Typical Mississippi home

Paying homage to The King 

The oh-so-attractive Elvis tiger jumpsuit (circa pre-behemoth era) 

The Elvis Red Velvet Sofa - Graceland 

Princess the Driving Dog 

Swamp Reflection 

The Natchez Trace, Graceland and Huntsville, AL

Friday, March 18
We are staying at the Mardi Gras RV Park in east New Orleans. It’s an unimpressive place – basically a parking lot for RVs, but there are few choices in this area, and it’s convenient. Today we are going to take a swamp tour at the Honey Island Swamp in Slidell, LA. Slidell is about an hour from where we’re staying; we arrive early in town, and, seeking a bathroom, we stop at the Slidell Historical Museum. It’s in the former Jail and City Hall. We are greeted by an older gentleman, who gives us the history of the town’s founder, millionaire John Slidell, and a guided tour – in painstaking detail - of the first floor of the museum – 3 rooms filled with framed newspaper clippings, an old desk and typewriter, and other artifacts from Slidell’s past. The former jail cells are devoted to exhibits to firefighters and police, including a touching tribute to the town’s only police officer to die in the line of duty, in 1975. The second floor is a Civil War exhibit; a young man gives us the historical tour, telling us earnestly about the black slaves who fought on the side of the Confederacy. Both of our tour guides are Southern gentlemen – and paid city employees, not volunteers, according to the younger one. Our unintended stop turns out to be interesting and informative – and yes, the museum had a bathroom too.

Our guide for our swamp tour is Captain Ted, a sun-browned beach bum and retired river ship master (he guided ships from the Gulf into the Mississippi River). Now he pilots a 24 passenger flatbottom boat through the 3-foot deep swamp. He’s a wealth of information and stories, all punctuated with “How about that?” and “Isn’t that somethin’?” in his N’awlins (born and raised) drawl. He regales us with facts (and a little fiction, I suspect) about denizens of the swamp - alligators, turtles, fish and swamp snakes; also Spanish moss, cypress and willow trees, lifers on the “Farm” (the Louisiana Penitentiary), interspersed with mouthwateringly detailed recipes using shrimp, arrowroot, nutria and other local delicacies. He points out the nutria hiding in the swamp brush. Nutria, contrary to its name, is a furry brown rodent that grows to 35 pounds and, Capt. Ted says, makes good eatin’ – and is low fat to boot. “We call it “the ‘Other’ other white meat,” he says. Local restaurant owners have tried to put it on their menu under a different name, but discriminating diners continue to turn up their nose at eating rat – even if it does meet FDA Food Pyramid guidelines. Capt. Ted, who loves to cook, confesses that he’s served nutria at his weekly luaus to high praise from unsuspecting guests who think they’re eating pork. Capt. Ted tells us that nutria reproduce so rapidly they are overtaking the swamp and killing the plants and trees, so the state government has put a bounty on them, paying $4 for each tail turned in. When he’s driving down the road and spots a dead nutria, he removes the tail, then spray paints a splash of red on the carcass “so I don’t waste time stopping for it on the return trip,” he says. The tails go in a plastic bag in his freezer; when he’s amassed 30 or 40 road kill tails, he turns them in for cash. His earnings on this, he says, can amount to $250 a month or more.

It’s a sunny warm day, perfect for sitting in a boat on the water. The swamp, however, is not as dramatic as I had imagined. A swamp is simply a forest that’s permanently flooded, and bright sunlight removes the midnight eeriness that swamps always have in the movies. Captain Ted says there are fish of all kinds swimming below us, but we can’t say anything in the murky muddy water. There are (non-native) water lilies blooming here and there, grasses emerging from the surface, and cypress “knees” that look like miniature statues protruding from the water. Each tree may have 15 or 20 or more of these knobby growths. It’s illegal to cut them, according to Capt. Ted, although cutting them doesn’t hurt the tree.

After 2 hours, Capt. Ted brings our boat back to the mouth of the swamp to the Cajun Encounters dock. It’s been an entertaining and enlightening 2 hours, and his recipes have made us hungry. We head to New Orleans to find Café du Monde – I want my beignets and I don’t care what time it is.

New Orleans has a serious parking problem. There are few public parking lots and most of them appear to be full; the onstreet parking is equally sparse, and every space is occupied. We drive around for 30 minutes looking for a place to park; I’m ready to bag it and go back when we finally spy a public parking lot with some empty spaces. We park the Jeep and walk toward the French Market. The streets and sidewalks are crowded with tourists, and when we arrive at Café du Monde, it’s apparent that half the tourists in town have the same idea I do. We decide to get our beignets to go, which turns out to be a dumb idea, because we stand in line endlessly, watching as people sit down at the bistro tables, order, eat their beignets and leave. And here I stand in line. It is 4 o’clock in the afternoon – time for happy hour – but my happiness depends on little square puffs of dough, deep fried and doused with a stormcloud of powdered sugar. I stand, and I wait – 15, 20, 25 minutes. At last, I place my order – coffee, café au lait, 2 orders of beignets – and I am handed the paper bag, greasy and hot to the touch. Steve and I sit down on a bench in the late afternoon sun and savor the mouth ecstasy of fried dough and sugar with a coffee chaser. It is heaven indeed – and we have enough left over to repeat this joy for breakfast tomorrow.

