  He did not move although he eventually, thankfully, closed his mouth.  After a few minutes I began tossing small rocks in his direction trying to entice him to one side of the trail or the other.  He was oblivious until one rolled into him at which point the fangs came back out.  Definitely not the reaction I wanted.  I remembered that snakes can jump and move quickly when they want—it was time to stop pissing him off.

After about ten minutes a man came up the trail.  I cautioned him about the snake and, when he saw the serpent only a few feet away, involuntarily jumped back.  I didn’t feel like such a wimp.

He looked closely at it and agreed it wasn’t a rattler but didn’t know what else it might be.  He found a long stick and began scratching the dirt beside the snake.  Apparently this was an enticement the snake could respect as he began to move off to the side.  The stick scratching continued until the snake was well off the trail.

I thanked the man and dragged Opus and River away—both were intent on getting the snake, lunging for the point where he disappeared over the side.

I am still wondering whether I will do another hike.  If so, I will be more prepared for the unknown delights that life might bring.

Speaking of delights, Saturday night, following a day of golf and what is sure to be a fantastic dinner at the Tubac Golf & Spa Resort (celebrating my friend’s birthday), I have booked the Noses and I into one of their fancy rooms.  This is mostly due to the fact that there will be a lot of drinking and there is an immigration check point on the highway between Tubac and my RV park.  Every time I pass through I want to lower my window and ask, “Am I white enough for you?”  But I am fearful of what might strike back.  A small portion of my soul crumbles each time I pass without comment.

So I will leave you all with the question du jour:  How many long, hot baths can Kit take in the course of eighteen hours?

I am sure they will have big, fluffy white robes too.  I might need two nights.

-K

PS:  If you would like more information on the Sam Harris Waking Up Course, his visit to the Tim Ferriss Show is an excellent introduction to Sam and the course.  Buckle up.

Waiting for the Shade

What I have learned so far:

1)      There is a narrow range of temperature ideal for living in Beagle;

2)      There are two unexpected pleasures about being in an RV park full of retired people in their giant fifth-wheels;

3)      I should be more careful with my wishes; and,

4)      Sometimes you have to make your own fun.

I am sitting outside Beagle, it is 78 and the sun is pouring down, it is only 11 AM, the temperature today will be mid-80’s as it has been for a few days.  I live for 2 PM when the shade from the tree at the back of my pitch begins to cover Beagle and the shadow from my neighbor’s giant fifth-wheel provides twenty feet of shade.  In the meantime, I don’t bother taking a morning shower.  

Despite the abundance of golf and tennis near me, I have not played either.  Apparently, for all of the tennis and most of the golf, you have to be a member of the various developments—I am not even old enough to buy into most of them.  Being quite a bit younger than most, this is the first place I garner more attention than Beagle; I am like a spring chicken around here—often scowled at by the ladies and chatted up by the men.  I think everyone should just count their blessings that I manage to keep on a semblance of clothing during this heat.

The RV park has a dog wash—a first for me—and it is delightful.  On our first day here, right when the sun was the hottest, I took the Noses over and gave them a cool bath.  The tub is outside and I contemplated running the shower nozzle over my head as I stood there but decided too many of the people around might flash back to Flash Dance. 

At one point during my time in Prescott, I wished I had more time to write.  So here I am with my wish granted.  No tennis, not any golf yet, and probably too hot for River to do the one hike I could find in the area, although I will try that tomorrow. 

I have been entertaining myself with people:    The usual Beagle Bottleneck began immediately; people walking around the RV park (they do this—they just walk in circles, never venturing outside the park despite the lovely road just around the corner with shade trees and long views across to the mountains—pictured above) slowing as they come to my pitch.  (It should be noted that the Beagle Bottleneck has an entirely different meaning at 5:01 PM.)  Yesterday a man walked up as I was enjoying my coffee outside. 

We chatted, as one does, both of us surprised that we appeared to be the same age.  He and his wife are from Vancouver although he had a thick accent which I pegged for middle-eastern despite his rather pale appearance.  Of course he loved Beagle and asked some good questions; they are thinking of getting out of their Sprinter Van.  As usual the conversation turned to “what brings you down here”, “how long are you staying”, etc.  I still have trouble with these questions, it seems the only thing I can answer is, “My husband died a year ago and I am still putting my life together.” 

This is usually a conversation killer; most people do not know how to respond other than, “I’m sorry.”  But this gentleman looked me in the eye and said, “You have a strong, beautiful soul, you are doing very well.”  My eyes filled with tears for the first time that day.

I had yet to discover the town of Tubac so I loaded the Noses into Beagle, turned on the A/C and left for two hours.  There was an Arts & Crafts Show in town and, although that is not my thing, I thought it a perfect excuse to see what there is to see.

And as far as I could see, Tubac is a town built solely for the purpose of decorating the surrounding homes and feeding those occupants as they shop. 

Much to my surprise, I enjoyed the Arts Fair, particularly after making my first purchase, a Sea Grass hat (crushable as is a requirement for all clothing in Beagle.)  The art was often quite unique; Wheat Weavings, Mosaics with gorgeous stones and tiles, and, my favorite, WeirWud Worx where they make beautiful wooden table tops inlaid with turquoise.

