Breakfast and wi-fi—in the Last Frontier.

I have a deep and abiding love for my washing machine. Even before Jeanie lent me the wonderful Girl on a Pony, by LaVerne Hanners, who wrote about how her mother did laundry out on the ranchlands of New Mexico, Texas and Oklahoma. It wasn't as if I hadn't heard it before. It's just that LaVerne described it in such detail, with such sympathy for her mother. The all-day process of boiling water, homemade soap, scrub boards—you know, those things you see for sale in antique stores and at flea markets, or integrated charmingly into restaurant decor.

Walking into the room at the Hot Springs, SD, Historical Museum full of wash boards and early wringer washers wasn't necessary for my edification either. Who needs such gruesome reminders of the torture of women?

There is the romance of the women gathered by some rock-lined river or stream, chattering happily as they pound their clothing clean with the nearby rocks, then leave it hanging to dry in the sun on bushes—also nearby. Cleverly, that brings me to today's laundramat. An incidental gathering place where one does a chore, possibly in a convivial atmosphere.

I don't know how it was for those strong-armed women by the river, but if they had to suffer the same anxiety that I do at the laundramat, wondering if there were enough bushes available to be able to dry all their garments after they were washed—then despite their harder labor, we are truly sisters.

When I got into the Bounder and began this nomadic life, I left my beloved washing machine behind. The Bounder, amazingly, has much of what we need. Newer, grander motorhomes do have washer/drier combos, along with brass chandeliers, granite countertops, etched glass and slide-outs—but I don't want to be a part of hauling granite countertops and washing machines cross-country. So during these excursions, I'm back on the laundramat circuit.

Many rv parks have them; some big, gleaming and well-appointed. Others small. But whether I'm sliding "loonies"(Canadian dollar coins) or American quarters into the machines, the same tensions and anxieties exist: will there be enough driers when those washing machines stop? Equally, the same opportunities for interesting conversation exist.

There are caravans of travelers who join-up for a price (one was $5,500) for 6 weeks, I heard) and are led from place to place. We see them laughing and talking in the rv park, see them sometimes together at a restaurant. There are retirees who spend summers in one rv park, and winters in another. Those are the motorhomes with porches, name plaques, hanging lights, perennials blooming—the kind of place so homelike it reinforces the fact that I myself am far from home. You know they also have long-term neighbors, and a sense of community.

Then there are the drifters, retired couples who move together from place to place, maybe visiting the children, seeing what every state has to offer. Families, I see less frequently. And there we are, the 2 of us and the obligatory dog—or set of dogs—seeing only each other mile after mile, day after day. There are short conversations with the waitress, registering, at the grocery store checkout. When the cell phone works, there's that. Traveling off-season, as we most often have, there is at times, an intense lonely feeling. After a few weeks floating among people who are wandering too, parked next to them for only a night, the idea of home and the daily routine of work—at times becomes poignant. I remember that somewhere there is a place where people on the street know me, with whom I share the daily life of place.

All of this makes some visits to the laundramat memorable. The one in Fort Nelson, after dark, where the woman and I talked about her life. How she was a teacher and years ago she and her husband had agreed to retire at a certain time, and begin to travel. How when it came time for her to quit teaching, she had only recently began to feel that she really understood what she was doing; that she loved her job more than ever and did not want to quit. How she did anyway, because they had an agreement, and after a while began to enjoy this life in motion. When her husband came in to help carry the clothes back, he was interesting and charismatic. There have been other conversations in other places; the sharing between women after the introductory remarks about the washing machine, or the temperature of the driers. From each, some of my hunger for connection was satisfied.

Sunday we went to the public laundry in Soldotna. Public laundry and showers. Dan and I did our laundry. The place was packed. This whole Kenai peninsula is bustling with fishermen and sometimes their wives, or the whole family. Hordes of motorhomes, fifth wheelers, trailers and campers are everywhere. If you have a camper, there is no bathroom or shower. At this laundry/shower spot, if you wanted a shower you had to come in and sign up. There was a long wait. $4.25, I believe, gave you four minutes of shower. One person per shower, please. The men stood outside and talked in the parking lot next to their campers, coffee in hand. Or people waited in the circle of comfortable chairs, with a table of magazines handy. After each shower, the young woman attendant went in, mopped the floor, cleaned out the shower, and the next name was called.

For those of us doing laundry, it was a slow process too. We were advised to use half as much soap. Then two women started talking about the hard water; how difficult it was to get anything clean. The perfect entree into the conversation. And advice about the driers: put another quarter in before the time runs out, or you'll have to pay $1.50 all over again.

My conversation was with a beautiful statuesque blonde woman from Michigan. My age? Older, younger? She and her friend and their husbands were here for a month. The men come and fish here all the time. They wanted their wives to know what it was like. They all golf too. No, fishing didn't particularly interest her. She was going along with it. Brought her sculpy clay along because she makes Santa dolls, and has orders already so needs to get started. They farm 2000 acres. Oh, corn, wheat, soybeans. The kids are taking care of it. Soybeans may need harvested sooner, though. Soon enough, she wished me safe trip and I responded in kind. And she left.

I went back to check on my drier. I'd scanned two current New Yorkers, and one old O. When I opened the door—this drier was the one with the socks—I knew immediately that the women were right; damn this hard water! I pulled out a few of my shirts, sniffed here and there, and had to admit the worst. We'll just have to make the best of it, I suppose. Soon enough it will be time to go again. But who knows where? After all, there is a swift-flowing river nearby...

The highway from Anchorage to Sterling curves along Cook Inlet. Mostly two-lane. To our right, just over the wake up strips, groups of bicyclists pedaled smoothly by. We saw a glacier from a distance. We circled the inlet until we left it, and were driving on its opposite side, behind the mountains we'd been looking at across the water. We began to glimpse the beautiful Kenai. I felt the carnival atmosphere of fishermen in heaven; a river cluttered with people, each with pole and waders. I don't know what they caught, but all Sterling and Soldotna were without ice one day. Here in Sterling, we ate just-caught sockeye salmon for 2 nights, a huge pan of it baked with onions, butter and plenty of pepper, by The Last Frontiersman.

In the Land of the Midnight Sun.

The roads have been rough and winding these last few hundreds of miles, full of motorhomes, fifth-wheelers and campers on both sides. They crowd the gas stations. We're headed to Wasilla, one step closer to Sterling—on the Kenai Peninsula—and to our friend Dan, The Last Frontiersman, Kenai River guide. We stayed at his folks' place there in 2001, parked by the river. The amazing turquoise river, rich now with salmon.

