Scotch on the Rocks, Paper Cup

 

Dedicated to TT who is considering more time on the road; it is not always easy and fun.

Greetings from Beagle’s southern base camp in Morro Bay.  I believe I left you at the Hitch N Post RV Park in Panguitch, Utah, where Beagle was being tossed around in 30 MPH winds and trying not to freeze during the fifteen-degree nights. 

Opus and I were huddled inside, the heater had been running constantly for forty-eight hours (and only set at forty-five degrees!) and the only thing I was happy about was being plugged in.  I was miserable; first and foremost, tired from very little sleep the night before (remember me Googling error codes at three o'clock in the morning?), grumpy because it was so cold outside I was spending many, many hours inside Beagle, and running on very little sleep.  Yes, it needs to be repeated; those of you who know me know that Tired Kit should just be left alone—especially by Any Other Kit.

And so, when a picture arrived into my Messages app, a picture that made me want to put on The Purple Dress of Devastation and strappy heels, slide on top of a tall bar stool and allow someone to buy me a dirty martini, my first inclination was to reply with, “Fuck you.”  (Sorry Mom.)  But I managed something more charming, I’m sure.

And then, when CH replied to my battery update with a teasing, “You need heated batteries”, intending to be funny because he knows I have been waiting for an appointment with him for just such an upgrade, my first inclination was to suggest he meet up with the person from paragraph three and fuck each other (sorry Mom.)  But I managed something more charming, I’m sure.

At that point I put my phone on Do Not Disturb (because, clearly, the only thing coming out of my mind was going to be that lovely four-letter word [better, Mom?]) and relied on my meditation training to comfort me:  Yes, my situation was less than ideal, but it was My situation, My life, and I welcome all experiences.  Embrace Misery, welcome it, it is the only way you will know Joy.  Deep breath.

And then my phone rang and it was Roomie, one of the few people whose call will break through my Do Not Disturb.  She and her real roomie listened while I complained, set me to laughing, and then we planned our Alaskan adventure.  Life turns on a dime.

The next day dawned sunny and frigid so I bundled up, sent a package on its way knowing it was going to bring joy (one of the greatest feelings on Earth), and headed out for a hike.  Opus and I didn’t see a single soul as we hiked through Red Canyon (a wonderful dog-friendly option given that they are not allowed on most trails in Bryce Canyon) and he enjoyed spazzing out, off leash, in the snow, trying to get me to chase him.

That afternoon I returned to Bryce to see more sites, barely surviving the cold long enough to take some pictures.

The following day I hit the slopes at Brian Head, something I had not done for five years.  Talk about joy!  Sparkling packed powder, bright blue sky, and no lines at the lifts.  After countless runs, I was flying down an intermediate run thinking I was hot shit and decided that should be my last run:  Thinking you are hot shit is always the prelude to a major wipe out.

Saturday was going to be a long drive day, having to leave from Panguitch, pick up River in Las Vegas and try to make it to Barstow, so I decided to treat myself to a night where it all started two weeks earlier, at the Hampton Inn.  I knew there was RV parking and, obviously, it was pet friendly. 

Tired and very road-weary upon arrival, I fed and walked the dogs and moved them into the hotel room, pausing to grab a cup (this being a Hampton Inn, it was paper), and returned to Beagle to make a sandwich for dinner.  I plunked two ice cubes into the cup and poured a hefty helping of scotch, carrying my reward back to the room where my two well-traveled and delightful dogs were sleeping patiently by the door.

I mention their good behavior because at ten o’clock the dog across the hall began to bark.  It was clearly a large dog and vicious so on top of it keeping me awake it also sent my heart racing with irrational fear.  I called the front desk, she said she would try and reach the owners, then she heard the bark and said, “Oh my god, that’s terrifying, I am so sorry.” 

After ninety minutes of blood-curdling barking, I called her again.  She sounded like she was going to cry; by then many other guests had complained and she was not getting an answer from the owners.  There was no use getting upset with her or the hotel.  I got dressed, leashed the dogs, walked out to the dark parking lot and slept in Beagle.

