May 25, 2015, I arrived in Missouri and moved my stuff I still can’t throw away into Steve's palace on Garth. While packing I picked through wonderful memories: some sad, some bittersweet.
I spent as much time with my son as he could stand. I helped him fix his bicycle, took him out to eat including our favorite buffet at India's House in downtown Columbia and jogged with him as often as possible on the MKT.
Once while jogging solo on the MKT I came across a tiny fawn, still stumbling on its spindly legs as it wandered onto the trail following its mother, who had just crossed my path. I instinctively cooed at the cute thing and he started toward me before I coaxed him without touching him to follow his mother back into the woods.
One more evening at Murry's with Leighton Roden on the piano and then a visit with him at the bar where he entertained Lisa and I with his story of floating the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon in the ‘70s with another guy in a two-man boat, and how they swam every rapid, including Lava Falls! Afterward Lisa and I strolled with Dexter through her starlit neighborhood.
Our final walk together on my last Monday afternoon in Missouri the skies burst over our heads and after hiding under a tree awhile, we decided to walk home in the rain. Soaked by the time we reached her house, I felt like an 8 year-old again with my mouth gaping open to catch as many raindrops as possible. Then we watched “Frozen” on Lisa's TV, the first time for me, and realized “Let it Go” is my theme song.
On my last day in Missouri I took Lil’ Marley out on Twin Lakes to practice my eskimo rolls; I completed two but also had to swim twice. When I returned home I locked myself out of my car, phone, all three car keys still in the car, but I was able to access my AAA membership info via my computer and use a neighbor’s phone to call. Less than 30 minutes later my car was unlocked. It was tough for the tow truck responder to unlock my 2010 Honda Civic sedan and the only way he got in was by snagging my single key on a lanyard chain and dragging it through the gap he created in the door seal. Silly me.
Sad. I pulled almost the exact same stunt last time I left Missouri via car, locking myself out of the house the day I was taking off from Missouri for my summer trip through Colorado and California before flying to Spain just two years before. Am I really ready to leave Missouri or am I unconsciously trying to sabotage my plans to move on?
My “storage unit” at Garth is 2/3 full. I planned for the kids to bring a suitcase of rollerblades, my snowboard and winter gear, and a suitcase of work clothes when they fly to California later in the summer. I strapped two bikes and a kayak onto my Yakimas, and sandwiched the rest of my sporting gear along with clothes, computer and stuff for camping in my car. And I could still see out the back and side windows!
Off to Sophia’s with my sweetest friends, Joan, Lisa and my adorable son Nick: Maggie still in Mendoza, Argentina, finishing her year of studying abroad. Then a James Brown at Andy’s with Michael after Missouri said goodbye with an amazing sunset. I will miss these people. I will miss this place. But I’m going to keep smiling because it happened. Thank you God for this wonderful life! I’m traveling light but with a heavy heart. When you travel, you should never say goodbye, just “see you later …”
On cruise control to Colorado
Then a man and woman pulled up in their car and started talking next door. I tried not to listen. Then silence. Then “oh, oh, oh” loud and clear. Someone was having a good time and didn’t care who heard it. Then silence interrupted by the crying baby at the campsite across the way. It was faint and didn’t bother me much. Then the other guys next door pulled in and started chatting away. Silence then chatting mixed with laughter, silence then chatting. One of the guys had a hoarse cough. Damn! My Advil P.M. wore off. I never sleep well in altitude but my noisy neighbors weren't helping. I have no idea when I finally fell asleep. I woke at 7 a.m. when “Oh, oh, oh” and her boyfriend drove off. I walked around looking for a better campsite before hitting the breakfast place across the highway. The campground manager had told me it didn’t open until 7:30, but the 8 Mile Bar & Grill was actually scheduled to open for breakfast from 7 to 10:30 daily. I had mine featuring coffee, lots of creamers, and a fried egg sandwich with cheese and bacon on sourdough. I saved half my sandwich for lunch and after dragging my tent over to a different and possibly quieter campsite, I headed to Canon City.
One of the many river outfitters I spoke with the previous few days told me about the whitewater park in downtown Canon City. She said people were out kayaking in it to prepare for the upcoming whitewater festival and that I would have no problem finding someone to spot me while I practiced my eskimo rolls, ferries and eddies.
But when I pulled up to Centennial Park, I found the river raging by, empty of boaters. Not even a car with roof racks or a boat trailer in sight. Men were setting up barriers and tents for the festival. The sign said the park was closed due to high water. At first gander I thought I could have handled the water. Some large standing waves and no rocks to maneuver around. Then again, no eddies: no slow moving water along the banks to swim to. The Arkansas was about 4 feet higher than normal and completely unforgiving. A boater needed a 100% whitewater roll, not my measly 25 to 50% combat roll. Hell, I had lost my 100% lake roll. I had no business being in that water, with or without help.
So I hauled down my hybrid bike and road up and down the pea-gravel trail that borders the banks. Only about a 1.5 mile section was open due to flooding, so I just rode back and forth multiple times, stopping along the river to wade into a shallow section away from the current to beat the 95 degree “dry” heat. While hiding from the sun under a railroad trestle that crossed the river I met Bob, a red Pit Bull who insisted I play fetch with a slobbery stick he retrieved from the banks while his hairy human stood by and jawed with me. Back at the park for lunch, I met Brandon and Norm and we visited about the festival, our travels and life in general. According to Norm the Arkansas River was currently closed to anyone but licensed rafting outfitters. Still, the week before a licensed outfitter lost an 11-year-old boy who fell out of a boat without having his life vest secured properly. So sad. Always check those life vests; don’t rely on the staff.
