On August 9th, we drove out of the Canadian mountains that filled so many of our days. I searched for ways to describe them—as if I could. Peaked, crested, fractured, plateaued. Some covered with vegetation smooth as caribou flanks. Some whose one sharp pyramid shifted into ranges with miles of undulating curves. Some with spruce stippled ridges like the angled dark-rimmed spine of the moose. Some called out to be touched, to be stroked like a coarse-haired horse.

I understood again why, throughout time, people responding to the power of mountains have used any tool to mark a surface with echoes of their contours and volumes. We see in them the beautiful curves and planes of our own small bodies, magnified, laid down strong and solid upon the earth, silhouetted against the changing skies.



Movement and mountains. On the road, it seems the mountains are in motion. A range moves along with us; then a new one pops up ahead. Clouds may be wrapped around its sunlit cone. Cascades of time may be manifest in its water-carved furrows. Sweet green might edge its contours. A glacier may suddenly appear—radiant and thrilling—jewelling the dark shadowed cleavage of the range by our side. Grays and rose might soften the mighty unrelenting harshness of stone. My reflex is the same: turn on the camera, press to focus, press to record what moved me.

Over time, I learned that the gift of my camera's great wide eye can be a hindrance. Though the mountain might loom large ahead, it is—on my tiny screen—almost invisible, and yields to the sky. So I wait as we bear down on it. The road curves, rises and descends, the newcomer disappears and reappears until finally it is close enough to make a grand photographic impression. Or is lost forever, to be reached only by another road, or walking—or from the sky.

Once, the day was both gray and sunny. We had curved and climbed and were on a plateau of sorts. The land stretched away open, on our left, a high shadowed range beyond it. When the far-away face of the glacier shone through, I left my camera on the dashboard and waited. We drove on and the changing angles of the mountains continued to hide and reveal it. Still, I waited. I marveled at the joy I felt seeing it. Wondered why its white diverging planes reflecting the late morning sun had such power to move me. Why I longed to capture the angles, the shapes—opening outward—the light. As it began to disappear, I knew the camera would fail me. The strong impulse to respond, to mark its presence, flowed from my chest to my hands again and again. Had Margaret been there, she could have rendered an aspect of it with her flawless contour lines, alive and breathing. A world of beauty in themselves. But it was my hand, inhibited by time and motion, that finally reached for anything—the index card, its blank white back—and a ballpoint pen. Roughly I sketched the form, the lines radiating from its heart. It wasn't enough; it relieved something. And if somewhere, there is an altar to the mountains where a small fire burns—awaiting gifts and tribute—I would happily feed my little sketch to it.

A few years ago I climbed Mt. Sugarloaf in Massachusetts, with my friend—a practicing Dzogchen Buddhist. As we began the climb he told me that mountains have spirits. That it is good to ask for permission before beginning to ascend. Suddenly I imagined the rosy-ledged blunt-faced mountain as unfriendly and resentful. I said, half-jokingly, and are you going to ask? He said, I already did.

Some days, as we drove and drove, I turned my head to face the mountains outside my window, my eyes climbing. Where there were few trees and the sides were not impossibly steep, or the rocks not heaped and tumbling, I imagined myself winding my way up—a welcome interloper. I didn't care about reaching the top. For a while, I just wanted to be on a mountain. I wanted to climb. And for a moment, I felt the strong pull on my muscles, that aching stretch of my calves.

I'm back to work with Margaret. Had breakfast at both habitual spots in town. Had a creme brulee after work last night. Tea at the coffeehouse to pay for my wi-fi. And I must confess. It is time now that I make myself a pie. Peach, I think.

Today, Shelburne Falls was a tourist town. People on the street. I walked among them dazed by the beauty of the sky. Intricate, cloud-layered, gray. I ran to get my camera. I knew everything would be different when I got back. And it was. From the Iron Bridge where I stood, the river curves toward the falls. The sky opened.











On the Bridge of Flowers, the blossoms glowed against the gray, the view downriver soft. I bent to flower after flower, my camera a tool of worship.

Thursday, August 18

Such a different feeling, going home. Andre has become iron man, driving more miles than ever per day. Beginning this morning, toll roads will be taking us home. This means we've entered a gustatory wasteland—franchise food only. The element of aimless relaxation disappears with the miles. And we've begun our initiation: we're in the heat zone now.

There are tantalizing signs along the way: roadside inns with wifi—all untouchable; women holding platters of food—hamburgers and promises of much more; Texas steakhouses—salad bar and 1lb. t-bone $12.99; antique malls, quilts, wonders of nature. The lure of exits not taken. And miles to go.

We've made it past the hell of construction and traffic outside of Chicago. Even the peaceful antidote to that is history: The Indiana Dunes State Park in Chesterton, on Lake Michigan. We're passing a semi hauling triple trailers now, and here comes another. Vehicular hyperbole. Then relief, that's over. In Alaska and western Canada, the lone vehicle seen in passing was probably a motorhome or some kind of rv. If there was traffic in the long miles between towns, it was always a parade of elephantine motorhomes, fifth wheelers, trailers and campers, with the occasional car, semi or pickup. Here at the nation's crossroads, semis and autos rule the road.

Indiana's fertile greens nourish my eyes, but briefly; we're about to enter Ohio. We've paid our toll and for a short while are released from the rest plaza monopoly of McDonalds, Hardees, Starbucks. And we're on home time now.

Through all this, our soundtrack is Outlaw Country or Road House—Andre's favorite Sirius radio stations. Throughout each song, names of performers and song titles move across a black band on the face of the receiver. Even with an extreme stretch, from my seat there's usually too much reflection to see anything. I surprise myself by the number of artists I can identify. Sometimes, when I can't, the words are so good that I have to unbuckle, get up, take off my trifocals, brace myself and lean in close to see. When the man sang I feel like a stone, thrown, to the hard rock bottom of your heart—something like that—I raced to unbuckle and get there before the song ended. Such poetry needs recognition. I might even need the cd, and the thrill of it all again. Might even need to be sure the world feels the rhythm, knows the words. Randy Travis. Hard Rock Bottom of Your Heart. At regular intervals, Dolly Parton's sweet trill rises above everything. Years ago, an astute, wonderful woman and friend declared country music her favorite. It's the most honest, she said. So the miles have passed. The scenery rolls out and then changes—in swift or subtle ways—across county or state lines; the stories being sung build up, layered in me with the land and the clouds.