And so you see, TT, times can be trying on the road even when you think you have set yourself up for a treat.  But as long as you have your dogs and your rolling home, it is always worth it.  

And scotch.

-K

Peanut M&Ms Before Noon

 

Greetings from Panguitch, Utah, where Opus and I are riding out below-freezing temperatures and a probable snow storm on Day 10 of Beagle’s Winter Adventure. 

The original trip was going to be just four nights at Red Rock Canyon Campground outside of Las Vegas, and three nights out of Beagle, at the ultra-comfortable Chez C&K, to prepare for- and watch the Superbowl before returning home.  But plans change.

Red Rock Canyon Campground turned out to be a delightful winter stop, a BLM campground surrounded by slightly elevated and challenging hikes.  Opus and I hiked thirteen miles in three days, including a leg-buster up Turtlehead Peak which started at 4,000’ and climbed to over 6,000’ in a mere two miles.  It was grueling with plenty of places where I had to dig my fingers into the rock in order to hoist myself up and over.  (Opus, off leash for those spots, bounded up and down and up and down multiple times.)  The view from the top is not what I am used to from the Sierras (spoiled), so I just enjoyed the fact that I made it.  This was taken along the way up...

Then the aforementioned three nights at Chez C&K, where I placed my first “prop” bets, reveled in a Van Gogh immersion, and enjoyed time with family.  After losing all my bets on the Superbowl, the ski slopes were calling me and, since I was so close to Brian Head, Utah, I thought about heading that way.  When C&K graciously offered to keep River, the trip became certain and even expanded –I had been worried about her arthritis in the freezing weather.  Plus, after three days at Chez C&K, she started to follow C around rather than me.  Terriers!

Excuse me for a minute while I watch the snow fall outside and change into my cashmere lounging sweater. 

Ahh, lovely.

Leaving Las Vegas, at the recommendation of a friend, I spent my first night at Snow Canyon State Park, just outside of St. George, Utah.  A lovely place with miles of trails (the most interesting of which are not dog friendly) and a strange campground.  I had booked Site #3, I think because it was the only one available, at least I hope that’s what the reason was because the site was horrendous.  Horrendous!  It sat so close to Site #4, it was worse than an RV park. 

So, firing up the Kitness, I ventured into the office to see about changing pitches.  The charming man behind the counter was eager to help and moved me to the much-preferred Site #25, the only neighbors being sage brush, red rocks and a couple of squirrels.  When Mr. Charming ended with a wink and, “I am in Site 18 if you should need anything at all...anything at all”, I thought maybe the Kitness was set a little too high.

We hiked that afternoon and again in the morning before starting the short-mileage but long-duration drive to North Campground in Bryce Canyon National Park.   We were heading into elevation over 7,000’, with nights down in the teens and, scariest of all, the rookie mistake of not arriving before 3:00 PM to a first come campground.  With first come sites, it’s best to be there around 12:01; three o’clock was foolish.  I was feeling nervous; I have my new batteries but they get squirrely when the temperature drops below 25, plus the late arrival, plus the altitude…I did what any self-respecting person would do, I phoned a friend—one on whom I can always count to place a vote for adventure and provide some good, logical advice.

That conversation was no different; I left it feeling excited and brave and ready for anything.

Arriving at North Campground a little after three o’clock, I was fortunate to have my pick of about ten pitches.  I chose Site #6, up on a hill (my favorite) with lots of sun shining down on my solar panels--which I knew my batteries would need were I to survive more than one night.

Unhitched, site registered, and Opus walked (I did break the rules and let him run off leash in the snow for a bit—dogs just love that so much), I drove out to some of the look-outs and gazed in wonder at the scene.  Pictures do not do it justice and I cannot believe I have never spent any time here before.  It being winter, there were very few people and I marveled at the crowd-control devices in place for the more popular overlooks (one-way walks, etc.); thankful that I was not visiting during the high season.

