I have some catching up to do, and I promise I’ll get there. I have to admit, what I’m writing about in this post seems long ago and far away. In a way, I guess both are true. I am sitting back in Champaign now, earlier than I’d intended…but that’s a topic for a later date. When I last left you all, we had launched from New Mexico heading north towards Montana. The first stop was just a short hop to Salida, Colorado. We stayed just outside of town and, though I was only there for two nights, I took the opportunity to take a hike.
I discovered that the Colorado/Continental Divide Trail was not too far down the road. That made the decision on where to hike an easy one. Last year, I hiked ten miles of this trail at a spot not too terribly far from where I found myself at the beginning of July. This time, I started at Monarch Pass. The weather was blissfully chilly as I started off in the not-so-early morning hours. I love high mountains in summer. The fact that I had to don layers made me instantly giddy. Call me crazy, if you want. I don’t mind.
The parking lot was already fairly full when I arrived at around 10-ish. That had me a little concerned. I don’t mind seeing a few people, but I am not keen on crowded trails, especially not in these crazy times. Fortunately, it seemed there were a lot of bikers and...fortunately...many were finishing up their rides. Two 20-something girls on mountain bikes passed me as I started the first incline, but they kept on a Forest Service road where the CDT veered off. From that point, I didn’t see anyone else for the first half of my hike.
In the beginning, I was not sure if I would get the views I was hoping for, as the trail sank into the trees. Don’t get me wrong. I love trees. Yes, I have been known to hug them, even. But any of you who have read this blog over these past two years is aware of my preference for contrasts in the landscape. I like it best when I get a mix of trees and rock and water. Broad vistas and intimate surroundings. Meadows and rugged outcroppings. And, at that moment, I was in the mood to feel like an eagle perched on top of the world.
If only I could fly.
But…I’d be happy with the perch.
I got my wish. The trail climbed out of the trees, and I was treated to the gray caps of 14’ers laced with remnants of snow dripping down steep peaks like melted ice cream running down the sides of a cone. The trail etched a path through high tundra covered in wildflowers, lichen, and rocks, and hugged the side of a slope that slid perilously down, down, down. Oh, and I got my perch in a spot where the ground rises up to meet the sky at the edge of a cliff. A perfect spot to pause and take it all in, and, of course, to grab a snack, before continuing on.
As had happened on my hike last year, I was filled with a strong desire to keep on walking until I reached the end. And then go some more. And I’d love to do it solo, though the thought terrifies me as much as it thrills me. Oh, I’d happily hike in good company, too, but there’s just something about the idea of solitude in nature that always appeals to me. Hiking the Colorado Trail seems more doable for the life I currently lead than hiking the entire CDT. I feel like I could step away from this life (and the cats) for a few weeks to hike 487 miles much more easily than I could manage the 3,100 miles of the CDT, or the PCT or AT.
We’ll see. Perhaps I’ll get my chance.
This time around, I only hiked four miles out and four miles back, but it was enough to leave me wanting more of those views and the peace and quiet I felt on the trail. It’s impossible to capture the magnitude and scope in pictures. I tried, but the images in no way do it justice. The lens can’t even begin to see with eyes that experience such grandeur. I still hope they manage, even if just a little bit, to transport you to a mountain top 10,000 feet above sea level, with a bird’s eye view of the beauty all around.
The nine trail miles I’ve hiked on the Colorado Trail gave me just a tiny taste of the adventure I could have, but it was enough for now. I’ll take my opportunities where I find them, and follow those paths wherever they may lead, even if only for a few short hours.
Perhaps, someday, I’ll make the remaining 477 miles.
New Mexico. It was just the place to go when we left Illinois. Perched between the mountains and the desert, a confluence of contrasts. Just like life out here now. With the coronavirus ravaging the nation and divisions of race, economics, and politics ravaging our spirits, the beauty I am fortunate to witness and to be a part of seems ever more poignant.
This time, the stop in New Mexico lasted just shy of two months. In some ways, I felt insulated from the happenings of the world. The case count in Taos County hovered below 20 until shortly after Memorial Day Weekend. The protests consisted of a few individuals standing on a corner in town, at the same location where people protested another cause a year and a half ago, when we were here last.
But, in other ways, I felt acutely a part of the events of the world, especially the virus, as the idea of community shifted to six-feet apart, no-contact friendships. And having to be the one to do the dance, shuffling left, right, and back when people approached maskless and without regard to social-distancing protocols. The virus didn’t seem quite real to people around there, it seems. Whether it was the (very lovely) campground owners, or the Harley riders that came for a cancelled rally, or the bazillion Texans who came through the campground. None of them took care to protect themselves or others, which made meeting difficult.
And then there were the few who got it. Like our dear neighbor. A person I feel lucky to have met on this journey, and even luckier to have been able to spend time with, in deep conversation. A connection that happened across the safe space but became no less important than had we been able to sit together over dinners or cups of tea or coffee while chatting for hours. There are people whose paths you cross who you understand have become part of the fabric of your universe. The pandemic doesn’t have to change that.
And maybe the next time our paths cross, we will actually get to hug hello and goodbye.
In the time I was in New Mexico, I felt the freedom of bursting out into the natural spaces. The pull for me this time was more to the alpine forests than the desert canyons. Sure, I was still awed by the expanse and rugged beauty of the Rio Grande Del Norte, but the stark landscape and heat made my spirit feel heavier this time around.
Instead, it was the steep climbs and tall pines that lifted me up with each step on a path leading upwards. Up to where the air was cooler and lighter. I again hiked the Columbine Trail, twice, though I didn’t get to go as far as I’d hoped because eventually a high river crossing, immediately followed by a gigantic tree fall, made me turn around earlier than I’d planned. But, my favorite hike this time around was the Middle Fork Trail.