Despite the fact that the tables were all too large for me, I couldn’t help but walk into their booth.  Once there, the father/son duo educated me on the various types of wood and, seeing my eye constantly drawn to a particular burled piece made into a small Lazy Susan, mentioned that they can custom make anything.  “We can even turn this Lazy Susan into a side table.”  The deal was done.  (A picture of the table is in the Beagle Photo Album.)

Yep, I only have twenty or so possessions in the Beagle, and now one of them is a stunningly beautiful, small side table.  Decidedly uncrushable. I have a simple rule for possessions in the Beagle:  They cannot be a single purpose item, even the corkscrew can open a bottle of beer.  This table does two things:  It brings me joy every time I look at it and holds my coffee or gin.  I might name it 501.

I told the father/son duo about living in Beagle right now and of my few possessions in general, saying, “This is huge for me”, as tears filled my eyes for the second time that day.  The son, the artist, looked me in the eye and said, “That is so cool."  Later, back at Beagle, I wrote him an email thanking him for using part of his life to enhance the world around us.

Arriving back at Beagle during the hottest time of the day I quickly became grumpy.  Then the Seahawks lost and I was even more grumpy.  I decided that I was in no mood to argue with Sam about Free Will but would rather be entertained by Ira Glass and turned on Episode #528 of This American Life, “The Radio Drama,Part 5.”

Having met Ira a couple of years ago, it is a delight to listen to his voice knowing the smile reflected in his tone is also aglow in his eyes.  It turns out that this particular episode was recorded on a stage and you can watch the performances on video.  I chose to stick to audio only.  I listened to the entire broadcast—an unusually long one due to the live audience and staging—laughed, cried and laughed some more.  If you only have thirty minutes, listen to the first part; it is about a woman who, in an attempt to make an audio recording free of disturbances, accidentally locks herself into her hotel closet.  It is priceless.  Be sure to listen through the point where they make an opera of it.   Listening to that and eating an entire (yep) box of Kraft Mac & Cheese, improved my mood immensely.

And so my wish was granted, I have all kinds of time to write between mopping the sweat from my forehead and lower back.  To give you an idea, it is so hot that Opus has opted to go back inside Beagle; leaving River and I alone outside.  Truth be told, I think the bugs bug the Bug more than the heat, reminding me that you often hate most in others what you refuse to see in yourself.  He’s a bug, but a sweet bug.

Finally, I woke this morning knowing that if I had been at home I would have quickly walked the dogs and then returned to bed with a hot water bottle.  Feminine issues—half of you know of what I speak (and in all likelihood got there already with the tears and Mac & Cheese) the other half only think you know.  But I loaded the Noses into the car and drove ten miles to the dog park where they raced around in the cool early morning air.  Then it was my turn:  To my utter joy, I pulled up behind a 911 Turbo at, oh hallelujah, the on-ramp of the highway. 

It took me a bit of teasing but I managed to get him to race.  When both lanes of the freeway opened up, so did we.  An obvious gentleman, he let me get to 120 before he flew by, his hand a white blur as it waved out of his sunroof.

Sometimes you have to find your own fun.

-K

Connecting the Dots

Last summer, I was enjoying a glass of wine with a friend while she entertained me with stories of the many interesting projects she has pulled together over the years.  She is one of those people who talks to everyone and ends up bringing people together at just the right time to accomplish amazing things (like teaching girls who have been rescued from the sex trade how to sew—see?  Not your everyday projects.)  Marveling at how she pulls it all together, I asked her,

               “How do you do it?”

               “I just connect the dots.”

               “Damn, I need to get myself some dots.”

We shared a good laugh; as with most humorous statements, it was mostly funny because it was true.

***

Right now I am sitting in the DeAnza RV Resort in Amado, Arizona, just north of Tubac, my first night here; I am tired after towing down from Prescott.   Once you leave Prescott, it is an ugly drive to be sure, until you get south of Tucson where you find mesas filled with low trees and tall bushes drawing your eye across to the mountains in the distance.  It is surprisingly beautiful.

My pitch is lovely, I have a gorgeous view of said mountains and, being the small rig among the giant bus-like RV’s, ample room in my pebble filled area.  I am looking forward to meeting up with some dear friends and spending some time discovering this area.  If my friends like it, I am sure to like it as well; over the last five years, we have managed to live as neighbors in two different states.

Let me connect a few dots here:  I last wrote from San Diego where my sole purpose was to visit friends and family and for that, it was priceless.  But I could not wait to hitch up and drive away from the chain linked nightmare that is the Mission Bay RV Park.  I hit the road as early as a dog walk, tank clean-out and hitch up would allow and headed toward Prescott, Arizona.

I have been to Prescott numerous times over the years as my parents have lived there for, I think, over 20 years now.  I have driven up from Laguna and Phoenix but never from San Diego.  So I headed out I-8 East, anticipating the dry and desolate landscape I was sure to see after leaving the water’s edge.

But, as with so many things on this trip, I was completely surprised.  Driving east from San Diego, the hills began to pop up and they look just like the hills that surrounded me in Ramona while growing up.  The same sage- and low brush- filled slopes with rocks that jut out every which way.  And soft looking rocks, light in color and mild in shape.  But some quite large:  Boulders.  I was taken back to my (what I call) formative years, sixth through twelfth grade, when I would walk along the many trails from our house, usually dog in tow, climb the hills and sit on the giant rocks.  They are such fond memories.  I guess I should not be surprised at my affinity for hiking.