But what a first night!  My heater turned on at 5:00 PM when I entered Beagle and did not stop running (despite being set at only 40) all night long.  Well, no, it did stop at 3:30 AM when I discovered the system had turned itself off and was flashing an error code.  Did I mention it was 3:30 AM?  And around ten degrees outside?  With the thought that Beagle’s pipes could freeze in about ten minutes, I frantically Googled the error message and, after a couple of clicks, learned that the system had over-heated and needed to cool.  So I let it do it’s thing and after about fifteen minutes, it righted itself and started pumping out the heat again.

I did not get much sleep.

In the morning, my lovely lithium batteries had only lost 20% but were down to 50% (having started at 70% in case you didn’t want to do the math.)  I knew without a lot of solar generation, I would not make a second night but the day dawned bright and sunny so I left the solar charging, layered up, and headed out for a morning walk with Opus.  And what a delightful morning walk that was!  From the campground to Sunrise Point and over to Sunset Point, we got in four miles (a very fast four miles as it was well below freezing still) before arriving back at Beagle. 

My plan was to check everything at 3:00 PM then decide if I had enough battery power to go another night.  If it was at 60% or above 13.4 Amps, I would stay.

As I was making my second breakfast, the wind picked up and the sky filled with clouds—there went any hope of solar.  I turned on my inverter to make some toast and, despite my meter saying the batteries were at 49%, it started beeping an alarm and the monitor started freaking out.  (These are the exact words I texted to CH, my installer and ever-ready technical support, who by now can interpret “freaking out”—whether displayed on a machine or coming from me, quite easily.)  The monitor suddenly dropped to zero percent and less than 13 volts; there was no way I could ride out another night in the teens.  Even if I managed to get the batteries to charge more, the thought of that alarm going off at 3:00 AM was enough to start me packing.

I hitched up in the freezing wind as the first snow flakes began to pelt my face.  Opus had long since retired into his crate in the back of the warm car.  As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen his eyeballs in about three hours.  Dogs know what to do in a storm.

Just after leaving the park entrance, I broke open a bag of Peanut M&Ms, it was 11:48 AM.

And so we are down in Panguitch, Utah, at Henrie’s Hitch ‘N Post RV Park (yep) which, despite its location adjacent to Highway 89, is delightful.  I am plugged in, my monitor is no longer freaking out, the heater is blasting almost as hard as the wind is knocking Beagle around.  To keep life simple, I’ll stay here three nights and just day trip back up into Bryce (tomorrow) and then try my hand at skiing Brian Head on Friday.  Providing, of course, that this storm passes as it should.

At some point I do have to return for River--whether she likes it or not.

-K

The 2022 Inaugural Voyage

 

I cannot use “inaugural” without thinking about one of the last times I was able to hear Alan’s voice.   He had regained consciousness in the hospital and we were told to try and orient him to the present.  His daughter asked him, “It’s Inauguration Day, do you know who will be president?”

He thought about it for a minute then replied, “No.”

              “Donald Trump.”

              “You’re shitting me.”

God he made us laugh those last few days.

*

And so we are off beginning Beagle 2022, a year that promises to be the most exciting yet in large part due to my new lithium batteries and in immense part due to my acceptance that this is how I prefer to live.

I do have certain goals:  There will be a lot of hiking in Alaska this summer so this Winter through Spring I am turning myself into a lean, mean hiking machine.  Last year, my average miles driven per night in Beagle was over one-hundred miles a day.  Way, way, way too many miles each day and clearly not enough hiking.  (I do give myself a little slack for the fact that for most of 2021 I was either still being operated on or in some state of recovery.)  I would like to see that average be more like fifty by the end of 2022.

You find me today relaxing just outside Beagle in the dappled sunshine (my very favorite), listening to the creek running less than twenty yards from my door. River is at my side in her large, fluffy, blue bed, and Opus is recovering from our six-mile hike in the back of Wurzig (Opus, off leash for at least half of it, did more like nine miles including wading three times across the Sespe River [think creek].) When he wants to sleep, if he cannot be behind my knees, he opts for the warmth of the car and the security of his crate.

Beagle is luxuriating in the backcountry behind Ojai, California, at Wheeler Gorge Campground, a funky place but one to which I plan on returning often.  There is no cell service for miles and miles and, after the initial, “What in the hell?”, I have come to love it.  I do have my Garmin (satellite communication) for emergencies and at least two people always know on which trail I am hiking.  The weather is delightful; high 60’s at camp, low 50’s during the higher elevation hikes and cold nights.  Heaven.

