From Bakersfield, California we drove up into green mountains. Fairy-tale green under the sun, with fruit trees, the occasional vineyard, grass nurturing our eyes and the widely-spaced grazing cows. As we continued, the lush greenery faded to desert, and we drove through the day from California into Arizona. Just after sunset, we by-passed the truck stops and rolled into the Blake Ranch RV Park and Horse Motel in Kingman.

All day I was, as usual, aware that my eyes were reveling in the passing landscape. It made me feel good. But I knew that I was separated from it by glass, metal, plastic and speed, and that the deep intimacy of dwelling there was so far beyond seeing, and out of my ken.

When the time came to leave Saint Helena, we had to make it out of the driveway. Two ninety degree turns. Somehow, though, we all thought the exit would be easier than entering.


I woke Jay when we were ready; he had driven to Mendocino and back the night before, including driving into and out of the Mendocino Woodlands Park to get Heather—twice—on rutty dirt drop-off roads. So as when we arrived, our genial host appeared relaxed but capable in his "lounge wear".

He and Andre worked out a plan.

















I retired to the toilet, as they put it—the plan and the Bounder, all 36'—in motion.
My retirement from the action was of necessity, as well as cowardice. I knew the outcome would be positive; I just didn't want to add any anxious vibes. Thus closeted, hopeful, I began to hear a repeated screeching. I imagined the gnarly branches of the walnut trees creating a gauntlet through which Andre and Jay must guide the motor home—avoiding them was part of the plan. Yet here was this frequent, intermittent high-pitched screeching intruding on my peace. As were my colorful fantasies.

When I finally ventured out to the driveway, the motor home was in position to head down the driveway. But Andre was backing it up, then coming forward incrementally, and repeating the process and the screeching. At one point he and Jay exchanged knowing manly glances equal to, but not, the thumbs-down gesture. Actually, Andre wrinkled his nose cutely while subtly shaking his head. No.

I was able to ascertain that it wasn't the end of the world, our trip, or our exit. And I forgave myself immediately and completely for that notion, considering our history on the road. Days of rain had caused the problem—damp brake pads ("like running your finger around the rim of a wineglass," Andre says), and so Andre proceeded to the end of the driveway, preparing to exit.



Relieved, I started the Rav and drove into position behind the Bounder, having been momentarily distracted from my emotions around leaving Jay. Yet the next moments brought those farewells, and then the tandem left turns of Bounder followed by me driving the Rav onto the busy road. And away.
















The brakes dried as we drove away past hills and fields of ordered vineyards, bright with sunshine, green grass and yellow mustard blooming between the rows.



















While Andre attached the motor home, I tried to tend my spirit: to hold the joy of being in Jay's life and let go of the sadness of moving physically away. I took pictures, the rows braced me, the blossoms on the tree by the brown stone wall claimed a small part of me. There. Then.

Look. Highway 1 for only a few miles. The Pacific. Mendocino. Roads that won't stop curving. Redwoods. Second growth. Huge hollowing mossy wet trunks all that remain of the elders.

This place, California. This Okie—me—finally showing up there. Long after the dust pushed some of us all the way to that golden land. Now, with the windbreak trees growing old on the Oklahoma prairies and myself growing old in the Northeastern hills.

All these first looks merging with the good-byes to my son, my niece, my sister and brother-in-law.

It is too early now to gather images and memories of that special dinner, the driving, the relentless acupuncture of the vine on the rolling breast of earth, the sampling of the scotch—the peaty and the sweet. The constant reminders of food and earth, food and earth. The past and future pulling and marking the hours. The saying good-bye. The sun after rain. The sharp turn in the road. The speed. The slow turnings. The change in direction.

The drift from the news is that there is snow—at least several feet—on the mountainous part of I-5 out from LA that we drove to get to St. Helena. Specifically, "The Grapevine" segment. Storm clouds were gathering over us as we climbed. When we parked in the foothills and spent the night at the truck stop, the mountains behind us were already highlighted with snow. Yesterday, in the high elevations, that road was closed.

Here, rain. Rain. RAIN. Insistent, not so gentle. Once with some hail. Jay said it doesn't thunder and lightning here. Or if so, he hasn't seen it. And everyone here is grateful for this rain. Usually, it's dry here. Throat-dry dry. According to my Western Massachusetts-born source.