But for this last night, in Wasilla, we had to find an rv park in big city traffic. I should say, I had to; Andre had all he could handle with the challenging drive. There were several state parks, but we wanted electricity, and wi-fi, if possible. There was one private rv park listed; scheduled to open in May, 2005. Then in Wasilla, while Andre was busy pumping 40.867 gallons of gas, I called; they had space, gave us directions. We arrived to find the place still very much under construction. Sorry, no water yet; no pull-throughs, either. (Later, I couldn't get the wi-fi to work.) She led us through the huge, rough gravel lot to one of four completed sites in the far corner, then tore away on her scooter. We backed up to an enchanted woodland, spared by the bulldozer.

In that spot, the radiant greens, the textured layers of woods and grasses scriven on my vision, the change from day to night—the long night of the sun low and persistent on the horizon—entranced me. First in Tok, even more in Wasilla, I became aware of taking joy in the light.

My fascinating tall shadow began to insert itself into each picture. I welcomed her. At 10 the sun began to weaken. By 11pm it might be setting. The blue light of midnight was still brighter than the fullest moon.

I was in Massachusetts, in a car headed east, when I saw the orange light of evening glowing on gray tree trunks and wanted to eat it. Wanted to fill a brush with it and put it anywhere. Realized with a quick jolt to the heart that my brothers and sisters who painted first, and acquiring labels and perhaps greatness later, were driven to find or make that color, to repeat and repeat those precise graced moments of light.

I first felt my shadow growing long in Alberta. The lingering orange patina of evening no longer took me by surprise. A vast slow glow, spread over night after night. Though I might turn to words, to paint, try to capture it, pixel by pixel, I can't begin to reveal how it feels to me. I'm busy listening to it. I'm restless. It's all new. Yet familiar: patterns of light through the blinds striping us; leaves and branches and gravel in sharp focus. The light in my eyes in the mirror. I run from image to image. And why? Inside, in the soft welcoming desert of me, I am a big shining mound of black cat. Eyes shut, langorous, too still to purr.

I can't see aspen trees without thinking of my dad. On our trip long ago to Colorado, there were aspens everywhere: slender, white trunked, quivering. He commented on them, made it clear he liked them. There are aspens all over, in Canada and here in Alaska, so I think often of Dad.

A while ago, I was up close to the leaves and was amazed to see—between stillness and quivering—that each one was inscribed with a circuit board, uniquely its own. I marveled at the wonders of creation, and my luck at stumbling on what surely must be the coding for their quiver, their delicate flat leaves, their tremulous climb skyward.

I pondered again the question of humans and their inventions: does the rhythmic throb of the pumping oil well—the result of its human design—inadvertantly imitate the beating of our own hearts. And the aspen leaf. Ah, the aspen leaf! What is to be made of that?

Finally across the border. They let us back in. After doing a check on our licenses, the guard admonished Andre to get a passport. Yeah, tell me about it, he says with a laugh. The guard motioned us through. So we were back in the States.

Here in Alaska, I began to notice changes immediately. First, the bump and slam of the roads lessened, although there was still an abundance of loose gravel patches and construction. The beauty continued. Jagged mountains and snowy peaks, rivers, green. Soon, I began to be curious about whether the fact that 95 % of all the roadsigns were scarred by gunshots indicated more than casual target practice.

Thursday we spent our first U.S. night in Tok, just 74 miles from the border. We spurned the $34. giant rv park where we've stayed before in off-season isolation. We decided, even though there was no wi-fi, on Bull Shooters, across the highway. It became apparent that the business of selling hunting and fishing licenses, weapons and bullets was thriving, but we were the only rv guests that night. I entered to register—credit and Good Sam cards in hand—thus unwittingly obeying the sign at the door: no loaded weapons in the store. We were off to dinner and back, before the long line of motorhomes across the street waiting to register had diminished to two.

Tok is where many people first fall in love with Alaska and stay forever. They feel something of community and the pioneer life is here still, materialized in more than the log cabin structures along the highway. Like Shelburne Falls, it's more than a tourist town. I think of Shelburne Falls and still can't entirely define why I am there, or if I even belong. But I don't try to break the magnetic force that brings me back and holds me there. For some reason now I think of the beautiful, spirited Elaine from Labelle's, who walked Bridge Street with her coon tail, flashlight, keys and bright suspenders—and found herself loved and appreciated. Does the coon tail make me think of Alaska, or Alaska make me think of her? Regardless, she's part of what makes Shelburne Falls home for me. While it hurts to know she's not there any more, making her rounds, it feels good to know that her long-time friends are keeping track of her, doing all they can to keep her well.

But I'm not home now. Although there are elements of home, here, on this pilgrimage of Andre's. And I'm making it mine.

Saturday, July 9, was so hot. The generator quit that morning, and the chassis air doesn't go far. But somehow if you're moving, 90 plus degrees doesn't feel as hot. Plus there was a roof over our heads.

We were driving from Wyoming into Montana. We hadn't gone to Mt. Rushmore. We saw the profile of Crazy Horse emerging from the mountain—at a distance. We drove through Deadwood, a big small town—late of HBO fame—full of tourists. Always we saw signs for museums too late. Bypassed Fort Phil Kearney. I didn't really care about missing any of it. Except for Wounded Knee. I would have wished to pay my respects there, but it was too far away. And if we had gone there, would I have felt like an intruder?

The map listed battle sites all along our route as we drove into the golden Montana prairie. We agreed to go where Custer had his Last Stand, now The Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument.

We got off the highway for the Custer Battlefield Museum at Garryowen, where the battle began at Sitting Bull's camp. It looked like a tourist trap souvenir shop—so we found a way to turn around, and got back on the highway. I still regret that; turns out it was full of riches.

We dutifully got off the highway again a few miles down the road, followed signs to the monument itself, and found ourselves on a narrow road going uphill. Near the top we stopped to pay $10, saw a cluster of vehicles and buildings to our right. Beyond them hundreds of small white headstones glowed from a green lawn. To our left along the side of the road, motorhomes with cars were parked. No room anywhere for us to park.

So we began the driving tour of the battlefield—up and down hilly curving roads, here and there a drop off—five miles out and five miles back. There were 18 sites, each with an information marker, but because of the narrow roads and limited parking, we could only get out of the vehicle once, and could drive through only a few of the turnouts to read signs.

It became obvious that we were just looking, denied by circumstance the information that has accrued through testimony, time and scholarly research. And if I read from the brochure as the traffic forced us to keep moving, I would miss the landscape entirely. Beyond the anxiety about the narrow road and missing so much of what was offered, was the land itself. Peak, coulee, field, rolling, fissured, folding away from us on both sides. Pale gold grasses marked with green, and—very occasionally—stands of small trees or bushes.

