It's not them, it's us

Arches is popular with the mountain bike crowd, but we recommend it for boldering. Concern of dusty butts or twisted ankles could not slow our scrambling. Aslin, in a skirt, prompted comment from a teen boy far below. "Do you see that little girl?!?" He would not let his daughter climb "up there." Clearly, he's never had a daughter to try and stop. Overhearing, Brad assured him of her experience and self-confidence plus her mother's assistance if needed. Half an hour later, the boy was asking us for the best footing up, calling to his friend that he would rate the climb a "4". Aside from the heat, we give a solid 9.5.

We didn't hike to the historic ranger station/tea room a few miles from Lake Louise. And we were just 5 hours from Yosemite when the transmission failed. The Grand Canyon is one the 7 wonders of the modern world, but we missed it. Along with Havasu Falls where life may have originated. Everywhere we go, everyone we meet has a suggestion. Not just a passive, "if you're going this way..." but a firm belief in a site that should not be missed. And we respect these opinions. To that point that we're keeping a journal on destinations for future trips.

But it's a big country. With big western states. It might be an entirely different adventure in a another car, but it's not. And our '84 Westy isn't the only member of our party who doesn't take well to the heat. By noon it's too hot to climb rocks that haven't been shaded since the evening before. So, we're doing what we can. And that's all right with us. Because we plan to travel in the future.



On the other hand, we did meet some women from Georgia who told of the bluegrass festival at Tulluride. And we have fond memories of the two weeks we sang Pete Seeger songs along with Mendel. And before that, we spent a couple afternoons trying toanswer Fabian's questions about our branches of government, specifically the question of Bush's re-election. Then there was the time we helped Gene orient a "juvenile delinquent" for his community service project. Experiences we'd never find recommended in a travel book and couldn't have been directed to, even by locals. Please recognize this as a convoluted justification for our missing the surely magnificent, Canyonlands.

(look closely)

This time around, we needed elevation, the water and cool that come with it. Little did we know that cool becomes cold some time after 10 pm. Not Joshua Tree in February cold, but freezing none the less. It seems unrelated, but Scofield Reservoir is home to about 3 billion prairie dogs. The kind of critter who was cute before we learned the potential nightmare of rodents in the van. With no door handle, we opt to keep the slider open as much as possible. We left the four inch gap to watch dragonflies at the wetlands and would have been back sooner if we hadn't lost shoes in the stinking, tar-pit, quick-mud around the lake. This gap comes to mind as I wake every 15 minutes, freezing to the soundtrack of all-night semi-truck traffic. A plague-ridden critter could be hiding in the van, looking for granola. The 9am sun finally brought comfort.


I'm not sure anyone (Luther?)specifically recommended Utah's Manti-La Sal Mountains, but we appreciate them all the same. Serene lakes, flowing streams, and a dozen shades of green have me considering taking up fishing.

touring new mexico

North of Ruidoso Downs, we made a quick stop in Capitan, home of Smokey the Bear. I thought this fire or the carbon of a similar forest incident was behind the Valley of Fire. Nope, lava flow dates to well over a thousand years before the little cub was rescued.





Driving into a thunderstorm towards an unknown destination can cause clenched fists. Which was all for the best as gale force winds aimed to transform Buttercup into the hot air balloon she's always dreamed of becoming.



Two personal recommendations, a listing in the tourist book and it's the Owl Bar and Cafe. We had to stop. It's a diner of another era, small-boothed, wood and dollar paneled with an eight item menu. The green chili burgers are the attraction. The grilled cheese, not available with the home stewed chillies, are not. Our waitress unloaded a week's worth of stories. The credit card machine is down. Last time this happened, they lost power and the boss made them stay 3 hours past closing. The same boss who just earlier today called her "stupid"- you see what she has to put up with?