This was a new one. Down past Red River, off of a dead-end road (through a valley where nearly every home belonged to a Texan…I swear, I saw more Texas plates than New Mexico plates in the whole of Taos County this year), the drive to get there was breathtaking itself. But the hike…was amazing. It, more or less, followed a rushing river until it landed on the banks of a mountain lake. Hardly a soul around, on the trail or at the lake. Just the rugged peaks rising above me on one side, keeping me company as I lost myself in the reflection of trees, snow, and sky in the lake. I sat there on the shore until fat raindrops plopped into the water, sending rings outwards from where the raindrops hit and me back down the mountain.
I thought I’d make it back to that place again, but it wasn’t to be this time. I did get a fun bike ride in, and we did manage a couple of beautiful drives. One took us to a prehistoric landscape, while another drive led us up a rugged dirt road through a gorgeous valley with a creek winding through it. The drive took us to a place where the air was clearer and cooler, the skies bluer, and the grass greener. It felt like a space apart from where we had been sitting for nearly two months, desert and mountains juxtaposed. This place felt wholly new, and wholly peaceful. No longer a space in between. And it felt like it was time to move on. The road began calling again.
So plans were made to finish out our time where we were, and then to point the rig north, to Montana. A new landscape to absorb. Mountains to meld into. And endless skies. Montana has been calling me for a while now. I’ve felt its tug, and I am finally listening to its pleas. It’s been a few years since I’ve ventured into the state where I was born, and I am looking forward to the new wonders that are awaiting me there.
In the meantime, I am enjoying the 16-day journey to get there. It’s a strange journey out here these days. I travel through a surreal dream that is part nightmare and part the stuff good dreams are made of. But I do know that the nightmare makes me appreciate the dreamy parts that much more. I also know that I wish the nightmare would go away, though I think the confluence of contrasts in the world right now is teaching me some valuable lessons about life, about this world, and about what matters most. I still have much to learn. I know. But that’s what this journey is for.
I sit in New Mexico, feeding my soul with mountains, desert, and expansive skies that express themselves in a different language nearly every hour of the day. Today, those skies are speaking of darkness. They are rumbling in anger and can’t hold back their tears. They speak to me of what is happening in our country, right now.
I just received a text from my mother. They’re rioting and looting here, she tells me. Stores are shutting their doors, hoping to keep the violence from visiting their premises. And black people are out there begging the rioters to stop. I understand the anger over this situation. I really do. I understand, as well, that I’ll never know what it is like to be black in America.
We live in a country where it has become okay to hate the “other.” We live in a country where the conditions for people with non-white skin have resulted in proportionately more job losses and deaths from the coronavirus. And, then, an unarmed black man loses his life at the hands of a white officer, in an abhorrent manner. Again. It was the spark that lit the tinder.
So many people are (rightfully) angry and saddened by an event that has become too common in the U.S. Others are angry because they’ve lost loved ones, jobs, security. Most people are out there in peace, demonstrating solidarity. Others have found an excuse and an outlet for their pain and pent-up anger. This is a tough time in our world.
Now is a time when we should all be coming together, instead, it seems the hole in the fabric of our world is getting bigger.
My stepdad is a retired police officer. He is also a good man. As are so many who take the oath to protect and serve. But the ugly face of racism can wear a peacekeeper’s uniform just as easily as any other. And, when racism holds positions of power, it feels righteous in its actions. Justified in its beliefs.
Peaceful protest is a right, and violence is never right in a peaceful protest. It’s sad to me that there are those who would take advantage of a horrible event such as this to do the kind of damage seen in a growing number of cities across the country, turning peaceful protests violent and dishonoring George Floyd in the process.
And it gives people the idea that the crowd that gathered to protest and grieve engaged in the same acts as those who came to destroy.
I came out here looking for the good in our world. It still does exist. Even now.
It exists in all of you who care that a man lost his life because of the color of his skin.
It exists in all of the people who are helping neighbors in need during this pandemic.
It exists in the words of encouragement given to those on the frontline who are relentlessly doing the hard work of trying to save lives.
It exists in donations of food to those who can’t afford it because they lost their jobs.
It exists in everyone who took this opportunity to rescue an animal.
It exists in all of you who stay home, mask up, stand six feet apart, all in the name of saving lives.
It exists in the hope that somehow, we come out of all of this better people. This virus is showing us where we need to do better.
It exists in those of you who dare to hope, and to love, at a time when the world as we know it is changing before our eyes. When darkness perhaps covers all that you had previously taken comfort in. It is now when we need hope the most., and acts of courage, gestures of kindness.
“Hope is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chilliest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.”
These are some crazy times, and that is a huge understatement. I hardly even know where to start with this post…
When my RV journey began nearly two years ago, I had this idea about what shifting space meant to me. My worldview at the time centered on the negative aspects of society. The divisiveness, hatred, destruction, and inequalities took up the entire lens of my focus. I used to not be this way, I realized. I used to see more good and beauty in the world.
I recall a time, many moons ago, when I waited tables at Planet Hollywood in Chicago, and a friend and I were on our way to work. We were running late, or traffic was bad, or something along those lines that should have been at least somewhat stressful. The situation was so for my friend. In the middle of whatever frenzy existed at the moment (funny how I can’t recall that part of this incident), I exclaimed, “Wow! Look at that amazing sunset!” My friend turned to me with an incredulous look and made a comment something along the lines of, “How do you always do that? It doesn’t matter what is going on, how bad it is, you always stop to notice something like that?” She seemed almost angry. I didn’t know how to answer. I doubt she was expecting one anyways. I never realized until that moment that this was something I did. But I lost the tendency to notice the good somewhere along the way. I buried my ability to see silver linings and beauty amidst chaos, and I’m not sure why. It wasn’t just because of the recent polarization and violence that had erupted across my country. It had happened before that.
So, there came a time when I realized I’d lost that ability, and that coincided with the time I was coming to an understanding that my spirit always felt stifled in the regular work-a-day world. Hence the decision to chuck it all, buy an RV, and take off for a simple life on the road. With zero clue how to make a living out here. I just trusted I’d figure it out. (I’m still working on that part, by the way.) And shifting space was born. I wanted to get back to seeing good things. I believe negative breeds negative and positive breeds positive. We humans have a propensity for dwelling on the negative. A component of our problem-solving skills that can serve us well for survival but isn’t so good for our everyday well-being.
