California Dreaming

April 17 – May 5
My plan was to spend a week visiting my friend Vickie, explore wine country and the coast before turning the car towards Santa Fe. Ever since the conception of this trip I felt compelled to be in the presence of the sea and redwood forest. Two untimely auto accidents resulting in a five-month delay could not, would not, prevent a desire so strong and a pull so convincing, to be here. Finally I had arrived, without reservation, but in celebration of each mile and minute.

Vickie had plans to attend a dinner dance at the Sausalito Yacht Club that evening and invited me to tag along. Why not? After all I had come here to spend time with Vickie and I would be near the water. The “yacht” turned out to be funky old barge decorated by Christmas lights, nets and lots of pictures of captains and such. After dinner the band set up and began to play, the dancing started. I had eaten my fill, made lots of small talk but did not feel compelled to dance, at least not yet. The water beckoned. I made my way through the crowd out onto the bow. The evening air felt cool on my warm desert-brown skin. Finally after months I was at the coast. Why was the pull to be here so strong? Why did it take so long?

A woman with a smile as wide and inviting as the Cheshire cat approached. She said she lived in Sonoma County and often came to these dances with her friends. In turn I told her how serendipity bought me here tonight and of my desire to explore the area. In just that moment on a barge in Sausalito I had met my tour guide for the next two weeks. Janine told me she had taken several extended road trips in the past few years exploring the American west. She had traveled with family or friends and was surprised to learn that I was doing it solo. I explained that the purpose of my trip was both to enjoy the beauty of the landscape while completely immersing myself in the present. “It has been a challenging year and this is my way of finding my center.”

The trip provided time for introspection. I was on the road to discover where my path would next lead. I had just received a job offer from a park in northeastern Washington state and had to decide in the next few days whether to return home to New Mexico or fly the coop. I pondered how my life would be affected by my decision. I realize there are never wrong answers, but only choices, each leading down a different path. Perhaps all paths converge. More than likely I am hapless in my belief that I can control my destiny. Maybe I am taking life and all my decision making too seriously? Whatever the truth, I still had to make a decision about the job offer.

I did make a decision about the job. After talking at length to my prospective boss I decided his offer sounded perfect. He expected my decision the following morning. I had time to mull things over. That evening I decided to go to Washington. I would call first thing in the morning. Morning came and I was perplexed. A voice deep inside said,” Stay put.” But why? The voice was clear, “Go back to New Mexico.” I did not understand. I made the call. To the surprise of both my prospective employer and myself I declined the offer. He was startled, “You would be perfect for the position.” I thought so too. But I trusted something so deep in side that I can only know it as truth.

With my course charted, I began to play. Armstrong Woods, Jenner Beach, Point Reyes, Muir Woods, Mount Tamalpais, Stinson Beach, Sugarloaf Ridge, Bodega Bay, Shell Beach, kayaking on the Russian River, wine tasting. I immersed myself in tall trees, salt water, and cabernet, cleansing my mind of one year's worth of accumulated clutter and nonsensical chatter. I felt light, free and present. I found a little bit of heaven in the headlands at Mendocino watching oystercatchers flutter above their claimed rock as waves splashed an imaginary threat. There were flowers, clouds, sunshine, rainbows and Janine's winsome smile to brighten each moment tumbling like the waves into the next.

May 7  Home
There is an abalone shell adorning the mantle in my cabin. It serves as a touchstone reminding me that all is perfect. It was plucked from the sea during my odyssey to the California coast. I no longer question the timing of my walkabout. My journey taught me to trust. I have come to embrace what is presented even when I don’t understand 'why' or 'how'.  My trust led me to joy. A joy that was always present but needed dusting off.  Through the grace of the sea, mountains and desert I have been reminded to embrace the Now.

Leaving Death Valley/Sequoia Kings Canyon

April 15 - 16

Leaving Death Valley
It was another beautiful morning. I was early to rise with anticipation of what this day would offer. I wanted to cover a fair amount of miles, set up my next camp in daylight and  still be able to play on the sand dunes in Death Valley this morning. I wanted it all and why not? The dunes were magnificent in the early morning light. I was not a stranger to large amounts of sand piled high in one spot. I grew up on the east coast and loved to play at the beach whenever possible even if that meant sitting in traffic to and from the coast on any given weekend day in summer. The hot and sticky drives on humid days were worth their weight in sand, the sand lining my ear canals, the sand under my nails, between my toes, stuck to my eyelids, crunching between my teeth and matted to my scalp. Yes, there is nothing like a day at the beach. But this was different. For one thing it was spring and there was little traffic and I was a very long way from the coast.

 The day promised to be hot but the morning air was still comfortable as I made my way out onto the sprawling dunes. Light and shadow allowed contours large and small to be visible in a mosaic of patterns sculpted by wind. The sand between my toes was soft and I really did not mind if it tagged along on my journey to the Sierras. As I marched or perhaps sauntered in the softness of curved sand I glanced back from time to time to see how far I had traveled. It is the luxury of sand dunes to leave an obvious route creating an ease in knowing from where you had come. Footsteps winding to and fro, up and down and sometimes around an occasional shrub that managed to get a foothold on life in this wacky environment. Mine were not the only tracks in the sand. There were trails of tiny feet and tails and others still in the shape of a repeating letter s created by a creature having no feet at all. Each of us, parading in this uncommon land with the common desire to stay whole in the night, feed our bellies and move on. Unlike the snakes and smallest mammals, I took photographs of flowers blooming lovely in this harsh but wildly beautiful landscape. My friends, who left these tracks, may beg to differ with my concept of harsh, perhaps they would argue that the humid, densely populated environment of my youth, qualifies, as harsh.