Having camped twice in the KOA near Ojai (one-nighters on my way through the area), I am thrilled to have found this delightfully wooded and much more private spot.   We have developed a nice routine of peanut butter toast and coffee in bed (of course, we are not heathens—wait a minute, we are heathens…we are not Neanderthals), a half mile walk with both dogs, a quick clean out of Beagle, then settling River inside Beagle before taking off on a longer hike with Opus.  I try to not be gone more than four hours; although I know River is sleeping the entire time, I just worry about her.  When we return, Opus remains in the car for his aforementioned afternoon nap and I walk River alone; she prances slowly along, her spirit lifted by the thought that she might finally be the #1 Dog.

The first hike was up Chorro Grande, altitude averaging 4,500’ and only five miles.  But a nice start to get my legs reacquainted with a full pack. 

The second hike was up Piedra Blanca which was beautiful and quite easy so we quickly clocked six miles (my first time in the Sespe Wilderness!)

The final hike for this stop was up Matilija Creek Canyon, a mere three miles; the trail was difficult to follow after a mile-and-a-half, clambering over the many fallen trees and, after the second time I got one foot stuck between two narrow trunks, I turned around. 

Although short, the hike was oh so sweet as the entrance to the trail was through the Matilija Creek Ranch which, with its stone walls and sheltering oaks and the smell of live chicken and goats, took me back to Guejar Sierra, a lovely town in which Alan and I camped near Granada, Spain.

Wait, can we David Whyte that lovely phrase?  “…with its stone walls and sheltering oaks and the smell of live chicken and goats…”  Yes, worth repeating. 

I spent most of the hike reminiscing about the hikes we did from that picturesque town which started in the stone streets, flanked by stone walls, and wound up taking us through similar topography of soft, rolling hills and fresh flowing creeks.  Here sits the elegant, stone, Matilija Creek Ranch.   

You can imagine my thrill when, on the drive home, I turned back onto Highway 33 and saw…it’s hard to believe…a small Spanish man walking two heavily laden burros down the narrow highway.  I considered the fact that I might be in a time warp. 

Four nights in one spot and three good hikes.  An excellent start to 2022!

*

As most of you know, I am not a big one for the New Year meaning anything.  But starting out on this trip I did flash on the fact that ten years ago this month Alan and I were making our final plans to ship Salt, Pepper, two dogs and ourselves over to Europe for an unknown amount of time.  (You can still read about those adventures here.)  And five years ago this month (unbelievably), Alan woke up just in time to die.   

Take stock dear Reader, this is your life and the only thing you absolutely know for sure is that it will end.  To paraphrase Sam Harris, it doesn’t matter what you choose to do—you can sit and watch hours of YouTube videos, stare at a tree, read a book, go to work—just recognize that it is the choice you are making for your life; give yourself over to it, and live those moments completely.

According to my neighbor’s bumper sticker, “The purpose of life is to live it.”  It has beaten out my prior favorite, “I refuse to have a battle of wits with an unarmed person.”

-K

What If Kindness Was Like Rain?

 

Greetings from Morro Bay, a rare posting from Beagle’s southern basecamp.  I did attempt to write this while I was at Bass Lake but the trip felt so much like a vacation, a true vacation, that it didn’t happen.  And so you find me here, Beagle all cleaned up and waiting for Sunday when we hit the road again—but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

The freedom of this fall has been wonderful; no tennis teams, no brain surgeries and, with this past trip, no River.  (She is doing well but I opted to leave her at home with TWGPT enjoying her single-level living, the joy of being the only dog and, I imagine, hours of delightful piano music.) 

So River safely tucked in, Opus and I took off for four nights to Bass Lake, a stop many of you will recognize as my favorite quick stopover on my way to the Eastern Sierra.  This time I pulled out my hiking map, stared at it for hours, and selected a few hikes; it was time to explore this area in depth.