I set off with my best friend and four cats to discover the good in people and in our country.
Fast forward a year and a half. I find myself down in Texas teaching at my graduate alma mater when the world is blindsided. We shouldn’t have been. There were shouts that something of this magnitude was coming. There were screams when the novel coronavirus devastated China and spread outwards. But in addition to seeing the negative in front of us, humans have an equally strong and contradictory tendency to think that the worst can never truly happen to us. If it happens “over there” to “those people” then we are safe. We are smug in our security that life for us will go on as it always has. Until it doesn’t. We’ve been conditioned in America, especially, to think this way. American Exceptionalism runs deep in our collective psyche. But this virus is teaching us some lessons.
We are human. Every last one of us. There is nothing exceptional about us Americans that isn’t exceptional about people in every other country on this planet. We can’t get around the fact that we are all in this together, though some still try. COVID-19 has shown us exactly how inconsequential the boundaries are that we’ve drawn between countries and one another.
We are now being forced to put very real boundaries up in order to preserve our very human nature.
Shelter in place.
Remain 6 feet apart.
Quarantine for 14 days.
Boundaries that are literal and not figurative. These extremely necessary actions that all of us need to take to save lives (perhaps our own and definitely those of other people who are particularly vulnerable) are waking us up to the figurative boundaries we have drawn. Prior to this pandemic, you could look around at any social gathering and see just about every individual in the group more engrossed in their devices than they were present with the company they kept. Now, when our devices are the only way we can maintain many of our relationships, we suddenly realize how much we need real connections. Nothing can replace the warmth of a real hug. Virtual conversations are no match for the energy shared in the physical company of family and friends. Death is hard for those left behind, whether they live in our neighborhood or on the other side of the world.
COVID-19 has polarized us in another way. This state of opposition is more personal than intrapersonal. Many of us are now experiencing a polarization of our emotions. Normalcy competes with surrealism. Despair intermingles with calm or even joy. As the numbers we don’t want to see march rapidly up a steep incline, so too do the acts of kindness, the messages of love, and the moments of inspiration and hope. We are, if we are following the logical recommendations of medical and public health experts, forced inside. While we are forced into isolation, we are also being forced inside of our own minds, without the distractions that keep many of us from this inward journey on a regular basis. And it can be a hard place to find yourself when nothing has prepared you for the trip. But maybe, just maybe, we will come out the other side of our struggles the better for them, and the difficult sacrifices that have been forced upon us will not have been for naught.
This time is painful for many. We cannot negate that reality. But there is a coupled trend in sharing beauty that is so beautifully wrenching as well. It seems to me it first began with viral videos of Italians singing, collectively, from their balconies. These scenes touched us all. Now, amid the heartbreaking stories of unimaginable loss come new appreciations for art and music and laughter. And kindness is blossoming in the storm, too. We are becoming more grateful for things that we maybe took for granted before the world turned upside down. There are countless stories that recognize and acknowledge the bravery of our healthcare professionals and grocery store employees, of teachers and stay at home parent. Of restauranteurs providing food for schoolkids or the newly unemployed who can’t get through the staggeringly long wait times just to begin the process for unemployment benefits. We are newly discovering what the arts do for our souls. If you saw John Krasinski’s most recent episode of SGN (and if you haven’t, please do yourself a favor and watch it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oilZ1hNZPRM), you saw the magic that can come from spreading joy through art. There are countless magical musical montage videos out there that will move the hardest hearts to mush. Authors reading their stories to entertain kids. Art lessons. Dance outs. You name it. So many of us are finding that the way out of our dark moments is to explore our creative sides. Most importantly, we are discovering what generosity does for our own spirits.
I moved into this rig going on two years ago. In so many ways my life doesn’t look much different now than it did PP (pre-pandemic). I am ever so fortunate that I am working in a virtual setting. First, in teaching university courses that moved online after spring break, and second as a contracted writer. I am only just scraping by, and I fully recognize that that makes me luckier than so many others right now. My life might not look much different now, but I know that all of this is tenuous and the real strength for me, and for any of us, will come from our larger sense of community, from love, kindness, and connection. We are all in this together.
Whatever you’re feeling right now, be kind to yourself. If, like me, you want to cry at any given time for seemingly incongruous reasons, allow it. It is perfectly okay to be happy and sad at the same time, to laugh through your tears. And it’s okay too to not know exactly how to feel sometimes. Give yourself permission to just be. Let the love in any time you can, and then let it flow outwards again. We are all shifting space right now, and we are all in this together.
Sending out warm, virtual hugs to you all.
I'm going to leave you Zen a minute.
Until next time.
Warning! This post will not be full of pics of beautiful places or contain tales of hiking or travel. It will just contain some thoughts I’ve been having today and that I wanted to share here. I hope it resonates with some of you.
Last night we had a powerful storm. So, did much of the Midwest and South. I was nervous about it beginning the night before and worried about being able to keep me and the fur babies safe. And about our home staying safe. Weather is experienced differently when you live in a home on wheels. It can be much more present than in a sticks and bricks house. I obsessively watched the weather all day, anticipating whether or not I would have to load the four kitties into their carriers and cart them over to my friends’ house. By myself. The weight of the worry was heavy. I still somehow managed to do some prep for my classes and write an article for a writing job I am just now beginning. And eventually, the weather app alleviated my worries by taking the threat of severe weather out of the forecast for here. Phew! We could stay put in our cozy little home under a tree that would not have the potential to be blown over and on top of said home by straight line winds or a tornado or damaged by large hail.
I breathed easy, thinking, why was I worried? It got me nowhere! I know this. Worry does absolutely nothing to help you. It solves nothing. It changes nothing. Our biology gives us fear, in a healthy don’t let that lion eat you situation. That’s survival. Our brains have co-opted our biology to give us fear and worry over situations that are not life and death. Granted, if a tornado is indeed heading straight for my home, I’m sure going to hope my biological mechanisms are in full functioning order. But worrying and fearing the possibility? It did nothing to change any outcomes for me.