Kern River Valley
I drove into the unknown ready for any surprise that lay around the bend. The road out of  Death Valley led to desolate highway before winding up past some Joshua Trees eventually gaining enough elevation to cool the air and grow pines. As quick as I went up, I went down into the green winding hills along the Kern River. I jammed on the brakes when I saw the sign for the Audubon Center. It would be a good opportunity to stretch my legs and indulge in the sounds and pleasures of spring birdsong. I strolled for only a short time along the path before witnessing species in their mating plumage. I was alone on the trail with the exception of one other binocular clad individual. I offered up pleasantries as we passed along route and he offered the truth in return, “ Every day that is spent birding is a good day” and so I smiled knowing that I belonged to a fraternity of nerds.

Sequoia Kings Canyon
When making my excursion back to Santa Fe a week or so earlier I ditched my snowshoes. A taste of spring left little desire to be bundled up in winter clothing. Anywhere there might be the possibility of cold nights or days seemed daunting. This of course was irrational, as I had not spent one uncomfortable night in my tent, even when temperatures dipped into the twenties. I had seen an extended forecast for Sequoia Kings Canyon and knew it would not be flip-flop weather, yet the lure of the Park was irresistible.

I would enter the Park from the south entrance near Three Rivers and felt comfort in the fact that I would be able to sleep below three thousand feet. It was sunny and warm in the valley. I drove along a road lined with orange groves. The scent in the air was ridiculously sweet and intoxicating. Pushing hard against a desire to stop the car, get out and be held captive by citrus blossoms, I reluctantly kept my foot pressed upon the accelerator pedal. I was almost to the Park entrance. In the distance I could see the mountains. The scenery was lovelier with each mile. I traveled through roadsides blanketed with oaks and flowers. When I arrived at the Park, the Visitor Use Assistant, a.k.a. fee collector, noticed my Bandelier National Monument parking sticker and asked if I was “Park Service”. “Yes.” Apparently thrilled by another “parkie” she suggested which campground I might enjoy and offered up sights not top be missed. I took her advice on both and was not disappointed. I doubt there is anything in Sequoia Kings Canyon that could disappoint.

The campground was  green and damp from earlier rain. As soon as I exited my car I encountered a notice to immediately put all food and fragrant items in the supplied bear box. I complied not wishing to have my car doors and windows peeled away by some marauding black bear with an acquired taste for human food. After stuffing myself and then the bear box with food I sauntered in the last light of the day. The trail followed an endorphin-laden creek rushing, tumbling, gushing and swerving around rocks and shore. The water was clear and cold. The bank decorated with flowers. It was spring and I was in the foothills of the Sierras.

April 16
 I awoke with great anticipation and a heart filled with joy. I broke camp early, eager to see large trees gracing the backs of mountains. The air was cool and grew cooler as I drove higher in elevation. It did not take long before I reached snow and lots of it! The sight made me especially grateful for my snow free campsite. The snow was deep! I know this from the direct experience of post holing along the fair weather trails leading to some of the most magnificent forms of life to adorn the planet. There they were, the sequoias, surrounding me, and towering above. I was alone with the trees. I dashed through the forest as best I could, stumbling in snow, with admiration for the age and stature of giants.

I drove from grove to grove chilled and delighted. I pulled into a parking area that led to some of the largest trees. I walked across the parking lot to take some pictures. The memory card filled with the first click of the shutter. I had another card and began to run back to the car to find it. A couple just arriving yelled out “are you running to stay warm?” I turned and smiled, “ No, I am running because I can’t contain my enthusiasm for all this beauty.” I was giddy, absolutely giddy with delight. Before driving out of the Park I explored everywhere that the early season would allow.

I was saddened to leave the beauty of the trees but I had many more miles to travel before resting my head upon a soft pillow in Napa. I wound down out of the mountains from the northern entrance and once again began to smell citrus blossoms. This time I hit my brakes coming to a halt in front of a fruit stand where a burst of  orange sugar collided with my tongue. These were the biggest and sweetest oranges I had ever tasted. These oranges were a remedy to my camp food cuisine.

I  bought very little in the way of souvenirs or luxury items on my sojourn but now I eagerly reached for my wallet grabbed for cash and happily received a jumbo bag of fruit that would provide many happy California memories. A voice disturbing my reverie was directed my way. A gentleman standing beside me, wanting to make conversation asked where I was from. “Santa Fe.”  He lit up hearing  my response and told me about is love for the “City Different.” Once upon a time he had been a truck driver and spent many happy hours in the city of adobe, strung with ristras and bathed in blue skies. I understood his fondness for my home. Santa Fe is a city like no other but I was currently fixated on fruit not mariachi bands. I sampled a plump raisin and immediately reached for more money. “ I will take a bag please.” Sweet, plump organic raisins, yum! Having more interest in fruit than conversation my kindred Santa Fean spirit got into his car and drove away. “Aw, he is just lonely since his wife died, comes hanging around here almost every day.”