We drove from "the last stand" first—with its monument to the Indians and another to Custer and his men—and ended at the hilltop overlooking Sitting Bull's camp, and the beginnings of the battle. In the distance were the highest hills where Custer first sighted the Indian camp. Off the main road were a few dirt roads, marked private land. No trespassing. In intervals across five miles of battlefield, markers were scattered haphazardly by the whirlwind of two cultures colliding under the sun so long ago. Small arched white gravestones—in large groups, in pairs. Alone. These facts: American casualties were buried in a mass grave, and the markers where each had fallen were added by the army in 1890. The fallen were identified only as U.S. soldier. Later, the individuals were buried row by row in the neat graves we saw earlier. Custer of course was taken back to be buried at West Point. His brother was also buried elsewhere. The Indians removed their dead after the fight. Near the end of the 20th century, the park service began placing markers where some of the Indian heroes died fighting.

Where the road turned back, we were able to park and get out. The sky was blue with white clouds, the sun and heat oppressive. The battle began June 25, 1876. On this day in July, it was hard to imagine any exertion, hard just to walk down the diverging pathways on that hilltop to see the markers. There, rushed by the traffic and slowed by the sun, exposed to the still-fierce wild landscape, I was left with only what my eyes could see, the sun burning my head, the wind on my skin. And my feelings.

That private land surrounding the monument—it's Crow land.

You're history longer than you're fact, says Grove, a character in Clyde Edgerton's In Memory of Junior.

For days now I've been trying to write about seeing the The Little Bighorn Battlefield National Monument. I don't know why I'm having so much trouble. Why, in the first place, did I want to go there? What did I think I would see, or find?

I'm sure death had something to do with it. That Great Separation, the Great Mystery—every death, every time. And this battlefield, a place of violent death in large numbers, connected to other violent deaths, like the women and children and old ones slaughtered in the snow not long before, or far away.

In the area of this national monument, the map is busy with battlefields. The dark pall lingering from these places cannot be mapped, but spreads over time into all our lives, far beyond the anniversary when survivors or representatives from both sides meet and shake the very hands that once were raised against each other.

A few months ago, there was a tv show about modern forensic methods being used on artifacts found at various locations of this battleground. Thus they were able to more accurately establish where this person or that one fell, and perhaps better understand the events of those days. But why does it matter? Why do I want to know that each white stone and each Indian marker is in the right place? And I too want to see the belts, the spent bullets, the wrinkled or torn clothing, the picture of the loved one carried next to the heart. Does it bring us closer to that person in the moment he moved with so many others away from life as we know it?

What did I expect to find of Abraham Lincoln, when as a teenager I got in line and waited to see, under hard plastic, the pillow stained with that dying man's blood? What is this yearning? To join in spirit, to comfort, to stand in awe, to show respect, to change the course of things as we participate in imagination? To become all the people we can hold inside as we expand into ourselves?

A Clash of Cultures our brochure says. Today, those edges are softening, as the fiber of each culture emerges patterned by the other, though still strained. It is strange to come from my country, with whose battles and forced or chosen migrations I am familiar, to this country whose history holds no emotion for me. Where there are signs along the way that indicate land of various First Nations peoples, and signs and brochures for Native Cultural Centers inviting us to visit. In my state of open ignorance I welcome the diversity, knowing that here there is also pain and grief and a long slow mending underway. I enter the Aboriginal Peoples Television Network programming and rest in the slower pace, the talking and long periods of listening rarely found in television today.

The tragic confrontations across the broad landscape of human history do not easily lie down and rest in peace. But sometimes the land itself, traversed without the burden of historical facts, engulfs us in its own monumental story.

Raven, Tlingit carved mask.(Photo retouched for glare.)

Monday we traveled at our usual leisurely pace through more of BC and into the Yukon. Ended up at the Continental Divide Motel and new RV park. $20 even. Electric and water. Mosquitoes included. No, we didn't use the picnic table or fire pit. And—can't tell a lie—that was not the exception.

We did some heavy climbing to get to that plateau of twisty evergreens and rocks, rocks, rocks. They've recently invested a lot in this campground: new electric outlets, all those tables painted green and yellow, hauling away rocks. Their generator was humming. There weren't many of us staying overnight, though. Last year, he said, the place was packed. We were plugging them in anywhere we could. The restaurant seems busy, and the pie was good in 2003 when we stopped in for a piece the last day of their season.

But gas is $1.07 a litre most places. And he doesn't think it'll be going down—and that makes this kind of travel way off budget for so many. Still, they have even more plans for the place. We did our part last night to help keep them in the red by buying a piece of both apple and cherry pie.

The Alcan is full of gustatory promises. Or seduction. Signs that advertise Baked Goods. Homemade. Cinnamon Rolls. Pie. I can't recall seeing steak. Foot long hot dogs once. Cinnamon rolls seem to be the main object of fantasy, the idea being that when we're traveling in the wilderness, almost nothing would bring more comfort than a big, warm, generously iced cinnamon roll. Okay, each sign sets me dreaming—though I'm only just now growing out of fantasizing about food all the time. But a trip always gets me going again, damn those Dairy Queen signs.

Along this road, most chances are that the pie is homemade, but it's almost guaranteed that the cinnamon rolls are made from the same frozen pre-mixed dough you'd find, served as homemade, anywhere in the U.S. and Canada. And please, if it is more widespread than I imagine, do not let me know.

In my heart of hearts, I'll admit it here, I want to stop at every place. And the only way to do that would be to get a huge advance based on my book proposal, The Seductive Promise of Homemade Baked Goods Along the Alaska Highway: A romantic cynic searches for home. The sad part is, the road sign invites, but so often the hopeful traveler finds that the cafe sign says, Closed. For Sale. So for now, I'm grateful for every stop we do make, to the person still rolling and filling and placing something ever so humble, between me and this vast and beautiful wilderness.

Sunday, July 17. Today we rolled into majesty. Drove through gray clouds and rain, then shocks of bright sun, the roads steep and winding. Drove over 200 more miles in BC toward Watson Lake,Yk, mountains rising higher and higher behind the hills, until finally they dominate the landscape. Mountains of stone, mountains green with spruce, aspen and ground cover.

Motorhomes, campers, semi trucks and a few cars are on the road. There are numerous pullovers; Andre points out where we stopped for lunch, or to rest, on previous trips. Today there are other people on the road who we begin to recognize and speak to briefly; we're all pulling over in some rhythm at the same time. Out here in this wilderness, there are miles between motel-cafe-RV-parks; then there might be several. There are some new enterprises, but more and more seem to be closing, or for sale.

Tonight we've stopped in an RV park on Lake Muncho, mile 423.7 on the modernized Alaska Highway. As we drove the final miles, the turquoise lake stretched off to our left, rock walls rose to our right. On the other side of the road, the shoulder at regular intervals has crumbled into the lake. The first time we drove by the lake in the motorhome, I was driving—on that other side.

