Content

In the midst of the social and civil unrest, and despite my complete agreement with both #BlackLivesMatter and #FreeCalifornia, I set off for a Kit Essential Mental Break; hitting the road with Beagle for four nights to the one place I always feel completely free, the mountains.

And so we returned to the Eastern Sierra’s; a rare Springtime trip as we usually visit in the Fall.  This time it is Opus and I alone, River having grown too old to hike or handle weather over 75 degrees--both of which we had in spades.  But first we had to get here.

No easy task in the courage department as many campgrounds are still closed (as of this writing—many are due to open next week); I figured at the worst I could camp on BLM land and knew this area has plenty of it.   However, lack of a campground is really my second fear, the first, and I am sure many of my readers who tow trailers will agree, is backing up.  Combining the fear of finding a locked gate after pulling down an unknown road with having to back up that unknown road, it is a wonder I managed to leave Morro Bay at all.

On the drive up I needed a lunch break and was cruising up the beautiful Highway 178, glancing over at Kern River, trying to find a parking lot that I could circle through.  I believed I spotted one about halfway, I slowed down until I could determine that there was a way to pull through the parking lot via a narrow circle, and so turned into the lot.  What I failed to notice were the trees hanging down over one side of the narrow turnaround; there was no way Beagle would fit under those branches.  (Like a lot of our county, city, state, and national parks, this area was long overdue for some TLC—something likely to only get worse the longer we stay shut down—you think we had budget problems before.  Whoops, drifted back into #FreeCalifornia.) 

So there I was, nose first into a single lane of parked cars with no way to pull through and around.  Jumped right to Fear #1, although worse, as I contemplated having to back out of the parking lot and onto Highway 178.

But then, glory be, two cars pulled out allowing me enough space to attempt a 5,000 point turnaround.  I couldn’t get it to happen, was practically jack-knifed while impatient cars were piling up behind me (it was slightly over 100 degrees outside; everyone wanted a piece of that river.)  Eventually I had to face the fact that, if I was to ever leave this parking lot, I would have to drive Wurzig over a curb.

Ahh, memories of Bass Lake returned, backing up, hitting a rock, flat tire.  But having no choice, I slowly pushed Wurzig up and over the curb, Beagle following closely behind.  We made it out.  Eventually I did manage to park near the river, get out and enjoy Luciano’s Duck a l’Orange at the water’s edge.

You may be able to imagine my trepidation as, hours later, I turned down unknown road after unknown road to find Tuttle Creek Campground.  I didn’t know for sure it was open; would the gate be locked?  Would I be forced to back up?

Delightfully, the gate was unlocked and the campground mostly empty; I reviewed it on Campendium if you want more information.  I liked my pitch so much I immediately decided to stay all four nights and settled in knowing I didn’t have to worry about where I was camping for the rest of this trip.

It had been a long, hot day and it was still over ninety degrees at the campground, Opus and I were wilting.  So after a short walk, a short shower and cold dinners, we settled under the shade of our tree (rare in the campground), me with my Pelegrino and camp chair, Opus with his dreams and the dirt.

And we were content. 

But you know me well enough by now to know that I couldn’t leave it at that:  I had to think about what it took to be content; it was a feeling I had been lacking for so long it felt like a new discovery.  I Googled the definition and enjoyed musing over the philosophical/logical option: “…the sum of the attributes or notions comprised in a given conception; the substance or matter of cognition.” 

Because, you know, there is content as in, “I feel content” and then there is content as in, “This blog is full of circumspect content.”

After playing with this notion for a few long hikes, I decided that, for me, being content means that all my senses are satisfied (taste of dinner, feel of the breeze, sound of the frog, site of the mountains, touch of Opus’ nose) and my being is safe; take away the ability to feel physically safe and contentment disappears.  And now we are back to #BlackLivesMatter.  Imagine not being able to feel safe around those who are supposed to save you.

***

I haven’t spent time this far south on Highway 395 in about a decade so the opportunity to explore new trails had me up and packing early for two days.  (The third day, today, finds me weary from hiking above 10,000’ feet and wanting shelter from the fierce wind that has set it.)

Friday’s hike was intended to be to Golden Trout Lakes but, after talking it over with a fellow hiker on the way up, I veered off to the left towards Kearsarge Pass.  It was a mostly cloudy day although the scenery was still inspiring.  Most notable were the sounds on the way up:  The trail wound over hills between two valleys both of which had their own waterfall.  As you hike, you hear one waterfall behind you, then a few minutes of quiet as you round the hill before the waterfall in front of you sends over its pillow of sound.  I thought to myself, “Christo would have figured out how to make that sound visible.”  Earth will miss that man who made us see things by covering them up.