“Oh”, I said to the tall brown skinned man adorning a large straw hat, cowboy boots and turquoise bracelet, who just pocketed my allowance. Judging from the looks of that bracelet I had a hunch the fruit vendor had also spent some time in New Mexico. “You want a beer?” “What?” “A beer, don’t tell me you don’t drink.” I had heard correctly, the man I would come to know as Frank had just offered me a beer. I looked at my watch, it was just after noon and I had not eaten much since traveling down from the snow-clad mountains. “ I have to drive.” “I am heading to Napa.” “ One beer won’t hurt you, you will be in Napa by dinner time.” “ Sure, thanks.” “Let me just put the fruit in the car.”

When I returned to the fruit stand I did not see Frank. “Over here,” he hollered. Frank was squatting in the shade under an old wooden stand behind his truck. I drank my midday meal squatting in the shade beside him. He told me how he had met his wife, and how he hoped his son might eventually marry the sweet young woman that lived with her mother in Albuquerque. He told me the story of how he acquired his New Mexican bracelet. I listened and smiled. I don’t normally stop on the side of the road to drink beer with strangers, but by the time I had taken my last sip, I was hard pressed to call Frank a stranger. Breaking bread together, or in this case fruit and beer, is what makes the world go round.

Onward to Death Valley

April 12  - though am April 15
Death Valley

The feeling here is vastly different from the Grand Canyon. The pastels and depths of the Canyon draw you in, into the womb from where all life emerges. Here in this land of basin and range you are spit out whole, full grown, tough as the rock under your feet, yet a bit fragile like the blossoms beside your boot.

I spent three days exploring this landscape, sliding down sand dunes, running my hands over salt crystal formations and slinking up, over and around rock. With the days, hours and minutes my skin began to take on the colors of the hills. Skin and stone, flesh and matter, blending brown, somewhere below the level of the sea.

Astound, astonish or if forced to use a phrase, “take my breath away” would best describe my recent travels to Death Valley. I had no preconceived notion of this landscape with exception of sun baked. And yes it was a little bit warm, and sometimes a little bit chilly, but mostly it was just right.  Temperature was dictated by whether I was above or below sea level, enveloped within winding rock walls or negotiating high elevation scoliotic ridge tops.

Death Valley is big, varied and delightful.  Rock hard sienna, ochre, umber, white, black and brown splash bold in texture and wildness across a landscape steeped in a history of gold, copper, mineral salts, and the ability to amaze. My timing to the region was near perfect. This promises to be a good wildflower year and the blooms had just begun. There were fields of gold composites, mixed with miniature petals of blue, purple, pink, and white accenting hillsides and low lands. There was enough color to make you giddy, dance, sing and be grateful to be in this world.

I struck up a conversation with a custodian who had just finished his morning rounds of cleaning the toilet at the Gold Canyon trailhead. Frank Graves was one of those Park Service employees who had found a place he liked and stayed a long time. Frank had better stories and knowledge of Death Valley than many Park Ranger Interpreters that come and go with the season.  Frank took off his rubber gloves, tossed them aside and rustled around in his truck to find his park map. He enthusiastically showed me how to get to all the most remarkable places in his opinion.  Then Frank folded up his map and asked if I am a Star Wars fan?  "Uh, yeah."  I figured yes was answer Frank preferred to hear. Frank said, “Well then turn around and look over there”.  He pointed to the trailhead were I had began a hike some hours before.  He described a scene with Luke Skywalker and R2D2 that had been filmed at this very location and asked if I remembered it? I did not dare mention that I once sat through the second Star Wars film for the second time and only half way through realized that I had seen it a first time. Me and Frank, Luke and R2D2 traveling through time and space, rock and flowers.

Lake Mead
My nights in Death Valley were very comfortable and restful quite unlike my previous stop over at Lake Mead. Quiet hours in most campgrounds don’t start until 10:00 pm.  On most nights I have already gotten in a few hours of sleep before curfew, my night at Lake Mead was no exception.

The neighboring RV was already generating annoying sounds that for sanity's sake I thought best to imagine as a purring cat, a very large cat,  as I slipped into my tent for the evening. I read for a bit and then weary eyed I shut off the lantern and rolled over into dreamland.

I heard something rustling outside my tent. Groggy and semi torpid I forced myself to listen. Was I dreaming?  Whoever made the sound was small. I pondered my location. Maybe it is just a lizard?  After my less than complete inventory of  animals inhabiting Lake Mead I drifted back to sleep.  Minutes later I awoke to rustling. This lizard needs to find another campsite.