Having driven by the lake concentrating on the narrow winding road, entranced by its beauty, it's exciting to be here. To have stopped by the lake, walked down to it. Touched it. Both of us taking pictures. There's a one-hour boat tour tonight at 8. But that's nothing I want to do; it's too cold and windy. We've had our chicken soup and salad. Our walk. Almost the usual, as if we really lived here and occasionally look out the window, and see these gray mountains lit by the setting sun. I think of Bridge Street in Shelburne Falls, how for years I have been addicted to watching or sensing the rhythm and flow of people on it. How I've seen sunsets there night after night over the hill beyond the iron bridge, sunrises finishing over Arms Library, the morning sun shining through a new-leafed young maple on up beyond LaBelles. And I have to say to myself still: you live here, you actually live here. But, the truth is it's that way wherever I am.

In Alberta on friday (July 15), we began another transition. From prairie to trees. The trees began emerging slowly. Tall, short-limbed evergreens that could make me think of snowy Christmas cards, before traveling through mile after snowy mile of them, with only the road and an occasional truck attesting to the presence of humans.

After we'd been driving silently through this new terrain for a while and the trees seemed a permanent addition, Andre said, ah, now I feel better, like we're really in North Country. The feeling that comes with seeing these trees, fewer people, and the higher elevation is what brings him here.

I'd been thinking—just then—about my reluctance to leave the prairies behind, so I said, actually, I'm feeling a little melancholy leaving the prairies.

He was driving, and his head snapped toward me with an incredulous look as I continued, this makes me feel frightened and alone. Who knows why? It's not as if the prairie couldn't drive me crazy with loneliness and fear.

Regardless, we're moving slowly from gold, dusky beiges, and bright yellow, to green. All green. The woods are thick on both sides of us, with some open meadows. Behind signs that say Reforested in 1979, or1989, the trees are still small, but numerous and tight. Spruce, pine, aspen, willow, birch. And everything's steeper. Shadows of clouds fall across the highway; the hills rise higher and higher, in succession.

Tonight we're at the Prophet River Campground, in a clearing with mown grass, picnic tables, gravel pull-throughs. It's been a day of rain ending with sun. There's one other motorhome here. A camper truck with a young couple, their child, and a dauschound trotting behind them, pulling a tinkling apparatus behind his paralyzed legs that looks like Eddie's Wheels. At 10:30, everyone but me—and the plentiful mosquitoes—is asleep. My neck is getting stiff and it's finally getting dark. The papers are out on the rubber mat near the door, for Elvis, just in case. We aren't plugged in to electricity, but the light over the stove is on, and I'll turn on the bedside lamp to finish About Schmidt by Louis Begley. Funny, how many worlds we move in.

Saturday, July 16 • This morning we leave Dawson Creek, "Mile 0" of the Alaska Highway. It's a town I look forward to since our first time through in 2001. Surrounded by green and mauve fields, interspersed with the bright yellow of canola, there's a low-slung downtown, an art gallery/shop in an old grain elevator, the modern outlying strip areas. Back in the forties part of the town blew up during the construction of the highway; some explosives were stored there and somehow went off. Today, conscious of tourists and their history, the people of Dawson Creek are in the process of painting murals all over town depicting their earlier days. Being part of the rush toward gold. The rush to build the Alaska Highway—that story of herculean labor, worth hearing about anywhere, anytime.

Today, I woke to rain and heard it loud over my head as I showered. It's always a good shower when we're hooked up to water, have plenty of propane and can dump—or have an already empty holding tank. All of these conditions exist now, so that means leaving the water on during the whole shower. Otherwise, it's the conservation procedure: get wet, turn off the water at the showerhead, shampoo, turn on the water again, rinse, turn off the water and soap up, turn it on again and rinse—varied according to mood and creativity. Andre is off by the pay phone uploading his latest pictures. I'm frantically writing this one last entry and trying to get part of breakfast ready at the same time, because we should leave soon.

Being in Dawson Creek makes me think of Jay, who I of course miss. Because he lives in town now, I've been lucky to be able to see him often. I miss his smile, hearing his feelings about things, the excitement of passing him on the highway, seeing him on the job, in the coffeehouse with his computer.

When we went to Alaska in 2001, we visited Jay on our way out. He was just starting his first semester of college in Oneonta, NY, knowing already that the school wasn't right for him. But when he opened the door to the claustrophobic u-shaped closet of a room he had just moved into, everything felt excruciatingly wrong. In addition, I was distressed that during the next 2 months I would often be unreachable. Bygones, as they used to say on Allie MacBeal; it's all over now. But I started that trip with a very heavy heart.

Weeks later, on September 10, the traffic coming into Edmonton had been awful, and the truck stop we'd parked in was packed, so we'd gotten up at 4am the next day to get an early start. An hour or more outside of Edmonton, in Sangudo, we stopped at a small park, slept, then had breakfast. While I was cleaning up and Andre was walking the dogs, I heard on the radio that a plane had hit one of the towers at the World Trade Center, and then the announcer moved on to other news, then back to music. We raced to the nearest gas station to find out anything we could; I reacted the way most people did: I wanted to talk to Jay, my parents, my friends—immediately. I was fortunate to reach everyone I called—except Jay. When I finally did, he was fine. We continued on our trip. And that situation continued its alteration of all our lives.

On our way home, we passed through Dawson Creek again. The campgrounds had closed for the season, so we were parking overnight in front of the granary art gallery. It was dark out. We were about to walk to dinner. But first, somehow, I was able to talk with Jay again. I don't know which one of us initiated the call, but he was in good spirits. He and some new friends from school were in New York City. Having a good time. Despite feeling anxiety about where he was, hearing his voice and knowing that something good was happening for him gave me such a lift.

So when I think of Dawson Creek, I think of how I was energized by the exhibit at the art gallery; how fun it was to eat at the Alaska Cafe, with its murals—unicorns and the Garden of Eden and a foolish Adam—covering the bathroom walls; how relieved and happy I was to talk with Jay there. This time around, the show at the gallery was okay. The cafe is under new management and uninviting, so we went somewhere else. But the memory of being in touch with Jay in that Dawson Creek parking lot, in the dark, still feels good.

The mobile toilet. Long an object of fascination for me. I don't mean the glass pottie with the little decal of a toy soldier in red that we carried with us in the car. If one of us had to pee, we'd pull over, take it out from under the front seat, place it on the ground and—shielded between the open car doors and someone standing guard—pee. Our level of anxiety during this operation would correspond to the amount and speed of traffic passing by. Or our place in line.