The snow began falling at 3.5 miles—never made to the pass, we were about 1.5 miles short of it.  I sheltered under a tree to see if the squall would blow through and allow us to continue, but the look Opus shot at me quelled any thought of waiting it out.  We headed down.  A little over seven miles total since, as is the case with “hiking with Kit”, there was a point at which I lost my way.  But not as badly as Saturday.

For Saturday’s hike I drove up to Bishop and headed out to Treasure Lakes in the John Muir Wilderness.  It was 80 degrees in Bishop, 45 at the trailhead and felt like 20 below at the lake.  But what a gorgeous place!  I think I wrote of Lamarck Lakes last year that it was my favorite but this set a new bar.  (It is the picture at the top of the blog.)  Unfortunately, despite the sunshine, we did not last long at the top; the wind was too biting.  Just long enough to eat while huddled in every bit of clothing I brought.  I forgot how cold it can get that far up.

It is a great hike, lots of up, obviously, but a little up and down which is nice on the legs.  During the return, I was just cruising along the trail when I came to a dead end:  I was on top of a giant mound of boulders looking down, down, down at South Lake.  Clearly no longer on the trail.  There was no way I was scampering down through the boulders with a pack and a terrier, although I felt quite sure the trail was below me.  Then it dawned on me that I could look at my Garmin (hello?).  While fishing it out, I was joined by two other hikers, equally lost.  So at least I knew it wasn’t just me.  Garmin indicated that the trail was actually above us, not below us, by about 500’.  So the three of us turned around and clambered our way back up.  Sure enough, there it was, plain as day.  We laughed and wondered just where we went wrong.

What should have been a five-mile hike turned into just over six. 

On the drive back to Lone Pine, I stopped at Copper Top BBQ, purchased a half rack of ribs, only ¾ of which made it back to Beagle.  That, my friends, is why God created rest areas.

-K

The Essentiality of Freedom

(With credit to P. G. Hoffman who, I believe, first coined the phrase.) 

I have been struggling with how to relate the prior eleven days in Beagle; I could entertain you with stories about The Night of the Tick Infestation (I spent all night crushing ticks off of myself and Opus—they didn’t seem to care about River—and every time I found one crawling on me I would shout, “Bug!” And that, being Opus’ nickname, would cause Opus to jump.  It was a long night.) or the Tale of the City United in Defiance (an entire city in Oregon refuses to play the fear game, they have restaurants open, bars, someone served me ice cream!  It was like walking onto another planet, a familiar one, one for which I yearn.) or The Tale of the Island United in Fear (you can guess where that is.)

But I would rather talk to you about courage. 

During these past eleven days, my courage has grown immeasurably.  Which got me thinking, how does one become courageous?  I posit that it comes from experience; experience and learning from that experience, building one little brick of courage at a time.

While on the Oregon coast, I stopped at a State Park parking area.  I knew all the state parks were closed and all the turnouts I had seen had roadblocks and signs.  But then one turned up without either roadblocks or signs and I thought maybe, just maybe, they were giving us a break.

So I parked the Beagle, leashed the noses, took a breath to replace trepidation with courage, and started into the heavily wooded hillside, hoping to get a glimpse of the rocky shore.  About a mile down the trail I became very uneasy; the woods were too quiet and the trail more and more narrow; I was plum out of courage—it was time to listen to intuition.  I turned around.  When I did so, I saw a side trail off to my left, heading west, almost covered in bushes.  I broke through and was awarded the view you see above.  I stood there for a long time, eventually raised my arms to thank the scientists above for giving me courage.  Without courage I would not have been standing there.

Every day and night on the road I had to stifle my fear of not knowing where I was going to park for the night.  All the RV parks are closed as are state, county and federal campgrounds.  (Can someone explain to me why you can stay in a hotel, where you pass people within two feet in a hallway but you cannot park your self-sufficient Beagle in a campground?  Illogic like that makes me think the people in Oregon have it right.)  But I digress…

As you know, my first night was on a street outside a hotel in Petaluma.   I awoke the next morning and was thrilled; I felt freedom.  When I walked through the (mostly closed) downtown to gather my Starbucks breakfast, I stopped to play a piano on the sidewalk (talk about courage!) looked a man in the eye as we were passing (within six feet of each other and no masks dear god!), smiled, returned his good morning and felt a spark in my being that has been missing for far too long.  I felt like Kit.  Finally.  Happy.  Free.