Becoming more alert I remembered the lizard that kerplunked from the window ledge onto my leg while asleep in my cabin at home. My body sprung alert like a bolt of lightening upon impact. I was not thinking lizard.  I  immediately recalled a co-worker’s story of a mouse falling through the lattillas of her ceiling. Flying mice are one of my secret animal fears.  My co-worker recounted how the mouse had landed on her head and tiny delicate feet scurried across her face. Gross! Somehow sleeping with a lizard trumps a mouse. Don’t ask me why? I have no rational explanation.  With the aid of a flashlight I frantically searched and swiftly grabbed the intruder and promptly put the offender outdoors. Eventually my heart rate returned to normal and I was able to return to sleep.

I rolled onto by stomach and propped myself up on my elbows and listened. The sound came from my right.   Quickly, I lifted up clothes, books, and  my pillow. Nothing, I found nothing. Ugh, I am too tired for this nonsense. I considered going back to sleep. Yea right ! I imagined a herd of lizards or cockroaches marching across my face.

 Perhaps if opened the tent door whatever was plaguing my imagination would just get up and leave on its own accord.  I put on my headlamp, unzipped door and waited. I had to keep a sharp eye on the door to make certain no stealthy intruders would enter before my unwanted guest left. I waited and watched. This is ridiculous I could be sleeping...  just then a dark shape caught my attention as it climbed up and over the tent door. I swung my dimming light in the direction of my mystery guest just in time too see the back end of a mouse run full speed into the night. A mouse?! How could a mouse have gotten into my tent?  Ah, I remembered, in my haste, I accidentally left the tent door open when taking a walk earlier in the evening. With the mystery and problem solved I could rest. Comfy and cozy I drifted back to sleep.

A small sound woke me from my slumber. Maybe the mouse is hanging around the tent?  I listened. The sound was coming from inside. No way!  Again I opened the door and waited.  A shadowy figure slipped up, over and out the door. Another mouse! This seemed a bit ridiculous. But at least now it was over. It was time for sleep.

Again I awoke to rustling. Maybe I have been on the road too long and I  am imagining ghouls in the shape of mice? Maybe this is payback for all the mice I trapped in my cabin last fall. Again I opened the tent door and within moments watched a mouse scurry inches from my face, climb up, over and out the door. Please no more…. I drifted to sleep thinking about my friend Mike, a wildland firefighter, who upon breaking camp after ten days found a mouse squished under his sleeping pad. At the time I thought to myself only a boy would roll onto a mouse and sleep on it for a week. Tonight I feel rather uncertain about gender implication and question what I might find when breaking camp come morning. Ah sweet dreams, Theresa.

Canyons

4/3/10 – 4/11/10

It seems like forever since I left Tucson.  Yet it was   only week ago that I was hiking up Wasson Peak in Saguaro National Monument enjoying the profusion of California poppies blanketing the hillside.

After my trek up Wasson Peak, I joined Tina and her grandson Pancho for a walk around the Desert Museum. Pancho is a sweet, kind and inquisitive six year old. We had a great  time watching hummingbirds, snakes, bugs, bobcats, and mountain lions.  His joy in observing the animals was contagious. Thanks Pancho. That evening Tina cooked a wonderful meal. The next day I had to make an unanticipated trip back to Santa Fe to take care of some business.

 I made the best of my back track. A hike in the mountains and a soak at Ten Thousand Waves soothed the miles of travel.  The most amusing part of my journey home came when filling up my gas tank at a station along I25.   An Iowa farmer at the next pump sized up my Honda Fit and said, “I bet you get good gas mileage.” Yes, I do. And then without missing a beat he asked, “You a New Mexico kid?” I smiled wide and replied without missing a beat, “Yes.”  I guess he did not hear  “Bruce Sprinsteen” blaring from the satellite radio when I pulled up. New Mexico kid?  "Kid"?  Heck no, I am a “Jersey Girl”!!!

I have since submersed myself in canyons,  Canyon de Chelly and the Grand Canyon to be specific. Canyon de Chelly National Monument is located on the Navajo nation in northwest Arizona. It is a fairly unique Park Service unit in that some Navajo families still reside in the canyon grazing their sheep. In addition to Navajo culture, ancestral Pueblo people once made their homes in the cliffs and farmed the canyon bottom. The presence and history of native culture in a stunning landscape is what Canyon de Chelly is all about. On my walk to White House Ruins (Ancestral Pueblo cliff dwellings) I met a young Navajo artist who painted images on pieces of local sandstone. He told me his grandmother still lives in the canyon and runs a Tracking School. He told me people from all over, he specifically mentioned New York, sign up to attend classes and walk barefoot in the sandy washes throughout canyon bottom tracking animals. I asked if he had had learned this skill from his grandmother. He replied, “No, I don’t want to get thorns stuck in my feet.”  I suppose that pleasure is reserved for New Yorkers. I am glad I come from the other side of the river….

I met many other interesting people while exploring. Most notable was Gilbert Jumbo, a local Navajo man, who invited himself into my campsite to take pictures of trees. Gilbert is a painter who attended art school in Santa Fe. He uses the pictures he takes at the canyon for inspiration for his work. I was not sure what was different about "my trees" compared to all the other cottonwoods in the campground but my trees led Gilbert to me. We spoke for quite some time. Gilbert told me that he taught at a private school in Maryland for six months. I asked how he liked that? He replied, “The food is so different out there.” “They eat so much sea food.”  He had a relative send him out some green chili stew and fry bread mix. Who could blame him?