Before either of my sisters beats me to it, I'll raise the question of memory. After Ann and I strongly disagreed about whose socks Jeanie accidently peed on in Denver (poor little Jeanie—too much traffic to stop), we had to laugh despite our equally vivid victim memories. We agreed that we should pick a few famous family incidents and each write our version. But Jeanie's too busy making quilts and working at the Montessori school, Ann too busy writing her encyclopedia of women composers and lyricists, and Frank too busy with his family, nevermind running all over New Mexico as an opthalmologist. What worries me is that little soldier on the pottie. I expect to hear from one of them saying he didn't exist. But I feel so certain about it because every time it was my turn, I would sit there and think about how odd it was that the soldier was there. Like a little friend, smiling. Hello again, I'm here with you.

I don't remember which came first: the narrow gauge train ride from Durango to Silverton, Colorado, or the Trailways bus ride from Tulsa to visit our grandparents in Orlando, Oklahoma. But Jeanie was my companion in discovering the delights of peeing in certain moving vehicles, somewhere in the middle of the 20th century. The delight came from feeling the caress of a light whirlwind as we sat swaying with the movement of bus or train. We solved the mystery of this phenomenon by looking down into the toilet, where we saw highway or train tracks passing in a blur. I couldn't say how many times we jumped up and made our way to the cubicle at the rear of the bus. We were riding alone; I was the oldest. On the train, we must have left the rest of the family behind more than once to experience again and again the joy of this secret—and simple—pleasure.

A friend on Martha's Vineyard has an ingenious and creative husband. He installed a marine toilet in her little cottage there. Which means that instead of a porcelain slope and gallons of water, there is a chute. I think he also installed some kind of air pump so that everything goes neatly down with a whoosh, with a hose nearby if needed.

The motorhome has a similar arrangement. No, you can't see the highway. No, there's no wind. And yes, there are holding tanks, that's later. But what you rapidly get used to is the convenience of awkwardly walking to the back while in motion, and then the immediate relief. Any gracefully aging older woman knows the joy in this arrangement—as does her traveling partner, who may or may not have as frequent urges. Add to that the rush of adrenalin as you sit rocked by passing semis, or lurching in rush hour traffic in St. Louis. I'll let you imagine what it's like to stand and get your pants back up.

At first, it's strange without the water. After a while, it feels natural, if not downright virtuous. At the base of the toilet, step on the pedal to the left. A door magically opens, a small amount of water swooshes everything down in an instant, and with the release of the pedal, the door snaps shut. If more water is needed, there's the pedal on the right.

The unpleasant part is of course dumping the holding tank. Or the sudden aural sense that it needs dumped—badly—with no opportunity present. In Alberta, BC and other parts of Canada, free dump stations are kindly furnished. At the RV parks, it's included with a full hook-up of electricity, water, sometimes cable, sometimes wi-fi. Whenever I think of all the RVs I see on the road dumping, I get a feeling similar to thinking about all the pencils or straws being made at one moment in the world. Too too much. How can our earth sustain us all? Oops, I'll rush back to the specific: after the dumping, there's the charging. Putting in the current environmentally safe chemicals, purple in our case, and then adding a few gallons of water. Voila, until the next time.

One of my big adjustments when I get home: all that water. The splashing. The slow—and sometimes inefficient, insufficient—gurgling down. For now, that's in my not-so-distant future. So I'll just continue with what I've been trying to learn to do for years: enjoy the moment. We just dumped. We're in Dawson Creek, BC, with an empty tank and a full day to explore here.

The coming storm, 10:45pm, at Golden Embers

The coming storm
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

Andre, Elvis and the Neighbors

Andre, Elvis and the Neighbors
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

Glowing Embers. That's where we are tonight. A village of 308 vagabond vehicles inhabited by who knows how many beings. Because we're almost in Edmonton, we have decent tv reception—just roll up the antenna. But the real entertainment is the neighbors. Or watching the newest comer trying to back his 5th wheel into his tiny spot, with cars, trucks and vans parked on both sides of the narrow little street.

The way to meet the neighbors is to have a dog with you. Or three. To our left is a golden retriever; on the right, there's a giant puppy who looks as if he could star in a shaggy dog movie. Regardless, they are all conversation starters. A diminutive white dog guarantees at least a few hyperbolic exclamations as to beauty, cuteness, etc. And most dog owners love to watch their dogs meet other dogs, or vice -versa.

This evening I don't have much energy for meeting people, although the neigbors with the retriever are interesting. Two factors contribute to my not going out into the cool air to socialize: we have been blessed with wi-fi; I'm still recovering from finding the potato salad I arduously made last night, for today, frozen. We have to monitor the fridge because it will either run too warm—causing one to be fearful of using one's mayonnaise—or suddenly freeze the lettuce and cucumbers. Last night I put the hot potato salad in the freezer so it wouldn't raise the temperature in the fridge. I discovered it this morning. When I tested it this evening, still partially frozen after being out all day, I had to concede that it was...disgusting. Texture.

Now there is a cacophony of barking. Phuphuu is up in the front window yapping fiercely, the retriever has picked up the beat, and Elvis is thinking of starting up his querulous old man barking again.

Here is scene 2: a young red-haired boy has come from the circle into the doorway to see the cutie, Phuphuu; his reason to gain entry here and see what this place is like. (I admit to a similar curiousity regarding the other vehicles.) In a bold move, when he started asking me what I was sure would be a series of endless questions, I referred him to the guy outside with the bandana. I'm just not in the mood. Oops, here he is again. And now again, ask the guy out there with the bandana.

Because they're all out in a circle talking dogs. In here, Elvis paces, gets underfoot, paces. Outside, Sam, awes the crowd with his wide range of urgent, tremulous evocative barks. Oh, me? Someone has to document these things—and start microwaving the macaroni and cheese...

Fields of Yellow

Fields of Yellow
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

Yesterday, after crossing into Alberta, we started seeing fields of bright yellow flowers. Are they canola? Safflower? Surely oil will be made from them. As is often the case my ignorance of their identity and purpose does not diminish my joy at seeing them. But I am prickled by curiousity.

Today, as we drove further north the fields multiplied. Skies turned grey. There was intermittent rain. These fields under full sun and white-clouded blue sky energized the spirit. But today, as the sun broke through the gray, what was already a thrill of yellow glowed beyond words.

These are the peaceful hours. 10pm-8am, or 11-7? Tonight, just outside Calgary, Alberta, at 10pm it is still light. This place is big. We're in one of its furthest suburbs, section C, right next to the Overflow. The trash containers are plentiful and close-by. And there's more space between us and our neighbors than usual. But even when there isn't, this is a peaceful time.

Most of the dog walking is over and people have disappeared. Gone inside. The couples who walk together after dinner, some dutifully, some talking quietly, some heads up—looking for someone to smile at. Tonight there's conversation next door. Two men sitting on the picnic table, talking about packing, weight, their vehicles, the 22ft Prowler too small with the grandkids coming sometimes, a new 34 foot with triple slides, practically stolen the price was so good.