I tried to take a nap despite the pesky flies and a trio who had to play Frisbee close enough that their cheers of delight jarred me. I pedaled along the river some more, watched the storm clouds hurl lightning bolts at the neighboring mountains, and sat on the bank under a pavilion as the thunderstorm struck. The cool air from the passing storm chilled me, then the sun poked out and baked me. Even back at campsite #68 around 5:30 I had to hide in the shade to stay cool. Another thundercloud marched by and sprinkled everything with rain. Around 7 in the evening a cloud hid the sun and I remained comfortably cool and dry.
The 2015 Royal Gorge Whitewater Festival “Boats, Bands, Beer” also served as the USA Rafting Nationals Time Trial, so competitors from around the country participated in teams of 6 paddlers. For the 2015 results: www.royalgorgewhitewaterfestival.com
Some local kayakers surfed in the large standing waves for the crowd’s entertainment. Then they called for volunteers to man the rafts for the community raft competition, and I signed up.
They told me I didn’t need a wetsuit, and although it was around 6:30 in the evening before we got in the 40 to 50 degree F water, I didn’t press the issue. Seven rafts loaded with locals and led by guides from area outfitters put in the water. Our guide had brought along a sackful of beer, something that should have sent off warning signals. I had one but decided to save room for a second after the race. A large man with dreadlocks and a huge gut gave us our safety instruction. Nobody asked me to sign a waiver. Then we were off.
Our guide, “Muppet” had an oar boat with four paddles for the six of us. The other woman and I sat in front while the men paddled. We went through the large waves and several smaller rapids before hitting a flat stretch of the two-mile course. Two paddle boats passed us, and I could hear Muppet huffing and puffing as he tried to win back some ground.
Then shortly before the finish line, I saw a thick tree branch leaning out from the banks running parallel to the river and shouted that we needed to steer river right. I thought for sure the guide would have seen this huge tree sticking out ready to catch our boat. I thought for sure he’d heard me. I was wrong for sure.
The river was running fast and we hit it head-on. Muppet shouted for everyone to duck, so the woman and I dropped into the front of the boat. I felt the branch drag over my back and once we cleared it, complete mayhem ensued. I turned around to discover we’d lost our guide and two of the other paddlers. The guide was clinging to the boat and hollering for help to get back into the boat while screaming “My leg! My leg!” I hauled him in as he moaned the entire time. One of the support kayakers pulled alongside and hopped into the boat while I supported the guide’s head as the other woman tried to help him get his twisted leg in a less painful position. Then another raft pulled alongside and a guy hopped in. He was actually a raft guide and was able to direct the paddlers to steer us toward the takeout.
By the time we reached the takeout, everyone was shouting. The other raft guides took charge and stabilized his leg. Muppet complained that the pain was mostly centered about his knee. Since he was sitting up on a seat in the oar boat, the branch knocked him off his seat and he must have twisted his knee in the process. An ambulance arrived and the EMS personnel loaded Muppet in and took him to the hospital. No one else on our boat was hurt. The rest of us, wet, and cold, finished the beer Muppet had brought and headed back to the festival. A strong reminder that alcohol and water don’t mix when on the river. I had been surprised that our guide was drinking in the first place, especially with the river in flood stage. But sometimes people get cocky.
The rest of the evening progressed without much excitement. I had a gyro salad while listening to a great band and watched everyone else dancing. But I was tired and ready to hit my tent for a good night sleep before a day kayaking in the river with a guide.
But I completed all my rolls in the eddy at Stonebridge put-in, including flipping the opposite way, and managed a T-rescue as well. I still didn’t want to flip in a rapid and test my eskimo roll skills further. We made the 10-mile trip through the Class II water with a handful of easy class III rapids including the dam. I almost flipped once but my hip snap and a low brace kept me upright. My stomach knotted up for the dam and the play park in Salida and that wimpy voice whispered “Don’t do it.” I had an audience, as people sitting along the banks and in the restaurants watched. But I made it through the large wave without a hitch. And although I missed the first eddy, I made it into the second without incident. My rattled nerves calmed and after loading my boat and thanking Mathro for a successful trip, I spent the rest of the afternoon lounging in the cool waters, watching kayakers play in the waves and visiting with the locals.
I cursed myself soundly for reserving the campsite at Echo through Saturday, as I had to make the 50-mile trip back. But it’s a beautiful drive and after settling down with a good book “Little Bee” by Chris Cleave, I went to sleep after everyone else and for once didn’t use my Advil P.M. I woke up throughout the night; some idiots were still up jawing loudly, but my earplugs blocked the worst of their drivel and I had a good night sleep overall. After breaking camp, I was the first customer at the 8 Mile Bar & Grill; they switched their open time back to 7:30 due to lack of business. After my half fried egg sandwich and two cups of coffee with tons of creamer, I hit the road for Gunnison.
A change of plans takes me to Pagosa Springs, CO
I drove back into town the next morning to sip coffee from The Peak Deli and then lounged in the Hippie Dip hot springs by the bridge most of the morning.
I ran into Ron at Pagosa Outdoors looking for a shuttle. Ron, his wife, Kathy, and I boated a 3-mile class I/II section of the San Juan River through town. They used inflatable kayaks. Lazy or distracted, I ended up flipping twice and was unable to roll back up, so I swam. The water level was low, around 500 cfs. Most people were floating by in inner tubes.
I returned to my campsite. John and Kylie had left. I didn’t sleep well. The next morning, with sore arms from kayaking, I borrowed Kathy’s inflatable. The water level was lower and the inflatable much more stable than my kayak. After our run I lazed around the river all day in the Hippy Dip. Temperatures were hot, but not as bad as Canon City.
That night at camp I met some locals who run the NAPA auto parts store in Pogosa drinking beer during their daily check on their motorhomes parked by the San Juan River in preparation for their Fourth of July weekend campout. The locals wondered why I didn’t travel with a dog for protection. They seemed amazed I was camping solo.