And then, out of nowhere, the warnings went off. Severe thunderstorm warning with winds of 70 mph, large hail, and the potential for tornadoes. The clouds in the sky tipped their loads of water onto this place just as the warning was going off. Biology kicked in. I quickly rounded up four protesting kitties and placed them in carriers. The rain took a pause, but I was running them over to the house two at a time across a darkened yard lighted on occasion by the lightening moving in. I made a third trip out to grab my computer (because if something happened to the rig, I could not risk losing everything on this computer!), got into the house and spare bedroom, and the rain, the wind, the thunder, and the lightening unleashed their fury. I kept going to the window to check that the tree over the rig and the nearby pole remained steadfast and upright. They did. We waited for the storm to rumble its way east, and then made our way back home.
It was a late night last night. I’m usually in bed by 8:30, lights off by 9:30. It was past 11 when I shut off my light. Sleep was also interrupted. But by the time I woke up, it was daylight outside, rather than the still darkness of early morning that I usually wake up to. And it was perfect. The skies were cloudless, and the sun was shining bright. The air had that crisp clear quality that follows the cleansing of the rain. A glorious morning!
I usually meditate for 30 minutes in the morning. Or, at least I’ve been getting better at it. And I do the same in the evening before bed. Rather than meditating this morning, I discovered that I had to run to the pet store. Getting litter was imperative. Pine dust was being dispersed throughout the rig and I didn’t want to spend my day feeling the need to constantly sweep that up every time a cat went in the box (because, if I don’t, I’m picking it up on my feet and dragging onto the futon or chair or bed) when I wanted to be working on my book. So, I left for the store.
On the drive, I had a thought, as I was feeling bad about not meditating and not getting right to my writing. The thought was this: this is what you are supposed to be doing just now. Now is always the perfect time for whatever it is you are doing, so be present for it. Enjoy it. Live it. Just, now. And so I did. I enjoyed the drive to Petco. I noticed the new shopping carts they had and was thrilled with pushing a cart through the store that did not shake and wobble and clank and grind on protesting wheels. I took pleasure at hearing a couple discuss whether they should just go ahead and get both of the guinea pigs they were looking at because they couldn’t decide on one.
When I got home. I still didn’t write. I took care of some things around home, and then I took a nap.
It was 4:00 before I started writing. Here. For this post. Not my book. But I don’t feel like I wasted my day. Far from it. I lived it. Or, I let myself live. Each “just now” is always going to be the right time for whatever you are doing if you are present for it, even if it is napping or running errands or talking to your children. I think that if you are truly present to the now, you cannot help but be positive. So much of our negativity comes from the fears our brain creates. Those fears are almost never rooted in the now. The precise moment we are living. This isn’t to take away from the physical pains and illnesses and trauma that people really do experience. But in our day to day lives, being present to what we are doing just now gives us, I believe, a deeper connection to our lives. To life in general. An appreciation of the gifts we are given each day we open our eyes to begin anew this journey we are on. Living in the now opens us up to living free. Just, now.
I can’t recall the last time I was out here. It’s been years. A number of years before I left Texas, actually, so probably at least 12. By the end of my tenure in Central Texas, I was not finding much joy in my surroundings at all. The area was in the middle of a severe drought that actually got even more critical after I left. And it was hot. All the time. Hot, hotter, and hottest. That’s how I defined my days. Wow, it’s hot out here. February. This month is hotter than it was last year. June. This is the hottest I’ve ever felt. More months than I can count. When Harvey spilled its devastating rains across southeastern Texas, we saw not a single drop in Central Texas. It would be cloudy. Gray skies taunting us from above, only to stingily hold onto their water until they’d moved on from here. I’m sure Houston would have loved to have shared some of the water. The differences between the two places, less than 200 miles apart, was dramatic. And so was I. I used to say I had to leave before someone took me out of here in a straight jacket.
By the time I left here, I had forgotten how beautiful parts of Texas could be. Most especially, Hill Country. I’m in the area now until the middle of May because I took on the opportunity to teach two classes in the department where I did my doctoral work. That takes care of winter in the rig. And spring, too. But we’ll be cutting out of here before melting season begins. I hope. And until then, I plan to hit up this area’s beautiful natural areas as much as I can. I started with one of my favorites: Enchanted Rock. Enchanted Rock is a giant pink granite dome, surrounded by other almost as giant pink granite domes, formed from the upthrust of a cooled pool of lava.
Gail accompanied me on this trek, but before we hit the rock, we hit up the town of Fredericksburg. Fredericksburg is a German town and always makes me feel nostalgic for my time in Garmisch many moons ago. Some of the citizens of the town still speak German as their first language, although it is, apparently, and older form of German held over from when the German settlers first came to the area in 1846, establishing the town under the Society for the Protection of German Immigrants in Texas. In the town’s park sat German Christmas decorations, but, sadly, no Kristkindl Markt. Or glühwein stands. It does, however, have Rustlin’ Rob’s. Not German. But still the place I must go each time I’m in the town. The reason? It’s all about grazing. I never visit Fredericksburg without planning a trip into Rustlin’ Rob’s for lunch. Most of the products in the store are at least regionally made. Dips, sauces, hot sauces, marinades, jams, relishes, pickled this that and the others (pickled Brussel’s sprouts was a first this time around, and far and away my favorite. I could have sat with the whole jar!).
After this snacking lunch, it was time to drive the almost 20 more miles to Enchanted Rock. We did not know what to expect. When I was there last, you simply paid your entry fare, drove into the park, and started exploring. Now, they’ve limited the number of visitors each day to protect the park’s sensitive ecosystems. A great idea, but I’d not purchased “save the date” reservations, so I was hoping that because it was the Wednesday before winter break would mean that anyone not working or in school would be more preoccupied with holiday goings on than hiking. They now have signs on the way in informing you of the park’s closure, should that be the case, so you can turn around before driving the 18 miles. Thankfully, the yellow lights weren’t flashing, meaning the park was open to people arriving.