Hearing conversations at this hour isn't usual in our hermetic experience. And while it might be distracting, something about it makes me feel at home. Or I should say, takes me back to childhood before fences, in the summer, maybe when twilight was coming. We might have been inside in bed, with the windows open, trying to fall asleep. But the men, home from work finally, and done with dinner, might be talking. And if you strained to listen, it was interesting. Sometimes the conversation of men—when it's slow and even, moved by the energy of facts, measurements and numbers—can be peaceful. Can lull a kid to sleep—even a kid trying hard to stay awake.

Now it's quiet here. And during these peaceful hours, there's almost always a highway cutting some kind of stripe in the silence. But that's peaceful too. Or when a siren does sound, it's not like you're a child whose dad is out moonlighting, not home yet. Or a mother whose teenager is out driving with friends. There are no loved ones nearby. Wherever they are, their lives flow out, like mine, as they will.

After a day on the road—vigilant, and overcome sometimes by the land flowing by, and the sky so strong—it feels good to be part of these boxes lined up neatly, angled, row after row. Or in other places where we are few, scattered and funky. The evening's chores done. The sky another shade of blue or gray. Windows here and there glowing with that familiar soft light. Home, but not home.

At Shel-oole Campground, Shelby, MT.

At Shel-oole Campground, Shelby, MT.
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

It seems to be all sky here. And a clean wind. And the far corner of a campground hospitably furnished by two small towns. We have electricity. We use our own water. We go to bed early. We arise and head for the border.

Sometimes, it's about the clouds

Sometimes, it's about the clouds
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

We're on this strip; everying is happening through the glass. Some highways make a rhythm like a train on tracks, while the changing terrain marks the miles and hours. But sometimes, it's the clouds towering over and around us that claim our awed attention. Students of our atmosphere could tell us how they come to be—those endlessly marvelous, always affecting sculptures.

I try, again and again, to capture the depth and resonance of the clouds, while still allowing the landscape to appear as more than a dark shape. But so often, to show land and sky together means sacrificing the detail of the clouds, leaving them ravaged by burnout, blues faded, a rich palette of gray subdued.

Today, though, as these clouds seem to parallel our own movement, I am almost satisfied.

Andre preps his pictures

Andre preps his pictures
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

To see lots of highway photos as we travel, and other beautiful photos in place, go to: http://www.patricdubreuil.com/2k5rt

From there, you can also see his dramatic, peaceful, spectacular, fun photos through the years.

Buffalo

Buffalo
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

Having made my share of maps, I stopped in the park office to admire this one, a section of a larger map of this area. I am fortunate that the little Shelburne Falls and Mohawk Trail area map doesn't require this topographical detail. There are forts, Crazy Woman Canyon, and battles galore.

A night at Deer Park

A night at Deer Park
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

I'm living the idea of oasis. Coming down from the highway and heat to nestle between cottonwood and willow. The trees are small. Today, they look graceful and delicate, each leaf articulate. Each trunk etched with meaningful lines. The graygreen leaves flicker in the breeze. Here, we invested in wi-fi, water, cable tv. And shade.

Out the side window..

Out the side window..
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

I wasn't prepared for the emotion I felt as we neared Buffalo, Wyoming. The big sky I've seen before. Miles of hot short-grassed bumps and runnels tumbling off into the far distance. Hills that brought sweeping vistas. Exits from I-90 that ended with a cattleguard and a dusty road. No houses in sight. No cattle. No trees. The mountains a shadow in the distance.

It was frightening to feel so small, so easily unsheltered, so easily dry. It was thrilling. It made my heart swell.

Wyoming out the front window

Wyoming out the front window
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

For the last few days we've been driving through parts of the country I'm realizing I've been longing to see.

Before Michael Landon reduced them to tv, I read all Laura Ingalls Wilder's books. Many others too, their titles long forgotten. Wagon trains, Indian wars and hostages who stayed, the boy in the small prairie school whose young teacher was scalped, the families in the dug-out homes, sod houses with whitewashed walls. Crossing the Platte river in the wagons. Furniture, sewing machines, china left on the long trail. Nevermind the dead of families of all nations. We all know the story. As a child and young adult, I spent as much time in that story as I could. Now for days, I've been in the territory rich with these stories.

I often criticize myself for just driving through the country. Driving and looking. As if the experience doesn't count unless I'm itchy with bugs and sharp grasses, threatened by small or gigantic animals—and above all, on foot.

When we were kids on vacation in Colorado and New Mexico, we sat in the back seat while Mom responded to the majestic beauty around us with endless exclamations. We thought it was beautiful too. But we wanted to get out, wade in the streams, climb the red rocks. And we did—some.

Even now, I'm still overwhelmed by—and grateful to—Mom and Dad. All that planning, saving and work. Packing enough for 6 people to wear for days, to play with, to eat. Preparing sandwiches by the road, apples and oranges to eat as we drove, endless stops for peeing. As we traveled so many miles, they endured the complaining and restless energy from the back seat, sometimes joined our games, urged us to look outside the windows, urged us to stop arguing or he'd stop the car and do you-know-what. We enyoyed singing in harmony, something our family always did on the road. Songs that in themselves took us away to other places and other times in America.

They, too, took hundreds of pictures. But the pictures weren't necessary. So many images of that trip remain inside me. One of many gifts from Mom and Dad that lasts a lifetime.

Here I am gifted with another chance to move across a changing landscape. Looking. Taking pictures. Eating. The bonus of peeing without stopping, without the search for that gas station or rest stop.

I can't seem to do justice to any of it with pictures or words. Watching the land roll and fold and smooth itself with soft grasses, or suddenly erupt with sharp pyramids, or texture its bristling grasses with pompoms of faded bluegreen leafed plants, or suddenly glow brilliant with irrigated green, or shade itself with trees, or thrust sudden columns of rock through what was only prairie for miles...

Andre preps email

Andre preps email
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

We're traveling. I'm sitting at the table using my laptop. He's up there. This is one small space. I hear him laugh outloud. His keyboard ticks. Later we go to the wi-fi coffeehouse together and do our thing. Or we go separately to the deserted office at Kemo Sabay, sit between the not deserted mens and ladies rooms, and check our email while the breeze blows. In two days, I receive 19 emails. Jokes from Andre.

We see this

We see this
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

Just beyond Hot Springs, a hip town full of beautiful sandstone buildings and a huge VA hospital, also made of sandstone early in the 20th century.

After we circle and take these pictures, after we have popcorn inside, we sit in our lawn chairs in front of the motorhome. The sun has set. The cool breeze blows. Andre holds Sam and talks about the clouds. Nothing exciting. Everything restful. And I tell him that the Lone Ranger was my favorite tv show for years. Our chance to love Indian and White Man equally. Although they weren't quite equal. One a hero, the other—part friend, part servant—whose history was not explored.