Kenny warned that the house was dirty, that the place was a mess. First in an email, next over the phone. This fact wasn't mentioned a couple weeks ago when we were initially arranging to visit. Over the historic rail tracks, across the Rio Grande, a few miles down a distressing dirt road, past the remains of ranches long divided, along a pile of trash not burned, and into the Saltcedar. Kenny says they were brought in for erosion control, maybe in the late teens? The wispy flowers require more water than the Bureau of Land Management would like to share with the first welcome immigrant, now invasive species. The first official letters came years ago, when Kenny and his 7 acres were still housing an old ranch hand who at 85, had been turned off the land he worked for half a century by the heirs of a long established estate. These are pueblita lands. In an empty Folgers plastic-gallon, Kenny's collected shards. Concave bits of pottery, decorated in black and white. The ghosts of the silver and turquoise mining days are alive and well, booms carry over the sands. Letters from the BLM spell an alternate plan for the area. No more amature archeology or small scale farming. The Rio will flood someday, and it'd be in everyone's best interest to guide the flood waters away from the city. With the cedars removed, the land should return to it's swamp form, closer resembling it's pre-dam state. So maybe this threat of removal contributes to Kenny's allowance of the "mess".

The government hasn't moved in yet. This spot just north of Socorro is still home to chickens, a small garden, budding orchard, an old bottle-filled Blazer perfect for target practice, and free-range peacocks. One loud peacock who calls in the night, lonely for his mate and/or the egg his neighbor duck is fostering. Insects hold a collective memory of this former wetland and after decades in the desert, continue to refuse relocation.


Old Route 66 runs through downtown Albuquerque. We fed the meter $2.05 and took a few hours to explore. At the downtown library Aslin read Oddly Normal and we found that high speed internet does not mean the same thing to all people. JC's NY Pizza offers a "Joey's bag of doughnuts" calzone, ricotta, mozzarella, pepperoni and mushrooms or, as we selected, a double slice lunch special.

Last night we settled just outside Santa Fe where Friday nights offer free museum hours. Two words. Georgia O'keeffe. Assuming we survive another night of New Mexico winds searching for their long lost ocean, we'll head into town tomorrow.

"Best hike ever!"

Aslin's words. "You know I'm usually complaining by this far into a hike."


The rest of us confirm on both counts, Echo Canyon in the Chiricahua Mts is possibly the greatest day (morning) hike ever and she usually is complaining by the end of the second mile.


Before the hike details, you should know that we didn't make it out of Tucson with out one final visit with our mechanic, the moonlight voice of Liberty Radio. Marvel of the modern world, air conditioning, kept us cool the the Tucson city limit. I graciously thanked and declined the border patrol agent's (quicker to the scene than highway patrol) offer of water. Freedom fighter Mike was rock solid confident that the van wasn't actually overheating, that it was safe to drive into the shop. We were on the road again before my panic/despair mode even kicked in.

Eventually we made it to the campground- 24 sites in a wilderness area of 11,985 acres. Heading into Memorial Day Weekend, we failed our good intentions to arrive early, but still managed to find a beautiful (though excessively bug-filled) site.






From our base at Bonita Creek, dry except for a few hours a year, we hiked through the alligator junipers along a trail built by Franklin D. Roosevelt's Tree Army. The Civilian Conservation Corp's long abandon bake ovens stand alone at the edge of a meadow. Grateful for a distraction from blood hungry mosquitoes, we searched the tree canopy for the power-tool buzzing cicada. A mile away, at Faraway Ranch, we heard stories of Swedish immigrants and Buffalo soldiers.

The first sold fraudulent stories of battles with the Apache to guests looking for authentic an cowboy experience. The later, after securing watering holes from Apache who never attacked, built a 10-foot monument to President Garfield, who as a senator, worked to secure equal pay for African-American soldiers.











Reacquainted with our tent, we managed our earliest pack ever. Packed, fed and on the road to the trial head at 8:51.

Past the Sea Captain and China boy, Echo Canyon brings us up close and personal to formations whose names have not been published.

"It's like the rocks got too hot, they made bubbles and then, pop," Aslin.

Just past Ukiah's "pancakes,"

through the keyhole, the canyon floor comes into view.

Sure, it's called a "canyon" hike, but the view from Massai point doesn't predict the bird songs and the oak forcing it's way up from a boulder.