Saturday, March 19
We’ve left New Orleans. 2 days is plenty of time for me: New Orleans is like Disneyland for grownups. There’s little that’s real about the parts of it that are promoted to tourists – the French Quarter, the French Market, Bourbon Street, the plantations, even the Dixieland Jazz has given way, for the most part, to rock music and/or some sort of sanitized Cajun music that sounds like tourist muzak. The shops all have the same trinkets and T-shirts; all hawk Mardi Gras apparel, masks, beads and other ticky-tacky as though it were a 365-day-a-year festival. There may be another New Orleans, but it’s kept a secret from visitors.
However, the D-Day Museum is an unexpected surprise in New Orleans. We visit it for several hours Saturday morning. It provides a stark and painful picture of the realities and horror of war, especially this emblematic battle which is often portrayed in heroic terms. While it was a turning point in World War II, it was a killing field, in the water, on the beaches of Juno, Omaha, Utah and XXX, and in the forests and hedgerows where paratroopers and gliders, overloaded with jeeps, tanks and army troops, landed and died. After learning of the devastating loss of life at Normandy, I am far more aware of the significance of this event, and why the memories have such a powerful emotional impact for those who took part in this hellish battle.

We stop outside of New Orleans to get diesel fuel. There’s a family with a fifth wheel trailer at the pump next to us. Princess climbs out of our RV, and soon the family – grandmother, mother, 4 children and aunt – are all crowded around. Princess is the conversation starter - they tell us about their 3 boston terriers and Chihuahua at home and we exchange animal tales. We tell them about our cross-country journey; they tell us they are going to Biloxi for vacation. We have a long conversation while diesel fuel flows into the tank – it takes awhile to fill 50 gallons. At last, our respective tanks are full; we wish each other a safe and enjoyable journey and pull out.
On the road to Jackson . . . a four-lane highway though pastoral countryside. A field to the left is polka-dotted with cows – brown, black,white, tan – every cow color possible. At 70 miles per hour and waning light, it is not possible to take a photo. This is one of those Kodak moments I’ll have to retain in memory.
From New Orleans, we are going to visit my sister in Huntsville, AL. Since we’re going north, we decide to follow the Natchez Trace Parkway, a scenic 2-lane road with lots of historic sites along the way. We’re planning to pick it up in Utica, southwest of Jackson, MS, but the RV park there (the only one in the area) doesn’t answer or return our call about space availability, so we drive on to Jackson. Unfortunately, there are few RV parks in Jackson – one private park and 2 state parks. The private park is full and the others don’t answer our phone call. So we drive into Jackson and end up in a Wal-Mart parking lot. We check with the security agent to make sure it’s okay to park overnight – he tells us “Sure, stay for a month if you want.” Later that evening, there’s a knock on the door of our RV. It’s a Jackson police officer – she saw the open door of our motorhome (we’d opened it, but left the screen door closed, for air circulation) and wanted to make sure we hadn’t gone and unwittingly left the door open. What a pleasant surprise!
The next day, it’s raining, with rain predicted for the rest of the day throughout Mississippi. We decide there’s no sense and leaving today – there’s nothing scenic about a rain-sodden drive. We spend the day grocery shopping (at Wal-Mart, of course), cleaning house, and later, going to the movie – a really rotten John Travolta-Uma Thurman flick, Be Cool. What a waste of $11!

Monday, March 21
The Natchez Trace Parkway is a tree-lined commercial-free road – no billboards or ads of any kind or commercial trucks. The tr5ees are starting to bud with clouds of lavender and russet. To the right is a large body of water – the Ross Barnard Reservoir. Further on, we stop at a roadside rest area, Cypress Swamp, and get out to stretch our legs. The quiet is punctuated by a sound track of birds twittering and chirping in an avian symphony. I listen to the sound of nature, letting the musical stillness soak into my soul.

We stop at the Natchez Trace visitor center in Kiusko, birthplace of Oprah Winfrey, and pick up information about this early Native American north-south footpath and pioneer travel route. The 2 ladies at the center are warm and friendly, as we’ve found most all Southerners to be. They welcome us to Mississippi and encourage us to stay and explore their state.

March 22
Tupelo, MS – the birthplace of Elvis Presley

Elvis Presley’s presence is everywhere here – in photos and paintings in homage to him, in the street name – Elvis Presley Memorial Highway – and the Museum, “Fountain of Life,” “Walkway of Life” and the framed verbal tributes and accolades on the grounds where his birthplace home has become a shrine. We visit the site and tour the gift shop, passing on the opportunity to buy pink Elvis potholders imprinted with his recipe for fried peanut and banana sandwiches. We also decline the $6 admission fee for the museum, where we could see Elvis’ clothing, furnishings and other memorabilia. After all, tomorrow we’re going to Graceland, where he lived and died!

Tupelo is a friendly town. I love listening to people here and throughout Mississippi. Their voices are rich and melodic, and their southern accents warm and inviting, like butter and maple syrup poured slowly from a pitcher.