After explorations and contemplations in Canyon de Chelly I made my way west through the Navajo and Hopi Reservations to the Grand Canyon. Like Canyon De Chelly the Grand Canyon also has a rich cultural history. But the experience of place is vastly different.  The Grand Canyon draws you seductively to her edge and beckons you to look at her beauty and when you do, something happens. For a moment you feel strange and then you realize you are looking into the soul of all humanity, all that ever was and all that will ever be. You try to grasp what is happening. You can’t. You take a photograph and exclaim of beauty and then you step back forever changed. That my friend, is the Grand Canyon.

I have spent the past several days hiking in the Canyon. Today I saw California Condors flying above the rim as I began my hike on the Bright Angel. Three condors soaring on the thermals with ease. Magnificent. If only I could hike the depths of this canyon with such ease. The people most graced with ease while hiking in the Grand Canyon were the children. They have no preconceived notion of what the hike will be like. They are not worried about whether it will be too steep, too long, too difficult or too anything that removes them from the present. Nor are the children trying to prove anything. The kids, alert to their surroundings, are experiencing the joy in nature.

While walking up the trail I passed a father holding his young son’s hand, slowly leading him up the switchbacks. God bless the father for his patience, and cheers to the boy who did not complain about  the steepness or heat. Ahead on the trail I came upon the boy’s older sister who was maybe seven. She was waving a stick in her hand like a magic wand commanding all the rock to turn to candy.  Rock candy, how marvelous, enough to satisfy the biggest sweet tooth!  And marvel I did at all the sweetness around me exhibited in the song of a bird, the wisp of a cloud, the color of stone, and in the delight of hikers. This is place of old stone, a deep gash into the heart of earth, immense in size, the envy of every artist’s palette,  it is a place for all humanity to open their hearts to the wonder of all that is, while experiencing all the grace that there could ever be.  It is a grand canyon.

Lions and Tigers and Bears. Oh My! 3/29 - 4/2

Big Bend National Park  March 29, 2010 – April 2, 2010

My good friend Tina invited me to tag along on an outing to Big Bend National Park.  This was an offer hard to refuse. Tina escaped to Big Bend as a young woman fleeing a relationship gone awry, married and started a family in the Park. She knew the place well and I could not ask for a better tour guide.

I had been to Big Bend as a young woman. I was living in New Jersey at the time and was anxious to explore and experience everything life had to offer. After a trip to Brazil fell through I convinced my boss that my already scheduled six-week leave of absence would be well spent exploring National Wildlife Refuges and National Parks in this country. The workload at the Environmental Education was admittedly heavy in spring with a multitude of scheduled classes for kiddos and adults, but I suggested that experiencing nature first hand could only make me a better Naturalist. I even persuaded Ross that my best bud and fellow staff member should come along.

So off we went to far-flung places hiking, birding and completely immersing ourselves in nature. Big Bend and was one of those places. My memory recalled an arid, vast landscape of rugged mountains, grasslands and desert. I promised myself that I one day would return. It proved to be a promise worthy of keeping.

My first trip to Texas included not only Big Bend but also wildlife refuges near McAllen and Brownsville, where the Texas air is so humid that lying in a sleeping bag could be considered a form of torture. That spring I remember witnessing droves of families descending into a state park to picnic on Easter Sunday and promptly disappearing at sunset. Why did they all leave so fast? What did they know that we did not? Was camping for the foolhardy? My discovery and subsequent insight is that scorpions have little respect for otherwise occupied shower stalls. There is something very disconcerting about a rapidly approaching scorpion when you are naked and blind. "Oh my God I think there is something crawling towards me! Where are my glasses?" Who was going to answer and fetch my glasses lacked reason.  Blind and vulnerable I was left to the only sensible behavior I could think of… shriek and run.  So much for decorum…

Well things are different now. I have been living in the West more than twenty years and I have spent much professional and recreational time living in a tent. This trip to Texas would be a piece of cake. I would not even be in a tent. Nope, no tent. Instead Tina and I would spend our first night in Marfa, Texas in the magnificent Riata Motel. We were given the handicapped room. I guess the gent at the desk was not expecting any more travelers for the evening. Hot tip - don’t take the handicapped room at a cheap motel. The ridiculously large bathroom was like an echo chamber. It made chatting with the bathroom door open an interesting experience. Okay, I am just kidding about magnificent. The Riata is not exactly a five star kind of place nor is Marfa a five star kind of town.

I am not suggesting Marfa does not have culture. It does. Right here in Marfa, population a bit over 2000, (I am not sticking around long enough to find out what the 2010 census determines) there is art. No I am not just referring to the roadside exhibit of the Prada shoe and handbag collection (see FB picture -yep, Prada, Martha, Texas). I am referring to the real deal. Minimalist sculptor, Donald Judd, tired of his chaotic life in NYC, stumbled onto Martha way back when, bought a house and with him brought art to Martha. Judd died in 1994 but much of his art is still in Martha. Who knew, Martha right behind New City and Santa Fe for art and culture?  Makes me feel right at home.