A friend suggested that the rock formations of the Chiricahua's rival those of the Grand Canyon. A don't have that point of comparison, but as Ukaih said, "amazingly beautious."

the good news

- the pump probably only started leaking in the last 100 miles. Not really good news, now is it? But that's not all... every new water pump loves the company of a brand new thermostat. Oh. And. That hose. Way in the back. It appears to be cracked.

I've concluded that Buttercup loves Canada but struggles here in the states. Whose idea was this anyway?

I'm going to watch a movie and ignore the realities. Head in the sand.

No. nononononono....

The cooler's half packed, last of the laundry in the dryer. When what to our wondering eyes should appear? A few drops of liquid under the van.

Maybe the oil pan wasn't secured after the oil change. No, it's good.
Looks like the water pump is beginning to fail. Just as we're ready to head into the wild for camping in the Chiricahuas on our way to New Mexico. We've had two days of goodbyes, our final pot-luck and now this.

We can't help but feel just a little ill.
What do you suppose it costs to fly the 4 of us home?

Sky Islands

She's back (making very few disconcerting noises) and today, she climbed 9,000 feet without breaking a sweat. Go Buttercup!


The Catalina Highway, officially known as General Hitchcock Highway, has been compared to a trip from Mexico to Canada. From the saguaro-loving lowlands of the Tucson basin, to the mixed-conifer forest at the peak of Mt. Lemmon, the road is just under 30 miles long.

Aslin had to give up her Mad Libs leadership, directing her full attention out the window in an attempt to ward off the queasy-stomach syndrome brought on by 10 miles of switchbacks.

At 5,500 feet, we stopped at Middle Bear Canyon for a quick romp through the pines. That's right, pine cone dropping evergreens unlike we've seen or smelled since we left Camp Ocean Pines. Ahhh. "I know this air," Aslin inhales and spots a young oak.


Further up, the picnic tables at Loma Linda overlook a mountain side recovering from a massive fire. In less than an hour, we felt the temperature drop 20 degrees. The jackets and sweaters we usually keep in the van have vanished in the Tucson heat, and Ukiah sat eating pita and hummus, shivering.


We heard there was pie at the top. Pie and fondue. Genuine "Swiss Fondue" with apples, broccoli or bread. But it's the pie we heard about. Not so much that it was extraordinary, just that it was there. Sure enough, at the end of the road, just past ski valley , the Mt. Lemmon Cafe serves up $6.95/slice pie. A'la mode, $8.95. The paper menus were greasy, the seating in and outdoor- sticky, the pies in disposable tins wrapped with foil. Did my shallow pockets and rotten first impression mean keep us from experiencing the greatest pie in the world? It doesn't really look like it, but we'll let you know.


Rock scrambling Green Mountain on the way back down, we passed the "Do not sled" signs and Aslin hoped for a bear sighting. Someone had a party up where the Rockies meet the Sierra Madre Mountains. Between the broken glass, my loss of footing and the deceptive "easy" looking peeks and crevices, I wished I'd found the pocket 1st aid kit before we left the house. What goes up, must come down. Though not always along the same path.


The sky island visit was a nostalgic review of our life on the road, familiar at every stop. And as Ukiah was quick to point out, "so relaxing compared to our last hike."

Buttercup Update

Faulty fuel pump. Again. That's right, the $300 pump that should have cost $200- FAILED after about 400 miles. Mechanics ensure that this is, indeed, the problem- they've check everything else as they don't want to have to go through this again.
Hmmm.
Meanwhile, my crush on Samba continues.

unhappy campers

The window of Ventana Canyon is an oval opening 15-feet high and 25 feet across- a hollow at the top of a Santa Catalina Mountain. A 6.4 mile climb to a 7,000 foot elevation would have carried us above the saguaro into the land of of ponderosa pines. Our best intentions had us out the door at 7 am, reality clocked us arriving at the trail head at 11. Where the trail hugs the cliff recess, we rested in the shade, a cool 80 degrees or so. Two-and-a-half miles in, we gave up hopes of reaching the Maiden Pools, knowing we should come back bright and early, another day.