I'm feeling happy for this chance to be in his home, his car, his life for these few days. We are missing Deb, though, and Deb can light up a room. We could use more light under these dark skies. She up and flew to Thailand for ten days with some other folks. I understand that Deb is a traveler, and I admire that in her.

Tomorrow should be sunny. They say. In a few days we will go to Davis, and stay in an RV park not too far away. For now, on this lazy afternoon, let it rain, let it pour.

Rain. Rain. Rain. Inside the motor home it sounds like mulberries falling on a tin can lid overhead. After hours of it, the charm fades (even to one tenaciously looking for the good in everything) and the thought of stepping outside the door feels like inviting an instant soaking.

In reality, I step out into a gentle rain.

I've loaded up all our breakfast ingredients to take in to cook in Jay's kitchen. This is after I blew a circuit breaker using the microwave, electric heater and television at the same time. Jay had a busy night—Valentines Day—at the restaurant, and then went to bed early this morning after unwinding. I had to wake him to go fix things. After opening every drawer and cabinet door—and there are many in that kitchen—I got my homemade hash browns going, sliced the raisin toast Andre and I had just gotten from the local bakery, cut mushrooms and red onion, grated cheddar cheese, pulled the smoked ham from the remaining half of the chi-chi sandwich I had for lunch at the Prado in Balboa Park in San Diego, cast aside the limp remains, and heard what I thought might be Jay getting up again. Although he needed/wanted to sleep, I was happy that he materialized in time to snap things together by making 3 custom omelettes, which we took out to the booth table in the motor home to eat.

So it's been a lazy Sunday. In a while, we'll go to Davis to have dinner with my sister and her husband: Ann and Chuck. Beyond being eager to see them, I'm looking forward to Andre being in Davis. We've been talking about towns lately. The big and the small. The one time I stepped off the Amtrak in Davis to see my sister a few years ago, I felt good. The scale just fit. Then there's the California light. Or the California sunlight, I should say. I think I saw it briefly yesterday a few times.

Jay said most of the time the sky here is blue. The leaves and mosses on the trees are green, but the grasses are golden. We see green now, because this is the short (cold!) rainy season. Yesterday Jay drove us 4 miles uphill on a single lane road, full of twists and turns, echoing the tree shapes that surrounded us. Everything was beautiful. Andre had no camera, and, if he had, wanted sun to heighten the contrast between the greens. What we were seeing was too much for a camera, too much for words. But I snapped a few pictures. Like I've said before, sometimes I feel like taking photos is just a prayer back. A thank you. A yes-I-saw-and-felt-deeply. I don't know what the object, the picture is for. Proof, story-telling, sharing? Already yesterday has merged with my memories. I ate the cake, and do I have it too?

Time. Place. Space.

This evening Andre said we've driven 3800 miles. Or, to be exact, he has driven those miles amazingly. I have traveled them. Yet every night, we sleep in the same bed, brush our teeth in the same sink, put Sam and Phuphu's "cookies" in their special places.

When I put the leashes on Sam and Phuphu, open the door and step out, urge Sam to jump, and set Phuphu on the ground, we're in a different place. Tonight I sit again at our table, and we're in St. Helena. Rain patters on the metal roof over my head. The dinner dishes are washed and put away, everyone else is sleeping inside; outside my door Jay's home is dark until he returns from work late tonight.

Earlier this afternoon, he met us at the end of his driveway. The one with white rail fence on either side. We turned from the main highway through Napa—Route 29, onto Zinfandel Lane, and then onto Silverado Trail. Finally.

We had ventured through myth already. San Diego. Los Angeles. The far edge of San Francisco. Places and highways marked in memory by the harmonic poetics of the Beach Boys, the forever of movies, books and tv.

We cruised through walled freeways, under graffiti trimmed overpasses, sandwiched between cars and trucks, buffeted by semis, knowing that somewhere out from the nerved-up moving center of Us, there was a Hollywood sign, there was a Watts neighborhood, there were hillside homes with fabulous views, there were homes with barred windows, there was Griffith Park, there were clubs, dives, malls and all the other known and unimagined elements of city and suburban life.