March 23

We are in Corinth, MS, in the northeast corner of Mississippi. From here, we drive in the Jeep 2 hours to Memphis. We are going to visit Graceland. We are so near to this iconographic landmark of Americana, it would be an oversight not to vist. Besides, Steve wants to see it.

Thoughts on Graceland:

1. Money can't buy good taste. The place is a parody of '60s and '70s design excess, which would be funny except that it was not intended to be a parody.
2. It is not a mansion. It looks to be about 4,000-5,000 square feet. But considering that Elvis bought it in the '50s for $100,000, back then it probably qualified.
3. Elvis didn't name it. The previous owner named it after his wife, Grace.
4. One word: Tacky. Allow me to expand on that description: Tacky, tacky, tacky.

From Corinth, we are going to Huntsville, Alabama to visit my sister, Linda. On the way, we stop at Shiloh Military Park, commemorating the Battle of Shiloh during the Civil War. It's a beautiful place, with groves of oak, peach and other trees. And it was a killing ground. We visit the cemetary there, where more than 3,000 Union soldiers are buried. Most of the endless rows of markers have only numbers on them - the majority of the dead could not be identified. The thousands of Confederate dead from that battle were buried in mass graves - 5 of them across the thousands of acres that make up the national park. It is a reminder again of the heartbreak and futility of most wars.

Easter Weekend, March 25-27

We spend 3 very enjoyable days with my sister and her husband Ronnie and their kids. Linda and Ronnie are very warm and hospitable, making us feel very much at home. We visit the Huntsville Botanical Gardens, the Rocket & Space Center, and Steve and Ronnie go to Lynchburg, TN to tour the Jack Daniels Distillery while Linda, her daughter Mary and I get in some Easter shopping - chocolate easter bunnies, Cadbury eggs, and while we're at it, a few items of apparel. At Rugged Wearhouse, a discount store, I score the deal of the year - a Ltd. skirt and a striped knit top for a buck each. We also have some great meals at their house - Linda and I make quite a team in the kitchen!

We don't get to see any of our family members very often, so it's good to see them and spend some quality time with them. Since writing about our visit with my sister Laura in Silverton, I've learned that my siblings expect a "review" of our visits with them. This is a perilous endeavor and not one I'm stupid enough to undertake. Let us just say that we have thoroughly and equally enjoyed our visits with every one of our relatives on both sides of the family, and look forward to seeing everyone throughout this journey!

Rooftop - New Orleans 

Musings on the way to and in Louisiana

March 16
On I-10, enroute to New Orleans
Our motorhome does not have a name. It’s a 2000 Newmar Dutch Star, and when we bought it, friends asked what we were going to call it, as if it were a pet dog or cat. Or maybe the thinking was that a motorhome is like a much-beloved car, and people often name their first or favorite car. My first car – shared with my sister, Laura – was a 1954 Chevy BelAir. We called it “the Purple Cow.” It was painted a dark maroon (the original color was the bland hospital green popular in the ‘50s), and was fat and tubby looking, hence the name.
Anyway, I made a few feeble suggestions for naming our RV – “Helga”, “Elsa” – but Steve didn’t like any of them, so our motor home never was baptized. (When it dies, it will go to RV limbo.) We just call it “the motorhome,” and so far, it hasn’t complained, and has complied with all of our requests despite our lack of personalization. Any problems we’ve had have been of our own making, and have been fairly minor.
We’ve discovered in our travels that there’s a motorhome caste system. At the bottom of the hierarchy are cabover campers – along with tents, they’re not even allowed in some RV parks. Slightly higher in the rankings are old gas or diesel RVs – Winnebagos, Pace Arrows and other models from the 60s and 70s. They usually look worn and forlorn; RV owners with recent models don’t like to park next to them.
As you go higher up the RV strata, vehicles are segmented by gas v. diesel, length, year, and model. Prevost and Marathon are near the top of the rankings – you can’t touch them for less than $500,000, and a fully-equipped new model may go for a million or more. These are the brands many rock stars tour in; they look like a large, (very fancy) bus and are usually decked out in brass, glass, rope lights, chandeliers and plenty of bling inside and out. There are even RV parks (whoops – they don’t call them that; they are “Motorcoach Resorts”) that won’t allow a motorhome of less than 38 or 40 feet in the gate. These upscale places specify “no bus conversions” as if the owners might be missing teeth and have pit bulls snarling and slobbering at the broken windows of their RVs.
Our Dutch Star didn’t cost us anything close to $500,000, and we’ve discovered we scored a coup in acquiring it. Newmar is considered a “premium” brand – sort of like the Lexus among the Chevies and Fords (Prevost and Marathon being the Rolls Royce) and the price we paid made it a bargain. Frequently when we get into conversation with other RV owners, they’ll comment enviously about our Dutch Star. “We would have bought one if we could afford it,” we hear. We tell them how we were able to purchase it – (it was a divorce sale; the RV had been on consignment with a dealer in Arizona for $25,000 more than we paid; the owners decided to sell it themselves after it spent 3 months on the dealer lot). It was a good choice, arrived at after we conducted extensive research on RV safety, gas vs. diesel, maneuverability, features such as storage, and reliability. The Newmar was rated at the top, especially for reliability and safety (my primary criteria) – but every used one we looked at was priced accordingly. We feel very fortunate to have found a diesel model with low mileage (37,000), and all the features we wanted at a price that was relatively affordable (although still somewhat higher than our original target of $60,000 or so). When we sell it at the end of our year on the road, we should be able to recoup close to what we paid for it.