So, the hike was shorter, hotter and included more complaints than would have been ideal. Still, the canyon was gorgeous. Lizard, bird, snake, one large mystery mammal, and a possible road runner sighting added to the excitement of a steep grade. FYI- Arizona has more rattle snakes than any other state. Ragged chocolate mesquites interlaced with the polished palo verde were were spectacular before the near cloudless sky. Occitillo are beginning to bloom, orange flowers at the height of the the poles.



In the shade with ice water and sandwiches waiting, Buttercup was a post-hike refuge. Until she lost power on Speedway just before rush hour. WHAT?!?! We changed the filter, replaced the pump... it's not the gas tank, doesn't seem to be the oxygen sensor or any electrical relay. If I had a sense of humor about this, I'd think she's conspiring to keep us in Tucson. Maybe she likes the scenery.

What are the chances

that you can drive a Volkswagen 1,300 miles with no radiator fan? 5,000 miles? Through the Rockies?

Well that's what the mechanic tells us. No fuse for the fan. Likely because it was shot- only running on high. Which can be problematic and may be why the fuse was removed.

Sounds a little crazy to me. Suspicious even. We now have a working fuse and fan switch. We don't have sufficient evidence to solve this mystery.

A bit of a situation

Yesterday I made a confession.
We're in Tucson (lovely) and it's been ages since I've enjoyed the luxury of both a working cell phone and reliable internet at the same time. In taking advantage of these communication wonders, I caught up on a series of emails and phone calls. Tucked in to extended stories about Joshua Tree and time share presentations, somewhere between checking in about friends' health, work, loves and housing, I mentioned that we'll be continuing east. New Mexico, Texas and Brad's hope of Louisiana.

To my credit, I did say that the van has been running like a champ. I also disclosed some apprehension about her abilities. Before the day was over, she died in traffic.

Thanks to the man who left his fast food to cross the street and help us push. Thanks to the Carmen Ghia driver stuck behind us, who didn't honk. Thanks to Buttercup for resting, starting again and getting us home. Thanks to Kamillia, a women we have yet to meet, for sharing her house, giving us a "home" base for a few days. Thanks to the VW wizards and lovers at the Samba who took no time in returning a virtual diagnosis, fuel pump.

Today we'll be studying our Bentley manual, trying to clean a particular fuel pump screen, and seriously considering finding temporary employment.

Some People Love LA...

the rest of us pray we don't hit traffic, then curse when we do.


From Anaheim to the Getty Museum, I-5, I-10 and 405 were bad. The horendous 2 1/2 hour return trip required the use of hazard lights and a little time-out on the side of the freeway. A situation made all the more uncomfortable by my raging case of poison oak.


Thanks to the father/son team we followed from a strip mall parking lot at Trinity and Washington, to Ukiah and Aslin for knowing when to avoid sibling disputes and to Buttercup for not overheating- we made it back to the Disney neighborhood.

The park opens at 9:00 tomorrow. We've placed our bets on the small-crowd potential of SuperBowl Sunday; could go either way. If we're lucky, "It's a Small World" will have resumed uniting all the peoples of the planet. We're also crossing our fingers for a meeting with Eeyore.

Parting is such sweet sorrow...

Last week we said goodbye to our transmission.

Mechanic #1- Harry has lived behind the camp for 20-years. All this time, he’s had the same mechanic; a local shop just down the road from the historic Santa Rosa Cemetery, where his late 50’s Beetle engine was just rebuilt. We described the “squeaky” brakes and took a test drive with the mechanic. No one smelled death yet.

A couple hours later, we got the call. “Hey, have you been having any trouble shifting into reverse?” NO. An hour later, another call. “I drained some fluid. Looks like your transmission is full of metal… I don’t know where to find a new one …”

Mechanic #2- Back when we thought it was just brakes and were optimistic that we'd replace the pads and save the rotors, I searched craigslist for Volkswagen-loving mechanics, connecting with a really supportive at-home-dad/mechanic ready to help us out. Our new tranny would come from Hood River, Or, the same shop our mechanic at home uses. We got nervous. What if it's too big a job to have done by someone we don't know...