I think of trips years ago. Those elegaic times driving at night. The changing aromas of the countryside riding in on hot summer air. The sky sweet with stars. Music from the radio, or hellfire sermons, the quiet voice from Chicago, sudden phrases in French or Spanish—otherworldly. An exciting kind of peace. Clacking rhythm of segmented concrete highway holding it all together. Just before the crest of that next hill, the sky glows. Then, a whole low city—electric and expansive—sparkling, quiet in the night. All that light, and more people asleep than awake in it. Then, darkness again beyond.

At the Flying J truckstop in Ohio, near the Pennsylvania border, we observe history in the making. When we pulled in, unleaded was posted at $2.49. Walking the dogs near the sign, I saw broken pieces of plastic—partly transparent, with opaque black shapes. I looked up at the sign and wondered how they changed the numbers. Then I realized the broken plastic pieces were the numbers that appeared on the sign. That left me wondering how they got them up on the sign. Soon, that question was answered. Just one of the rewards of a night at the truck stop—no water, no electricity, no sewer hookups.

A balmy night. Summer still. The tiny tiny stinging sensation around my ankles could be from tiny tiny insects, or my imagination. I am on the street, sitting in front of a strange coffeehouse, taking advantage of their wi-fi. The smoothie I had there within the hour entitles me, I'd say. So I'm not sneaking around tonight.

When I look up the street, I see headlights approaching from cars coming over the bridge. With my glasses off, the glow from neon signs in shop windows is cheering. The flags—stars and stripes—barely move in the gentle breeze; they salute each other from both sides of the street. Young voices laugh in the dark down the sidewalk. The young owner of this new coffeeshop has just turned off the outside lights. When I left town, this place was a dream starting to take shape. They're mopping the floor now. Soon, he will come and take in the tables, and this chair which is patterning me in a not comfortable way. They work hard here. And oh, no, I'm not making this up: someone has just disturbed my peace by setting off some sort of firework here in town—no beautiful sky shapes either, just sudden frightening noise. I know that tonight at the fair in Heath, miles away, fireworks were scheduled. Perhaps, I say— immodestly and irrationally—that all this noise and more noise and now light flashing above the rooftops across the street is for me. A sort of welcome home. Because that is precisely where I am. Here, in Shelburne Falls.

It's changed, and it's the same. Tourists were here in droves today. The trash barrels are already full, and there's still Sunday to come. I walked around town and enjoyed the pleasure of moments with friends I met along the way. I went with Jay as he ran errands, watched as he filled his shopping basket with beautiful tomatoes, lettuce, small cucumbers, and luxuriantly flowing fennel, ingredients for the meal he would prepare later for friends. I loved seeing Jay that way—in the aisles of the coop, preparing to create, beauty in each gesture—more to come later, at the table.

Here I am now, in this moment, on this night, in one of my favorite places. Persistent music drifts down from an apartment upstairs. The fireworks are over. Car doors open and shut. The policeman's radio makes static behind me. I'm about to close my laptop and go home. Soon enough the streets will be quiet, at least on my end across from the bank and our lovely old library. I'll put my clothes back on the shelves. I'll look at my souvenirs. I'll use my home toothbrush. But I'm not done yet with this trip that fills my head, as my eyes and heart fill now with my town, the hills and the lush summer green that surround it.

In Minnesota, we had to leave the area around the highway to find a place for the night—about 28 miles round trip. Andre could tell you exactly how much extra that cost in gas, although the site cost only $18 with electricity. But Glenwood's lovingly cared for community park nurtured us with its green grass, tall trees, and curving waterway planted with wildflowers. Local Girl Scouts and their families had an event that evening in the building and playgrounds across from us. We watched Remember the Titans on tv—so good that even our pointillist poor reception didn't stop us from staying through to the end, with the added frustration of being unable to read the final current bios of each character.

In the morning, we woke happily, and went through our abbreviated (no water, no sewage hookup) departure routine. Andre disconnected the electricity, checked the tires; inside, plugged the extension cord back into the inverter, adjusted the rear window video camera, carried Elvis' sleeper back to the bed side, pulled open the front curtains, reattached his visor with a plastic strip. I put away all the dishes ad pans, the coffeemaker, locked up the refrigerator, moved the dog food and water from the front aisle back under the table, took the plastic shopping bag of trash from the basket and tied it up, put my water and Andre's coffee up front in the holders on the engine cover.

My next job would be to start the car and follow the motorhome to a level strip on the side of the exit road, where we would then hook it to the motorhome, and be on our way in the bright new day.


But no. For the third time, the Bounder did not start. And Andre's trick of opening the choke didn't work. We had no cell phone service. So again, it was time to stay cool. Andre tried to rest. I decided I'd leave him some room and virtuously take a walk. I brought my camera and step by step, responded to the magic of the morning sun, the long shadows of the trees on the fresh grass. My anxiety about being trapped faded, as I heard birdsong, and walked lightly uphill and through the lanes of quiet white sunlit campers, trailers and motorhomes. Once or twice, I thought I might have heard the throaty call of the Bounder. But I focused on the sun, the grass.

On my way through the deserted play area I came upon a tiny pair of socks partially buried in the sand. I marveled at the feelings they evoked, the questions they generated. I thought that leaving them behind was surely a small price to pay for the joy of removing them and walking barefoot from the sand to the cool grass .