We slept with the door open. We slept well.

Now, more blue sky. Driving away to this coffeehouse today, I saw a small bird atop the sign. At the end of that tiny beak, backlit by the new sun, something fluttered. No worms for this bird. This morning's flag—a little mothwing. I pledge my allegiance to it all.

Hi ho, Silver! Away!

Hi ho, Silver! Away!
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

We spent Wednesday driving on US 61, virtually deserted—prairie rolling off in every direction. Ranch after ranch. Cattle grouped in a tight circle, cattle a series of dots on far hillsides. Cattle and calves sitting and standing, this one turning its head to watch us pass, a group drinking water beneath a windmill. Horses. Each house or spread in an oasis of trees.

I thought of living here in sod-house days. Even now. Sun and storm and no one nearby. I thought of our breakdown history on this trip. And our good fortune, really. My gratitude for the automobile and cellular phone—despite their destructive side effects—grew with each mile. Once, going uphill, the Bounder seemed to hesitate. I stopped breathing; Andre was quick to assure me that it was the cruise control—just couldn't handle that hill.

We continued to roll through miles of glorious landscape. If that sounds like hyperbole, maybe a stronger vocabulary, or a more romantic language would help me pinpoint how moved I was seeing all this, mile after mile.

We entered South Dakota. The land began to change—I could see how caves and canyons might be ahead. We stopped early, and are here at the Kemo Sabay campground. Nothing pretentious. Nothing big like the sea of RVs flooding a valley surrounded by mountains near Mt. Rushmore, advertised in the RV guide.

Sunset before the storm at Ogalalla

Sunset before the storm at Ogalalla
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

I think I lightened this too much in Photoshop. Because the sky was yellow-orange, and seemed to have some green. (We don't like skies with green, however awesome.)

We pulled all the curtains, opened windows to let the breeze flow through; no need for airconditioning. The harvesters had gone, and a new semi cab backed in next to us. Left his motor running, so we moved up 20 feet to get free of the noise and fumes. Settled in to bed to unwind watching Blankman. Our attention was diverted by increasingly high winds. We started rocking. The little trees and grasses behind us began moving with the wind, bending and shusshing. We rocked some more. And more. No rain. Just high winds. We raised the back window and began to watch the trucks coming down from the interstate, the crazy people going on driving their big motorhome.

Then Andre backed up to our original spot, and the rocking became more gentle, blocked by the trucks beside us. After a while, it subsided. Andre slept.

I got up and re-opened the windows over the table, wiped up the gray gritty dust that covered it, felt some in my mouth. Later, there was another brief burst of wind, and a smattering of rain. The driver next to us turned off his engine, and I slept.

Sunset movies

Sunset movies
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

Before we walked to get pie, the sky was darkening. We agreed with the harvesters that there would be a storm, but for now the setting sun was transforming the parking lot full of trucks full of tired drivers. As the sun went down behind the small trees where we were parked, their giant shadows moved across the sides of the trucks. And the trucks moving up the ramp onto the highway made a different show on the white sides of another truck as I walked by, seeing in joy.

The Harvesters

The Harvesters
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

It was a long hot day of driving. Many stops. Another fabulous early dinner at a Flying J buffet. When we pulled into the TA travel center in Ogalalla, NE after 7pm, Andre maneuvered us into the far corner. We watched in awe as trucks came in hauling farm equipment so big it extended past the sides of the trailer. A fifth wheeler backed in beside us. Later we decided to walk the 2 blocks to the restaurant. He wanted pie. Since nothing is worse than bad pie, I wanted the walk. When I caught up to him he was talking to this woman. One of the Douglas family from Bison, SD. At home they had cattle and sheep, but from May to Thanksgiving, they were harvesters. Mother, father, son, helpers, a man in his eighties who drove one of the trucks—and on this trip—the 7 year old grandson who already could drive the harvester. They were proud what they did. Tonight, they'd blown a new tire on one of the trailers, and were trying to fix it. They had a box truck full of tools and gear. The men were going to go to a motel for the night. Usually, while they're harvesting—going to the same farms each year—they rent houses. The grandparents and grandson would be in the fifth wheeler. After warning us about the bad food at the truckstop, they went to Wendy's to eat. But not before urging us to change our route, to head out on 61N and then I-385 to Rapid City, near Mount Rushmore. They got their atlas and showed us the way; said one road would have almost no traffic, and that it would be much more scenic than the highway. When we left the next morning, their green behemuths were still there.

Bedtime at the Flying J

Bedtime at the Flying J
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

In Kansas off I-80. In the corner of the big parking lot. Strong smell of smoke in the air from miles away pervaded everything. It was gone by morning, and so were we.

Jeanie and Dad at Braums.

Jeanie and Dad at Braums.
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

One got water only. One got a "lumpy" chocolate shake. Both seem happy.

The comforter

The comforter
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

For as long as I can remember, this has been in my life. Mom used to take a nap on the floor covered with it, or one almost like it. In my family, we love our cloth, our fabric, our clothes, our quilts. The pink feedsack shirt with the tiny hearts made and worn by my grandmother became mine after she died. I loved everything about it. When I was pregnant with Jay and on my way to eat maybe a hot dog, I fell and ripped it walking across the bridge into Turner's Falls. I took it in stride but was devastated, although it was getting thin anyway. I still have it.

Both my grandmothers sewed. One made women's hats and created her own patterns. The other made pillows and aprons, quilts and clothes, and gave feed sack cloth to my other grandmother, who made all kinds of things for us from them. Jeanie's and my matching Davy Crockett pleated skirts were prized long after they were outgrown.

My mother sewed. My sister sews. I sew. I don't know who made this comforter, but just seeing it is a comfort to me.

Painting in the chapel at University Village

Painting in the chapel at University Village
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

The chapel is small with dark wood walls. A vibrant stained-glass window with a flame is centered on one wall. On the wall to the right was this painting, lit by a small light. It struck me. The blue, the style.

We drive away

We drive away
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

and head north to Kansas. It was wonderful to see Dad and hard to leave. We met his friends, heard and told stories, ate a lot, and fulfilled a fantasy I've had for a while now: spending time together at the computer, crossing the borders of PC and Mac. But we had to leave.

Always, when we grew up and came back home to visit Mom and Dad—always—they met us at the airport or bus station. They'd be leaning in toward us, smiling, when we emerged from the gangway. And they would be at the window still waving and smiling as the plane lifted, and we frantically waved back. Of course, in the past few years, none of us can walk with loved ones to the final boarding area, or greet them as they walk from the ramp.