There’s this great part of the drive, when you round a curve and crest a hill, and before you lies granite country, and then more of hill country beyond that. It’s a spectacular view. And on this day, it was enveloped in clear blue skies. Well, all except for the plumes of smoke rising up around the park. Something was burning. That something, we discovered, was the park. It was only a controlled burn, but it meant that the only trail open was the one to the top of the rock. This was fine by us, as that was all we’d have time for this trip anyway. We also discovered a not too full parking lot. An added bonus. Thankfully, the winds were calm, and the fires were burning on the opposite side of the rock from the main trailhead.
When you get to the trailhead, there is a sign warning of the steepness of the climb. Climbing up the rock is like climbing a 30-40 story building, but all on the steep face of granite. With no trees and just a vast expanse of rock, it’s not a good place for people with a big fear of heights or open spaces. And going down is more nerve racking than going up. I had on my nice grippy Altra trail runners, and it’s the most secure I’ve ever felt on this rock. When the time came, I wanted to gallop my way down, but I refrained. The climb up caused me to pause for breath more than once, as I’d not done any hiking in quite some time. Plus. Did I mention it was steep? The stops happen anyway, because each pause gives you new perspective on the landscape falling beneath you. The views are glorious. You are an ant and a giant, all at once. The rock all around you threatens to swallow you, while you feel as if you could reach your shoe out in front of you and flatten the nearest trees (though who would ever want to do that?).
Whenever I’m in a place like this, I want to explore it all. I want to be a part of every nook and cranny in the rock face. Every vernal pool teaming with life. With the wind brushing across the top of the peak and the sun warming its surface. Instead, I wandered over to the far edge to watch the controlled burns, joining in the crowd of visitors doing the same, sitting on the edge of the rock, spectators to restoration disguised as destruction. And then we wandered away from the smoke, where I sat and enjoyed another view while adding more fuel to my own fires of exploration. As well as fueling my body…Rustlin’ Rob’s fare doesn’t stick around long.
Daylight would be growing dim before long, and the cats would be sitting in a rapidly chilling rig (it would be a cold night that night), so it was time to make our way back down the sloping granite to the car and begin the 2.5 hour drive back to Bastrop. Enchanted Rock was the perfect place to go for my first trip back into the Texas Wilds. It reminded me of what is beautiful about this area and got me excited to revisit other old favorites and to visit for the first time some of the places I never made it to in my 10 years of living here. So, while a temporary job opportunity will keep me here for a few more months, the prospects of seeing Central Texas from a renewed perspective (and in the cooler months!) will keep me going until it’s time to get going again.
Here we sit on the precipice of a year and a decade. In our minds, we place so much significance on this changing of the calendar. It’s a funny thing, isn’t it? We love this time of year. It’s all about making new promises to ourselves, and maybe to others as well. It’s about change. Humans fear change so much, they’ll stay in unhappy or unhealthy places in their lives because the idea of change is so much scarier than the pain they know. But give us a new year, and, better yet, a new decade, and we embrace the idea of change. Our minds allow us to picture change and lessen the fear that surrounds it because we’ve created this symbolic space in which we, as a society, say it’s okay to want change. A new start. A clean slate. We can begin anew. Brush off the old and welcome in the new. It’s utterly freeing when we have the permission to do so. Think about how you feel when you anticipate what dreams might unfold with the coming of a new year. Or how the new you will feel when you shed an old habit for a new, healthier one. When you let yourself go there in your brain. The heart feels lighter, and you feel like anything is possible.
It’s also that time of gratitude. Where we acknowledge the beautiful spaces we’ve been in, the hearts who have touched ours, the gifts we’ve been given. We pause for breath, no matter where we are, and nod our heads to the year past, and say thank you. Thank you for all that I’ve seen, done, and learned that has made me a better, kinder, gentler person; saved my life; or met my spirit. Even if we choose to celebrate by partying the night away in reckless abandon, most of us, at some point, take that breath. It might be before the carnage begins. It might be as you’re raising a toast (after perhaps 100 more prior) to the ringing in of the new year, lifting your glass, and seeing the moment frozen in a real-life picture. Or it might be at that moment when you glance around your cozy little home and the living creatures you share it with, just before you turn off the lights long before the midnight hour rings in.
We are generous with ourselves and others, as we hang upon this particular precipice.
Today ends a year and it ends a decade. I have lived a life of change over this past year and a half. Some of it has been a struggle, but much of that struggle has led me to appreciate the beautiful all that much more. I know that sounds cliché, but it is also very true. I embarked on this journey purposefully. I knew it wouldn’t always be easy. I acted, and still do, in spite of the fear I sometimes experience. But, some of it is easier than I imagined, and the fear is lessening all the time. There are those who do not understand this decision I made or the life I have chosen. Who think that I made this decision because I had to, or who think that this life I lead is confining or less than. And that’s okay. We will never all understand one another, but we can all appreciate one another and love each other where we are.
Over this past year, and with increasing rapidity as of late, I have learned to let go of so much that I have been holding onto. So much of the anxieties and worries and fear that express themselves in middle of the night wakefulness, in a clenching jaw, or in tightened muscles. I am learning to let go of trying to control it all. I am learning to see and to accept the gifts I am given every single day. I am learning to slow down, and to breathe. To live in that moment. Each moment. And now I am on that precipice of the changing of the year, I, too, find myself even more present to this pause we all take now. It’s a heightened expression of what has become my life out here, and I welcome it for what it is.
But what if we could stand on this precipice every day? Where would we be if we embraced the beauty of change, the heartbeat of our dreams, the gifts we can give and receive every single day? What if it weren’t just a New Year’s Resolution, but a new day’s resolution…every single day. Every. Single. Moment. What then would our lives become? What then would our world become?
Here’s to all of you. I wish for all of you that you will greet each day of this new year as if you are standing on the precipice of a fresh start and a clean slate each and every day. I wish this for all of us. And I wish for all of us to know love and kindness, that we can express it and receive it openly and with gratitude. Happy New Year!! I love and appreciate you all.