Of course, I flashed back to that memory I alluded to in the prior post.  It was such an innocent time in my life; the most innocent love I have experienced.  As life would have it, Modern English’s “I’ll Stop the World” came on my playlist—it was “our” song.  (Just to give you an idea of the randomness of this, I have over 300 songs on my playlist and it is set to shuffle.  I have not heard this song in months.)   I love life when it turns like that.

Unfortunately, the rest of the drive was horrendous.  Long, hot, boring.  I arrived in Prescott with the intention of having dinner with my parents but I was too stressed out.  Eight hours on the road and the last half hour is twists and turns so sharp I was down to 25 mph.  That’s what it takes to get back into the mountains.  I begged off seeing my folks and instead downloaded the new Sam Harris Waking Up App (finally available on Android!) and began the course.   Sam is a neuro-scientist whose main philosophy (and the subtitle of his book, Waking Up) is “spirituality without religion.”  I thought we were soul mates.  I could not wait to begin the course.

You can do the lessons in any order, so I swiped through a couple before seeing, “Free Will”.  Yes!  This was for me!  I love free will, I live for free will, I would rather die than not have free will. 

Sam does not believe in free will.

I will leave it to you if you want to investigate this more.  I will say this, he has a good argument but I am a long way from taking that side.  This is great though, this is just what I wanted out of this trip:  tests; new ideas; and maybe a dot or two.

My four days in Prescott flew by:  I discovered a friendly and competitive tennis group who quickly adopted me for their Tuesday/Thursday Cardio Tennis hour and took a ninety minute private lesson on Wednesday from the Pro.  Wow, did that feel good!  Other than two days hitting against a backboard in Bishop I have not played since leaving Seattle and I missed it terribly.  I was sore and relished that feeling. 

My campground in Prescott, the Point of Rocks RV Park, was nestled near Watson Lake, up on a hill with trees and boulders to maneuver through.  Ideal.  (No sarcasm, it was ideal.)  I could take the dogs right from my pitch and hike trails for as long as I wanted.  The first morning I hiked over to Watson Lake (the photo above) and, when the trail became nothing but rocks, I noticed a sign that said, “Follow the dots”, looked down, saw white dots here and there along the way and thought, "I have dots!".    

Opus’ favorite route, however, was the six mile round trip to the off leash dog park where he ran so fast through all the people and dogs that one man put his hands on his hips like a super hero, puffed out his chest and said, “Mighty Dog!  The fastest dog on earth!”  I love finding funny people, people who are not afraid to be who they are wherever they are.

“Nirvana for now” is what I texted a friend of mine.  And it was nirvana for four days.  I even took over my Mom’s kitchen and roasted a (free range, organic) chicken and vegetables for dinner one night—a treat since Beagle does not have an oven.

I enjoyed my time there so much, and the tennis folks were so welcoming, that I exercised free will (yes!) and changed up my plan a bit.  I will be here in the Tubac area for about a week before returning to Prescott for a week on my way to Palm Desert.  

No rest for the experience seekers.

-K

San Diego - Past, Present & Future

I am sitting at the Mission Bay RV Park staring through two sets of chain link fence to my “water view.” On the other side of the bay sit RVs enjoying a water view in a less prison-like environment. I'm wondering what I did wrong.  

I am also thinking about a memory that has been coming back to me for 35 years now. It comes back at odd moments, and different parts of the evening come back to me at different times. It's funny that I'm parked now a few miles from where most of the evening took place. Maybe this time I will come to understand why it weighs on my mind. It's a delightful memory, but not one so delightful that it should garner so much attention.  It is a puzzle.

My short trip here from Laguna Beach was long on drama.  As usual the night before a towing day, I made a plan for the morning pack-up. I was in Crystal Cove State Beach outside of Laguna and check-out time wasn't until 1. So I decided that I would get up and do my normal four mile walk in town, eat breakfast at Zinc, and follow it all up with a trip to the dog park. I would return back to Beagle, give her a nice good clean out and vacuum Wurzig. Finally, I would take a shower before hitting the road.

But life had other plans:  After falling asleep that evening with this great plan laid out, Opus woke me at two by vomiting all over my comforter.  Lovely.

Remember though, I am working on being more tolerant and adaptable.  So no big deal, I would use the laundromat as the center of my town walk, returning to move the loads around when appropriate.

Despite the addition of a laundromat, the morning went rather smoothly. I enjoyed my last breakfast at Zinc (where a man enjoyed Opus’ nose pressed into his calf--or so he said), and the dogs enjoyed a good run at the dog park. It was when we got back to camp that things completely fell apart. It was about 11, the sun was beaming down and those nasty little flies were back out.  It seems I was going to depart in much the same manner as I arrived.

But I persevered. I washed out Beagle then hooked up the vacuum and set to work on Wurzig.  A few minutes in, River started barking madly at passing dogs.  She was jumping around, kicking up dirt everywhere.  Dirt that blew into Wurzig’s open doors.  Opus, not one to be ignored, was crying to get into Beagle because the flies were driving him nuts. 

I calmed River and decided to let Opus into Beagle. I had just moved my freshly laundered comforter back inside. I unhooked Opus and he jumped right in and to his usual spot on top of the comforter.