Exhilarated by my walk, I returned to the motorhome. I saw motion in the driver's seat, then the door opened and Andre jumped out and walked with paper towels and Windex toward the front windows. When I got closer, he told me he'd gotten it started; a new trick was required, the proverbial rap. I had indeed, heard the Bounder's call. My joy increased, my gratitude rose.

How I wish I had a picture of all this, right now. First, I most likely am sitting on an anthill. On the grass. Green. Under a tree. And hey, it's an oak. Little insects fly in front of my computer screen on their way to bite me. The moon is almost full. Behind me. That's right; it's night. It is shining on us, here in Black Something Falls(?) Wisconsin. And although this wifi is impressively fast, I'm slowed down because I can only see parts of my keyboard.

At the moment, I am facing a motel, lit by the orange light of the parking lot. Exposed. Catching their wifi overflow. The people in the third floor room with the picture and lamp have pulled their curtains, so I am looking at a tidy picture of windows equidistant from each other, all with their curtains nicely shut. The voyeur in me is disappointed.

Across the parking lot, I hear the woman talking on her cell phone from time to time. There's a highway to my left. Steady buzz. The blue police light that flashed in my peripheral vision, and disconcertingly inside my glasses is gone. In the distance I see the Flying J truck stop, but we ate dinner in tonight. There's a fountain, illuminated at it's base, shooting up from a pond in front of the motel. A little island with a large spotlit deer rises from the water also. Majestic as shiny plastic can be. The requisite huge American flag across the highway. And on the grass here at the motel, the skeleton of a teepee. Tipi? What a world.

And what a night. Warm enough but with a cool edge. There are children in this campground. They went swimming earlier. They ride their bicycles. Hold puppies. Sit with their parents by the fire. In the distance a blue bug light crisps. And I've been able finally to go online again. I scouted this spot out on my way back from dropping a ludicrous Fern Michaels book off at the book swap. I had to go back to the Bounder, get my computer and come all the way back, just to see if I could get a signal. I'm flying on four bars.

I'd love to send more emails. But I won't push my luck. I'm feeling antsy.

North Dakota. Sunset. Trees. Grass. Respite. Home, and not.

North Dakota highway.

North Dakota sunflowers. Fields and fields of them. All faces turned in one direction—away from the strong winds that blew us down or across the road. A thrill; and they make me think of Margaret.

Green grapes. A refreshing snack while traveling, especially in extreme heat. And affordable, compared to other fruits of the season. While in motion, sharing a bowlful with one's traveling companion, a workable grab rhythm must be established, since the driver is blindly reaching for his. Because it is possible for a fast-grabbing passenger to outpace a preoccupied driver, it is honorable to be mindful of the universal fair-share code. During this trip I've grown to enjoy green grapes more—to depend on them for succor. We've had a few peaches, lots of apples and some wonderful cherries. But grapes are a staple on this trip.

When I was a kid, cherry was definitely the Lifesaver, lollipop and fruit of choice. Even now, in the baskets of complimentary lollipops at bank tellers' windows, finding a red one is a rarity. Yet every time we had fruit cocktail for dinner when I was young, and the ritual of saving the best 'til last occured, my older sister, Ann, didn't save the pale red maraschino cherry halves like Jeanie and I did. She saved the colorless grapes, which stood out from the peach and pear pieces only because of their shape. Throughout my whole life I have only respected my sister, so it caused me puzzlement each time fruit cocktail appeared on our table and I watched her across from me, finding grapes and placing them safely on the edge of her salad plate, eating her precious cherries as though they were nothing special at all.

She also—oddly—did not put sugar on her cereal. She wasn't driven by a desire for sweets—in fact, she could go without dessert. When we reached for the Rice Krispies or Wheaties and spooned on the sugar, she stayed faithful to her austere Cheerios. I accepted that in her, but it was hard to understand. She did share with the rest of us a love of chocolate cake batter, and wouldn't hesitate to use her superior mathematical skills to divide a cake recipe into sixths so that we could quickly whip up a batch, divide it—fairly —four ways, eat it and clean up before Mom returned from the grocery store.

Much of the richness in my world is due to Ann's choices, her generous sharing, her experiences. My most memorable baby picture includes her. She sits on my right, a big book open on her lap, her head bent over it, deep in concentration, reading. To me. I'm sitting in my bouncy canvas seat, my body turned to her, my eyes on her face—a smile on mine—one of my hands touching her. We were among her first responsibilities in a life that has grown to include many.

She's the one who walked me to my first day of school and nonchalantly conducted me to my kindergarten classroom. It was Ann who, presumably with her baby-sitting money, introduced Ray Charles, Johnny Mathis, jazz, and more, into our home, improving the quality of my time spent ironing there, as well as the rest of my life. She shared what she learned in school, brought succulent unknown details of our family history to light at just the right moment. She pled my case with Mom and Dad regarding junior high school social opportunities. I read her books and still value her literary recommendations. As a writer and accomplished editor, I'm sure Ann would approve of my keeping this list shorter than it should be.

But when it comes to Ann and food, I can't stop yet. After college, she bravely moved to Ossining, New York, and then New York City, living the classic story of the young person with a dream, looking for work in the big city, warming up in coffee shops, finally finding the job that launches her career just before there is no money left even for coffee. When I moved to Massachusetts, I would visit her there. She'd meet me at the train station, or the Port Authority bus terminal, and hanging to her coat tails from subway to sidewalk to her current apartment, my culinary adventures would begin. With Ann, I ate at my first Lebanese restaurant, had taramosalata at the Greek one, dined at a small French place, had crepes at the Brasserie, delicate and wonderful Japanese food, Cuban pork, beans and rice on a busy corner. The list goes on and on, and includes her own kitchen and crosses the country to California.