Dining in Martha was a bit of a challenge. The highly recommended Pizza Foundation closed early the evening Tina and I were in town leaving us to rummage through our own food bags for sustenance. Once we settled into our deluxe room, quesadillas were served fresh and hot out of the microwave and washed down with wine served in paper cups.  "Would you prefer white or red?" "Gee Tina I don’t know? What goes well with paper?" Ah, I just love a love gourmet meal.  After a few glasses, I mean cups, I was beginning to like Marfa. In addition to the art scene Marfa is also famous for mystery lights that appear to hover the size of basketballs on the horizon. I did not check out how many bars there are in Marfa but something tells me quite a few. The only round orb I saw on the horizon was a full and beautiful moon. Good night man in the moon. Goodnight Marfa.

It did not break my heart to leave Marfa early the next morning and head to our real digs for the week in Terlingua. I can only describe Terlingua as an outpost for people who have dropped out. It was perfect, dusty, hot, plunked down in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by a big Texan sky.  Our lodging for the week was roughly a  300 sq foot rustic room/cabin with a couple of beds, stove and refrigerator and bathroom over yonder. Aside from walking over to the bathroom at night, when the rattlers would be out, the place was down right rough around the edges, perfect, and all ours.

We only had a few days to experience the Park, we wasted no time in getting out and hitting the trail. We explored Santa Elena Canyon, Dugout Wells, Cattail Falls, Pine Ridge, the Chisos Basin and historic ranch sites, I marveled at the shear cliffs of Santa Elena Canyon, one wall Mexican and the other American, separated by flowing molecules of hydrogen and oxygen, the Rio Grande, a river of politics. In the canyon black phoebes flitted from shrub to shrub as canyon wrens sang and my heart delighted. In the hot sun and cooling breeze I felt present, content and very much alive.

There is a lot to be said for being present. A spiritual seeker would say there is nothing but the present, the Now. As a naturalist being present connects me to the Now. Each sound uttered from the throat of wren is processed by my nervous system and transformed by my brain into the song and joy that is life. All I have to do is listen. All I have to do is be aware, to be with, the magic of life, in all its perfection.

We had lots of time while driving and hiking to spill our guts about our secret animal fears.  Most of us have some creature that we fear, or should I say have a healthy dose of respect. Tina seems to have a great deal of “respect” for bears. Black bears were extirpated in this region by 1940s. By the 1980s black bears began repopulating Big Bend. The bears wander up from Mexico. Whether or not the Mexican bears need to apply for citizenship before making their home in the Chiso Mountains is something that I don’t know?  Since we are not camping, hence no food laying around, I am not really concerned about a few black bears. Admittedly, walking in grizzly bear country makes me a bit on edge but that is a different story for another day. Just for the record I also have great respect for moose.

Besides bear, Big Bend is home to another sizable mammal, the mountain lion. In my opinion any animal that can run fast, jump far, sports long claws, sharp teeth and likes to consume flesh commands respect. Tina told me a remarkable story from her years past in Big Bend. It occurred on a trail in the Basin meadows area. Tina would take me there.

We walked up to a beautiful place just begging for a picnic. When Tina’s children were just mere tots, the youngest just 18 months, her husband somehow managed to coax two little girls and a boy to this very spot for a picnic on bit of a rainy day. While the family enjoyed their food after their arduous climb, perhaps more arduous for Dad as he must have carried each child at some point along the trail, a mountain lion appeared from the vegetation. The cat was big, lithe and beautiful. They watched. The cat approached and did not stop until within a foot of little John Thomas. Dad scooped up the child and began to shoo the cat away. "Was your husband crazy? What was he thinking? He let a child-eating predator within a foot of an 18-month of toddler?!"  I could not believe this. Tina said according to her husband it had all happened so fast. Yea, and it would have been a quick and easy snack for the cat! The family had been mesmerized by the beauty of the animal, each of them present, each in the moment. I remarked to Tina that it was an incredible story. I  would relish the opportunity to see a cat. Even though there are lots of mountain lions living where I work and live, I have never seen anything but their tracks in Bandelier National Monument.

We began to head back down the trail towards the Lodge. "Hey, this is a great place for a picture." We stopped. I dug out my camera, took a photo as Tina admired the view. We heard a deer snort from somewhere nearby in the forest. Tina quipped, “The mountain lion is right behind it.” I smiled.  I stepped from the clearing back onto the trail to take another picture. Snapped the shot and looked up and there it was, not thirty feet away walking across the trail. "Tina, Tina," I could barely get her name out or my mouth. Yea, right…her expression gave away her thoughts. "No, really a mountain lion just walked by."  Life is filled with magic.

An hour or so later Tina and I sat on the Lodge patio each sipping a beer as we watched the sun slip low towards the horizon.  A man came running up, “there is a mountain lion on a rock come see.” Up slope a cat rested under a tree, stretched on a rock, watching us and  the three hapless javelinas munching their dinner beside us. A park ranger showed up and mentioned that a lion had not been spotted in this area in the past nine months. I sipped the last of my beer and thought about the power of words.