I went back outside to untangle River. That's when I noticed that her tie-out had wrapped around the ball of the trailer hitch which was covered in grease. This grease was now all over her line, so I wiped it down as I untangled her. I went inside to wash my hands, and I noticed that there were black spots on my comforter. I looked at Opus and realized that he had some new black spots of his own. During the tangle, grease had apparently gotten everywhere. And now it was all over my nice clean comforter. At that point, nature kicked in and a giant wind gust blew a funnel of dirt inside Beagle.

I said out loud, to no one in particular, and in a very intolerant tone, “This is a disaster!”

It was too hot to leave the dogs in the car or the trailer so I had to give up on taking a shower before departing. At that point, I just packed everything up as fast as I could--I couldn't wait to get off of that fly-filled dirt pitch.

I drove up to the dump station, cleaned out the tanks, and hit the road a sweaty dirty mess.  Yep, just like when I arrived.

Thankfully, I only had to drive about an hour and a half down to San Diego.  About mid-way, I thought back on my morning and said again, this time laughing, "That was a disaster!"

I was looking forward to my water view at the Mission Bay RV Park. Imagine my dismay when I backed into my spot, saw the chain link fence, and then proceeded to be “entertained” by my neighbor with his outdoor television.  Outdoor.  Television.

Tolerance and adaptability began to fly out the window; an hour later I was one click away from checking in to the San Diego Westin. But when it comes right down to it, hoteling with two dogs is not that pleasant. So I decided to stay where I was and change my perception. I will see through the chain-link fence, right to my friends and family with whom I have so little time.

Since writing that I have completely enjoyed my time in San Diego:  Seeing family and friends; driving on the freeways (not nearly as much traffic as Seattle and, when it is clear, everyone drives as fast as possible); visiting familiar neighborhoods and my favorite city park, Balboa (the photo above is of the park building where I worked as a stenographer for the San Diego Parks & Recreation Department—best place to go to work ever!); relishing the knowledge of how to get from one spot to another without the aid of Google.  It almost feels like home.

Almost. 

You see, in Southern California, you cannot ever get away from the sound of other people.  It is what drove me out of here years ago; even when walking in the woods or through a park, you can always hear other voices—and I know they are outside of my head as they are rarely speaking English. 
It is what will keep me moving forward but not until I enjoy this water view for one more day.

As for that memory?  Still no idea why it visits me.  I am thankful it is a pleasant one.

-K

Laguna

I’ll just be straight with you, I am sitting inside Beagle, with a late October summer breeze blowing through, sunshine pouring in the windows onto two sleeping dogs, it is 12:30 pm, and I am completely, painfully, hung-over.  If I wanted, I could walk ¼ mile down to the beach and lay in the sun but I find my desire is lacking; I can easily spend all day in the sun if hiking, playing tennis or golfing, but cannot find any enjoyment in just lying there anymore.  That is probably a crime in Laguna Beach, California.

This is night four and my final full day at Crystal Cove State Beach Campground, a spot chosen for its proximity to Laguna (three miles north on Highway 1) and because, eight years ago, after moving our few belongings into a 10x10 storage locker and turning over the keys of our gorgeous ocean view home to our renters, Alan and I pulled in here and camped for our first night of the Aventura.   I remember it like it was yesterday, the exhaustion that hit when I finally sat still, the disarming feeling of being homeless, the quiet between us as we both thought, “What in the hell did we just do?”

Arriving here on Sunday held its own amount of exhaustion and questioning of intent.  After six hours on various California highways, the Noses and I arrived here around 3:30 PM, hot and sweaty in the 83 degrees.  There is no shade in the pitch (and Beagle does not have an awning), I was constantly swatting (and Opus snapping) at tiny flies that buzzed my ears and the Noses’ eyes as I disconnected Wurzig.  My neighbor’s outdoor speaker was blaring 70’s rock and I was wondering, “What in the hell did I just do?”  I left the serene solitude of the mountains for this crush of humanity.

But as I was reminded by my BF at our delightful dinner the following evening; that is true about anything in life—there are going to be days that are sublime and days that you just want to grind into the dirt with the heel of your shoe.  Preferably not Louboutins.

Eventually I had to ask my neighbor to turn down his music; I could not hear my radio broadcast of Sunday Night Football (which, incidentally, I find much more enjoyable than watching on TV—not that I have a TV option.  I envision the plays called by the announcer and it makes my brain feel all spongy much like it does when I paint.)  Once my neighbor turned down his music, I realized that for once Beagle’s back door opened onto relative wilderness; if you can call the Pacific Ocean wilderness.  So I snapped the screen into place and opened the rear door.  Immediately the ocean breeze began to blow through carrying that lovely Southern California combination of sea, salt, sun and sagebrush.  I had a whole new attitude. 

And a gin. 

And some Cheese Itz.

The next morning, after taking the Noses on their initial one mile walk around the campground, I loaded them into Wurzig and drove into Laguna.  It could have been Monday morning or an afternoon over thirty years ago, that view up the hill into town was the same breath-taking view from my first visit (pictured above.)  As part of my job with UDC Homes, I had come up from San Diego to meet with an architect in Newport Beach and decided to take Highway 1 back down.  That was when I fell in love with Laguna.

As I learned while living here, the best time to enjoy Laguna Beach is between the hours of 7 and 10 AM; the streets are quiet, mostly just the locals walking their dogs, a few people heading off to work in their Porsches, Ferraris, Maseratis and delightfully quiet Teslas.  People coming in to work arrive via mass transit. 