Then there was a night at a marina (in the happy town with ice cream) and my first ever night in a WalMart parking lot.  You know what?  It was a hell of a lot better outside in their parking lot than inside their stores!  Yes, that took courage.  Particularly when the truckers rolled in but I quickly learned that there is a nice comradery amongst them which made me feel protected and safe.  That morning I woke and knew that I had turned a corner in my courage; I could go anywhere in Beagle now and not worry about where I might end up for the night.  Imagine what that has opened up!

Eventually I got to Orcas and stayed six nights in Sea Salt but still showered in Beagle.  Long, uninteresting story.  I also cleaned out the shed, depressing, private story, but another experience that added foundation to my courage.  Not all experiences are enjoyable; sometimes the difficult ones lay even more bricks.

After leaving Orcas, a friend told me about Hipcamp.com, a site where private land owners list camping spots and, apparently, are not afraid to do business right now.  As my final (to date) step up the courage ladder, I booked a site east of Chico, off of Highway 70 for two nights.  And it is amazing!  A little challenging getting in (unlike campgrounds or RV parks, I could not be sure what condition the road might be in and there is no directional sign indicating a turn into a campground.)  So, courage in place, I blindly turned off the highway, onto a dirt road, eventually finding my lovely little pitch.  Full hook ups no less!

Now I sit here, finally writing my blog.  Experiencing life provides an opportunity to gather courage and using courage leads to experiencing more of life; it is a delightful circle, but one that requires you to begin by choosing to live. 

So I ask you all, can you step up on your brick of courage and choose to live?  The thing about courage is, much like muscle, you have to use it in order to keep it.  If you stop being courageous, fear creeps in and that cycle is what I think most of society is in right now.  More fear leads to less courage which leads to less experience of life and therefore no chance to build courage, which brings us back to, you guessed it, more fear.  This is a vicious circle.

Give the other circle a chance.  Use what you need to in order to be comfortable (masks, hand sanitizer, social distancing) but go experience life even if it means pushing against those trying to hold you back, add some bricks to your foundation of courage.  

The only thing anyone can guarantee you is that one day you will wake up just in time to die—from any one of hundreds of ailments or accidents, often without warning.  Live while you have the choice.

-K

PS:  Turns out, the only thing essential to me is the freedom to determine what is essential to me.

Orcas or Arrest

Who would have thought that a month after my last posting I would still have a captive audience?  Are you bored enough to read this?

As I write, I am parked on a side street next to the Hampton Inn in Petaluma, California.  It feels safer to park outside a hotel than in a Walmart parking lot; part of it is thinking that if someone has a problem with me traveling, they must also have a problem with the people inside the hotel.  Strength in numbers.  I fear we are all regressing.

In any event, here I rest for the night.  Given the “only essential travel” restriction, I am endeavoring not to make much of a footprint, so no cooking—at least until morning coffee--there is no stopping morning coffee.  (Dinner was a delightful mash-up of French countryside and Greek Islands with pate, baguette, hummus and carrots.)  I also did not put down the stabilizers so it will be a bit of a bumpy night; and one during which I will roll constantly south-east.  Come to think of it, maybe the Walmart parking lot would have been better.

I imagine I have already irritated some of my dear readers just by being on the road.  Turns out, for me, going up to take care of Sea Salt and my land on Orcas Island is essential travel.  We all have rules that we are willing to break; this is mine.  For today anyway.  I am not speeding on the way up, does that help?  I also have a bottle of hand sanitizer on my dash and my bandanna around my neck. 

There are, of course, no campgrounds open and most public parks are also closed.  After crossing the Golden Gate Bridge, I headed over to Highway 1, through Stinson Beach and stopped just north of there in a Marin County Preserve.  I backed Beagle into a bit of a hidden spot off the road and contemplated spending the night; the view out Beagle’s front window (above) wrestling with the view of the “County Parks are only open for County Residents” sign.

I feel tension around but maybe I am just paranoid.  Beagle and Wurzig always get a lot of attention and if these were normal times I wouldn’t think twice about people staring at my rig.  But these are not normal times and, not wanting to be woken up by a concerned resident or Sherriff, I let the sign win.  Turns out the drive from the preserve over to Petaluma was one of the most beautiful roads on which I have had the pleasure of driving.