So if she isn't wild about donuts and cucumbers, it's no big deal. Both of us revel in good food. Like me, she loves variety and will make a meal of carefully chosen appetizers. But this green grape thing; I've always enjoyed them but wouldn't seek them out. The thing about any grape or berry that makes for exciting eating is that each one is so different. Sometimes, for every perfectly fragrant sweet one, many sour or not fully satisfying ones must be consumed. Large numbers can be eaten in that obsessive search for the next good one. As I eat the green grapes, looking out the front window at the clouds above the highway, seeing golden fields out the side, I meet the sour grape, the juicy, the not ripe, and the almost over-ripe. Those taste most like the canned ones—in the fruit cocktail. After the juicy burst, a so-subtle soothing flavor. No added color, no added flavoring—just the grape and its centuries-old power of succor. Although I notice each grape in my mouth, I pause when I find one of those. I think of my family, talking and eating dinner around the white formica table in the kitchen, Ann in her place across from me, with fingers and spoon, picking out the green grapes from her fruit cocktail. Saving the best 'til last.

Again, the landscape has changed. Miles before Brandon the earth started to fold into itself, green bushes and small trees filling each indentation. Small hills are rising; in the near distance entering Brandon, I see dirt roads in intervals going straight up them. There are more trees. More green. The gold fields of wheat, barley and other grains continue.

For hundreds of miles, though, I was nurtured by the rich colors of the Saskatchewan flatlands. Against changing arrangements of clouds in a gray sky, a bountiful palette of golds shone. Pale yellow-green fields glowed as if lit by the sun. Small circles marked the heart of newly cut fields. Tiny ponds ringed with tall green spears of vegetation flashed by. Next to the road, soft grasses and wildflowers flourished—yellow, pale white-gold and pinks, blue-green—bending to the wind. From time to time shocks of tall rusty brown stemmed plants erupted in this gentle blur of color.













In small ways, it was illuminating to be in a place where farmers are in the majority. Where, turning on area tv, a spokesperson for the agricultural community will be on the news, saying that higher fuel prices occuring around harvest time will really hit them, having to fuel all their big machines. Unlike other businesses, they can't pass that increase on to anyone. The town chatter sheet in the local cafe, full of jokes and ads, has one car repair place saying, bring your car in now for servicing, because when you're out in the field, you know you won't have time. I saw across the highway in passing, a flourescent red sign with hand lettering that said, Community (or traditional) Threshing, September 24. The last farm talk I heard was in the restaurant of the hotel in a small town, where we had fried chicken, their specialty. A long gray-haired and bearded man sat with a woman. Eating chicken. An older man appeared, in flannel shirt, jacket and hat. The younger man was guessing the age of the older one, about 90, I'd say. You're wrong. Well, then how old are you? 89. Well see, I was close. Didn't you just have a birthday? And they continued talking about a chemical—something hideous; don't remember the name, but it would cause shivers of fear in people who want organically grown food. The old guy said yeah, it'll take care of blah blah blah. And it'll take all of the hair off your head too.

On Friday, we drive all day through the prairies of Sasketchewan. We find a spot at the charmed Comfort-Plus RV Park outside Regina. While Andre talks with our neighbors, I meet a lovely young girl and her new puppy. I write. I take the dogs out. I discover the Northern Lights glowing behind us. I run and announce this to Andre and his new friends. They nod and uh-huh me, then keep talking. I run back to photograph them, shivering. I remember the time when Jay was small, and we stood with Pete and Erin on the roof outside our apartment on Mechanic Street, awed by the Northern Lights.

We leave the next morning, late. The day is sunny, and warmer. The roads are good, as we continue through Saskatchewan.

When we stop to refuel, I realize yet another dream. I see the Craf-Tea Elevator restaurant and gallery shop. I first saw it in 2001, twice. I yearned to enter, to see, to taste. Today, I ran inside. Spotted three shelves of pies right inside the door. Based on fake whipped cream, I ditched the banana cream and chose one Saskatoon berry, and vanilla cream with meringue. To go.

Now, we've stopped for the night in Brandon, Manitoba. Dinner is ready. While Andre is sleeping, I have gone to the office here where I'm frantically posting—the wireless we paid for to use at our site didn't work. When I go back, we will have potato salad, coleslaw and leftover chicken with a reduced stock—I don't want soup again. And then, we will taste the pies.

Which leads me back to Mukluk Annie's. I said it was a strange and hollow feeling, having my dream realized. But, as Dad used to say, I must have been just talking to hear my head rattle. Because the truth is, it is a good feeling. An accomplishment. To know, to be wiser. And I still read the area maps and travel books. I look out the windows. There are more roadside delights to seduce me, luring me on.

Alberta.
Patterns of our day,
We move with the wind and clouds.

Leaving the mountains behind.

Dreaming of mountains.

August 6, 2005

It's clear we're heading home. Already we've lost an hour. Losing the Midnight Sun, too; almost half-past midnight and it's dark outside. What do you say about the nomadic life once you turn your face toward home? What direction does the yearning take? Does it fork, like the mighty Yukon River, the larger part finding its way to the sea. The other dwindling, disappearing.

Now, I think more often of the horrible mess left on the dining room table. I'm grateful that the dishwasher was left empty. That I left my bathroom clean. It will be time to face head-on the changed state of loved ones. Time to learn of what we missed. I want continued amnesia about the double _oscopy waiting for me at home, but thoughts of it intrude. Tonight, though, we face the Teslin river.

From our rear window—the bedroom—we see the parking lot and the red back door to Mukluk Annie's Salmon Bake Restaurant, plank wood stacked in back with Don't Use This Wood signs; it's headed for the fire inside. Since passing here in 2001—off-season, the place closed down—I've wanted to eat here. I read the Milepost Alaska Highway guide ads in 2003 and wished again, but we drove by—off-season. Tonight we pulled in.

Eat the from the salmon bake side of the menu, and camp free, the ads and signs said. Free parking, water, and dumping. But we wanted electricity, so we paid; we must feed our computers. Even with the extra batteries and inverters Andre installed, it is good to have electricity flow like the water. Tomorrow, all you can eat breakfast for $8.95 Canadian. This is a place to which people return.