We walked for four more miles, stopped at a self-serve dog wash (there is a great picture of Opus in the photo album trying to get into the shop), and ended up at my old favorite, Zinc, for coffee and, that morning, heuvos rancheros.  It was lovely to sit in the dappled sun of their patio, River asleep at my feet and Opus garnering attention from every direction.  The coffee was exactly the same, absolutely delicious.

All of our mornings have been that way.  I decided that I would eat out as much as possible because the food is excellent and, really, the best way to enjoy Laguna is to be a tourist.

As I mentioned, I dined with my long time BF (since we were 16!) at Javier’s on my second night, a delightful time despite the slimy pick-up joint feeling of the place—par for the course in Orange County.  Last night I met up with dear friends for dinner at their campsite (they have lived in Laguna for decades but were doing a “stay-cation” camping trip down at Doheny State Beach.)  Wonderful people those two, although the next day is always a bit rough.

Naturally I brought a bottle of wine last night, although picking out wine for them is daunting.  I presented it with all my caveats ready, “I have never had this, I bought it because (a) it was French, (b) it was at Zinc and (c) it is a beautiful color.”  They knew it well having recently had some friends from France here who, when they saw that bottle, declared it to be some of the best wine from that region.  That is my life in a nutshell right now; my intuition is spot on.   The wine was so delicious I bought three bottles to take on the road.

My afternoons have been varied; the first day I took everything out of Beagle and cleaned her thoroughly.  The second day I left the Noses inside and walked down to the beach, lay in the sun just long enough to get hot enough to jump into the sea and emerge breathless.  Yesterday, after doing some shopping, I returned home, opened up Beagle’s doors and read Shantaram for two delightful hours in the world’s cutest screened-in porch.

Today, obviously, I am writing but not without furtive, hopeful glances toward the book.  It’s a good one.  Tomorrow we leave for San Diego. 

Some days I think I won’t be able to do this much longer, other days I think I will live like this forever. 

-K

Fresh Trials

Bishop is the town I envisioned when I started to think about this trip:  It has a public tennis court with a backboard, world-class hiking just minutes away, tons of sunshine, at least two bakeries and a golf course right next to my RV Park.  If I didn’t have commitments down in Southern California, I would stay here until the snow begins to fall. 

As it is, I am here for four nights.  I have been trading time between hiking and tennis and, like today, lying in the sun reading a good book.

Brown’s Town RV Park is two miles from the tennis courts and dog park—a perfect morning walk.  Checking in they didn’t have any hook up spots available (this weather is incredible—70’s during the day and bright sunshine here in the middle of October.)  So I opted to take a spot in the “dry camping” area as I didn’t need any more water nor electricity (Beagle has solar) nor a dump for four days.  It is like staying in the middle of a park:   Green grass, very few other RV’ers, it is delightful. 

Maybe it is the Californians, maybe it is my new attitude toward fellow humans or maybe it just comes from being alone but my interactions with others has picked up in the oddest of spots:  The hiking trails.  On all of my hikes I have taken the time to engage people in conversation, albeit only if they start the conversation first.  But at least I am a willing participant.  Yesterday’s hike was the most prolific as well as enchanting.

I started up Rock Creek toward Long Lake.  It was a favorite of Alan’s and mine years ago and did not disappoint.  The drive to the trail head alone is stunning with the leaves turning color, a creek running along the road and a jagged, glacier filled peak in the distance.  I remember the hike to Long Lake being a very tiring one—I must not have been in very good shape back then despite how I felt.   Yesterday the hike to Long Lake felt like nothing. 

Arriving into the parking area, I could see that, as usual, everyone was in pairs or groups of humans with the exception of myself and one man with a German Sheppard.  This man, let’s call him Nick, and I parked near to each other and said good morning, smiling shyly, our eyes lighting with a sparkle of understanding as to our uncompromising natures; being alone, we were going to hike alone.  His dog was running free in the parking lot so I was keeping an eye out to make sure he started up the trail before I did. 

Unfortunately, he did not get far as, shortly after the start of the trail, I saw his dog waiting patiently outside the bathroom.  Still off leash, I figured my best bet was to let Opus and River off too—Opus could run his way out of trouble and River is always more friendly off leash.  Besides, surely no one would leave their dog off leash and unattended unless the dog was friendly.

As expected, Opus immediately ran up to the dog and they began to play.  River charged him all tough and growling; he looked at her like, “What the hell?” before returning to play.  I walked by and, unbelievably, both dogs joined me as we headed up the trail.

The day was stunning with the crisp blue sky reflected in the lakes and I stopped at Box Lake to enjoy my morning coffee.  Soon after my break I met my first conversationalists; two men who were heading up to Morgan Pass.   They asked me how far I was going and I replied that I didn’t have any idea.  My agenda was to find a nice spot for coffee (check!), then one for lunch and that’s about it.  The three of us started hiking together but it was clear that I was much faster so we parted; we chatted amiably again when I caught them on the way out.

The second couple were probably in their 70’s, a man and woman, who had clearly done this hike many times.  They too asked how far I was going (is this new?  Or is this what hikers say to each other when they, you know, speak to each other?) and when I said I had never been past Long Lake they suggested that I continue up to Gem Lakes, that I looked like I could easily make it there.  Very sweet. 