I also met more homeless guys that night whom I invited to join me at my fire. The one guy had introduced himself while cruising by on his mountain bike in a “dude” accent. “Just got back from serving in Afghanistan, now just doing what I like, smoking pot and riding.” When the “dude” came by my fire later he let me smell the pot he’d purchased legally from a local dispensary. “Smells like tangerines, don’t it.”
I drove through the Navajo Nation skirting the backside of Monument Valley. I’ll leave that tour for another time as well; a wildfire in California smoked through northern Arizona, leaving the skies hazy and dimming the view.
Flagstaff was cold and confusing, as the signs to 89A were minimal, mixed with Hwy 66 signs, and the off-ramp to Sedona under construction without traffic signs as well. I managed to gestalt my way, taking a gorgeous winding drive through the mountains, passing touristy Sedona for Jerome, Arizona, a former copper mining town on the side of Cleopatra Hill overlooking the Verde Valley (www.azjerome.com). Tastefully rehabed old buildings from another era today house restaurants, wineries, antique stores, art galleries, gift shops and small hotels. I met my girlfriend Clarisa for dinner and happy hour wine ($6 a glass and it tasted like $10) at the restaurant Grapes. (www.grapesjerome.com)
I camped out at Clarisa's in Prescott Valley for two nights while getting my cracked windshield fixed and replacing the quick-release skewer on my hybrid bicycle’s front wheel; the nut on the quick-release disengaged from the wheel clamped onto my roof rack while I was barreling down the highway before bouncing onto my windshield and leaving a ding.
I also started working via telephone, arranging for landscapers and repair services on my Oceanside rental property. I tried to book a room in Escondido on Air BnB but my potential host wanted more info about me as I had never rented before with the website and had no guest reviews. I filled out my profile and suggested he read my travel blog and Facebook page. Two days later, he was still considering whether or not to rent a room to me for four nights, so I cancelled the “reservation.” Funny, I’ve never had to “apply” for a place to stay before during my travels.
After dinner one night Clarisa and I took a stroll through her tranquil neighborhood on the edge of town. No street lights or sidewalks, so we walked down the middle of the pavement. Not 100 yards from her front door, Clarisa stopped and said, “I think I just stepped on a snake.” She aimed her flashlight behind us on a snake stretched across our path. We inched closer and discovered it was a young diamondback rattlesnake. Not more than 15 inches long. It didn’t coil as we shined the light in its eyes. I couldn’t hear the rattle, but Clarisa said it was a slight rattle that made her stop and turn, in addition to feeling her foot rolling as she stepped on what she thought was a stick. I cannot believe neither of us got bit.
A family living down the street came along and caught the creature with a rake and a bucket, promising to relocate it to a safer neighborhood. By then, the little guy was in high alert, rattling faintly and striking at anything within reach.
When people ask if I’m worried about traveling or afraid of camping by myself in the woods with who knows what wandering around outside, I share this story.
Welcome to the Hotel California
After several days of beach time, pool time and many games of Monopoly, I headed to Santa Monica with more family time with Mom and Dad, Ye Olde King's Head English pub with brother Eric and his sweetie Mengyee, and some rough waves that tossed around my great niece Annika like a piece of driftwood. I supervised my four great nieces and nephew in a production of fresh-squeezed juice with oranges from my dad’s citrus trees and pancakes made from scratch (we were out of mix).
I spent several lovely days and evenings with my fellow Corsair compadre Kyle overlooking Topanga Canyon amidst the dying oak trees. The drought had wreaked havoc in the Santa Monica Mountains. We hiked through Topanga State Park on dusty paths surrounded by yellow stalks of grass and brown shrubs. Except for the occasional glimpse of the ocean through the low peaks, everything was dry and listless. During one early evening hike in Topanga, me in my Teva sandals and no flashlight, we saw yet another rattlesnake; mountain bikers with headlamps spotted it in the middle of our trail as we approached. www.parks.ca.gov/?page_id=629
After studying legal gibberish for a day or two, I took and passed the law test for my California physical therapist assistant license. Several days of umpteen e-mails, telephone calls, a couple of interviews, drug screens, a flu shot and TB testing followed by massive amounts of paperwork scanned, signed and delivered, I was ready to head back to work. A nursing home in San Andreas, CA, hired me for a 15-week assignment. After two months of So. Cali living, I packed my camping gear and work clothes, along with my white water kayak and bicycles for the drive up the coast to Northern California and the foothills of the Sierras.
I had a fantastic stay with my parents, friends and extended family; Nick and Maggie flew out from Missouri to join us for ten days. I cried of course when they shipped out. Then I was sad all over again when I had to leave my parents for work up north; this was the first visit that I've had so much time alone with the two of them and I truly enjoyed their company. I motored away in my Honda with a nice tan and took the long road to San Andreas, visiting friends and family up the central coast before turning inland.
Friday, September 4, one final visit with Kyle in Topanga Canyon; we had dinner at Abuelitas (www. abuelitastopanga.com) outside on the deck under massive oak trees next to a decorative flying pig. The next morning before heading inland I enjoyed one more beach day at the Jelly Bowl and Tar Pit Park in Carpinteria with the Sprigg girls, dodging globs of sticky black tar that seep to the surface from an underground asphalt lake.
www.carpinteria.com/activities/parks/tarpits www.californiabeaches.com/beach/tar-pits-beach
For the rest of the Labor Day weekend I stayed with Victor and Catherine at their amazing ranch north of Santa Barbara with a stunning view over the Santa Ynez Valley including the vineyards and horse farms surrounding the town of Los Olivos.