As usual, I took Highway 46 to 41, a beautiful drive any time of the year but especially right now:  Following the recent rains, the hillsides are covered in green, the air was clear and sharp and, once we climbed above Highway 1, we could see all the way back down to Morro Rock nestled in the blue ocean.  (I say “we” as if Opus was paying any attention at all.  Truth is, now that his crate is in the back of Wurzig, he disappears for hours on end, only occasionally coming up to the center console to take a quick look out the windshield and press his nose into my shoulder.)

The Cedar/Lupine Campground is open year-round and almost empty mid-week.  I had reserved site 72 but switched over to 68, my all-time favorite, when I realized it was going to be open all four nights.  The view out Beagle’s door:

Like the area around Morro Bay, the hillsides were sprouting greenery but Bass Lake added deciduous trees into the mix bringing glorious yellow, gold and red leaves into the mix.  

Opus and I immediately hit the trail leading from the campground, getting in a few miles before the sun began to set.

Our first formal hike was the Lewis Creek Trail.  Being at a bit of altitude (5,000’) I figured it would be a good starting hike for the week as it didn’t climb much.  Due to comments posted on Alltrails, we parked off of Highway 41 which is the mid-point of the trail.  Next time I will park at the southern entrance to make it a simple up and back but parking off the 41 gave me the Mountain Lion warning sign.

I responded to the “Avoid hiking alone”, with “Unavoidable”, and considered that maybe dogs count.  In any event, I was glad I saw the warning as Mountain Lions, as I learned in Colorado, are extremely dangerous and, unlike bears, you cannot hear them approaching.   I was happy to put on my large backpack even for this short seven-mile hike; anything to make me look bigger in the eyes of a cat.

It was a pretty hike along the creek with some interesting pools and low-flowing waterfalls.  I could easily see the appeal to lions; a narrow canyon with huge boulders from which to perch or to crawl between for an afternoon nap.  I was more than a little paranoid until more people showed up on the trail.  We did over seven miles and spent hours and hours just playing in nature; it was a delight not having to worry about River being locked up.

The next day we tried to reach the Jackass Lakes trailhead but, just like a jackass, I ignored the comments on Alltrails about the road requiring a 45-minute detour, passed the detour signs and drove to the end, still seven miles from the trailhead, where the road simply vanished; a victim, no doubt of the recent rainfall.  Fortunately, I had seen a sign for the Chiquito Pass trailhead on the way up so we turned around and took that instead.

Talk about a delight!  We didn’t see one other being all day—not a lion (not really lion country anyway), not a bear, not a person, not a dog.  Not a single soul other than some squirrels and birds.  It was a healthy climb up to our lunch spot at Chiquito Lake (pictured in the header) and a bit more elevation up to the pass where we encountered an intersection of three trails.  With mileage markers to dreamy places like “Chain Lakes 4 miles” and “Yosemite Valley 26 miles”, I wished I was still a backpacker.

I stayed up on the pass for a long time enjoying the particular pleasure of hiking along a pass; you are high enough in elevation to see across to other mountains and yet not stressing your body to climb.  Just an easy, meditative meandering along the cusp.  And reminiscing about backpacking--the joy of being totally self-reliant, needing nothing other than what you could carry on your back.  

Again, thankful that I didn’t have to worry about River, the hours flew by.

After two days of seven plus miles with a full pack, my legs were tired so day three I just set out to see some of the ancient Sequoias.  The Nelder Grove Interpretive Area is closed due to the raging fires of last year but I drove up there anyway, parked outside the gate and walked up the road to the trails.  It is impossible to explain the size of these trees and their scale is not nearly reflected in photographs.  We were all alone, it was perfectly quiet and still and I tried to soak up their history and accept that my tiny spark on this planet takes up about as much time as the blink of an eye.

We headed up the Graveyard of the Giants trail which quickly took us to the burn area.   With the black, branchless trunks still soaring many stories above, and the golden needles on the hillsides, I felt like I was walking on the back of a giant bumblebee.  Everything was black and gold until the bright blue sky cut in.