I had a bit of a start when I first saw Long Lake.  For my hiking readers, it is that kind of lake where you don’t see it coming; maybe you are hiking up a hill to it or coming through trees.  With Long Lake it is a bit of both.  When I came to the top of the rise and through the trees, there it was (it is the picture above) and it made me cry.  It is one of my favorite memories of Alan and Rosco—the first time Rosco, being blind and old, had to be “bagged and tagged” as we would say, carried in Alan’s backpack.  But not before enjoying a nap in the sunny grass alongside the shore while Alan fished.  I could almost see them there still.  It is amazing how much memories can hurt.  But I think Alan would be proud of me for being out there, almost as proud as he would be of Opus for his perfect off-leash behavior.  Almost. 

I blew my nose, dried my tears and continued on.

As it turns out, there was someone standing in the grass alongside the shore, Nick with the German Sheppard.  Opus caught sight of his friend coming out of the water and raced across the meadow to play.  River followed Opus across the meadow, I decided to keep to the trail. 

Nick walked over and met me at the trail. 

               “Hello again”, he ventured.

               “Hi, apparently Opus is in love with your dog.  He’s very sweet by the way.”

               “Yes, he’s a good guy.”  As we watched them chase each other around the meadow, Nick’s dog teasing Opus with a stick. 

               “River was a bit of a drama queen when they first met and your dog didn’t even give her the time of day.”

               “We do a lot of hiking and only where he can run free so he is well socialized.”

I had continued walking, albeit more slowly, up the trail, Nick following along as we continued to watch the dogs race around the meadow.  When I stopped, he came up alongside.

               “What a gorgeous day for a hike”, look at me starting conversations! I thought.

               “Absolutely, but it gets a little cold at night—mid 20’s and we are camping”, he replied before adding, “Actually, it is a bit nippy right now.”  Standing there in a snug, short sleeve t-shirt, the entire world could see that it was nippy.  Since my shy side was suddenly taking over, he kept talking.

               “How far are you going?”  (Again with that question.)

               “Well, I found a stunning spot for coffee and next up is finding a beautiful spot for lunch.  Despite hiking this trail at least four times, I have never been past this lake but I hear people go up to Morgan’s Pass and a couple recommended Gem Lakes to me.”

               “Hmmm, I think I am going to just hang out here for an hour or so”, he replied in an oddly inviting tone. 

I found myself wondering if that was some kind of Tindr In The Wilderness code for, we clearly have a connection, why don’t we find a nice alpine meadow and see what comes up?  After my, let’s call it Summer of Miscues, I wasn’t about to assume anything.  But I also wasn’t about to head off into the woods with a stranger.  So I wished him an enjoyable day, called the dogs and started hiking to the other side of the lake.

I found a sunny spot, dropped my pack, sat down and took out my PB&J.  Then I looked to my right and there was Nick, about fifty yards away.  He sat down.  It felt odd being in the same meadow and not acknowledging each other so when he looked over I waved, as in, “Ha, funny, turns out this is my gorgeous lunch spot.”

He clearly took it to mean something else; he picked up his pack and started to walk over. 

This was going through my head:

               Holy Shit

               But wouldn’t it be nice to share this gorgeous spot with someone?

               Life clearly listened when you had such a great hike in Seattle, here it is providing you another opportunity.

               He seems like a nice guy, good looking, nice truck, age appropriate—I think (definitely younger than me but maybe I have to get used to that as men my age or older aren’t often single and out doing what I love to do), beautiful, friendly dog—surely someone who raises a German Sheppard to be that easy going has got to be a good guy.

I will admit it was tempting to allow him to make it all the way over.  But I am not that brave.

Instead, I pretended to be fascinated with the opposite end of the lake; that I didn’t see him stand up and begin walking over.  Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw him drop his pack and sit down.  It was like a referee had called a football foul and his penalty was half the distance to the goal:   He was about twenty-five yards away, sitting with his back to me.

I thought:  Damn, he is also a gentleman.

Opus and the Sheppard immediately closed the gap and resumed their play.  River lifted her head from her sunny nap to give me a look that said, “And you think I am the drama queen?”

The next time I looked over, Opus had two paws on Nick’s thigh and was getting a good head scratching.  Opus.  Willingly being loved.  Nick was studying a hiking map.

I debated about going over and asking how far it was to Gem Lakes.  Was that appropriate?  Since I clearly have zero knowledge of today’s rules regarding getting to know someone I decided to start making rules of my own. 

Rule #1:  I must be able to see their eyes when we are talking so I can take a measure of their soul.

Since Nick did not remove his sunglasses when we were talking in the meadow, there would be no further action on my part.   Oh, how I love quickly removing myself from grey areas!  Boom!  Done.

I called the dogs over, packed up my stuff and continued up the trail without another look.

The Noses and I did make it to Gem Lakes and it was well worth it.  A series of small lakes nestled under a jagged peak, with a creek running through the connecting meadow.  It was like a fairy land and I was thankful I had taken the time to talk to the couple who recommended it.  I lay in the sun next to one lake and ate some trail mix as my feet dried from their quick dip into the frigid water.

The total hike was eight miles and when hiking over 10,000’, eight miles is plenty.  We three were tired as could be by the time the parking lot came into view.  I will admit I was disappointed not to see Nick’s truck. 

But there was a note on my windshield.