Still, almost every moment of California has been a surprise. I couldn't begin to describe what I feel "in the air". I'll admit I'm uneducated and unprepared; barely studied a topographical map. Palm trees in the mountains, mountains in front of other mountains stippled with snow. Miles and miles of fruit trees, nut trees, crowded close together, stretching as far as I can see. A patch of trees in bloom, rows of tiny white wrapped saplings extending forever, thousands of trees buzzed flat on top.

Low gently folding green hills, windmill farms suddenly materializing—some in motion, others absolutely still. Here and there windmill parts like fruit fallen from the tree, tumbled to a stop on the slope. Vehicles flowing together through close hills that open suddenly to a distant bright horizon. Then another city, bridges and flashes of ocean, gray ships in gray water.

Then the slow fantasy created by the grape. Castles, haciendas, clean modern structures, long driveways, fences, gold-lettered signs. The thrill of familiar names. Then the epic poem of the grapevine—the eyes see the bare trimmed Y of the winter vine repeating itself support by support, line by line, acre by acre, mile by mile. All that wants to sprout, travel, curl and burst under the sun sublimated. Waiting.

But for me in these past weeks, and now, there has been fruition. The connections between family and friends across space and time are ever, invisibly flowing. Supported by talk or letter, prayer or imagining, time spent together. And here I am, passing through the familiar and strange. The pin on the map that signifies family or friend becomes a blooming place when we meet, to be marked in the heart after we depart.

This afternoon Jay stood at the end of the driveway in his robe, pajamas and slippers. The 90 degree right turn off the road into that driveway seemed impossible. We began it, but had to stop, halting traffic behind us. That panic, until Jay clearly and calmly directed all 36 feet of us plus the car through the white fence (less than an inch from the fence!). Andre unhooked the car, then Jay brought him through the next 90 degree right turn until we were parked—victoriously. Jay was smiling confidently through it all.

Something there is in me that loves a palm tree.

Tuesday night moon in San Diego. Safe port.
Thursday morning sun. Preparing to leave the neighborhood. Heading for Napa Valley and Jay-country—out of wi-fi range soon.

Oh yes and Amen. We are safely in San Diego now. And totally grateful because Andre's friend since junior high has been giving us the gift of driving us everywhere. (According to Rick, almost every freeway is on a fault line.) But to get here, we had to climb the mountains directly into raging roaring winds, with rain, sleet and snow.

Rick had experienced a storm in San Diego and called to warn us that it was coming our way and we might want to pull over for awhile and wait it out; that according to the radar it should blow over in about an hour. We kept calling back and forth as we drove into the dark clouds.

When one of the side awnings started banging, threatening to unroll, we pulled over and Andre had to get out and secure it with plastic loop ties, and then a red dog leash. We waited for about an hour. At one point I looked out the side window and saw a huge rainbow behind us. Soon after, we started up again. That was our first stop.

The second time we stopped in a casino parking lot, nosed into the wind again so we wouldn't be broadsided by it, had a snack and a rest and watched an orange windsock blow into a straight horizontal.

When we started again, the storm seemed to be lifting. Change. Rain, sleet, snow, wind. That's what it was all about. And huge piles of rounded rocks. Canyons. Drop-offs. After all that, after slowly, finally coming down several thousand feet, we headed toward a crack of light and suddenly emerged into sunlight and traffic—the rush hour crescendo. We made it through I-5, taking the proper exits that brought us here, to Campland RV Park by the bay. And then began this lovely time with Rick, and his wife, Diana, and their friend.

Our furnaces are on. The sun has been shining! Now, a bright moon. As I sit here, I wonder about the strong storms with possible tornados that this morning were headed toward Jeanie and Bob's territory, and I think of the cold and ice our friends and family at home are experiencing. We're all in our places.

On Thursday, we have been advised to head out at 11am on I-5 toward LA to avoid the heaviest traffic there. Then, it will be another race against the elements—this time the rain, before another high elevation trek. We'll be heading toward Jay in Saint Helena. But that will come later. This is a very good now. The end of a rich day spent in good company. Bedtime.