We lunched at the Bell Street Farm restaurant in Los Alamos bellstreetfarm.com and ordered coffee and pastries from Bob's Well Bread www.bobswellbread.com For dinner we ate a smorgasbord of vegetables and pasta, including fresh kale from my dad's garden.
www.visitsyv.com/discover-syv/los-olivos www.losolivosca.com/town-map www.losalamosvalley.org
On my way north I had to stop for gas in Santa Maria. I picked up Lorena who bummed a ride from me while I stopped at the local Walmart for supplies, and she steered me toward a cheap gas station (22 cents/gal less than everyone else in town and a huge savings from $4.59 in Los Alamos and $3.61 right off the 101 in Santa Maria.) Then I made it in time for dinner with my cousins and Aunt Martha for another entertaining evening in Atascadero on their back deck with a commanding view of the surrounding valley and the Temblor Mountain Range. Before continuing my journey north the next morning, Martha treated me to breakfast at the Country Touch Cafe (www.countrytouchcafe.com) on El Camino Real in downtown Atascadero.
After stumbling over rattlesnakes,
I head north dodging California wildfires
My job contract in San Andreas was scheduled to run September 16 through December 23, 2015. Once I received confirmation I started searching for a place to stay for those 15 weeks, mostly through Craigslist. Some of the places I immediately ignored: "Looking for a roommate, my teenage sons would prefer a younger female." Not much in San Andreas, a town of less than 3,000 residents. Most available rooms were ten to 15 miles away. Some of the places advertised on Craigslist had found tenants by the time I was ready to make appointments to view. So starting Labor Day Monday I hit the internet and looked into apartments and motels in the area. I did find an unfurnished studio that would have run me around $800 a month in San Andreas, then on Craigslist I saw a room in a home advertised for $450. It was in Angels Camp, a ten-mile drive from San Andreas.
The ad read:
private room with private bath
no smoking
laundry on site
street parking
Have a room for rent. It has a private bath and private entrance. There is a washing machine on site. This is for a single mature female only. You will share kitchen and living area with another mature female. There is no in house smoking. The rent is $450 a month with a $100 deposit. The room is 16' x 13', the closet is 42"x 19", the bath is 7'x 6' with a standup shower, toilet, and sink. The room is available now. No pets.
It sounded perfect. So I stopped in Angels Camp to check it out and found the most hideous excuse of a rental. I shouldn’t have even left my car to take a look. The guy, Rich, had told me over the phone that it was an “old Victorian house” and silly me, I thought that meant it had been fixed up or at least had some character or charm. He said I would be sharing it with a 60-year old woman, but when I showed up Rich was grilling something on the dilapidated front porch and a hairy guy hiding behind sunglasses was hanging around smoking a cigarette. The run-down house was right on Highway 49 next to the car wash. I don’t remember much except for lots of junk cluttering the overgrown yard and front porch, which appeared to be rotting away. The dog barked constantly and ran through the house after us. The rental room smelled like tobacco smoke and didn’t have any windows. The kitchen was dark with clutter on all the counter space, and even Rich's girlfriend apologized for “the mess” as she was showing me around. The “laundry on site” was a washing machine out back in the weed-infested yard and a clothesline strung along the side of the porch. The 60-year-old "owner" was away in San Diego. The place was dark and projected a disturbing vibe.
Rich looked sick, like Hep C-cirrohsis-of-the-liver sick with a waxy yellowed, puffy face. He creeped me out completely, like Freddy Krueger scary. His girlfriend didn't look like a meth addict, but she seemed pretty white trashy. Throughout my two-minute tour of the place, I kept saying silently over and over to myself "NO, NO, NO!" I'm sure she could read the look of horror on my face. I begged off making a decision, as I never feel comfortable saying "no" to someone's face, and said I had some places closer to my work to look at and I'd let them know the following day. What completely cracked me up is the woman took offense and said I wouldn’t find anything better in San Andreas. “It’s dirty,” she sneered. I escaped as soon as I could. Oh my god.
I had also made an appointment with a woman in San Andreas. While calling around I had reached Pat answering the phone at a local motel. I explained my situation but she said the best the motel could do was around $95 a night. Then she called me back the next day and said she lived five minutes from the nursing home where I was going to work and she could rent me a room in her home.
After fleeing from the hellhole in Angels Camp, I worried what I would find in San Andreas. I pulled into the retirement community for adults 55 and up where she lived, complete with a saltwater pool and hot tub and a 10-minute walk to my work. When I stepped into her home I almost started crying with relief because it was so nice: clean, welcoming and homey. Her two friendly dogs, Ruby and Fiona, greeted me energetically.
I had my own bathroom next to my bedroom and a full closet and a chest of drawers for clothes and stuff. Plenty of space outside and under cover for my bikes and kayak with a covered carport for my car. The dogs Ruby and Fiona had their own room and every day her cat Felicia sprinted in and out of the house for a quick visit to eat. The home didn't smell like pets and Pat doesn't smoke. And only $600/month, all utilities and wifi included.
I moved in that night and after we had dinner at the local Mexican restaurant, El Mezcal, we took the puppies for an after sunset walk through the neighborhood. Luckily, we did not come across any rattlesnakes.
I couldn't have asked for a better arrangement, as Pat proved a very hospitable landlord and easygoing roommate. I truly lucked out finding Pat on Tuesday. But by the next day, our good luck started to change.
The next morning we woke up with ash on our cars and the fire at 4000 acres with only 20 percent contained. Air quality was poor, so I stayed inside most of the day, only leaving to load up on groceries. I didn’t even feel comfortable staying outside long enough to take a dip in the pool. Pat said the fire “won't turn our way” but it was a drag and I knew it would keep me inside for a few days and off the river for my last days of freedom before a 40-hour work week commenced. Pat went ahead with her planned weekend trip out of town.
By Friday morning the fire had grown to 32,000 acres. Officials named it the Butte fire because it had started near Butte Mountain in neighboring Amador County. Pat's friend Jamie stopped by around 8 a.m. to advise me to start preparing for an evacuation. Surely it couldn’t come to that! The fire had jumped Hwy 26 and was ready to leap Mountain Ranch Road, the road I take from Hwy 49 to our place. Hwy 49 was closed farther north.