Nah, just kidding—but that would make a much better ending!  I’ll save it for a short story.

-K

All About Wurzig

I am currently sitting in Lee Vining, California, having just listened to Terry Gross interview Jarret J. Krosoczka who’s book, Hey Kiddo, is nominated for the National Book Award.  His is a story of how he grew up barely knowing his heroin addicted mother.  This makes me very hesitant to write anything at all let alone about the mundane aspects of being on the road.  But when I was 13 I read a great quote, “Sex appeal is 50% what you have and 50% what others think you have.”  Maybe that will work for writing as well.

I am also going into this post knowing that some of you will read this and think, much like Mike at Niello Porsche, “This lady has zero mechanical know-how.”  But before I get to that, I have to clarify something from my previous post.

Apparently a couple of the readers (proof that there are more readers than just my mom!) took my wording in Devil May Care to indicate that I had someone specific in mind when I mentioned my surprise at being alone for this trip.  That is not the case.  Here’s the scoop:  Last May when I purchased Sea Salt (a 23’ Airstream Serenity) to be parked on my lot on Orcas Island (and never towed by me), I thought to myself, “Life is not unbalanced.  I imagine by the end of the summer I will meet someone who drives a Ford F150 and wants to pull a 23’ Airstream all winter long.”  That figment of my imagination was what I was thinking about when I referenced my surprise.  Usually in my life, with one extremely gaping exception, I get what I want.  As life would have it, I am clearly meant to be alone in my (much smaller than Sea Salt and therefore easily towable by me alone) Beagle.

So on to the story:  First of all I have to mention that, again through my meditation (and I promise not to belabor that point—everyone has something that works for them, meditation appears to be my thing), I have come to appreciate even brief human connections.  To truly connect with people; looking them in the eye, focusing on the conversation at hand whether it be ordering a cup of coffee or, as happened in Oregon, being chided by someone who looked to be 12 years old but was, in fact, a mechanic.

Let’s go back to Oregon:  I was leaving my two night stay at Humbug Mountain and heading south when I stopped to top up my tank and have some air put into Wurzig’s right rear tire.  I mentioned to the attendant that this was the second time in less than a week that I have had to put air in the tire and, being on the road, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about it.

               “Get it fixed!” was his adolescent reply.

              

Seems obvious now.  But still I drove on.  When I pulled into Brookings and was almost immediately presented with a Less Schwab Tire Center, I took it as a sign.  They could see me that day but not immediately so I towed Beagle to the nearby Harris Beach State Park Campground and returned for my two hour wait.  But I am not complaining—they found a screw in the tire, fixed it, gave the dogs cookies and didn’t charge me for the service.  Plus, in the meantime, I discovered a wonderful bakery that also sold eggs from the free range chicken farm next door.  It was a win all around.

The next day we took off toward central California; the beaches were nice but the mountains were calling me.  This time of year when the leaves are turning and the snow has not yet begun to fall are precious, delicious mountain hiking days.  We headed toward the Shasta/Trinity area, taking Highway 299 across to Weaverville.  A delightful drive if you are ever in the area, the road winds along the Trinity River.  At one point it was so stunning I decided to pull off to the side and go sit by the bank.  I opened the back door, leashed up the dogs, and headed toward the river.  I was a few seconds into the walk when I realized Opus’ leash was, let’s say, limp at the end.  He wasn’t actually leashed up.  I could not see him anywhere and my heart sank.  His options were to cross Highway 299 and head into the hills or head down to the river.  

Long ago I learned the best way to catch a terrier is to run away from them, so I called, “Opus, this way!” unleashed River (who would rather die than be more than two feet away from me) and ran toward the river.  Within seconds Opus jetted right by both of us and waited for us at the shore (I snapped the picture above as we met him) where he was promptly, and truly, leashed.

But I digress from my Wurzig stories.  I decided to stay two nights in Weaverville and spent the next day hiking up Long Canyon which really should have been named Long Hill—five miles of almost constant incline.  A delightful day, I didn’t see anyone on the trail until I was heading down.  I love hiking but I am not sure which I love more, hiking or driving Wurzig—untethered from Beagle—up those mountain roads.  Both experiences are exhilarating in completely opposite ways.

Driving back into town, Wurzig presented me with a yellow warning light which read (and this is still in contention between the Porsche mechanic and myself), “Oil level depleted, maximum 2.5 quarts.”  No big deal, I am Porsche savvy, I know they eat up oil particularly when towing and particularly when driving them, ahem, passionately.  I sedately drove to O’Reilly Auto Parts, opened my manual and read what type of oil to purchase.  I bought four quarts.

Four?  Yep.  I know Wurzig holds an incredible amount of oil and took the message to mean that it needed almost 2.5 quarts.  So I figured I would put in two and have some on hand.  I put in two.  The needle didn’t move—never mind that I was reading the oil pressure gauge—and before you start on the dipstick jokes, there is no dipstick.  Apparently, when you own a 2017 Cayenne Turbo you are supposed to settle into your 10-way adjustable leather seat, turn on your Burmester sound system, push a few buttons and have the computer tell you your oil level.

But I had not known that yet.  So when I got back to the campground, I put in two more quarts of oil.  Oh yeah, are you now thinking that I have no mechanical know-how?  You would not be alone.  Let me jump from here right to my conversation the following day with Mike, from Porsche Sacramento:  I was driving down the soul crushing I-5 headed toward Porsche when he returned my call, speaking via Bluetooth (hands free, Mobom) while cruising along:

               “Hi, this is Kit”

               “Hi Kit, this is Mike from Niello Porsche returning your call.”