When we left Phoenix and headed on I-8 westbound to San Diego, there were impressive piles of clouds, and some intermittent rain. Not usual, we're told. That day was leisurely, with lunch at a rest area. We planned to stop around 3pm at a truckstop in Yuma. They had no room for RVs, so I frantically searched 3 books for somewhere in the area we could stay as we drove down the highway. We were lucky to find a space, not in Yuma, Arizona, but across the river in Winterhaven, California. On the phone she said to go through the old city, and they'd be on the left. And to look for a lot of palm trees.

As we crossed a high bridge into California, I looked down to my right and saw 2 old iron bridges. When we got to Sans End (Without End) RV park, we found not only palm trees—an oasis—but a few stories. One of them was about the old iron bridge. During the depression, the "law" occupied the bridge and forbid people to cross the bridge into California if they didn't have jobs.

The owner also talked about the skirted palm trees; he said they gave extra shade, even in high temperatures of 120 degrees. Last night it was on the cool side in Winterhaven. I cooked pork chops purchased in Sedona and made a coconut-lemon tapioca dessert with giant Phoenix lemons Russ picked for us from a tree in Paradise, and clementines from California purchased in Cottonwood, Arizona.

Today we had to stop at a check station on the road. There were border patrol cars all over, and at times we could see the fence at the border in the distance. We'd been stopped once already, questioned about where we'd started and stopped and planned to go, and were waved on.

This time the uniformed woman asked to enter our motorhome; we thought she was going to confiscate citrus. She looked in the fridge for citrus, while I told her all we had. She took nothing, but told us that a citrus virus had come up from Mexico and was killing citrus trees. It had done so in Florida already, and was now in California as far as San Diego. She asked us to use the lemons before we went beyond San Diego. We considered the implications of all that as we continued west again on I-80. We were relaxed, it was sunny, with mountains in the near distance and desert on both sides of us. We didn't know yet about the weather, or the road ahead.

Nor did we last night, as we settled in among the palms at Sans End. I took a walk with my camera. People sat in couples and groups outside their RVs, and the smell of charcoal grilled meat was in the air. Border patrol helicopters passed overhead. A large moon emerged. I feasted my eyes on the place. We rested in peace.

A senior settlement among many on the outskirts of Phoenix: Paradise RV Park. We left Sunday for San Diego after visiting there with Russ and Sandi, and having lunch with Regina. A small representation of all the Colrain people who live part- or full-time in this area.

As we rode with them through several towns and communities, it was hard to realize that all the housing (gated and open) as far as we could see, was for people 55 and older. Even now I am in awe.

Sandi and Russ are so happy here, and with their home in Paradise, where well-kept streets are lined with dwellings like RVs, with pitched roofs and carports and storage sheds, with RVs and fifth wheels interspersed on most blocks. Travel by golf cart is popular, and in the evening cocktails are in the drink receptacles on the dashboard. (Outside on city streets, golf carts are legal and cruise off to the side.) In Paradise, folks ride by on bicycles and tricycles, or walk alone or with their dogs (to the bright grassy spots at the end of the blocks in the Pet Area). Everyone waves or nods to passersby. Everyone is smiling.

The center has a heated pool, whirlpools, shops for silver-crafting, wood-working, watercolor painting, ceramics, exercise rooms, exercise equipment, library, post office, small cafe, dancing, huge pool room, poker, bridge, cribbage. As Sandi says, "There's so much to do." All this with mostly clear skies and sunshine. Small shopping centers are close-by where one can bank, get hair cuts, manicures and pet grooming, as well as medications and pizza. Larger malls offer more in every direction. In 5 years, Russ and Sandi have seen 4-way stops become confusing stop-lighted intersections as construction of more housing burgeons. The cactus and palm trees are everywhere, and beyond are mountains. There are interesting car trips in every direction.

On Sunday after our $2.99 breakfast (2 eggs, 2 bacon, homefries, 2 toast) they took us to a strip lined with car dealerships on both sides. Every kind of dealership except Hummer, Rolls Royce, MG and Bentley. All with huge lots full of cars. Incredible.

Sandi said that to move a saguaro or have one in your yard, you must have a permit and a landscaper to plant them. They have to be transplanted facing the same direction from which they came. That makes me smile, deep inside.