Mechanic #3- GoWesty, a resource
for every van owner I know, is about 30 miles south of our camp home. I’d heard a few nasty rumors about the management/ownership, but most of the stories are good and they have a warehouse full of every part imaginable, so we turned to the pros. On the way to the shop, we took a wrong turn off the freeway. Turning around, we confirmed Mechanic 1’s finding. Reverse was failing. In an ugly way.

They’re a big operation- shop, retail, sales, detailing… could be that the front desk is chaotic everyday. It took hours, three separate visits, to confirm the repair schedule and costs. Five days later, after the work was done, we’re told it won’t be warrantied. There was some confusion about the necessity of a working odometer as a condition of the warranty. Our frustration escalated over a series of phone calls including a “customer is never right” version of the blame game. Eventually the shop agreed to split with us the cost of replacing the odometer. Picking up the van, we made peace with the service manager, small talk of camping and Disneyland. Which eased the way when we returned an hour later with a non-functioning odometer.

Financial pain aside, we’re really grateful to the shop crew at GoWesty. They gave us a hands-on, behind-the-scenes lesson in transmissions/differentials, offering some comfort in the face of a major mechanical failure. We especially appreciate the sliding-door handle they replaced for us, making stumbling out to the bathroom in the middle of the night that much easier.




In other goodbye news, we left the acorns, science lectures, and otters of Camp Ocean Pines yesterday. After packing for Anaheim, Ukiah wondered if this past month, we might have already experienced the “happiest place on earth.” A beautiful environment topped only by the wonderful people. I’m tempted to quote the governor here, but I’ll just say we look forward to returning- sooner, rather than later.



Finally, at least some of us hope that Aslin will soon be saying farewell to her much-loved shoes.

Persimmons

Thanks to slow methodical care of Jack and the crew at Wolfsburg, the van ran strong and trouble-free over Grant’s pass and along Mt. Shasta, delivering us, with confidence, to two acres of a Sacramento suburb. And that’s when I had my moment of concern. Maybe it was only apprehension.

We made brief introductions with some of the staff here at the Meditation Center, toured the gardens and imagined how inviting the pool would be if the weather were warmer. The yoga studio is a converted barn with heavy exposed beams and lush wool carpet. A mural of Krishna and his brother (?) standing in a garden of Eden covers one wall. The air is citrus-spiced but fresh. A tapestry is centered on the south wall.
“Om Hari Om
Hare Krishna Hare Krishna…”

In the kitchen, persimmons crackle in the dehydrator. Vidjapatie offers potato salad, “really more of a vegetable salad with peas and carrot, celery, and the good mayonnaise- not with egg.” The salad has chives and apple, no onion. “Onion has too much passion.”

Andrei, a middle age polish man, melts butter at the stove. He has walnuts soaking in a shallow bowl. “You should always buy nuts at the Russian store. At health food store, like $8 a pound. Russian store, maybe $2.” With carpenter hands, he rolls balls of dough through shredded coconut. His cd skips. The Krisha chants and bells repeat more than usual.

I went to bed last night wondering what to expect in our stay with the Hare Krishnas. I woke this morning to singing, chanting, bells and three bellows of a conch shell. They meditate every morning. If we’re up at 6:00, we’re welcome to join in. For an hour, my dreams rose and fell with their enchanting songs.

We fed the goats, made breakfast and Brad and I spoke silently about how best to navigate this spiritual world. Uddhava brought us the “WWOOF information“ book, a series of notes for volunteers. "It's almost like a transcendental hostel here, " she said as we talked about the day's chores- picking beets, turning compost, walking the injured dog.

“…You’ll find that we like to chant the Hare Krishna maha mantra here, but do know that we are not Hare Krishnas!!” Paragraph 5 of our book raises as many questions as it answers.



65 degrees is short sleeve weather. We thinned turnip and bok choy seedlings, cleared beds of dead corn and lettuce, thought about climbing the neighbors persimmon tree, and caught a frog Ukiah named Putt-Putt.

Tomorrow we’ll visit lamas at the Rudolph Steiner College farm. I wonder if the kids will bring their GameBoys.

In Bloom

All last year, it sat in the kitchen window. Once a week, for an hour or so, I'd put the plant to rest in a deep bowl of water. Laura's instructions when we adopted this little orchid. If we were in southern California right now, I'd have missed this bloom.