A quick note here:  Californians are wonderful.  Every time I return to this state I am amazed at their attitude, they assume you are coming into their life to bring fun and adventure and are up for anything.  Mike was no exception, his voice was friendly, happy, confident and about to become very concerned.

               “I understand you received a message about your oil?”

               “Yes.  Let me fill you in.  I have a 2017 Cayenne Turbo which I am using to pull a small Airstream and have been on the road for about a week.  Yesterday I had a yellow light come on my dash that said, “Oil level depleted, maximum 2.5 quarts.  Incidentally, does that mean it is down to 2.5 quarts or it needs 2.5 quarts?”

               “Actually, neither.  It probably didn’t say quarts at all”, He said with a smile in his voice.

               “I am pretty sure it did, but let’s move on.”  Slight chuckle on Mike’s part.  “So I put in two quarts and the needle barely moved.”

               “What needle?”

               “The one on the dash.”

               “That is the oil pressure indicator.”

               “Well, that’s illuminating.  I think this is a good time to tell you that I am actually quite intelligent despite what this sounds like.  I did read the manual about checking the oil…eventually.”

               “Glad to hear, what happened next?”, still happy, confident.

               “When I saw the needle didn’t move, I put in two more quarts.”

               “You put in a total of four quarts?” And here happy, confident voice turned into concerned voice.

              

               “Well, if you didn’t think that was a good idea, you really aren’t going to like what I did this morning.”

               “Please go on.”

               “Having read further into the manual last night I became concerned that I had put in too much oil.”  I paused slightly for him to clear his throat, and, I imagine, rub his hands across his eyes .  “So I took the car out on a test run this morning, as I didn’t want to hitch up my trailer and run into trouble while towing.”

               “Good idea.”

               “See?  I do have my moments.   I got the car nice and hot, tried to measure the oil via the on dash computer which I finally figured out how to activate, but it just said, ‘Cannot measure oil right now.’  Despite that, there didn’t seem to be any problem so I returned to camp, hitched up my trailer and started out across the mountains.  Just after leaving Redding, as I was looking forward to the scenery on Highway 44, a red light lit up my dash and it said, ‘Oil critical’, or something like that—the red icon startled me.  I pulled over, looked up the icon in the manual and it said to go directly to the nearest Porsche dealer.”

               “That sounds about right.  Please tell me you are not still on Highway 44.”

               “No, I am on the I-5.  But when I got that message I thought I must have an oil leak.  My choice of dealers was Reno, via the mountainous Highway 44 or you in Sacramento via the safer I-5.  I decided to first return to Redding, purchase more oil, put it in and head toward you, knowing you would find the leak.”

               “You put in more oil?”

               “Yes.”

               “Did you see any leaking out under the car?”

               “No.”

               “And yet you thought you had a leak?”

               “Yes.”

               “Where are you now?”

               “I am about 45 miles from Sacramento.”

               “Please come straight here.”

               “Well I am towing my trailer so I thought I would first find a campground and drop the trailer and then come to you.”

               “Kit, please come straight here.”

               At that, I became nervous.

               “You don’t think I have a leak, do you?”

               “No.  I think you put in too much oil and your oil pressure is way too high which caused the red light to come on.  Just continue driving, if you see black smoke coming out of your exhaust, take the next exit and call me, we will send someone to get you.  In the meantime, I am going to see if we can’t squeeze you in this afternoon.  I think you should be here about 3:30, yes?”

               “I think so.  But what about my trailer?”

               “We will find a place for it here on the lot, please just drive carefully and come directly here.”

Isn’t that delightful?  So there I was on the disgusting I-5, towing a trailer with HMS BEGL plates while driving past pasture fences festooned with signs declaring “I [Heart] Jesus” and “The Lord Our Savior Can Save You Too”.   I turned on gospel music and sang to the glory of Kit just to round everything out.

But we made it, I was never happier to pull into a Porsche service center.  I detached Beagle, they whisked Wurzig away and returned him with the appropriate amount of fresh oil and a sparkling clean exterior.  While waiting I was kept occupied giving tours of Beagle as is the case wherever we park for more than five minutes.

Needless to say, at the end of this day I was quite tired and stressed.  I drove a bit longer to a KOA in Placerville which was every bit as soul crushing as the I-5:  There is a free shuttle to the casino which should give you an idea of my fellow campers.  Although they were a welcoming, if inebriated group; a pack of ten or so applauded, actually applauded, and called out, “Awesome!” as I drove past them to my scummy pitch next to the highway.

It was a scotch night to be sure.  Dogs fed, scotch in hand, wondering if I had the energy to make an omelet for dinner, I decided to take a minute and plan my next day’s drive as I was sure as hell not staying there one more second than necessary.  As usual, I took out my phone to ask Google to navigate to the next stop; her usual reply is, “Sacramento (or wherever), sure!  Let’s go!”  But not that night:

               “OK, Google, navigate to Lee Vining, California.”

               “Lee Vining is 163 miles from here and may take you four hours, are you sure you want to go?”

I kid you not.   

My reply? 

               “I’m not fucking sure of anything.”

-K