Unfortunately, since I was not planning on hiking much, I did not have on a hat nor was I carrying any water.  So we turned around after only a couple of miles.  On the way back, I was lamenting the fact that the area was closed; what is wrong with hiking amongst dead or dying trees?  Isn’t it all part of life?  Then a sharp crack like lightening sounded about fifty yards from me and I turned in time to see a giant branch fall from a blackened tree. 

During these long hikes I had plenty of time to think about life, to appreciate it, and to recognize the incredible amount of growth that springs from a simple thing like rainfall.   And what if kindness were like rain?  What if just a little bit of kindness sprinkled along your path caused almost immediate, and maybe, immeasurable growth?

Recognizing as well that, just like rain, the benefits of kindness can be hard to absorb and difficult to recognize; like when the rain causes a mudslide to take out a road.  When it causes a detour that you try to avoid.

-K

The Ravaged Coastline

 

Today I hiked Kirk Creek Trail for the second time.  Maybe later, if I feel the need to climb up on my soapbox, I will explain why I went up the same trail twice but for now, let’s just enjoy the story.

As I type this, I am sitting in Beagle, the sun is pouring in, I have all the windows and doors open to the ocean breeze; Kirk Creek Campground on California’s Big Sur coastline was quite a find:  One of the few campgrounds on the western side of Highway 1, half of the pitches are right on the cliff, the other half enjoy lovely views of the ocean from slightly higher ground.   There is a short trail down to a beach (during low tide.)  The Kitness was in great working order the evening I found one night available online and then, once here, the host changed me over to a site that had a cancellation the night before.  Three nights total in a spot that people try for months to secure.

Since the drive up was a mere sixty-four miles from my house—entirely on Highway 1—the Noses and I arrived on Tuesday in plenty of time for a short hike.  It was foggy as all get out but Opus and I set off up the mountain anyway.  After a mile or so I was about to turn around, you could only see about ten feet in front of you, the ocean just a roar way down below, when I ran into a German couple coming down.  They said it was clear and “like another world” only half a mile up ahead and that the views to the water were stunning.  So we kept on. 

I began to notice the little things that are so often overlooked when you are in awe of so much grandeur:  How bright green shoots of grass were pushing their way up between the taupe-colored grasses recently gone to seed, the dried foliage looking almost like a soft fur; a nice reminder of how everything has its cycle.  And we were not alone, the smallest lizard I have ever seen crossed the trail as did, sadly, not the smallest snake I have ever seen.  And a grasshopper.

At two miles in, the fog had not cleared and we had not been presented with stunning views of the ocean below; I decided that the Germans had miscalculated metric to miles or that the fog had moved—money on the later.  We turned around.

Today was a different story:  I woke early and sat gazing out Beagle’s windows into the light grey dawn, enjoying the sound of the crashing waves and my first cup of coffee.  (The Noses do not stir at that early hour.)  As this side of Earth turned toward the sun, color and focus arrived; the dark green tree across the field and the blue ocean just beyond.  It was a clear, bright morning and a perfect day for a long hike.

I drove down to Limekiln Trail only to find it closed for reasons completely beyond my understanding.  [Insert sound of soapbox being placed on the floor.]

I decided to just go up Kirk Creek Trail again.  This time the entire coastline was visible from the first step; I wouldn’t have even known it was the same trail—I had seen so little of it before.  We stopped for coffee about a mile in; it took some time to find a spot without poison oak (sprouting up everywhere), eventually I settled into the hillside, amongst the many mole holes, and enjoyed the view.

Back on the trail, Opus who, as you know, typically walks in front, was hanging behind me and so it happened that I was first to almost step on the tarantula.  Yep.  That gorgeous ocean vista keeps your eyes off the trail.   Once I was done with my involuntary jump and yelp, I stood and watched him make his way across the trail.  He was not in any great hurry, which was nice, so I had time to appreciate his black legs and body with their abundant, fine, taupe-colored fur covering.  He ambled along to the western side of the trail, onto the hillside and abruptly did a u-turn, placing his head into a mole hole.  Then he commenced to gather his legs underneath his body, pulling himself into a taupe-colored oval.  Looking, you know, just like the dried grasses recently gone to seed. 

Two lessons in one tarantula.