August 7, 2005
I was grateful for our time at Mukluk Annie's, but I did find out that once is enough for me. My laundry experience there was perfect; plenty of washers and driers, and right next door. Imagine the luxuriant freedom: taking a shower while the clothes were washing, being able to put freshly dried shirts on hangers, then trot them over to the motorhome to put away while the jeans continued to dry. Capping off the experience with fresh salmon cooked over a smoking spruce fire, while we consumed green and potato salads, baked beans, rolls with butter. I did feel cheated that the dessert was an untouchable (because of the chocolate) brownie, rather than the typical trans Canada/Alaska pie. Who should know better than I that the product often doesn't measure up to the hype. All you can eat scrambled eggs on a steam table should be illegal in any country. One blueberry pancake as big as a plate is all I can eat, thankfully with our own Massachusetts maple syrup. Oh, what a strange and hollow feeling, to have my dreams of Mukluk Annie's fulfilled.

For a while, Mukluk Annie's seemed like a place from which we could not leave. The Bounder wouldn't start. We played it cool. After taking off the engine cover, napping, reading, plugging in the battery charger, walking the dogs and letting the flood of gas dissipate, it started up and we rolled back onto the road, with no time for celebration.

That evening at Burwash Landing. That last long long day.

Tonight, Thursday, August 11, finds us in Lloydminster, where Alberta becomes Saskatchewan on the main drag, right in the middle of town. It is cold, windy—a beautiful evening with gray clouds and a brilliant sun highlighting the white backs of motorhomes and trailers, green-leafed trees; making shadows on the tiny green lawns between our vehicles. A perfect night for pictures. But we have a rapidly dwindling 4 hours of wi-fi purchased here this evening and I have unfinished pieces to blog.

As we head home, time passes rapidly. I can't do my chores and write enough. Things are a jumble. Something about mountains that won't tie itself up nicely. What I need to say about our solitary night next to Kluane Lake in the Yukon Territory. None of it is in order; nothing quite finished. And to make things worse, Elvis will surely need to be lifted out soon to pee. For now though, he is miraculously quiet; this sweet mysterious oldman dog who is a master of constant querulous nerve-wracking emotion-provoking whining high-pitched exclamations—when he isn't sleeping, drinking water or out peeing.

So I'm posting bits and pieces, pulled from their proper places in time. Which is how they will remain in my mind once the days of this journey are far behind me, moments shifting, rearranging, falling into place as they will.

Last night, August 9, at the Northern Lights RV Park in Dawson Creek, BC. Going north, the start of the Alaska Highway. For us, the end of that road. Tonight we are in Whitecourt, Alberta. If you look closely in the second photo, you can see Andre standing at the phone, emailing.

A few days before we left home, Andre and I ran into Roger and Jay at Cafe Martin. Ceremoniously, Roger placed three small plastic animals on their table, and offered us one as a token to take with us. He'd played with all of them as a child. Now, I only remember the black squirrel. Before I, the libra, could even begin to get lost in the agony and ecstasy of choice, I heard Andre say, the squirrel. We'll take the squirrel. That was fine with me, although it looked nasty, and not even completely squirrelly. It would remind me of the adventures that my beloved friends—Margaret and one of her other helpers—had with squirrels at Margaret's. We thanked Roger and told him we'd put it on the rear view mirror.

We'd been on the road a while before we remembered to put the squirrel on the mirror. First we had to find it; then I taped it on top of the mirror. And we traveled on.

As you know, we weren't even away from home for an hour before trouble began. The plague of problems with the Bounder that delayed us in Pittsfield, Albany, Missouri, Arkansas. Mukluk Annie's, Toad River. It would strain me and you if I tried to recall and list each incident and its location.

By now, dear reader, you may be suspicious that you have entered a Jonah and the whale story. The Ancient Mariner's albatross—shape changing in the spirit of our First Nations travels. And that is precisely the point. Somewhere along the way the squirrel came into question. Was the black squirrel the cause of our misfortune? We jokingly passed along that thought to Jay. We did have to argue, though: how can you tell? Is the squirrel bringing us bad luck, or good? Is the squirrel perched on the mirror, mostly out of our sight and thoughts, somehow affecting the aural body of the Bounder adversely?

Or was it keeping us safe in the midst of seeming affliction? Did it help us limp and coast into the mall at Pittsfield; help us lose power at just the right spot on the ramp entering the highway at 7pm so we could safely pull off onto the broad shoulder while we waited for the police? Did it help us find the right garages—the hospitable ones whose mistakes may have been revealed at the next hospitable garage, all of whom did not cheat us, which led us to the next genius mechanic who figured out the problem. Did it help us, when the spedometer quit working? Or when it suddenly refused to start two mornings in a row and Andre figured out why?

That is the question which remains to be answered. Weeks ago, Andre asked me to get rid of it. Get it off the mirror. I did. Get it off the mirror. But since one can't always tell the source of one's good or bad experiences, I couldn't just toss it out the window. So I buried it in my purse. Until tonight, when I took it out to photograph.

I have to admit that it isn't cute. Doesn't attract me or warm my heart. It never did. In fact, it looks a little sinister to me. And I wish I could remember what animals we left behind on that table. But here we are, traveling home. True, our mechanical troubles have wreaked havoc with our schedule and put many dollars in the pockets of garages and mechanics. However, I'd also say we've been quite fortunate. So tonight, I put the squirrel back deep in my purse. When we get home, maybe I'll give it back to Roger. Or see if he'll allow a trade.

Tonight, I'm sitting in a room outside the laundrOmat at the RV park in Fort Nelson, BC. Surrounded by a jumble of odd chairs, tables and old carriage seats, and four unconnected washing machines—too dirty to rest my computer on while searching for that elusive wireless signal—and this desk, where I've finally angled myself into receiving full strength.