Livingston, Louisiana
Once again, we didn’t quite make our destination. We left New Caney, TX this morning at a little after 12, intending to reach New Orleans by dusk. It’s 350 miles away, and by 6 p.m., we’re just outside of Baton Rouge, with still another 100 miles to go. So we shoot for Hammond, LA – another 30 miles – but when we spy a billboard for Lakeside RV Resort 10 miles further, we decide that’s our destination.
Louisiana is not as green as I expected. I think my mental image was of swamps everywhere, weeping willow trees (or is it cypress??) dripping with moss, and kudzu creeping up hillsides, fences and bridges. It’s green and swampy (in places) but to be honest I wouldn’t recognize kudzu if I saw it and there may have been a few moss-draped trees alongside the highway – but I wasn’t paying attention.
So tomorrow we’re off to New Orleans, and I told Steve I want to take a swamp tour (yes, they have them). I also want to see some antebellum mansions, eat beignets and drink café au lait. In other words, I want to act like a tourist. What else would you do in New Orleans? It’s a tourist town. . .

March 17 – St. Patrick’s Day

I’ve started running again. I don’t want to look like an RVer, and sitting all day (as we do when we’re traveling from one place to another) is not conducive to svelteness. This morning Steve and I were each grumbling about not wanting to do our respective exercise – me run, he ride his exercise bike to nowhere. But Steve reminds me that it will ensure a better quality of life when we are older, so I lace up my shoes and set off. Usually I run along the highway since there’s seldom anywhere else that’s flat and level. As I run I notice how littered the side of the road is. . . . cigarette butts and packs, pill bottles, fast food containers, paper and Styrofoam cups, tire tread and car parts, and beer cans and bottles. The latter far outweigh any other kind of litter, leading me to the inevitable conclusion that beer drinkers are the biggest slobs - or maybe just the laziest of the human species.

This morning as I was running I noticed more road kill than usual – and more unusual road kill. Of particular note . . . .an armadillo lying (dead) by the road. At first when I glanced at it I thought it was a piece of tire or some other automobile part, but then when I saw the blood and guts, I realized it was an animal, and although I’ve never seen a real (live) armadillo, this (or what was left of it) looked like pictures I’ve seen.

New Orleans doorway 

Steve at the Alamo 

Rich and Steve yukking it up. 

Texas

Thursday, March 3
Off to Bedford, Texas to see old friends Rich and B arb Falcone. Steve was best man at Rich's wedding 35 years ago, and Rich returned the favor 33 years ago. We haven’t seen them in 6 years - maybe more, but have kept up with each other’s lives - children, graduations, engagements, weddings, job and career changes. Steve’s looking forward to seeing Rich and exchanging jabs with him. The two specialize in personal putdowns – all in a friendly spirit. Bedford’s near Dallas, and we’re shooting for Abilene by the end of the day, which is 2/3 of the 480 mile distance, but we quit when we reach Sweetwater, Texas – it’s dusk and Abilene is still another 60 miles. We arrive in Bedford the next afternoon, and spend the next 3 days with Rich and Barb, abandoning our home on wheels for their guest bedroom. Despite the 6 year gap, it’s like we just saw them yesterday – there’s no sense of time passing (except for the grey in Steve & Rich’s heads!). That’s the definition of true friendship; you can pick up where you left off without missing a beat.
On Monday, it’s on the road again. . . .we decide to spend some time in San Antonio, visiting the Alamo and the Riverwalk. I’ve seen both but it’s been 10 years or more. The Alamo is a big disappointment, I’ve warned Steve – but you have to see it once. We find a park in Bourne, Texas, 20 minutes from San Antonio. The Top of the Hill RV Park is indeed a find – nicely landscaped, friendly staff, off the main highway. Bourne is a sweet little town with an old-fashioned Main Street, lots of antique shops and old-fashioned craft and candy shops. We spend one day in San Antonio, strolling the River Walk and touring the Alamo (all blow and no go) - and decide we prefer the Texas hill country to its cities. The only disappointment – we don’t have time to tour the Texas wine country (really!) because we have to get to Houston for Steve’s flight to Seattle on Saturday– he’s going home to pick up some documents our accountant needs to do our 2004 taxes.
On Thursday we pull out of Top of the Hill (we want to stay another day but the park is fully reserved with an incoming classic car rally) and move on to Fredericksburg, a clone of Bourne with a German twist. Fredericksburg is home to the Nimitz Pacific War Museum; I go in with Steve expecting that I’ll take off in 15 minutes for more interesting activities (browsing antique shops . . . ). Instead, we discover the museum is a fascinating and well-designed trove of information and interactive displays about the U.S. and Japan’s history and growth as world powers leading up to Pearl Harbor, and the events and battles of the Pacific theatre in World War II. We stay until closing, spending 3 hours there, and return the next day for another hour.
Friday, March 11
Heading for Houston (actually, our destination is New Caney, 20 miles north of Houston and relatively close to the airport) we pull over in an empty lot near the Austin airport & unhook the Jeep. I have a $400 travel award from America West for volunteering to give up my seat a year ago on a flight from New York – but it can only be redeemed at the airport. When we walk into the terminal, I immediately feel a sense of longing – not for the pleasure of flying (that went away 15 years ago) – but for what it represents: travel to far away places. It’s the one thing (besides friends) that I miss about Thunderbird – the opportunity to see cities like Bangkok, Beijing, Sydney, Munich, Dubai and other places I might never have visited otherwise. I haven’t been on a plane since I left Thunderbird, Scottsdale and my former life last September. There’s a pang indeed. Steve thinks I’m crazy, of course – he reminds me how I used to complain about those 12 or 14 hour flights elbow to elbow with sneezing, snoring, hacking tourist-cabin seatmates. But I remind him that the destination was usually worth it.