I know. I disappeared for a while. The last I posted I was still in Colorado, and that feels like many moons ago, though it was not even three. I am in Texas now, which surprises me even now. It is a decision that felt right when the idea came to me at some point while I was still in Colorado, but the route to get here was different than I’d planned, and my best friend and her cat have rejoined me and the boys again. Yet, here I sit, parked in a beautiful location with the kindest of friends hosting me. I am right on a river. The ground rolls away from Knight, gently falling into green reflections that carry away troubling thoughts when I allow myself to let go of them long enough to be caught up in the slow-moving current. I am not always successful, holding on with a grip that belies my desires. But I am learning. I think. I hope. Learning to occasionally release my habitual mind from its deeply ingrained patterns. When that happens, I truly feel free.
I’m not sure why I needed to disappear for a while. It wasn’t entirely planned, and I didn’t think my silence would last so long. All I can say is that I felt the need to crawl into myself for a time.
It’s strange being back in Texas. I spent ten years in this general vicinity. With this visit, I’m being given the gift of a colorful autumn. In all the years I lived here, I don’t ever recall seeing as colorful a fall as the one I’m seeing now. Since I’ve returned to central Texas, I’ve retread old haunts and stomping grounds. I’ve been pulled back into nostalgia one moment, only to ricochet into recognition of how much I’ve changed since leaving here.
Austin still holds a bit of an allure for me, as a visitor. The explosion of vegan-friendly eateries astounds and delights me, even though I’ll likely only hit a small handful while I am here. I have already indulged in delicious vegan pizza and buffalo “wings” that were so close to the texture (from what I recall) of the real thing—including a strip of jicama for the bone—that it was almost disturbing. I went to a vegan deli and cheese shop. I was so excited by the prospect of this place, only to leave incredibly disappointed in the vibe, as well as ridiculously lighter in the wallet to boot, and still hungry. I’ve been giddy in the discovery that the co-op here rivals, if not surpasses, the one back in Urbana, Illinois. And that’s hard to do. It’s the first co-op that has done so on this journey thus far. I sank down deep into the comforts of a hot oat milk latte and a comfy chair by the window at one of my favorite coffee shops in my old neighborhood. And I’ve briefly perused the shelves of an independent bookstore that still feels like home. I dive into the hustle and bustle of Austin, get my fill for a few hours, and then escape.
I escape the dizzying energy of the city to the calm of the land where I am staying, in a town that has surprised me in the open and friendly nature of its residents. This I did not expect at all, and the experience warms the heart. I make my way back to the quiet dead-end street where my friends’ house sits on the river and is surrounded by trees. I am filled with gratitude for the generosity they have given so easily. My initial intent, when offered the option to stay, was to do so only briefly while I sorted out what was next. But then opportunities arose for pet sitting for the neighbors for two trips spaced two weeks apart and some finishing work on my friends’ garage. Three weeks later, I’m still here, because of their continued welcome, which I hope I do not inadvertently overstay.
When I began this RV journey one year and four months ago, I did not know what was in store for me. I had hoped for adventure. I got it. But I was also seeking something. I’m not entirely sure what. Myself maybe. Seeking the me who is not afraid to be me. The me who accepts myself and others where they are at. The creative self who does not fear revealing her work. The self who does not feel inadequate. Lacking.
Since I began this RV journey, I have been asked consistently about how I make money on the road. It seems I am asked that question more than any other single question. I hate that question. What we do to make money seems often to define to others who we are and whether we are a success or a failure. I worked two full time jobs for a time in order to not have to work for a while when I began my travels. I wanted to focus on learning the traveling and living in an RV bit. I wanted to focus on finding out what I wanted to do next with my life. I had a sense I wanted to write, but I didn’t know what and I was scared as hell for others to read my writing.
When I was young, I wrote all the time. I kept a journal beginning at age 8. But I also wrote creatively. I would write in spiral notebooks or on napkins or scrap pieces of paper. Sometimes just phrases or ideas. Sometimes scenes that popped into my head. I kept my writing hidden, and eventually I just quit writing creatively. I got the idea that using my intellect was more important and the way to become “successful.” Not from my parents. I’m not exactly sure how I got that idea, really. I just know that somewhere along the line, I came to believe that being creative was not good enough for this world. I now think it’s what we need more of. It’s the most important thing. We are creative souls, and to make art (even in the quiet of your own room, with the door closed and for no one else to see or hear or read) is to reveal your soul, to know who you really are. But in a world where people keep the television on or keep glued to their devices in order to avoid keeping company with their innermost selves, we risk losing entirely our relationship with our deepest selves. With our humanity.
It is my hope that someday in the near future my creative soul will mesh with what this world requires to put food on the table and keep me out here living a simple and quiet life in our country’s spectacular landscapes and connecting with the rich diversity of humans and other animals. I still would rather hear people ask, “What is the most moving place you’ve seen?” or “What is it like to live the kind of life where everything you own fits in a 30’ house on wheels?” or “What was your most memorable meeting of a stranger?” or anything else that gets to the heart of why I live the way I do or how I currently see my place in this world I inhabit. I might be broke. I might have to clock in, in some form, to a job in the near future (unless my book sales suddenly skyrocket or some other miracle occurs…but, hey, I’m not one to count either of those out!), but I’m all the richer in all the important ways for the experiences I am having on this journey mine.
Until next time (which will, I hope, not be so long from now)…
I left Dillon and headed just a bit southeast, approximately 160 miles away, but still a five-hour drive. I’d recalled when I got to Colorado that I’d had a friend who lived sorta near Colorado Springs, in Canon City, actually. And, lucky me, said friend alsohappened to have a nice, big, fairly level space where I could park, and he also didn’t mind me parking there! We made plans for me to arrive the Tuesday before Labor Day Weekend. It was a gorgeous drive there, but by the time I hit Highway 50, I was ready to be there. Instead, I made my slow way on this winding, slightly hilly, two-lane highway. My average speed was probably around 50 mph, mostly due to curves. I probably pissed off a few people, as I refuse to go faster than I am comfortable with and generally make the curves at the recommended speeds. There are few places to pull over. It’s rare in such a beautiful place for me to say: are we ever going to get outta here? But I did say that, multiple times!