Before returning to Tucson we slipped over the border to Ojinaga, Mexico where Tina’s bother Mickey and sister-in-law Vicky live. Mickey and Vicky treated us to an excursion to the tiny village of San Carlos. The four of us piled into Mickey’s 1971 VW camper with our picnic lunch and off we went . San Carlos was about an hour away. The wind howled and whipped up dirt from all creation. The wind pushed the van every which way. One moment the van edged ever so close to oncoming traffic, the next puff brought the wheels near the embankment. Did I mention the fumes from the fuel and whining sound of the engine? Finally we came to a halt and I eagerly stepped into the blazing sun. We were at some sort of recreation site.

We strolled up a beautiful canyon, hopping from rock to rock, crisscrossing a river, until finally I felt no need for rock bridges. My sandaled feet carried me happily across the warm water.  Later we picnicked on homemade burritos, avocado and fresh cheese made in Ojinaga by Mennonites. Mennonites? Did I hear Tina correctly? I guess I should have asked more questions. It was a grand day and a grand trip. 

Our trip to Big Bend flourished rich with experience of landscape and friendship. The poison oak I brushed against seems to be flourishing also.  Adios for now.

Saguaro National Park 3/28/10

March 28, 2010

The spring wind blew hard all morning leaving me with little desire for exploring. By afternoon I couldn't sit still, the desert called. Each day in Tucson has been a bit of a surprise. I let the mountains and trails show me where to ramble.  I wait to be beckoned and have always been rewarded.

This afternoon I walked a section of Saguaro National Park along an old line camp at the base of the Rincon Mountains. It was an easy five and a half mile walk. The trail began in creosote flats before giving way to an iconic stand of old growth saguaro cactus with limbs bending and stretching to the heavens. Some cactus grew so close to their neighbor that their limbs wrap around one another like affectionate lovers. Others, do not limit affection to their own species, freely lock limbs with desert trees. Love is where love grows. Even the birds had love on their minds. A male Costa’s hummingbird performs an acrobatic aerial courtship display that would make anyone loving the rush of a rollercoaster envious. Up flies the miniature bird into the wild blue yonder, then plunge, down, the bird dives only to swoop up again.

Along the path Spring flowers, wild mustard and poppy brighten patches of earth with yellow. A white tailed deer eyes me from afar and a black tailed rabbit hops beside the trail. Spring a time of love, beauty and surprise. I could not have planned a better walk.

Sabino Canyon

Saturday March 27, 2010
Sabino Canyon late afternoon stroll

A creek crossing was out of the question. Runoff from the mountaintops flowed with gusto around boulders, swirling and dancing with each bend in the creek. This desert was alive with river song. I diverted my hike from these potentially dangerous crossings opting for a more genteel stroll along the road where I would cross the water via bridges. Even with this diversion I ended up with wet feet. Water crested several of the bridges and I thought that if I walked over them quickly I would not get very wet. This is silly logic . My socks squished with water after each crossing regardless of my speed.

The compliant warm and dry late afternoon air, allowed comfort in my soggy shoes.  My wet extremities enriched my experience, each immeression in the overflow made me more present and part of this canyon, this place. The Catalina Mountains and her rugged canyons are some of the most beautiful in the Tucson area. Earlier in the week I watched dark clouds overtake the range, reach for the city and pour rain into an already swollen river. Ordinary events of spring with their extraordinary beauty are what make Catalinas so special.

From The Road March16-26

 March 16 2010 Leaving Santa Fe

This trip began dream-like, shrouded in the crystalline beauty of snow and the mind clutter of three halting car crashes. I left Santa Fe on the afternoon of March 16th almost a month after my new car had been put back together by “all the kings horses and all the kings men” for the sum of $10, 500. While my Honda was being made like “new” my computer lost all its logic. What can you do with a Logicboard that has no logic left to give? I drove nearly 500 miles with my iBook tucked safely in the backseat before I found a “new” body into which I could safely slip my hard drive. It love at first sight… all is well, at least for now.

You only turn fifty once in a lifetime. That happened to me late last May. I thought it might be fun to mark this occasion with a special celebration. At the time of my actual birthday I celebrated with a delightful get-a-way to Taos and dinner with friends. It was a pleasant way to begin the second half of life. There was even talk of a trip to Italy. But as we all know (and if you don’t I suggest you become a quick study) every moment, each special, should be savored to the fullest without expectation of the next. Don’t wait for tomorrow, embrace the now!

My life changed dramatically in the weeks and months following my birthday. Love walked away and my automobile contorted into a shape Toyota never intended, leaving me wondering which way was up. My car driven wearily, if not wildly, down an embankment was my greatest birthday gift of all. Alert and present I walked away, unscathed, from the topsy-turvy crush of steal, containing my upside down view, into the clear vision of right side up. This road trip is a celebration of life, beauty, and the divine; a journey without expectation, unfolding with each moment.

I tossed my snowshoes, the last items to be packed, into an already burdened car and waited for winter to release its grip on Santa Fe. Eight new inches of snow fell overnight. Monday's morning air sparkled as I drove away from the familiar sight of adobe homes nestled snug below the Sangre de Cristo range.