I watched the sky but it just looked gray, no orange hues like the night before. Surely we’d be fine! Still, Jamie gave me the contact information for Pat’s sister in Twain Harte southeast of San Andreas, about an hours’ drive. He packed up some of Pat's belongings including her pictures, her jewelry and her computer hard-drive. I re-packed my car with some of my stuff, including my paperwork, some clothes, my computers, and left behind all my camping gear, cookware, towels, bedding and most of my clothes, including my work clothes. My kayak and bikes were still on my car's roof racks and the related sport gear remained in the car. Surely I didn't need to repack everything into my car that I had just unpacked and loaded into my room; surely Pat's house wouldn’t burn down!
The Friday morning newspaper hit the stands with the out of date info, stating the fire was at 4,000 acres with 20 percent contained and only six homes and two outbuildings destroyed. It did warn that the fire was “out of control” and spreading in all directions. Schools were closed, homes not in the evacuation area experienced power outages due to the fire. The temperature was around 106 degrees and the wind was blowing fiercely from the west to the east.
I stayed inside of course and had a somewhat fruitful morning working on a photo book for Maggie's Christmas gift while fielding calls from Pat’s sister Janis, her friend Jamie and Pat herself, who had decided to return early from her trip to deal with the fire. Then around noon I heard a knock on the door. A woman wearing a shirt with a Calaveras County Social Services logo told me “Have you heard? It’s time to evacuate.” So I added my perishable food to my pile, grabbed the dogs and crammed them in the pet carrier and hauled off within less than 20 minutes. I called for the cat, Felicia, but she would not come. A mostly outdoor half-feral creature, I hoped she would find shelter away from the fire's path. If Pat's house burned I’d lose some clothes, my camping gear, cooking gear, some housewares, some non-perishable food, some bathroom items. Nothing major. I couldn’t imagine what a fire would do to Pat and her neighbors. All of her treasures she’s collected for years. Before leaving I called her and asked if she had anything else I could pack for her. All she wanted was her homeowner’s insurance information.
As I left town heading south on Hwy 49 with a caravan of other cars, through the orange glow of smoke and sun I could see a pocket of flames on the hillside above San Andreas. I didn't know if I would still have a job starting the following Wednesday at the hospital in San Andreas, let alone a place to stay.
The dogs and I drove south to Sonora and met Janis at a gas station packed with people. The roads were busy going both directions and congested through the small towns. When I made it to Janis' house, news of the fire had pre-empted the regular television programming. The Butte fire had increased in size to 50,000 acres and they had started evacuating parts of Angels Camp, 10 miles south of San Andreas. The fire was heading our way.
According to the Calaveras Enterprise newspaper, the county had been predicting and preparing for this kind of fire for more than a decade. Thick, heavy, dry vegetation covered the steep canyons leading away from the Highway 49 corridor. The wind generally blows from west to east, fueling flames up the canyons that all have small towns perched on the hilltops. Severe drought conditions for the past four years.
Then the wind or something picked up and the fire started racing toward the east side of town and the evacuations increased. We sat around Saturday afternoon fixating on horrific pictures of burning cars and homes on the internet and social media, along with special news reports on TV. They kept reporting six homes/structures burned, but Pat alone knew at least six families who'd lost their homes. By Saturday afternoon, the count was closer to 100 homes and structures burned. Then a second major wildfire started north of Sacramento, referred to as the Lake Fire in Napa County, and it exploded and raced through acres of woods and homes with the same awful hot, dry conditions as the Butte Fire. We would have to share already exhausted "resources." By Saturday night we were all stressed out. Even the Mimosas didn’t help. Pat declared we were heading back to San Andreas Sunday as she had to work Monday morning and we could either stay in the motel she helps manage or we could sleep in the vacant apartment above her office.
None of us slept. I worried about everything and anything. I worried about whether or not I would have a job starting Wednesday if the hospital had been evacuated as rumored, the patients farmed out to other facilities. I worried that possibly the job location would switch from San Andreas to the facility in Sonora an hour’s drive from Pat’s house, possibly longer with all the fire relief efforts, then the clean-up crews, etc, and would I now have to make new living arrangements after I'd just found the perfect place?
I fretted over the stupid crap I’d left behind at Pat’s wondering why I hadn’t spent the extra 15 minutes to clear my camping gear and clothing out. My empty suitcase. My housewares, towels, kitchen gear for camping or apartment living. I would have had to stuff my car to the gills with the large dog carrier, but at least I wouldn’t have had to worry that it could be lost in the fire or inaccessible for days, a week, as long as the mandatory evacuation orders lasted?
I patted myself on the back for hauling my important papers, which of course included my brand new passport. But I’d left behind my all-purpose headwrap. My favorite blouse that has hung in my closet for more than 15 years. My perfect travel clothes. My outdoor Patagonia wear and my Gore-tex parka, old but expensive to replace. I wondered if it would be too late to take out a renter’s insurance policy in case I lost everything to the fire. I kicked myself again for not packing all my kitchen goods and my bedding as it would come in handy if we stayed at the vacant apartment by Pat’s office. I worried … by four a.m. I switched gears and started stressing about stupid shit unrelated to my current situation. Then I watched the dawn glow creep through the closed slits of the window blinds. Shortly I heard Janis and Pat in the kitchen and I gave up on sleeping at all.
It was 6 a.m. Sunday by the time we started drinking coffee and the news did not sound better, but on the television our Butte Fire had started playing second fiddle to the Lake Fire in Napa. The news reported our fire was holding steady at 65,000 acres with 20 percent containment, which was fantastic. Pat was receiving texts and Facebook posts about looters in her neighborhood. So Pat decided to load up the dogs and we headed back to San Andreas. We packed both cars and both dogs: Ruby as usual trying to escape. It was pandemonium. I wasn’t thinking straight, stress and lack of sleep, and insisted I had to stop at the mailbox in Sonora to mail a bill. I was almost out of gas and we had to refuel at a place that unbeknownst to me, did not take credit cards. I went through additional dinero drama with repeated trips frantically demanding assistance from the unfortunate man in a turban behind the counter. Yes I should have calmed down as he suggested. But I did not feel like being calm.