Colorado, Arizona and New Mexico

Saturday, Feb. 5
On our way to Canyonlands. The terrain is constantly changing from pancake layers of rock tinted deep red by iron oxidation to vertical and horizontally sliced cliffs that look like huge ochre-iced wedding cakes. The magnificent scenery is so constant it tires the eyes. Here there are time-frozen lumps of rock – there there are carefully carved arches in the sides of cliffs as if the sculptor just laid down his tools.
Monday, Feb. 7
The most frustrasting part of our travels is not RV problems (they’ve been minimal and mostly self-inflicted) or finding an RV park (they are plentiful for the most part). It is dealing with customer lack-of-service departments over the phone, which we must frequently do to resolve problems with banks, insurance companies, utilities, the Post Office, UPS or any other type of service provider. They are uniformly careless and uncaring, and the bigger the company, the worse they are. We’ve used up most of our cell phone minutes not chatting with family or friends, but listening to tinny recorded music on hold while waiting for the customer service rep to find out why our mail isn’t being forwarded, our medical insurance (for which we were paying $1,200 amonth until we switched) is shown as cancelled. . . . It is not the phone reps who are careless and uncaring – they must deal with annoyed and unhappy customers and typically do so with equanimity and grace; it is the companies themselves that seem unconcered that they are not delivering on the promised service, unconcerned that they give their front-line representatives little power to truly solve problems, unconcerned that they are losing customers and don’t know it.
Tuesday, Feb. 8
We are driving in the Jeep up a narrow winding road on a snow-topped mountain to reach Mesa Verde National Park. It is a series of cliff dwellings dating to 600 to 1300 A.D. , built by the ancestral pueblans (formerly referred to, politically incorrectly, as “Anasazi,” a Navajo (or Din-e) word meaning ancient enemies). The cliff dwellings are constructed of rocks, clay bricks and mortar, with plaster walls, some painted. But most amazing is their location – deep in a canyon, built under natural overhangs or alcoves in the cliff walls. Accessible only by hand and toe olds carved into the canyon walls with stone chisels, these dwellings are 4 stories high in some cases. Even a one-story structure is quite an achievement, with rooms of various sizes and uses separated by brick walls with small inverted-T shaped doors.
In a loop drive around Mesa Verde canyon, there are stopping points to see archaelogical ruins – well-preserved in some cases – and a viewpoint from which can be seen 5-6 residential and ceremonial dwellings in the cliff alcoves. Considering how quickly we in the Southwestern U.S. tear down buildings – and conversely, declare those barely 50 years old “historic sites,” the preservation of these ancient dwellings is remarkable.
As we are leaving the Mesa Verde visitor center, we encounter a small herd of 6 wild horses on the side of the road. The horses stand staring at us, not moving even when I get out of the jeep to take pic tures. We don’t know where they came from or why they are there, but apparently they are waiting for us to leave so they can cross the road, because as soon as we drive off, they amble across.