March 17
On Wednesday, the day of the Irish, I awoke to sporadic birdsong and the ancient sound of the Rio Grande flowing south to Mexico. But, I was not in Mexico. I was far enough North to have my tent coated with ice. I would not exactly call this winter camping (speaking from the experience of a woman who has spent eleven years living in Montana,  and then there was that winter in the Arctic) but it was nippy and a morning worthy of wearing gloves when taking down the tent!

The day took its own course and I was drawn to an area that I had not visited in at least fifteen years, the tiny community of Portal, AZ. Portal cozies up to the eastern flanks of the Chiricahua Mountains in the Coronado National Forest. Tucked down in southeast Arizona this region is a birder’s paradise hosting a dizzying array of migrating and resident hummingbirds, in addition to stealthy birds that sneak across the border. It was prime birding season and all campsites were full. Not to worry, it was time to hike and enjoy the lush canyons and mountains, plunging snow clad, high above the arid flat basin.

There was still that camping issue to deal with after the hike. Yep, campgrounds were still full. After checking out a few dirt roads I could not find a place to spend the night. I drove out of the forest to the Portal General Store and asked the owners if they knew of somewhere I could pitch my tent. I have learned from past experience that the locals always know the hidden gems and if you are nice, polite, and perhaps pitiful enough they will share their secrets. The kind gent suggested that that I could sleep on some property that he had out back near a run down old adobe, and I should pay no mind to Roberto the hired man as he was shy and did not speak much English OR there was an isolated area along the road to Paradise that had a great view of the mountains. Tell me, are there any of you who would resist a trip to Paradise!? For my trouble, toil and patient negotiation of a rutted, dirt, twisty mountain road I was received into paradise.  Moral of my story…always rely on the kindness of strangers or angels as they are, for a beautiful campsite. The birding was good and my time well spent. But this girl is on the move. Time to hike and then on to Bisbee.

March 18-19
The following night I  tucked down a forest road not very far from the Mexican border. There were lots of border patrol cruising the main road and I hoped none of them would roust me out of my nest in the woods. I also hoped that I was not on a route of drug runners or illegals. Some nights are more restful than others. The highlight of this night was hearing a whiskered screech owl. Cold, cold morning. I headed north to Patagonia (this is the other Patagonia…Arizona) to bird at the Nature Conservancy Preserve. Arizona, like New Mexico has had a very wet winter. Everything very green. Lots of birds. I am smiling.

March 20
I am still on the Arizona birding trail as I am calling my travels in this part of the world. My friend Ann, who I am visiting in Tucson, has taken me to some absolutely stunning, expansive grasslands to find a couple of species of longspurs that sometimes spend the winter in this area. No luck with the longspurs. I did get to hear and watch a meadowlark singing from a fencepost, reminding me, with fondness, of my once upon Montana home. I guess you never really leave a place, or a person for that matter, no more than you could ever be separate from God. Happy, I delight in these last days of winter.

March 21
Remember those snowshoes? Well it is time to snowshoe the Lemmon! I had not intended on snowshoeing in Tucson but it is hard to pass up such an opportunity. Yes, Tucson is located in the desert, the Sonoran Desert chock full of cactus and other spiny plants adapted to a hot and dry climate. So how do you snowshoe in a land of spines? You get into the car and drive up the Catalina Highway. This magnificent drive takes you through life zones equal to driving from the desert of Mexico to the mountains of Canada. I found snow, wonderful snow, at the top of Mt. Lemmon. If you want to get away from weekend recreators in Tucson simply strap on your snowshoes and walk away…..

March 22
No snowshoes today, instead a steep climb with my friend Tina in the Catalinas. I am tired from the hike and warm weather. I realize I am still a bit out of shape from the recovery of a mildly tweaked back from the accident a few months back. The good news is that there is no more back pain!!

March 23
Quiet day of afternoon rain, contemplation and a stroll through a local park.

March 24
Birding south of Tucson along the San Pedro River near Tubac and Tumacocori. Peaceful. Birding is an activity that keeps me present and calms my spirit. It is a sacred meditation, a devotion to beauty. I am witness to color, shape, flight patterns, song and behavior. Everything that makes a bird a bird is watched intently for no purpose other than joy.

March 25
One of my favorite places in southern AZ is Madera Canyon...wonderful birding and wonderful hiking. I came here with the intention to bird and ended up hiking to the top of ridge until halted by snow!! I am so close to Mexico yet my feet think I am in the northern Rockies. Who says you can’t have it all? Along the way Painted Redstarts and Zone-tailed Hawks provide good company.

March 26
Today I picked up my hard drive in a new body. I am grateful for this piece of technology that allows me to store my thoughts. In the late late afternoon I visited Saguaro National Park (East). I walked out of the Visitor Center just as they were closing for the evening. A woman approached me eager to find out how to get to the scenic drive. I showed her my map and gave her directions. I said it was too bad the visitor center had just closed and she could not pick up her own brochure. “Oh, I thought you were a ranger.” I was standing before her in sandals, an old ball cap, tank top and shorts. I told her I was a ranger but not at Saguaro. Hummm, did the NPS change their uniform policy in the past few weeks? No one sent me the memo!

The beauty of this place blows me away again and again. The ocotillo, thick with foliage, are resplendent with dark greens leaves after rain. Where there is water there is life. I watched the sun skim the top of the hills as mountains light purple.