We pulled into the parking lot at Pat’s work and found Jamie in the apartment upstairs airing up a mattress for Pat to sleep on. I had a folding cot. It was the third place I stayed since arriving in San Andreas five days earlier.
Thick gray smoke billowed from the canyons immediately east of us as the DC-10s flew low over the ridges dumping flame retardant in the valleys just outside town. But no open flames like the day we evacuated. Just plumes of white and gray smoke.
While driving through town to help out a friend of Pat's, we almost cried at the sight of all the firefighters and law enforcement personnel and vehicles refueling at the gas station, congregating at the command center or blocking access to roads east of town. We helped Pat’s friend unload spoiled food from her freezers and refrigerator, her electricity knocked out by the fire since Friday morning although she was outside of the evacuation areas. We headed back to the apartment and stayed off the streets and out of the way for the rest of the day.
We were close enough that we could walk from the apartment to Pat's place with permission from law enforcement to check on the condition of Pat’s house and to grab some things. I hauled out all my work clothes just in case the evacuation order lasted into my work assignment. Then Pat went to the store for food and returned with some ribs for dinner and a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia for dessert. I had a little trouble adjusting to the folding cot, then found when I turned around, sleeping with my head on my pillow at the foot of the cot, I felt much more comfortable. Manufactured by Greatland Outdoors, the cot turned into something very snug, like a motionless hammock. Then I slept, not quite like the dead, but close enough.
Still, I felt sheepish for worrying over my piddly crap while so many people’s homes had burned; a lifetime of possessions, photos and keepsakes, children’s artwork, businesses and livelihoods or hobbies. One couple lost a fully stocked wine cellar of expensive reds. Some still trying to find their pets. One guy told the media he had no insurance, his property a complete loss he could not afford to rebuild. Another guy lost the home where he and his partner had lived and loved. He had rescued his partner’s urn from the fire and was planning to return after it was safe to spread his ashes, dust to dust.
The fire reminded me yet again how life is not about stuff. Things can be a nuisance, a hassle to store or move. Stuff ties you down. Some of it clogs your sinuses and drags you below through emotional gutters. And although sometimes it would be nice to have your own comfortable bed to sleep in wearing your favorite pair of jammies, sometimes it’s OK to sleep upside down in a folding cot in an empty apartment with strangers who are becoming dear friends.
The Tuesday morning update from the authorities on the Butte Fire: almost 72,000 acres burned with 37 percent contained. The final tally reported by CAL FIRE October 15: a total of 921 structures destroyed including; 549 homes, 368 outbuildings, and 4 commercial properties. 44 total structures damaged. Two people died trying to save their homes from the flames. One person injured.
The upside, Pat and I bonded during the experience and I felt so blessed to have discovered her. If I had been camping out that week as I originally planned, it would have been a true disaster for me. Maybe even sleeping on a cot in a crowded gymnasium, although that could have been interesting in itself. I might have played a greater part in the relief efforts rather than just running away. After the smoke cleared, so many people burned out of their homes moved into any available space, so other traveling therapists that arrived after me couldn't find anywhere to stay in San Andreas. I truly lucked out!
Exploring the Sierras kayaking, camping, on foot and by bike
The one drawback to the walk was a 200-foot section along Mountain Ranch, with its narrow shoulders and a one-lane bridge with no shoulder. After playing chicken too many times with the trucks and increased traffic due to the fire recovery efforts, I rerouted my walk through the wooded area down a not-too-steep weedy incline. I tied an abandoned telephone line with knotted grips to the downed barbed wire fence and a tree to ease my ascent and descent. If it rained I drove. Once we hit daylight savings time, I stuck to the 5-minute drive as I didn't feel like walking on the road or through the woods coming home in the dark.
So the nice-looking guy, Ken, got me in touch with some other boaters and I took my first whitewater trip down the class III/III+ Gorge section of the South Fork of the American Sunday, September 20. I had warned everyone I had a lousy combat roll. I tried to set up in calm water and couldn't do it. The first section of the run was class II and pretty easy. Then I reached the rapids of Upper Haystacks. I flipped twice, t-rescued the first time, then swam the second time. It was ugly and humiliating. But I didn’t swim at Bouncing Rock rapid, and everyone in my group said that was a good thing.
The next Sunday I carpooled with Ken to the American. Ken ran the more advanced upper section starting at Chili Bar put-in and I boated the Coloma to Greenwood Creek (C to G) class II section with a new group of boaters including Gary from Placerville, CA. C to G was more my speed and I set up for a successful roll in calm water but did not feel like pushing my luck surfing, so I practiced ferrying and eddy-hopping.
The boating community in Northern California has an active club and website that makes it easy to find paddlers of all levels to kayak with on the American as well as other rivers around the country. www.goldcountrypaddlers.org
www.californiawhitewater.com/rivers/south-fork-american
For our first trip the water was high enough to run the class III Toilet Bowl rapid below the Highway 49 bridge. I got flushed, flipped and while trying to set up for a roll, the turbulent water slammed my hands against the submerged rocks so I just swam. I let go of my boat and paddle, my hands too bruised to grip anymore. Gary and Garrett rescued me and my equipment.