Other things change, too. Now Mom isn't there anymore when we go home. But this time, Dad walked us to the wet parking lot, the sun a small round bright spot in the gray clouds. We stood and talked awhile, then we did get in the car, and we did drive away. He was there until we turned the corner, both of us taking pictures.

Later, we got our tacos in the town that did have the 102mph winds in last night's storm. And though the day was sunny and beautiful, and the highways not crowded, and the Bounder running smoothly, and I love seeing Kansas, and look forward to Nebraska and Wyoming, and the company suits me well—still, I struggle to balance joy and sadness. Oh, you know the familiar task: to be in the moment and savor the past, or carry all the goodness with us into the mystery of tomorrow.

Dad washes the dishes

Dad washes his dishes
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

Although we ate all our meals out, often blissfully at Luby's cafeteria, Dad still had to do dishes. As we grew up, Mom always spent time teaching us how to do household chores her way, which also meant doing things thoroughly and well: ironing, folding towels, wiping off the stove and counters after doing the dishes. I have to say, for the most part, it was a good way. And when we protested, or wanted to be creative, she always said, when you have your own home you can do it your way.

On Sunday night, I was treated to seeing Dad's way. What a hard time we might have had, had we been made to do dishes his way. But I found great pleasure when I stumbled on his pleasing arrangement. And I thought again, as I have lately, about all the people who mow their lawns and trim their shrubbery, or plant their gardens, or line up their books upon the shelves with the bindings flush. Things I don't or wouldn't do. I've spent months now realizing the small and surprisingly deep moments of peace I am afforded by the urge to order, and the precision of others.

Jeanie holding Frank

Jeanie holding Frank
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

Long ago I did this pastel drawing of my very young sister holding my baby brother from a photo taken by my mother. It went right to my heart then and it still does when I see it hanging in my father's bedroom. That same look comes and goes on her face still. I can't describe it.

Morning. Rain. Even the sound of birdsong. The worst that has happened to me today is just now losing the post I had created and was ready to publish. Breakfast here is at 8am and it is 7:12, so I have to hurry. The strip across the bottoom of the tv said storms rolled through northeastern Oklahoma last night...500 PSO customers without power...no injuries have been reported...

After breakfast we head north. My disappeared post quoted a line from one of Margaret's poems, and then I recommended www.margaretrobison.com for beautiful and moving poetry and prose. I still do. And I guess I'll quote this line as I remember it and as I would quote it back to her, as I often do, if I could see her today: There's mist on the mountain. Rain all day... My apologies for any misquotes.

Chicken Little is off-duty until further notice. Happy Independence Day to all.

Oh Boy.

Yes, I am in Oklahoma. How could we leave without something like this. The big storm. Thunderstorm warnings. Winds of 100mph in Ponca City. Coming this way. I should be in bed. Good times here. Supposed to leave here tomorrow morning after breakfast, heading north. Always hard to say goodbye to Dad, Jeanie, my other sister and brother and his family. But here I am, back against the wall, literally, plugged in, typing away. Sending emails and blogging this. And separated from Andre for the night, and he's in the Bounder.

I personally don't like cliff hangers. I've been known in my later years to look at the last pages of a book when trying to choose one. Such a violation of good readership feels strange, but there you have it—the new me.

But this cliff hanger thing, I guess that is what Life is, really. Why we think Heaven—final destination—with such persistence. The end of the unknown. Or another start of it. Back where I started. In my current cliff hanger. I leave it with you for tonight. I hear the wind behind me. Right now it doesn't seem fierce. But what they're saying on tv—ooh, here's a bigger burst, with some whistling, and again, longer. The adrenalin is rising. Here's the wind again. And it is damn strong...

Of course, we talk and talk

Of course, we talk and talk
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

...inevitably, about computers and cameras, after Jeanie arrives. And yes, Colleen, there is more pie to be talked about, too.

Friday begins

Friday begins
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

...with threatening skies. We're just a river and a cell phone call away from Dad. He says it surely will rain, but no, he doesn't think any tornadoes will appear. Instead, bright flashes of light from sky to horizon as we cross the river and drive to where he is waiting. He rises from the bench at last, looking questioningly at the green RAV with the flirty eyelashes above the headlights, us waving inside. I am happy to be hugging him. Happy Andre is here, too. Then dashing through the rain to senior breakfasts at IHOP.

The GM repair shop in Siloam Springs

The GM repair shop in Siloam Springs
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

We said goodbye to my sister in Lincoln and headed toward Tulsa on scenic rolling country roads. It wasn't long before climbing or simply moving forward became nearly impossible. Again. After creeping, stopping, lurching, flashers flashing—with no shoulder to speak of—we unhitched and continued on in like manner, with me following in the car.

Fortune smiled and we hit Siloam Springs. Smiled again after two futile stops elsewhere, and let us roll across a screamingly busy highway into the GM dealership and repair. The cleanest most sparkling garage I've ever seen. Also efficient, competant and honorable. Thus we continued our exploration of oh-dear-what-can-the-matter-be, in conjunction with our in-depth tour of some of the most hospitable repair facilities in the eastern and central U.S.

Of course a thorough study of our problem and the facility cannot be conducted without an overnight stay in the parking lot, so stay we did. I might mention that it was hot hot hot, and being plugged in to 10 amps does not allow for air conditioning. Still, a pleasant night all in all.

Next morning, having tried everything and being honest and considerate, Glen sent us to Gentry, to Ben, who knew his stuff and had no shiny floor, no restroom, no tv, coke or snack machine in the waiting room. No waiting room at all. But Elvis, Phuphuu, Sam and I were grateful for some shade. I read Green Mansions, drank water, and occasionally untangled the 3 dog leashes tied to a tree.

Andre sweltered with Ben, who found and solved the problem (deja vu? Please cross your fingers with us from here on): a slightly too large fuel filter, disintegrating and collapsing on itself due to drygas and methanol(?) in the gas, compressed by a spring, thus blocking gas flow.

Although I did a cursory examination of the premises looking for the best overnight spot, we were destined instead to get back on the road and roll in to Tulsa late thursday afternoon.

Preparing to leave Lincoln

Preparing to leave Lincoln
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

Embedded in the shrubbery behind Andre is giant-leafed poison ivy a lush 3 feet high. Apparently, we have no souvenir of that. The 3 pinto horses are getting comfortable together. The 3 ticks on me were skillfully tweezed off by Andre. The good times with Jeanie and Bob here in Lincoln will not be so easily removed.

New Life Vision Worship Center

New Life Vision Worship Center
Originally uploaded by wethreedees.

We've seen fireworks stands everywhere. I'll see a tent ahead and still think, oh, peaches! Or Tag Sale! But no. Fireworks. I am prepared to feel the ground beneath my feet rumble on July 4th.