Feb. 9
To Silverton, to see my sister Laura and Jay, her son. As usual, the drive is a winding mountain road surrounded by snow-laden peaks. Silvertons sits in a cup at the base of several mountains. It’s a post-card-pretty town of about 350, with old weatherbeaten houses alternating with renovated (gentrified?) homes painted lavender, spring green, mustard yellow and farmhouse red. In Silverton, everyone knows everyone – as we alk down the snow-covered streets, Laura is greeted by everyone we pass. Most of them are loading or unloading skis, snowmobiles or climbing equipment from their vehicles – or look as if they just returned from skiing, snowshoeing or other outdoor activity. We spend the day talking with Laura and Jay, catching up on each other and family gossip. We finally see the Avalanche Coffeehouse, the little café Jay and Amy own and operate. IOt’s a tiny place with 3 or 4 tables, fresh-roasted organic coffee and fresh baked goods. Jay is an artist-photographer whose work hangs on the walls. He hasn’t been doing any art lately, focusing his time on the café and growing the 100-watt FM public radio station he started in Silverton. He admits that the station’s views lean to the left, an ideology that doesn’t sit well with Silverton’s conservative residents. Silverton is polarized, Jay says, between right and left, a microcosm of the U.S. today. I agree.
We go back to Laura’s house – a cozy, tiny but sprawling place against the base of a mountain. She’s in the process of building a room on her house – in fact, she’s almost done and is awaiting the electrical inspection so she can complete the work. When we get back from the café, the note she left for the inspector is gone, in its place the inspection approval. I am impressed that she has built the room on her own with no help – but it deosn’t surprise me that she is capable of it. I’ve always envied Laura – my year-younger sister – for her looks, confidence, artistic and creative ability, and her fearless willingness to conquer anything, whether it’s riding a motorcycle, building a house from homemade adobe bricks, or the grief of losing her husband of 30+ years when she was only 53. She is coping with bereavement privately and with grace.
Laura offers to make lunch – we expect sandwiches, instead she makes linguini with scallops and homemade (by a neighbor) sourdough bread. After lunch, she suggests a walk up the mountain behind her house. We have an easy but invigorating hourlong hike with her dog, Daisy, and our dog, Princess alternately teasing each other and running ahead playfully prancing in the powdery snow. It’s a beautiful sunlit day, pleasantly crisp and cold. The last 15 minutes of our trek are in late afternoon shadow and the air cools quickly. Princess starts to lift her paws frequently; the snow is turning to ice between her toes and Steve carries her a few hundred yards until her pads warm up.
When we arrive back at the house, it’s 5 p.m. We need to head down the mountain before darkness turns meltig snow on the road to ice. With thankyous and hugs, we say farewell and begin the 2-hour drive back to Cortez. When we are near Durango, I notice a deer starting to sprint from the meadow to the left of the road. I call out, “Steve! Stop – look!” and he slows down just in time to avoid hitting the deer as it lopes in front of the car. A few nights later, as we are heading back to Durango RV Park, a deer once again dashes across the road I front of our car – this time in darkness – and Steve once again has to brake quickly to keep from hitting it.
Feb. 10
We leave Cortez today, heading to Durango. We’ve chosen Durango by default – it’s raining everywhere we’re thinking of going: Monument Valley, Lake Powell, Santa Fe. It’s not forecast to rain in Durango, although it is overcast. We plan to kick around in downtown Durango and go skiing tomorrow. We discover that the RV park – the only one open in the winter – is actually 15 miles from town in the middle of hay faqrms and cattle ranches. The RV park owners apparently collect tractors and farm implements – the place is cluttered with equipment, most of which appears to be non-functioning. We joke that this is the “Durango RV Resort and Farm Implement Museum”. The owners’ background is interesting – he’s a country music songwriter whose works have been recorded by Willie Nelson and others; a Grand Old Opry performer and claims to have done John Travolta’s dancing in Urban Cowboy; she’s a swing dance teacher.
Feb. 11
We go skiing at Purgatory today. Late start – we don’t hit the slopes until 11 a.m. The sky is gloomy, but the skiing is great, although I start out rockily, reverting initially to my old tricks of lifting my ski when I turn. But I correct myself fairly quickly, and my skiing technique has improved considerably by the end of the day – that lesson I took in Tahoe has really helped. I am traversing the blue slopes with relative ease and feeling pretty confident as I schuss downhill. However, by 3 p.m. it’s gotten pretty cold and what was enjoyable is becoming work, and my fingers and toes are numb. At 3:30, we call it quits. Still, it was a good day – especially considering that our plans originally called for skipping Durango.
Feb. 12
Today is my birthday. Steve asks me what I want to do. “It’s your day . . . .” he intones his favorite phrase. “Go cross-country skiing, I reply. We find a place that rents skis and quipment; they suggest Chicken Creek as a place with well-maintained trails 20 miles away. In reality, it’s more than 30 miles, the last 6 or so on a rough dirt road. It takes awahile to find the trailhead, which is not well-marked,a nd since it’s been sprinkling most of the way, the snow is patchy and we fear there will be no good snow on the trail (or I fear this – Steve would be just as happy if there were no snow and we had to head back to town to some warm bar or coffee house!) But since we’ve driven this far, we are determined to put skis on and test the trail (or at least I am!) It takes us 30 minutes of driving down wrong turns before we find the trailhead. We put on shoes and with some difficulty get them attached to skis and set off. I pick up the kick-glide routine pretty quickly, but Steve is having trouble – he’s walking on his skis rather than sliding or gliding. Despite several attempts to coach him, it’s clear he’s going to walk this trail, not ski it. But he’s being a good sport about the exertion cross-country skiing takes (moreso with his technique!) and encourages me to ski on ahead – which I do, then wait for him to catch up.