Further up the trail we saw a newly dead Coral Snake, expertly killed with a skull piercing by, I assume, the two hikers who had passed me earlier.  And, on the way down, a smaller, simply black tarantula which I pointed out to some hikers coming up the trail. 

“Fantastic!”, one hiker exclaimed, “And look, this must be a colony—see all the holes in the hillside?”

I may never sit in the dirt again.

-K

PS:  And more to the point of the post title:  This coastline has been ravaged by rain and fire and it is because of this that Limekiln Trail is currently closed.  The ranger said it was to “protect hikers from falling trees and/or mud slides”.  I do wish the government would stop pretending to care so much about my body.  #stillnotvaccinated

Claustrophobia

 

Yes, a rare posting from Beagle’s southern base camp, Morro Bay.  The return was easy enough; I will definitely make the trip to Colorado more often—mileage was 347, 406 and 438 respectively.  Mileage over 400 is difficult, but the middle day provided beautiful scenery (Green River, Utah to Las Vegas) and the final day ended at home.  That’s always an easy distance.

There were many lessons learned on this trip but the most striking was my hiking to towing ratio was way off; I prefer three days of hiking to one day towing but it was more like one to one.  This was due mostly to weather and unforeseen obstacles; I feel confident that if I had not needed to be back in Morro by a certain date, I would have fattened that ratio by heading up to Wyoming and Montana for a few weeks.

But in Morro Bay we are.  After three weeks in Beagle with only one night in a hotel (the final night in Las Vegas), I found myself wandering from room to room in my house thinking, “What is this room for?”, and then, once inside that room, “What are all the things in this room for?”  The beautiful pictures and paintings on the walls began to close in on me (despite the fact that most of them are nature scenes) and I felt…you guessed it…claustrophobic.

Now, some of you have seen my house and know it is not large nor do I have a lot of stuff—by most people’s standards.  Most people come in and comment on the simplicity of my living space.  But I do have five rooms, excluding the two bathrooms, and I realized that what I do in all five of those rooms I do in one room in Beagle.  It’s not that my life is different in Beagle, I do the same stuff, just more simply.  And, I have to admit, with more contentment.

Have you ever noticed how much stuff you have whose only purpose is to hold other stuff?  Sheesh, my chest is tightening up again.  It’s time for even more paring down.

In other news, I walked Opus into town this morning (about a 2.5 mile walk each way) and sat at my favorite breakfast spot gazing across the marina at the famous rock.  It was (yet another) gloomy, grey morning in Morro Bay and I found myself beginning to feel dissatisfied.  Then I thought, “What if you arrived here in Beagle and were camping?  How would you look at this scene?”

I realized I would adore the small fishing town with its abundance of healthy eating options and fresh fish; I would treasure the ability to have a nice long walk that included avocado toast with a boiled egg and a hot cup of coffee; I would love how everyone says, “Good Morning” and looks you in the eye.

I also realized that I had thought all these things in December of 2018 when I did come to town in Beagle, camped at the State Park, walked every morning into town, and knew I had found my southern base camp.

Until next time, thanks for reading!

-K

PS:  Those are otters chilling in the bay; an every day scene around here.

Driven Like A Salmon

 

Greetings from the Chatfield State Park in Littleton, Colorado—yes, I made it!  And although my plan of traversing the passes between storms still had me driving through some snow, I am thankful I made the trek yesterday:  After almost 24 hours of (the glorious Colorado) sunshine, we are now sitting here watching another, larger storm roll in from the north; I believe it is the one that caused so much trouble up in Wyoming.

For the drive from Palisade to Littleton, I had planned on lunching at Sylvan Lake State Park just outside of Eagle.  I had been there before, many years ago, and remembered how pretty it was but I had mixed feelings; drive days of more than 200 miles always make me antsy to just get it done, particularly with a snow storm ahead. 

Such was the debate in my head as I took the Noses on their morning constitutional.  On the way back to Beagle, Opus stopped and looked up at a tree.  Then he sat in front of me, looked me in the eye and then back up at the tree.  Twice.  I decided to look up at the tree.  There sat two of the largest Eagles I have ever seen, together, but one branch apart.  They were gorgeous.  Naturally, I did not have my phone with me but I did take it as a sign that I should go to Eagle.  (Only a little sarcasm there.)