The last time I blogged, I was standing outside, hooked up to a pay phone, dialing in on an 800 number, conversing with two very nice gentlemen—one a saavy mac user from Paris, the other his friend from Manitoba. Then there was the conversation I couldn't help but overhear from the man who saw a diesel "pusher" (diesel motorhome with rear engine) and the car it was towing burn to the ground in twenty minutes. When he left the phone I had to ask for details. Which is to say that what I am writing sometimes requires editing beyond the usual, whether I anguished over it for hours and copied it into my blog, or composed extemporaneously. Like now. So I've gone back to my sourdough entry and revised. No matter. I humbly thank those of you who have read thus far.

Although I will rejoin my companions, both human and doggie, it is my ambition and intention in the hopefully speedy wireless future, to return and deep within this blog, change the spelling of laundramat to laundr o mat. I bid you goodnight on this cool Canadian evening. And Peter Jennings: thank you, and rest in peace.

Alaska, Yukon Territory, British Columbia. As we drive this land, mountains at times encircle us. Our road runs between ranges, or climbs among their ridges and peaks, or we see them as angled shadows in the distant haze. Still, the sky rising high above pushes them down. Every cloud cliche could have originated here: veils of clouds, clouds like gauze, puffs of clouds, trailing clouds, banks of threatening, angry, playful, soft, fluffy clouds.

Time refuses to be measured by the clock, or by miles. Although we're tethered by hunger and thirst, the Bounder's caprices and gasoline tank. Each day seems to hold many days, the sky above us an unpredictable and changing display of sun and clouds. Rain, sun and clouds. Rain, and clouds.

True, each day begins and ends in a campground. Or just off the road. We roll down the blinds and pull the curtains across the front window; in the morning we raise them, pull back the curtain to reveal a windshield wet with rain, or fogged from the heat inside.

Sometimes we have neighbors. The same people who pass us on the highway, or stopped where we did the night before. Their routine is like ours. We rest, we eat, we sleep, we tend to our vehicles, computers and pets, we rise and leave again.

Already this morning, we woke to rain, saw a sunrise in blue clouded skies which soon darkened to gray. A pale double rainbow surprised us, arching from the cafe near the road and ending behind us on the tree-covered hill overlooking the river. Now, the sun has turned the sky a gentle blue. I've begun breakfast.

Then, unplugged, unhooked, we'll attach ourselves to the yellow-lined strip through this wilderness and begin again. Headed south this time, and east.

We've seen animals in the last few days. Buffalo, caribou, moose. Brown bear. This afternoon, goats. Then later, we saw a deer. Dead by the road. It brought me back to a conversation we'd had earlier on this trip. We saw another deer lying sweet in death. A baby. And I told Andre what I'd often thought: how everytime I see a fawn—victim of the highway—I say to myself, Bambi. I say it in a sorrowful way, loving Bambi. I tried to explain that seeing a dead fawn by the road must call up that name in untold numbers of people all over the world. And what power the man who created him wielded over our hearts. He agreed.

I thought of Disney's familiar Bambi, and beyond that to the original Bambi, by Felix Salter. The one I found somewhere and read to Jay. The dark blue cover was missing its spine; I patched it with a brown satin ribbon. Though I have discarded many books in my life, I hold on to this one. Partly because of the story, and because of how much I loved reading it with Jay. We entered its aura and left enlarged, though saddened. I was glad to have discovered this Bambi who existed long before the Disney studios dreamed of the children who would love him, and the fortune they would make.

Then Andre said that his father was Felix Salter's literary agent, responsible for getting Bambi published in this country. That he was the agent who helped Salter sell the rights to Disney.

So, today, we stopped for caribou. Horses unfenced grazed near the road. Andre photographed the adorable goats. And briefly in passing, I murmured Bambi again.

Every morning I arise, crawl around on the bed and make it, stand up and get my new underwear from the storage cabinet above the back window, put it on, open the shade on the back window, and restore the little video camera to its upright position—it tells the monitor on the dashboard how things look behind us. And then. Then, joining Margaret just hours later in her morning routine, I have my cup of fiber in hot water.

This warm morning drink changes texture rapidly: from throat itching dust to a soothing gelatinous liquid of substance. With a fresh bouquet. Since it replaces coffee for me now—I hear and smell two strong cups of it brewing each morning; I choose and grind it at the grocery store—I am savoring every subtle nuance that non-irradiated fiber and warm water can deliver.

That faithfulness to my diet is a good thing, as a ravenous rover in the land of french fries, hamburgers, good and bad white bread, hard and soft ice cream. And sourdough pancakes.

Heading home now, our first night out of Fairbanks brought us back to Tok. Having no loyalty to Bull Shooter's, we decided to stay at the Sourdough RV Park. Home of the sourdough pancake breakfast buffet and the sourdough pancake throwing contest every night. I see you all rolling your eyes now. But that's how we found ourselves at 6:30pm, sitting in a bank of green picnic tables under new a new roof, next to a glass-fronted wood stove, forced from our insular social pattern into communication with others. We were lucky enough to sit across from Enid and George, from Green Valley, Arizona. They brought their own cocktails, as did some others. Next to us, folks from Sault St. Marie. The tables behind us were full. The group with dome tents from Holland. People from Florida, Missouri. After lining up for a meal of camper stew or reindeer chili in a sourdough bowl with pie for dessert (fruits of the forest), our fellow gourmands became our competitors.

But first, Ken, the young owner, leapt on one of the benches and delivered a screaming comedy routine about pancakes and the Alaskan cold that was hilarious. We joined him in singing o'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave and then heard the deep belch of a volley of sourdough pancakes being shot from a small cannon. They arced nicely between spruce and birch and fell gracefully to the forest floor. Soon enough, things got serious as we lined up to throw two pancakes each into the white five-gallon bucket. Winners were to have a group photo which would appear on the stage Wall of Fame. If no one was successful, all of us would bear together the humiliation of appearing on the Wall of Shame. On the far outhouse back wall. Those who were successful got a pancake token for a free breakfast buffet. Okay, yes. If you must know, we paid for our breakfasts.