The next week, the water level was lower and we didn't even bother with rocky Toilet Bowl, but the run above was perfect. A rainstorm the day before had washed debris and dirt from the burn zone into the river, turning the usually clear water a muddy brown while blackened twigs and small scorched branches swirled around and clogged the eddies. For the third Monday, October 19, the run was pretty bony as we scraped over rocks and struggled to make it downriver before dark. Our last attempt October 26 we drove to the put-in and waited, hoping electrical demand would force PG&E to open the gates at Electra Powerhouse. We finally gave up around 4:30 and drove home.
Once the San Joaquin Valley cools down in the fall, electric needs drop so releases from the hydroelectric dam upriver on the Mokelumne decrease along with the river levels. The hydroelectric dam releases on the American River every Saturday throughout the year for recreation, but I had to work Saturdays, so my whitewater kayaking season ended. Instead, I spent my Sundays and Mondays off hiking and camping in the Sierras and the foothills surrounding San Andreas.
A San Francisco Treat
Friday morning I took a traffic-free drive through San Francisco and hauled my overnight bag and air mattress into Pam's living room/yoga studio for a three-night stay. Pam has a spacious apartment next to Point Lobos at the mouth of the San Francisco Bay. After an afternoon breakfast of Eggs Benedict down the street at the Seal Rock Inn Restaurant where they serve breakfast all day (www.sealrockinn.com), I hiked around Lands End Park. I stayed out past dark, shivering through a beautiful sunset while sitting on the crumbling concrete ruins of Sutro Baths: not cold enough to warrant returning to the apartment for my windbreaker. The sun shone the entire weekend and I usually didn't need a jacket during the day although at night we turned on the furnace.
Saturday I hiked through the cypress trees along the coastal trail toward the Golden Gate Bridge. A short jaunt through a swank residential area, Seacliffs, then down along the beach before some more up and down the cliffs. I turned around just short of the bridge, seeing it packed with cars and pedestrians. On my return trip some tourists were pointing at signs of whales heading back to sea from the bay, just west of the Golden Gate. I gasped each time blowholes sprayed a fine mist just above the water. Once a dark grey humping back sliced through the surface followed by the slap of a fan-shaped tail. Too far away to get a decent picture. Wish I'd had binoculars! (www.nps.gov/goga/planyourvisit/landsend)
The rest of the weekend I hopped on and off the No. 38 bus to the financial district and cruised downtown San Francisco on foot. I stopped for delicious Lotus mooncakes from a funky bakery in Chinatown which advertised the only homemade mooncake filling in town next to a photograph of former President Bill Clinton visiting the bakery. I took a night-time cable car ride from Chinatown on California up to Van Ness, no charge. I strolled many blocks up to and along Geary Boulevard through a mostly well-lit business/retail/apartment area to Japantown, where I sat elbow to elbow at the counter of Isobune Sushi Restaurant and ate salmon, tuna, eel and some rolls topped with orange and black caviar off tiny plates plucked from the decks of miniature wooden boats floating around our sushi chefs. (www.isobunesushi.com). Sunday I hit Fisherman's Wharf for a lunch featuring Boudin sourdough bread, hiding my sandwich inside the paper bag between bites to shield it from the horde of skydiving seagulls. Instead of walking to Ghiradelli Square, I stopped for my chocolate fix from XOX Truffles, an "artesenal chocolatier" in North Beach on my way back to the bus stop. (www.xoxtruffles.com)
Southbound for the holidays
My last three weeks in San Andreas went somewhat quickly and without too much fuss. I plodded my way through work, clinging to my good patients and biting my tongue with the disagreeable or hopeless ones. My work compatriot Kwamie left mid-December, making work even less enjoyable.
It rained on my days off so Ken and I spent time cuddling in his man cave sharing stories and future travel plans, debating sea kayaking in Glaciar Bay, Alaska, or white water kayaking in Ecuador come March. Before I left San Andreas, we had made plans to see each other later; we certainly didn't say “Goodbye.”
Pat was a tough roommate to leave, and I will always treasure her gracious hospitality, that inviting, comfortable nest in the wilderness of my travels. I'll miss Ruby, Fiona, even skitzy Felicia, as well as my favorite couch!
I packed my car and loaded the roof racks in the evening after my last day of work and woke unexpectedly at 4:10 a.m. Christmas Eve morning. Unable to slip back into sleep, I rose and hauled ass across the San Joaquin Valley in hopes of beating the expected storm that would require snow chains through the Grapevine.
I left San Andreas in the dark at 5 a.m. and watched the sunrise until it blinded me as I headed south on 99. I found the cheapest gas I've purchased in more than 10 years: $2.27 a gallon at a station south of Turlock, CA. Making excellent time, I stopped fretting about hitting ice and snow over the mountain pass from San Bernardino to the LA basin, when a familiar icon appeared on my dashboard. Low tire pressure warning. Last time I checked that one out (after driving around on it for miles) the tire guy said it had been wrong, no slow leak. So I ignored it for another 10 miles until I heard and felt the unmistakeable thwacking of a flat tire.
I cursed my luck, pulled over on to the shoulder and found the culprit on the passenger side, well away from traffic. Eschewing my AAA card due to the typical 1-hour delay or more response time, I unloaded my trunk and pulled out my donut spare. With manual in hand, I started to jack up the front of my car and amazingly enough, it worked. While manhandling the shredded rubber wheel off the bolts, I turned to discover a CHP officer cautiously approaching me on the shoulder. He advised me on a better technique to use my tire tools to my advantage and then questioned my plan to continue on to Santa Monica with the spare. He assured me even with a stop at a local tire dealer I would clear the Grapevine before the weather turned and made an appointment for me. Then he followed me at 50 mph to the dealer and I thanked him for stopping for me. He didn’t write me a ticket for having most of my windows blocked with crap (although I bet he checked my plates before he left his patrol car). To protect and to serve! A shout out to the good cops out there!!!
Without further incident I made it through the Grapevine prior to the predicted snow and ice storm, pulling into my folks driveway on Alta Avenue around noon and enjoying a luxurious nap in the Blue Room.