It’s beautiful on the trail – the peace and tranquility surrounds us like soft cotton wool. There’s no sound but the plunking of poles in the snow and the schussing of skis over the slushy snow. We follow the trail for 2-plus hours, and near the end it starts to rain, then snow then rain again. And then we come to a fork in the trail – and no sign to indicate which way is the end of the trail. Since I’m leadig the way, I maqke a guess, based on whast I think are sounds of cars, and head ihn that dire4ctiohn. Not 50 yards ahead, fortunately, is the parking lot – a good thing since we’re both wet and cold.
Feb. 14
We leave Durango for Monument Valley. I drive part of the distance - the road is straight and flat, almost monotonously so. We pass through Kayenta and 30 minutes later we are parked in a campground tucked between tall red sandstone walls. It’s a breathtaking location and we have the whole place almost to ourselves – there’s only one other occupant, a small silver airstream trailer.
Feb. 15
I am reading Desert Solitude by Edward Abbey, the ultra-environmentalist/ecoterrorist. In the early '70s, he wrote about his year as a park ranger at Arches National Monument in Utah, before it gained paved roads and flush toilets and became a national park. He is against making places like Arches auto-accessible, saying that if people want to see it they can walk. As for children and the elderly? Kids can wait till they’re old enough to appreciate the park’s wilderness on foot, and the aged should have seen it when they were younger and more spry . . . Abbey makes some legitimate points about the need to get out of the car to appreciate wild places on foot – but he is arrogant and selfish in his attitude about civilization, culture and the trappings of both – he freely uses the benefits of civilization and industrialism (his 4-wheel drive Jeep, beer, ice, etc.) to reach the backcountry of Glen Canyon, Canyonlands and other desert places, but doesn’t want anyone else to have the right to enjoy those benefits, apparently.
Feb. 16
Page, Arizona. There are a few clouds in a Wedgewood blue sky, and we decide to take a chance that it’s not going to rain. We make plans to rent a boat on Lake Powell. It’s a 19-foot outboard with a plastic "zip lock" enclosure. We fill out the forms, get loaded up and instructed fairly quickly and by 10:30 a.m. we’re on the lake – apparently the only boat on the lake. The water level is down 139 feet due to the drought, and below the surface of the water in some places we can see the tops of cliffs and spires that were covered when the Dam filled the canyon. Construction of Glen Canyon Dam years ago roused the ire of environmentalists (including Edward Abbey) – and rightly so; Glen Canyon was (and is) a treasure. But I must admit I’m enjoying cruising the lake, which is smooth as glass and peaceful – except for the noise of our outboard engine.
About 12:30, we look for a place to dock and have lunch. We’re near Gunsight Canyon, where we’ve been told there are sandy beaches. Spying a likely looking cove, Steve heads the boat toward it while I’m on the prow looking out into the water for submerged buttes and rocks. Suddenly, just below the water, I see a stairstepped shelf of sandstone. “Stop the boat” I yell to Steve. He of course can’t hear what I’m saying but he hears the urgency in my voice and cuts the engine. We realize this likely looking cove isn’t going to work, and slowly back out into more open – and safe- water. The second area we select has the same problem – submerged rocky cliffs – and finally, we head toward what appears to be – and is – a sandy beach, putt-putting along at a snail’s pace while I crouch on the front of the boat scanning the water for enemies of the propeller.
Our choice is a good one; the beach is sandy and secluded, and after pulling the boat safely ashore, we walk in bare feet to an inlet with a gently sloping sandstone ridge perfect for a picnic. The sun is shining, the air is crisp and there is no sound save the occasional raucous cawing of the ubiquitous raven and the gentle slopping of the water on the beach. After eating our lunch, we walk up the hill a short way, and take a picture of ourselves sitting on a rock on the top of the hill, and then head back to our boat. We want time to tour Navajo Canyon, and it’s 1:30 already; the boat must be back by 4 p.m.
We exit Gunsight Canyon carefully and then pick up speed across the mirror-surfaced water. The sky is starting to cloud up and we’re expecting it to rain, but within 30 minutes the clouds are scudding across the sky and the sun is shining brilliantly once again. We cruise Navajo Canyon on glassy water, admiring the clefts, cracks and ridges in the canyon walls that create a tapestry of color.
Feb. 17
We leave Page – sunny and bright – for Flagstaff, 2 hours away. Pull into Black Bart’s, an RV park in east Flagstaff. It used to be a nice place, but no more. It is not well-maintained; there’s trash strewn around and potholes abound. But this time of year the choices are limited, so we’ll stay here. We spend the afternoon running errands – going to the bank, buying a wedding gift for Megan and Matthew and a birthday gift for Maggie, and discovering I’ve left my Minolta 35mm camera and lenses in the boat at Wahweap Marina. A phone call confirms it’s there and they promise to mail it to us right away.
Next day, we drive to the Grand Canyon in the Jeep. The sky is overcast and dreary; the ground is soggy from overnight rain. The forecast at GC is 60% chance of snow or rain, 40 degree high temperature. But we go anyway. On Highway 89, the sky changes minute by minute from clouds to sunshine and back to cloudy again. We are going to the Grand Canyon by way of the east entrance in order to see the Little Colorado River Gorge on the way. I saw it years ago when I was 17 and remember it still.