I did give it a sporting try. It was near the end of the competition. There had been some winners: the young man from Holland started the trend to win. He was followed by women my age or older who were succesful. The lines were long; many a well-aimed pancake fell short of the target; rim shots didn't count, either. I was planning an overhand throw. Maybe even a two-handed overhand, like a basketball shot. I mean, this bucket was maybe 20 feet away, and on stage. My stomach was tight and my heart beating fast as I rose to stand in line behind a young couple with two boys. He let each boy stand by the bucket and drop one in. Dad and Mom lost. I moved into the official throwing position behind a picnic table. Thinking small might work best, I carefully chose two pancakes I'd had my eye on from the start. Of course Andre was ready with his camera. By gum, I wanted this, and I wanted it badly. I knew I had it in me. I thought of Jeanie, visualizing winning tennis games, and then winning.

I guess I just didn't visualize the pancake falling into the bucket. And in my defense, we had no practice. No warm-up. Just two chances, throwing cold. My overhand went to the stage, but wild. My next shot missed the stage. I didn't mention that each person throwing was a target for our cynical host to shine at comedic insult. After my valiant sporting try, he reached into his leather case of extras and gave me a third try. He'd given a few other lucky campers the same: a mosquito pancake, a boomerang pancake. Mine was an elephant. It slid through the sawdust and nudged the edge of the stage. My humiliation was complete and sweet. My moment to shine had passed. Still, as we retired to our home among the aspens, I felt lighter even in defeat. I had laughed and been among people from all over; I carried the short story of Enid with me. Her smiling, kind eyes.

On Sunday in Nenana, after we ate, we made the rounds of the shops that were open. There was the old train station with its small museum and souvenir shop, a dollar store, and a log-cabin complex of souvenir/books/art/t-shirt shops. After the owner took our money for the RV park (which she owned), for the CD of herself playing accordion with someone on the steps of her shop, after we had peered into all the little log buildings in her Alaska-style mini-mini mall, after she indicated that she owned the dollar store, after we were given a token for free coffee (in her cafe down the street ), I jokingly said, so you own the whole town? Practically, she said.

On the outside wall—beautifully framed, with chrysanthemums blooming beneath—were two panels covered with photographs of tour buses and their drivers. Andre said, she has a thing for bus drivers. I immediately thought of my tourist town, Shelburne Falls. And I wanted to show these pictures to Marion T., and Art, Andrew and Mike M. and Sarah, and everyone on the marketing committee, and SFABA members and anyone in town who has ever discussed the problem of tour buses and their ramifications in Shelburne Falls—and I wanted to say, and you think Shelburne Falls is a tourist town with a bus problem?

This evening, on our last night in Fairbanks, I think of home. Tomorrow morning we officially start back, and I'm ready. It's a sunny night, finally warmer here, and hours until sunset. It must be quiet, past midnight, on Bridge Street. Being the tourist—on the other side for the duration of this journey—has its appeal. But just for a time.

I think back to a hot and sunny Sunday in Shelburne Falls last year. I needed to get away from the computer and went outside. I got some ice cream and walked down Bridge Street to Deerfield Avenue. I sat down on the bench by the Massamont parking lot, next to North River Glass. The town was full of tourists. I watched them walk to the Potholes and back: an assortment of nationalities, young and older couples, families, friends. They had that air of anticipation that people have when they are on an outing, sure that something special is waiting for them, and it's here, today. And whether the couples held hands and looked at each other more than their surroundings, or strolled like old companions; whether they were minutes or many hours from home—it was easy to see that most of them were ready to be happy. Ready, in this different setting, to give each other a different kind of attention.

And for a strange few moments I developed a case of hostess jitters. Suddenly became involved with the tourists and their expectations. We advertise ourselves. We promise a lot. People flowed past me, eating ice cream, drinking coffee, carrying towels and picnics, laughing, reining in children. I scanned their faces. Were they having a good time? Did they think the Potholes were wonderful? Was the Bridge of Flowers worth the walk? Were they taking anything back as a souvenir of Shelburne Falls?

It wasn't that I wanted them to fall in love and move here. I'd still be upset if I couldn't find a parking place because of them. It's just that briefly, on that beautiful Sunday, I must have identified with them. It made me intensely aware that we in Shelburne Falls were all part of this, their one special day. And I felt a strange affection for them and their vulnerability. And I wished them well. And I'll never forget those moments. They passed. But they changed me.

More gray clouds, more rain from Sterling to Wasilla, where we spent the night listening to mosquitoes and rain.

The next day took us through Denali National Park. The mountain ranges appeared and disappeared in clouds and haze.



At one pull-over, we found ourselves in a growing crowd of travelers who had stopped at the recommended view, eager to see and photograph the McKinley/Denali peak. Intrepidly, we climbed a pile of dirt to get a better view. Everyone joined in speculation as to which peak was which, and the sun did shine down on us briefly, but we never were clear about what we were seeing. We left the congenial gathering, tracked in dirt from our climb, and drove on. That inspirational view of Denali never appeared to us.

Later, I began to smell something burning. It was strong. We decided that the haze dulling the beauty of the mountains on both sides of us had to be smoke.

That afternoon, we stopped to stay the night in Nenana, a small town at the juncture of the Tanana and Nenana Rivers. We had lunch at the Rough Wood Inn restaurant. It was late, we were the only customers, and the woman who owned the place seemed happy to talk with us. She showed us a print-out from a website that mapped fires in Alaska. In that one area, there must have been at least fifteen or so burning, some of which were controlled burns. Apparently, not a rare occurance.