I still managed to arrive before it got cooking too much. The temperatures in Canon City are vastly different than the ones we had in Dillon. It got up to 103 one day, and 100 on another, though this torture came after the holiday weekend. My friend happened to have the whole three days of the weekend off of work, so he suggested that we head to a place he really loves to camp. I was uncertain at first if I wanted to do this, but, after a couple of days in the heat, I totally changed my mind. Sure, let’s do it. So, on Friday morning, I left early while he worked, and made my way backalong Highway 50. It was much better the second time around and at the beginning rather than the end of the drive! Instead of the campground he had in mind (which required 8 miles down a dirt road), we decided to try a different one nearby, which required only a mile on a gravel road. These were both USFS campgrounds and had no services, though they had vault toilets. I left early enough that I hoped to snag us a good spot before what we feared would be the after-work march in to the no reservations campground in hopes of scoring a campsite for the weekend.
Turned out, we had nothing to fear. I saw only three other campers there when I arrived, and I found us an absolutely huge pull-thru site with two tent site options for my friend. It was a little work to get it level, but I managed to find the sweet spot. And, even with my friend’s car parked, there was enough room for another rig ten feet longer than my own! Huge. And it looked out into the woods. No neighbors were close. And it was a quiet weekend as the campground never did come close to filling up. It was my first go at dry camping, so I held my breath a bit as I plugged in and set up my solar panels, but the monitors both read that all was working as it should! My two batteries and 120 watts of solar panel were definitely plenty for what I needed it for this weekend. I didn’t test using the plug-n-play inverter to charge my computer—which I didn’t use—or phone, since there was no signal and I only turned it on to take pics while hiking.
And speaking of hiking…another great thing about this campground is that it’s close to the Continental Divide Trail, which is also the Colorado Trail in this area. We hiked one segment on Saturday and another on Sunday. The scenery in both sections was gorgeous. On the first day, we spent more time in the woods, while on the second day, it was more wide open, with grand views all around. It was the perfect combination. Both days we went about 8.5 miles. On day two, we saw quite a few thru-hikers and a couple of Colorado Trail thru-bikers. It made me want more than just a couple of day hikes! I’m not sure I’d want to go by bike, though. I’d rather the speed of a hike (though the couple on the bike said there were more than a few times that they were forced off their bikes, trudging uphill, with hikers passing them!). I am not sure I could do the entire CDT, or the PCT (which I’d love to do from Northern Cali to the Canadian border), or the ACT. But, perhaps, I could do the 485-mile Colorado Trail if I could get someone to come stay in the rig with the cats for a few weeks.
It was a lovely, peaceful, weekend. No technology, other than the phones for pictures, and that felt great. It’s amazing how wonderful it feels to step away from the screens. Spent the weekend in good company, with face-to-face conversations. Stunning scenery. And a nice walk along a little trail in the mountains. Oh, and there was an hour-long drive to Gunnison on Saturday for some good pizza and a beer. I can’t think of a better way to have spent the holiday weekend. Feeling refreshed, I suddenly didn’t mind that trip back down Highway 50 one more time…
After just over two weeks, I said so long to Summit County. For now anyways. This area will most certainly be one I return to again and again. When I return, it will be to the same campground as well. I love it there. Even when the wind comes roaring through in the afternoons, whistling around the contours and sending the rig a rockin’. It is still peaceful. All the trees were cut down because of the ravenous and too plentiful bark beetle. There are little saplings all around, but it will be quite some time before those provide any shade. In reading the reviews, you see some complain about the lack of trees or lake view. But I actually prefer it this way. I don’t like that the trees are in a losing battle with the beetle, but I like this campsite with the wide view. It sits on a rounded mound on the side of a mountain and is surrounded by the texture of peaks in every direction. It feels remote, yet it’s just a short ride or drive down to the bustling town of Dillon on one side or Frisco in the other direction. Breckenridge isn’t much further. Even without a car, I felt like Lowry was the perfect place to be.
After my bike was repaired, I set off on a ride around the lake. What a difference! Even the steep climbs were manageable. And the route was filled with some breathtaking views. I rode a steadily but stopped several times to absorb it all. I got off track a few times because the area is littered with paved bike paths and it was easy to miss a turn here and there. Luckily, they have maps posted everywhere as well, so I never went too far astray before figuring it out. I made it back home just as the afternoon winds really got going and the clouds rolled in. 22 miles. I put my bike back in its place on my still damaged, but functional, rack to await another ride on another day.
I had hoped to ride that trail again, but that was not to be. I pulled my bike off to ride a couple of days later only to discover that the front tire was flat. The tire for the wheel that had just been replaced. So, I got to try out the bus system because I needed a few things from town because my floor pump broke. Before I left, however, I talked to the camp host. I wanted to know about moving into my new spot early, just in case I opted for a long hike the following day. In the course of the conversation, it came up that there was another spot that would be open that day because someone made a reservation and never showed and never cancelled. Taking that spot meant that I would be able to stay through the weekend, instead of leaving on Saturday because the place was booked. What great luck! And, oh, yes. I’ll take that spot, please! The people currently occupying it left before I left for town, so I was able to move locations quickly and still have the rest of my day.