On my way up I drove smack dab through San Francisco:  They had shut down a portion of 101 North and so I ended up downtown on Sixth Avenue; thankful that the city was half empty.  San Francisco is clearly taking advantage of the quiet streets by doing all kinds of construction so there were a lot of cones to navigate as I meandered my way through the familiar streets and out the other side.  I would say 75% of the people had masks on although not a ton of people were out and about—almost every pedestrian had a dog.  Once I crossed the bridge to Sausalito and into Marin County, the masks disappeared.  Here in Petaluma it is about 25% masks. 

Being in Beagle is always a source of contentment for me but this trip has added some much-needed adventure, a sense of freedom and, the best, a sense of control.  As most of you know, I am not good at being told what I can and cannot do.  The social distancing requirement will undoubtedly come in handy for the next three days.

-K

PS:  Anyone want to lay odds on whether tomorrow night I will be inside a hotel?

Ode to Chris

Already one of my readers knows how this story will go.  But not so fast, dear brother.  First, as you all know, I like to set the stage.  Today is March 24, 2020, my county is in day five of a fourteen-day mandatory shelter in place.  I know many of my readers have found themselves in the same predicament.  This not only gives me a reason to write this rather sad tale (which otherwise might go unpublished) but also you a reason to read it.  For that I am thankful.

Two weeks ago, when COVID-19 was just a bothersome buzz occasionally gathering enough of my attention to swat away, I set out on a Beagle trip.  You see, I had recently been reacquainted with the joys of a Beagle trip; a trip not designed around a holiday but just a trip because I can take a trip.  So when C-19 fears cancelled my vacation to Seattle, I decided to take off in Beagle. 

My destination?  Bass Lake, California.  I had driven Highway 41 from Morro Bay to the Eastern Sierras a few times and seen the signs heading off to Bass Lake.  Ahh!  I had forgotten the joy of being on the road and seeing a brown sign ahead!  You explorers undoubtedly recognize that feeling:  If you are tired it is hope of a campground; if you are in need of a break it is hope of a hiking trail.  Never has brown looked so good as when towing the Beagle.  As I had passed the signs before I noted that it would be a nice place to stop the next time I make my pilgrimage to Lee Vining.   Checking it out now all on its own seemed like an ideal opportunity.

I packed up Beagle, Joy!  All the necessities and my favorite camping clothes.  Hitched her up and hit the road.  It is a nice, three and half to four-hour drive from home to Bass Lake; much of it through rolling hills (green this time of year) and then, as you climb out of Fresno, rolling hills dotted with trees cradled by snow-capped mountains in the distance.

Bass Lake itself is interesting; half of it seems to be National Forest while the other half is clearly privately owned.  So as you sit in the campground and gaze across the lake, you see houses, large houses, with large docks and, I imagine in the summer, large boats attached to those large docks.  When I arrived at the Cedar/Lupine Campground (the only one open this time of year) I was the only camper.  I found a nice sunny pitch, (difficult in this delightfully tree-filled area) sunshine required for my solar as the nights were due to be near freezing, the campground devoid of electrical hook-ups.  Everything was going perfectly:  I backed Beagle into place on the first try, unhitched, set her up a bit inside and immediately took the Noses out for a walk along the lake.

But it was not a serene walk along the lake: There was one speed boat racing around and its exhaust echoed through the valley.  I cannot begin to imagine the scene in the summer with multiple boats racing around all day—definitely not an experience I would be seeking.  But eventually the boat tired and we were left with the sounds of the birds, the rustle of the pine trees, the occasional bark of the camp hosts’ dog, and, once back home, the hum of Beagle’s heater.  Oh, I love my Beagle.  It has been too long.

With a storm moving into the area in a few days, I only planned on staying for three nights.  Maybe two, I thought, then dropping down to explore another lake on the way home.  In any event, Friday dawned brisk and sunny and I dressed for a nice long hike.  Loaded the Noses into Wurzig, backed out of my parking spot.  Turned my wheels sharply left to position myself for exiting and backed the passenger tire right into a rock.  Damn!  I pulled forward and then heard, what I thought to be at the time, the worst sound you can hear from a tire, a sharp, loud hissing.  (Yep, remember that sentence.)  By the time I walked over to the side of the car the tire was completely flat but still able to exhibit a dime-sized hole in the sidewall. 

Chris, is there a spare tire in a Cayenne yet? 

Of course not.  (Go ahead and wipe the tears of laughter from your eyes.)  After discussing the situation with Gina, the delightful camp host, I remembered that I have Porsche Roadside Assistance.  These cars, as you know, are expensive and often I find it worth every penny.  Calling Porsche Assistance is one of those times:  They don’t make you feel like a stupid girl by asking, “Are you sure there isn’t a spare tire?”  They just say, “We will send out a flatbed tow truck immediately.”  They know with what they are dealing.