We celebrated Christmas with half the extended Horst/Sprigg family. I think that’s what we’re down to: way less than half but still a decent turnout.
Christmas day I walked with Dad along the Palisades Bluffs on a drop-dead clear day with perfect views of the entire bay, Palos Verdes to Point Dume, as well as Catalina Island.
The next day I set out for a jog down to the beach, but ended up making it a brisk walk with a few yards of huffing and puffing. Blustery and still gorgeous and clear, hardly any sailboats out and I didn’t spot the pod of dolphins. I did the stairs to Adelaide.
Sunday I steered through manageable LA traffic, passing downtown’s skyscrapers with a stunning view of the Santa Monica and San Gabriel mountain ranges. I met Ken at his brother’s amazing home on the Pasadena hills overlooking the Rose Bowl. We hiked the Echo Mountain Trail above Altadena to the crumbling foundations of "the White City in the Sky," a resort built in 1893 once served by the Mount Lowe Railway but eventually destroyed by bankruptcy, fire and storms starting in 1900. The view included amazing vistas of Palas Verdes, Catalina, etc, but as the wind had abated, the smog had started to return. (www.hike-losangeles.com/echo-mountain-hike.html)
Although I felt tired, the hike energized me. We hiked down as the sun set to the twinkling of lights turning on across the LA basin, not resorting to Ken’s headlamp until we almost reached the bottom.
Then I woke around 2 a.m. and tossed and turned, unable to return to sleep or overcome the rising sense of nausea. By 6:30 a.m. I tried to swallow some coffee but I told Ken that I had no stomach for breakfast. By 8 I was throwing up and dreading the 45-minute drive back to my parents, hoping traffic wouldn’t snarl and leave me on the side of the road again gagging and heaving.
I made it home and covered myself with a blanket on the couch in my parent’s living room, the warmest room in the house. I warned them to stay away and spent the rest of the day sleeping on and off and praying for a merciful, quick death.
The next day I woke severely dehydrated; I had been too sick to take more than a few sips of water or tea all day and night. After I was able to swallow a cup of coffee, I ate more Advil and spent the rest of the day on the same couch reading. First I finished the fascinating Elephants and Ivory, the autobiography of a "great white hunter" in Africa John Alfred Jordan as told to John Prebble and published in 1956. I followed that with the much less fascinating but easy to read Rules of Civility by Amor Towles circa 2011. I hardly moved from the couch except for more tea and to swallow some soup. I had no appetite; now that’s sick. The next morning I felt not too much better so I picked up The Woman in Gold, a 5-star read by Anne-Marie O'Connor. By the morning of New Year’s Eve, I realized I was a week behind on all my organizing, errands, packing, etc so I dragged myself off the comfortable couch and out of my parent’s warm living room to get back to it.
As usual, I unearthed a silver lining in my illness, the 2nd in a month! It was a not so subtle reminder that I need to focus on my health. I had been eating way too much sugar and processed foods while stressing out over work in San Andreas, which ran down my immune system. And although it’s OK to indulge on special occasions, I had made it a daily habit. So after four days of soup and that ill-fated grilled cheese sandwich (the quintessential comfort food for me), I was on a good start toward my weight-loss goals that I had so pathetically left unmet in San Andreas.
And thank god I got sick when I did. Even my post-Thanksgiving illness was well-timed as the weather had turned rainy on my days off. How horrible to have had that awful post-Christmas flu in a hostel somewhere in Cuba or Ecuador or during the precious time I had planned with my kids over the winter holidays.
I viewed my brush with the infamous norovirus in those waning days of December as a purging of 2015, all the excesses, the triumphs, the joys, the worries, the fears, the disappointments, the failures, the unfulfilled promises I made to myself the year before and the year before that. I was still seven months behind on my travel blog. I hadn’t even started half the writing projects I had planned, let alone complete the one that I’ve been chained to for the last 15 years. It’s time to start again. And I’m confident in greeting 2016 with the same resolutions I have every year: to explore, to enjoy, to savor, to listen, to live, to love, to write, to PUBLISH, with the accompanying regrets and frustrations that sometimes life just doesn’t always measure up to my great expectations. And the wonder of it all! CHEERS!
Above Maggie snowboarding and Nick skiing, me boarding on the right, at Snow Summit down one of our favorite Blues: Log Chute. | |
Echo Canyon Campground, Hwy 50 ¼ mile west of the Royal Gorge Bridge, approximately 7 miles west of Canon City. Half the camp is set aside for RVs, the other for tents. The terrain is rolling and covered with trees, so very nice. Unfortunately some of the sites are close together. At least for me, this high altitude makes it difficult to sleep, plus the clear air carries sound so easily. The hands-down best sites are #57 or 55, farthest from the highway and other campsites, they are located against the back fence. One was booked for a month with one camper. #56 right in between had no shade and it looked too close for comfort. #76 would have been wonderful except that was right next to the group camp site, which was booked, and groups are never quiet. I’d rather camp next to a couple noisy neighbors instead of an entire herd. The campgrounds take credit cards, take non-refundable reservations and offer late check-in, have a general store, spacious shower room, bathroom and laundry room with a commercial three-tub sink for washing dishes. They also have free wifi at the restaurant and at the campground office, several pavilions and a couple cabins for rent. I paid $25 plus tax per night to tent camp. Not too awful. There’s free camping on the national forests near Salida, but it’s primitive and too far from Canon City. 866-341-7875 echocanyoncampground.com
In addition to the 8 Mile Bar & Grill, across the street from the campgrounds are also the Echo Canyon River Expeditions featuring rafting trips, zip lines, ATV excursions. There’s a smorgasbord of businesses, including a helicopter tour company and souvenir shops.
www.royalgorgewhitewaterfestival.com held annually in June, Canon City, Colorado at Centennial Park