Summit county has a great, free, bus system that connects the towns and even some of the trailheads. It was a two-mile walk from the campground to the nearest bus stop. No problem. Got to stretch my legs and get some exercise. Rode the bus in and got off by the REI and City Market. REI was holding my old wheel for me. They got it repaired enough to be rideable for a bit as a spare, should I need it. I had thought about telling them never mind, they could go ahead and recycle it, because I wasn’t sure about getting it back to the rig. Taking the bus made it easier, so I decided to go ahead and pick it up. When I got to the bike shop desk, one of the techs came out to greet me. She asked if anyone had called me…noooo, no they hadn’t…why? Turns out that after they replaced my wheel, they found one just like my original one in their breakroom. It had been on a co-worker’s bike and that person had swapped it out for a different one. It was basically brand new. Had I purchased one like it as a replacement, it would have cost a fair amount more than the one I put on there. The good folks at REI…they gave it to me for the low, low price of zero dollars, in place of my original. So I’ve now got a really nice, brand new wheel as a spare! I had them recycle the old one. And to think I almost told them I had changed my mind on the idea of a spare.
I finished up my errands and, with my new wheel in hand, caught the bus back towards the campground. Turned out that I had the same bus driver as on the way up. My wheel without a bike was a conversations starter. I ended up having a lovely conversation the entire ride back with the bus driver, talking bike tours and RV travel and living adventure when you can. It made for an enjoyable trip back, and only added to the good feelings in a day that started off with a flat tire. It got me thinking about how we often get stuck in the mire of an event that we think of as bad or negative, but that when we let go, and take a step back, we might find that that event was actually the thing that spurred on something good or beautiful or amazing. Something we’d never have had the opportunity to experience if it weren’t for something gone wrong. I admit, I was frustrated when I saw my flat tire. I was exasperated. How could it be that I just got this wheel replaced and the tire has now gone flat? And why didn’t I get that bike pump when I was at REI in the first place? I quickly let it go, not really purposefully, but just in the course of planning for going to town on the bus, which I’d wanted to try out anyway. And right away, my day started turning around with the discovery that I’d be able to stick around for a bit longer. The good experiences kept coming for the rest of the day (including some pretty wicked storms missing our little corner of the mountains), and ended with a long conversation with the camphost outside my RV that evening about fulltime RV living and his and his wife’s winter experiences living in the RV in Breckenridge (think shoveling waste-high snow and ice from the rooftop of an RV as a regular experience and you’ll get the picture). I mused later that evening about the fact that my introvert self had multiple long conversations throughout that day, and not once had I felt my energy depleted from the effort of the encounters. The day was a gift. I went to bed that night grateful for every bit of it. Even the flat tire.
I did end up changing that flat. It was my first time ever having to change a flat on a bike. I’ve been exceptionally lucky in my life never to have experienced a blown bike tire. Not sure how that happened! And I did find out why it was flat. Somehow, in the course of putting a valve adapter on, a piece of the tire got caught between the adapter and the valve. I somehow got lucky yet again. The tire didn’t blow out while I was riding it. I assume it happened when they replaced my wheel. I rode back to the campground and then all the way around the lake without incident. It only gave way, with the stress of the pulled rubber finally breaking away and creating a rather good-sized hole in the tire, when my bike was safely back in the rack and not in use.
Aside from the whole bike saga, and a few opportunities to ride in Dillon, I managed to get some hiking in while I was in the area as well. Twice I hiked a trail that I was able to access from the campground by walking over the ridge and into Keystone. The first time I hiked 2.5 miles in, and then turned around an came back. With the 1.5 miles between the campground and the trailhead, it would have made for an 8-mile hike. Except. I made it longer. When I got to the base of the path that would take me back to camp, I decided I was thirsty for a hoppy beverage, and I had nothing in the rig. A quick peruse on Yelp and I discovered I could walk a mile from that spot to a liquor store. So I did. Priorities, you know? What is it about a good, long hike that makes one crave a nice cold brew? I try to blame it on friends in Germany who introduced me to that habit while I was living there…The second time I hiked that trail, I went further on the trail and ended up hiking 10 miles total again, just without the detour at the end. It was a great hike, and one mountain bikers seem to love even more than hikers, but everyone I came across on a bike was exceptionally nice and not a one was put out by coming across a hiker. Even so, I would often go for quite some time without seeing a soul on the trail. Where I became lost in the sound of the wind through trees or across grasses and wildflowers. Or looking up to snow-dotted peaks and billowing white clouds. No man-made sounds to interrupt the symphony of nature. In places like this, I often fantasize about walking forever or just living off the land (I pretend I would know how) because it all feels so right and so perfect, I don’t want it to ever end.
One other hike of note was not quite as long. Only about six miles. I was having a low-threshold day. One where I wasn’t feeling quite certain of myself and what I was doing. The great thing about living out here is that when a day feels that way, it is easy enough to change your perspective by heading outside, and that is just what I did. I went for a hike. I decided to head towards a place I’d seen on my ride around the lake, where there were great views of the lake and a place where there was a ¾ mile scenic loop that I’d not been on. When I got to the trail, I opted to go in the opposite direction from the one I was seeing everyone else go. Because of this, I quickly found myself at what was, for everyone else, the grand finale of the loop: a spectacular scenic overlook. I was gazing across the view over the lake, a smile now planted on my face. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a young man taking a photo of his girlfriend and their dog. I offered to take one of the both of them, for which they were grateful. As I was handing back the phone, the young man asked if I would take one more photo. He was reaching into his backpack, so I thought he was going for a big camera. I told him I would be happy to, as he pulled out, not a camera, but a small(ish) fancy blue box. I flipped the phones camera to video and captured the young man’s proposal on bended knee and his now fiancée’s acceptance. It was very moving. I was glad for my sunglasses. And even gladder that I happened to be there at the right time.
Dillon was the place where I felt I was truly able to let go since I’ve been out on the road solo, to be fully here, present with myself and open to whatever came my way. I adjusted to the wind. I moved when I needed to. I allowed myself the flexibility to adapt and change my point of view. I was reminded of how often it is necessary to do so. Even in a place as lovely as Dillon, life happens. When we can take a step back, change our perspective, we often find that in the down times or the low spots or the negative space, lies opportunity, if we can pull our heads out of the muck and walk down the path that opens before us. So, while I have said so long for now to Summit County, I will carry a piece of it with me in the memories, yes, but also in the experiences that reminded me what I am out here to learn and what I mean by shiftingspace: find your path and take it.