We stop at a scenic overlook and discover that it is the first of several viewpoints for the Gorge. It is a deep zigzag slice in the earth through which winds the Colorado River far below. The walls are sheer in places and stairstepped in others, made up of layer upon layer of rock, cemented together by water and minerals over millions of years. Ilook down into the gorge and see where a massive chunk of rock has fallen cleanly away fro the cliff face below. It took eons for the cracks to develop in the rock, but probably only minutes one quiet day for the rectangular chunk to begin its noisy drop into the canyon, crashing and exploding into pieces as it fell.
At the second viewpoint, which is unfenced, I walk down to a lower “step” in the cliff to get a better view, and Steve chides me like an overcautious parent. He gets very nervous when I walk any closer than 5 feet from the edge.
Feb. 25
To Nogales, Mexico with Merritt and Crystal, Steve’s brother and his wife. Nogales is as I remembered it – small, cluttered, evidence of poverty everywhere – the old women on the sidewalk, begging, the children hawking chicle. But it’s also a resourceful town – the pharmacies alternate with the curio shops on every street, pushing cheap Viagra, celebrex, antibiotics and other drugs sought by los americanos for their low prices and no need of a prescription. We have fun bargaining for silver jewelry, cheap blankets and handpainted pots, enjoy an inexpensive lunch of flautas and beer before heading back to Tucson at 2 p.m.
March 1
We leave at 11 a.m. for Kartchner Caverns near Benson, AZ. We have a 3:40 p.m. tour, the only time available. We arrive at the visitor center about 1 p.m. and after seeing the video on the caverns and the informational displays, we drive over to the RV park. I suggest a hike; there’s a short 2.5 mile loop trail near the visitor center which I think will take about an hour or less. The trail goes through scrubby, shrubby desert along a dry wash. On the trail, we hike at a moderate pace, thinking we have plenty of tijme before our tour. After 30 minutes, we come to a marker that reads 1.5 and I tell Steve that’s for hikers coming from the other direction. But we speed up a little, until we come to a marker reading 1.0. We still have a mile left, we realize, and it’s 3:20. We’d better hurry, I say to Steve, breaking into a jog. He starts to pick up speed – it’s more difficult for him on the rocky, uneven trail because his shoes have no tread. We come to another trail marker - .5 – and we’re feeling like the trail is lengthening the faster we go. Then I look up; there’s a wash with a bridge over it, and a people-mover traihn is leaving the visitor center and crossing the bridge. Uh-oh, there goes our tour, I tell Steve. They wouldn’t leave before 3:40, he insists. Nevertheless he points to the rocky incline leading up to the visitor center pathway and says, Let’s take a shortcut. We climb up the short hill, pushing aside shrubs and tree branches, and head for the doors, gasping and panting. There’s a ranger standing inside the doors; we ask him if the 3:40 tour has left. Eyeing our red faces, he tells us we have plenty of time and advises us to get a drink, use the facilities and take a few deep breaths. As it turns out, our tour doesn’t leave until after 4, so we did have plenty of time and our desert jog was needless (but enjoyable, in my opinion!).
Kartchner Cverns is indeed a jewel – a small but elegant cave of multicolored formations, clustered, rippling, dripping and oozing from ceiling, walls and floor. The air in the cave is warm and humid – startlingly so after the cool outdoors – and it is not allowed to escape; a series of doors encloses it and us. It is much smaller than Carlsbad Caverns (which we will tour in a few days) but much more colorful, and more pristine; lessons have been learned from Carlsbad about the unintended impact of humans on an enclosed environment, and much greater care is being taken with Kartchner to avoid or minimize it.
March 2
We leave Kartchner Caverns State Park early in the morning. Our next destination is several hundred miles away - Carlsbad Caverns. On the way, we stop at Guadalupe National Prk, but after a tour of the small but informative visitor center, we head out – time won’t permit an extended visit, since this is primarily a backcountry park, requiring time and shoe leather to view. Too bad – it looks interesting, a desert/mountain terrain that’s little known and little visited by tourists, for the very reason that it can’t be seen by automobile. I can just see the sneer on Edward Abbey’s face!
We arrive at White’s City, 7 miles from Carlsbad, at 5 p.m. and I take Princess for a walk, happily discovering a desert trail leading up a small hill near our campground. I’m happy, Princess is not – she doesn’t like desert wilderness,fearing the stickers and cactus needles that seem to jump from plant or soil to her paws.
The next day, we get up early and drive to Carlsbad Caverns. We opt for 2 self-guided tours – the Natural Entrance, which is a steep 800-foot descent into the cave, and the Big Room. We discover an other-worldly magical kingdom that looks as though it was created by Disney animators. Over thousands of years, the steady drip of water has formed stalactites and stalagmites and other formations suggesting the toothy grin of a tiger, fairy castles, sand dunes, folds of fabric, popcorn cluster – the imagination can go riotous thinking up scenarios for what the eyes behold. The caverns themselves are unimaginably huge, filled with craters and crevices, lethal looking daggers hanging from the ceiling and graceful columns rising from the floor. Some are 20, 30, 40 feet high or more, others are squat and fat; some are smooth and beg to be touched (but it’s sternly forbidden) while others are crusted with rock jewels. We spend 3 hours wandering down and through the Caverns and when we leave we both agree that it was far more stunning and entrancing than either of us expected.

Monument Valley 

Lake Powell . . . 139 feet lower than normal. 

Happy picnickers 

The beach where we picnicked  

Monument Valley 

93-year-old Navajo woman carding wool for a rug. 

Walking where John Wayne walked . . . Monument Valley 

Cross-country skiing at Chicken Creek in Colorado.