The van's still in the shop. The attic seems to be squirrel-free. Tomorrow we'll check the situation of both.

Stalled

We brought the van to the mechanic today. The third time in just over a week. Our plan to "swing through" home on our way south has been extended.
"At least you were home."
"At least you didn't break down in the middle of nowhere."
Everywhere we go, we're reminded of our good fortune. The master cylinder sprung a leak on the way to visit the family in Tacoma, not in the Badlands of Alberta or 20 miles into Deadman's Valley, BC.
I'm holding my optimism, in spite of Jack's parting words. We tried the quick and inexpensive fix twice with no luck. With a gentle voice, he prepared us for the worst. "Well, once we take off the head, we'll just have to see what kind of shape the cylinders are in..." Third try. A charm?

Fingers crossed. The appeal of sleeping in the garage (despite it's lovely garden surroundings- thanks Kailin!) is beginning to wear thin.

Columbia River Wildlife

I think the person:golf course ratio in Canada is about 3:1. Not including mini or "fun" golf. Walking up hwy 95 I listened to the water. I found it, a small stream rushing under a cheerful little bridge, dividing a rolling green lawn. A golf course.

After a georgous day in the warm and diving pools at Fairmont hotsprings, we hiked up to find the source of the creek. Interpurtive signs told of blue heron and osprey. Aslin spotted a woodpecker. Here, in the foothills of the Rockies, we dipped our toes in a miniture Columbia River.

The next morning we walked three miles for cinnamon rolls. I pointed out a pair of black-eared deer and Brad pointed at me, “Your eyes are puffy,” he said.

I didn’t get much sleep the night before. Brad woke me just before midnight. “Something’s going through our stuff.” We have three Rubbermaid boxes- one with tools and two with clothes- that we tuck under the van at night, making space for the fold out bed.

I pointed my flashlight out the window.

A ‘thud’ and rustling.

“Do you think it’s a bear?” he whispered. I thought no, probably an evil squirrel. Like the one that ran laps around the living room, and jumped onto Kim’s leg when Aslin was a baby. I did not want a squirrel tossing our clothes around.

I pulled the curtain further back, my light illuminated nothing. Except our cooler, upside down beside the picnic table, 10-feet from the van. Shit. We’d forgotten to bring the cooler into the van. It was one of those moments, when you wish like anything you could go back in time- even just a few hours. Brad’s light found eyes. The brown eyes of a black bear.

I heard eggshells crunching.

Brad assured the kids, “we’re safe, the bear isn’t interested in us. It can’t get into the van."

I was less sure. The doors of the Volkswagen are thin. The rubber around the windows is quite worn in some places. If a bear could smell rice milk in a closed cooler, maybe it could smell granola in the compartment under the bed. On it's rear legs, a bear could tear through the canvas top to get the grahm crackers. Maybe Scott and Mercedes left bells hanging from the pop-top frame for just this purpose. Or maybe the ringing would only annoy the bear. Brad slept holding the car keys and I reminded my self how to use the fire extinguisher. Just in case.

I tried to think happy forest thoughts. Only the Blair Witch Project came to mind.

I fell asleep, dreaming a ranger came to check on us in the morning, to tell us how irresponsible we were. I woke when the bear came back. Or maybe it was a new bear. Do they ever travel in packs? The horn on the van doesn’t work.

I thought of Yogi Bear and almost smiled.

Daylight came. “Who knew bears liked tofu?” Ukiah noted. The bear also enjoyed our cheese, chocolate, butter and mustard. He sat on the tomatoes.

“He comes around every night,” the campground attendant told us. “They had to chase him off the golf course down at the resort this morning.” Now we know.

We packed lunch and headed for another day at the springs and the river. Here the Columbia is small but persuasive, accepting every loose rock invitation to change course. It jumps four feet west, only to redirect itself after a crowd of fallen trees. We hiked for hours, crossing the mighty Columbia (in single jumps) a dozen times per mile.

After dinner Aslin sniffed the van, “I love that soup smell.” I lit a candle, crossing my fingers that bears aren’t attracted to citronella.