Her friend joined our conversation; a woman who lived in the bush. Oh, about a hundred miles away. No one within a hundred miles either. She had to fly in and out. And didn't do that but once or twice a year. She and her husband built and were building their 3-story log house. Had a big garden. Canned. I didn't try to hide my fascination and awe. I asked if they also knew how to handle their medical emergencies. She said if they needed help, they dialed 911 and the air force rescue would come right away. It was good practice for them. They had an antenna and could get 2 tv stations with good reception. Had a generator, passive solar and a windmill.

When we left, it wasn't with a pleasant aftertaste of the hamburger I'd ordered; it was her own lightly smoked salmon, brought to us on a small plate to sample. Some sugar, a little soy sauce, and hours of smoke. Red salmon. Sockeye. The star of the season.

Saturday morning we left Sterling, the Kenai River, and Dan. When we were there in 2001, parked in the same spot by the fast-flowing Kenai, Dan—a professional guide and outfitter—took us out in his boat. It was October, cold and only intermittently sunny. We shivered our way up the river, saw few fishermen, a shoreline gold and green, many eagles and spectacularly clouded skies.

This time, we arrived in the thick of fishing season: salmon were swarming, so were the fishermen. This time, Dan had clients booked; and we didn't plan to fish or spend time on the river.


And this time, Dan had a second boat. I'm missing many details of the story of Dan, his boats, and how he got this second boat, but I want to share some of what I know.

Dan was 18 when he and Andre met and worked together on the pipeline in Valdez. Andre left; Dan continued doing survey work. At some point he began working for an oil company on the "North Slope", by Prudhoe Bay, and did so for many years. His job was to pump by-products from the drilling process back into the earth as the well was being drilled. One day he was ordered, in addition, to inject other waste into the same location: solvents, oils, liquid from working on vehicles, rigs, etc. I can't recite the complete list, but it was long, varied and lethal. By law, these wastes were to be dumped back into one deep hole at one location—only. The company was expected to truck wastes there from all its sites.

On the day when his bosses told him to pump those poisons into the wrong place, he protested. Said it wasn't right, or legal, that he didn't want to break the law. After deep thought, he realized he had no choice but to be a whistle-blower. He lost everything. His marriage did survive. His four children are almost grown now, and they've all lived through what was a horrible time emotionally and financially. The people who ordered him to break the law ultimately fared better.

He began a new career as a glazier. After a while, this native Alaskan who grew up hunting and fishing decided to become a certified guide, to take people out to hunt, fish, or just see the Kenai River. For that, he needed a boat. Committed to the idea that people in wheelchairs—especially veterans—should also be able to fish and see the river, he had a boat built that would safely accomodate wheelchairs. For that, he received the gratitude of his disabled passengers and their families, recognition, awards, community support, and increased community awareness about the necessity for accessible docks.

Since guiding is seasonal, he had to continue glazing, and severely injured his back on the job. A long period of pain and recuperation followed. The injury and life-threatening side effects of surgery limited his ability to work. With the help of his sons he was able to keep the guide business viable. Because the state of Alaska recognizes the value of Dan's accessible boats—and as a form of rehab for him—they subsidized the building of a second boat. He found someone willing to build it affordably, and it was completed this year. Wheelchair passengers enter the first boat from the side; they roll in on a ramp from the front of the new boat.

Business was just starting to build again this summer. Fishing is only allowed on certain days and under certain conditions. Just before we arrived, one of Dan's clients caught an 81 pound salmon from that new boat. (The current record is 96.) Thus, another newspaper article for the Last Frontiersman. The day before we left, he took out a father and his severely retarded son. The young man was excited with his catch, which made Dan happy. But we left him again facing great challenges: loss of access to the Kenai, as he helplessly watches his parents in their continuing, confusing battle to retain ownership of their land, and the necessity of finding work for the winter.

The sun never lasted long while we were in Sterling. It was cold and rainy. It was hard, knowing what Dan and his family face now. He has worked hard; his love extends beyond his family. He has spent his life trying to make positive contributions. When I met Dan in 2001, after years of working with Margaret and moving at times in the community of people with disabilities, I felt a connection to him because of his boat. I was grateful for what he dreamed and then manifested. I hope that, despite the darkness oppressing him and his family now, his spirit will continue to shine.

So, I drove alone one day from Sterling to Soldotna. About 10 miles. Had to get some groceries, and it was a chance to go to some of the stores which had aroused my interest as we drove past them earlier. One was The Moose is Loose Bakery. I snuck in there. The place was full. There were about 10 children lined up choosing what they wanted—with adult supervision. On my way in I saw one boy go out carrying a giant donut. Don't even go there, my rational mind screamed. Hey, no problem. There were cinnamon rolls, danish, eclairs, meaningless cookies. And yes, large and small donuts. I settled rather quickly on the raisin-studded cinnamon roll, and somehow managed to get waited on while the children were still huddled and deciding. Having a shred of fairness, I did think to get a thick almond-flecked snowball cookie for Andre. Then I ran to the car clutching my bag, noticing on my way the children—happily munching—in the parking lot waiting for the rest of their crew.

I do have to tell you that this was a modest cinnamon roll. Meaning it was the size of one fist rather than two, and was an inch high at best, rather than two. And the icing was spread appealingly over the whole roll, and somewhat transparent, rather than in a thick glop on top. Meaning it cost perhaps $1.69 rather than $4.95 and promised to deliver some taste.

I tore into it, needing to find out. Then I drove to the grocery store next door and parked. Then I began eating it, unwinding it slowly. It was sweet, sticky, delectable. Another bite. One more. I should save some for later. I continued to eat and enjoy, because, after all, no one knew what I was up to. And doesn't that add to the pleasure? Or do I mean does sneaking add to the pleasure. I looked up and surveyed the heavy sky, the crowded parking lot. Then I saw the woman in the car facing me. The big green one. She was chewing too. Mirrored, I laughed. Felt a warm glow of kinship. Sisters. But she didn't look especially happy. She didn't return my smile. My little wave. This eating in the sanctuary of one's car parked in a vast mall lot is serious business. Ecstatic maybe, but serious.