Although I adore Colorado, there are only a few towns that I enjoy. Most of towns are too western for my taste, too ramshackle looking with their wooden structures, and Aspen, Vail, and, sadly, Telluride are like Orange County with an excuse to wear mink.  Not my kind of places.  But Eagle?  I love Eagle.  It is a town of understated elegance; I felt that way ten years ago and it is much the same today (much more expensive and many more houses but they are doing a nice job of community planning.)

And so we turned off the interstate at Eagle to make our way to Sylvan Lake.   The road quickly turned into a narrow, two-lane road with many miles still to go but I had been up there in Salt so I knew I could make it.  Then it started snowing.  After a few miles of that particular experience, Life offered me a paved turn-out with a matching one on the other side of the road; I could pull off and easily turn around. 

Which I did.

And then I did again.

I really wanted to see that lake.

Five more miles go by and Life presents me with the Visitor’s Center up on the left; nice big parking lot, lots of places to turn around.  I drove right by; six miles to the lake, the sign said.

What the sign didn’t say (and what I had clearly forgotten) was that it was a dirt road and, after the last storm, plenty muddy. 

After about a quarter mile, Life offered me a pull-off spot, large enough to turn around.

Which I did.

And then I did again.

Despite it now being 24 degrees with a light snow, I really wanted to see that lake.

About a mile up the muddy road, Life offered me a day-use area, a picnic site with a large, empty parking lot and a lovely meadow with a creek flowing through it.

At that point I remembered an old joke:  A preacher was stuck in the middle of some kind of natural disaster; his neighbor stopped by to help him, he declined saying, “God will save me.”  Time goes by and soon a fireman offers to rescue him, he declined, saying, “God will save me.”  More time goes by and the National Guard tries to rescue him, he declined again, saying, “God will save me.”

Then he dies.  When he gets to heaven he asks God, “Why didn’t you save me?”  And God replies, “I sent you a neighbor, a fireman and the National Guard.”

I turned into the day use area.

No one was around so I let the Noses leap out of the car untethered and we three ran through the meadow in the snow.  River was in rare form with circles and flopping paws and Opus was in heaven; his feet rarely touching the ground, making excuses to jump over small bushes looking like Mighty Dog.  We had a blast despite the snow and bitterly cold wind.  After about twenty minutes, we were all happy to hop back into the car (yes, Opus jumped right in.)

Back on Interstate 70, we hit a bunch more snow at Vail pass (elevation 10,600’) but there were plenty of cars on the road to keep the asphalt warm and, apparently, plenty of salt on the roads as well.  By the time we pulled into Chatfield, we looked like we had been sprayed all over with a white paste.  Nothing worse than winter road salt blanketing my beloved Beagle.

Although I am here for five nights, I have to move twice.  I was only in my pitch last night for the one night so I held off trying to get Beagle washed.  I did wash her windows but then I almost always do that when I arrive somewhere.  (I think there must be a chat room somewhere where non-Airstream RV owners laugh about how quickly Airstreamers wash their windows after parking.  What can we say?  We have awesome wrap-around windows and its not any fun to look through dirt and bugs.)

This morning I hitched up and took Beagle to a car wash where I found a bay large enough to fit both Wurzig and Beagle with hoses long enough to wash them both.  It was divine.  And yes, I know we are about to get inundated with rain (down here at 5,280’) but I had to get that salt off.  My fellow Airstreamers will understand.

This is a lovely park with well-spaced pitches and great walking trails along the lake.  Long walks helped me sort out why I was impelled to come here this year.  It was worth it.

Unless some dramatic, comedic or divine experience happens between now and Monday, this will likely be my last post for this trip.  I have a busy weekend filled with great friends and Monday will begin my drive back to Morro Bay.  I will not be camping along the way; it is a drive just to get home and for that, an easy in- easy out- hotel room is much my preference.

-K

PS:  Plenty of sunshine next week so passing back over the passes should not a problem.  That’s for you, Mobom.