While waiting for the tow (after taking the Noses on a disappointing short walk), I called Porsche Fresno to see if they had my tire in stock.  They did not.  Estimated arrival Monday or Tuesday.  I had no choice but to abandon Beagle at the lake for a few days and join Gerry and the Noses in the tow truck for the hour drive down to Porsche.  I changed into my best camping clothes, wishing I had packed my favorite black jeans and sweater, anticipating the world I was about to enter. 

The drive down was dreamy.  Absolutely wonderful.  When I realized there wasn’t anything I could do about anything, I put my head back and listened to Gerry’s brand of country/blues music, his wonderful singing voice, and enjoyed being a passenger.  I realized the last time I was a passenger in a car for this duration was last summer when a friend took me piano shopping.  A song came on that I recognized and we both sang along, albeit he much more loudly than me, smiling laughingly at each other. 

Down at Porsche awaited another heaven.  I could just cut and paste this from another post, as you all know.  But it bears repeating; multiple men walking around asking if there is anything they can do for me.  One is unloading my car, one is petting the dogs, one is getting me water, one is arranging a rental car.  If you have to break-down, breaking down in a Porsche isn’t so bad.

It is now late afternoon Friday.  The tire is expected Monday, the snow returning to the area Tuesday.  It will be a tight window for the Beagle Rescue but not much I could do about it at the time.  So, four-door Kia at my control, dogs in the back, I asked Google to navigate to Morro Bay.  This time when he replied, “That drive will take you at least three hours in current traffic conditions, are you sure you want to go?”  I replied, “Hell yes.”  Nothing sounded better than my little house right then.  I backed out the Kia, looking over my right shoulder as it was a long driving area that I had to navigate, relying on (what turned out to be non-existent) sensors when I heard truly the worst sound you can hear from a tire:  That of it rubbing up against a $200,000 Taycan.

Oh yes I did.  I immediately looked to my left to see the impossibly close, beautifully gleaming, front end of a brand new Taycan; my left front tire nestled against its bumper.  I pulled forward.  Glanced down, didn’t see any damage.  Two guys came out, walked between myself and the Taycan, smiled and waved.  I drove off telling myself that they had seen it all and were waving me off. 

Being at home was no picnic, as you all know, the hysteria around C-19 is debilitating to anyone tuned in to their environment.  Three nights were plenty, I could not wait to get on the road Monday afternoon to retrieve first Wurzig then Beagle.

The Noses and I arrived at Porsche around 4 PM, Wurzig just finished—and wow, was it finished!  They detailed the car inside and out, not an Opus hair to be found nor a speck of dust in the vents.  It looked gorgeous.  Even in the pouring down rain.  You see, the storm had rolled in early.  This I knew from the camp host who had just texted me, “It is starting to snow up here.”  To which I replied, “I am coming as fast as I can.”

In the Beagle photo album you will see a picture I snapped after ninety minutes on the road.  The snow was coming down like crazy.  I kept thinking I would make it to Beagle and just spend the night but when I slid around a corner to see Gerry the Tow Guy getting ready to load a crushed car, I decided that was a sign to turn around. 

There was only one thing worse than my rental Kia and that was my motel room. 

The next morning dawned completely sunny.  Still cold but the main roads to the campground had been plowed so I knew I could get close to Beagle if not right up to her.  The camp host reported that they had eight inches of snow and that it was likely I would not be able to get Beagle out.  That was ok with me, I would head up and stay the night if I couldn’t get her out; another night at the motel was out of the question.

The drive up was gorgeous (more pictures in the photo album) and the picture above was taken as I walked the final hundred yards to Beagle. 

The sun was working its magic on the campground roads and it looked like I would be able to get out that afternoon.  But it was so lovely and peaceful and so not C-19, that I decided to stay.  I found a tall guy to remove the snow from my solar panels so I could have enough battery power to last one night. 

With everything under control, Opus and I headed out for a hike in the snow.  River, unfortunately, cannot hike uphill anymore so she was resting in the car.  But Opus and I had a wonderful romp.  That evening, when the sun went down and Beagle’s heater was on, I reflected on my wonderful life as I enjoyed a cup of tea.  I had rarely felt so at peace as I did that evening; connecting to my environment that wasn’t disintegrating, that was, in fact, made up of beings who had seen it all a million times.

That was one week ago tonight.

It feels like a lifetime.

-K

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