I think I've started taking pictures in Sedona because I feel obligated. We are surrounded by monumental beauty. But it seems harder to see. Here, I feel an inner mounting disquiet. And since we arrived on Tuesday afternoon, I have been musing about why. Some might suggest that my feelings come from the vortexes and powerful energies here. I don't think so. Though I don't deny that something here might magnify my emotions. But the feelings I'm watching in myself aren't the most familiar or turbulent ones.

In Albuquerque, I felt as if I had been drinking coffee all day, after drinking none, or very little. I felt physically uncomfortable, almost couldn't get my breath. Later it came to me that maybe I was being affected by the altitude. I remembered how lousy I felt when we were here in 2002 driving through the Painted Desert. How I gave up taking pictures because I felt so bad. But here in Sedona, even after searching for, finding and drinking cappuccino, I have felt physically at ease for the first time in days. It's not coffee nerves. It's not the altitude.

Can a say it is a kind of grief? A kind of soul nervousness maybe?

Like so many towns, Sedona has grown hugely since we were here in 2002. It is, after all, a tourist town like Shelburne Falls where the tourism "industry" contributes to my livelihood. When I first visited Sedona, it was already commercial and growing. Yet the signs for psychic readings and vortex tours openly affirmed that what spiritual travelers sought could be found here—a place where the power of the earth could overwhelm the mundane. A place of majesty and mystery.

We humans are growing exponentially and because in America we're free to move at will, one must expect bursts of visitors and new inhabitants in places of exceptional beauty or prosperity. The high hopes of so many here are reflected in new homes, resorts, hotels, restaurants, and more of the usual found on every strip and in any mall. Heavier traffic follows, although well-defined bike lanes hint at the slower pace that some work to maintain here.

Area designers are aware of their responsibility to blend new structures with the surrounding red cliffs, mesas, rock formations and vegetation; subjugating nature would be a tragic mistake for tourism. So new gated communities nestle into hillsides. Or with more money, homes gain altitude, sidling up to where (I declare in anxious moments) only the gods and the winds and wild animals should be.

All this encroachment is at the core of my upset. As well as the fact that the exuberant and carefully crafted expansion is happening at exactly the wrong time in our economy. In this place I feel too powerfully aware of our dependence on producing, making, buying, selling. I feel here the rush to build and cash in and make a living and connect to mystery and community. And I feel here the sadness for us all; the long intake of breath at the realization that this way of ours is failing all over—in the beautiful places and those hardest for the spirit to bear.

Despite all my thought, re-writing, and the loss of my final conclusion just now in the blogosphere, I press on. I'm tired of thinking of how destructive we are, here among the rest of the living things, sleeping or waking, trying to find our way. What I am feeling now is compassion for us all.

I think it was John McPhee who wrote that the wild places must be preserved to sustain the human spirit. We need to be able to visit them, and if not, we must at the very least know that they exist somewhere. And perhaps, those of us who dwell in the beautiful places must graciously allow others to visit, let the city dwellers refresh themselves in our mountain streams.

For now, I am the visitor. I see and feel as we move from snow and sleet to saugaro and skirted palm. The red rocks are behind me now, and the anxiety lingers along with the compassion and hope for us all that rise like landmarks along the way.

Sun Valley, Arizona. On Monday afternoon we stopped halfway between Albuquerque and Sedona. Our Passport America book (half-price rates for members) listed Root-66 RV Park in Sun Valley, just off I-40. I loved the place from the start. This romance was allowed to blossom because in the off-season, they're not full, so the park just blended into the prairie. (Desert?) There was the big friendly dog—adopted 6 years ago after she wandered in. The chickens roaming close to the house/office. The mural. The tire ring. And the large amounts of petrified wood. The spaghetti sauce we brought frozen, from home, mixed with rice and baby spinach provided a quick meal, along with salad. But the bright star of our cuisine scene was a slab each of Mary's sour cream chocolate cake. A rich symbol of our time spent with Frank and Mary and the girls. I washed the dishes. We walked the dogs. Then, sunset. Then, sunrise, sparking the stop sign in the distance—the morning's red jewel. Peace inside me and out. The perfect moment to shop for petrified wood, by the pound. Holding bark and core*—cold, heavy with mystery, proof of time.

*How I wish I could say with assurance: xylem, phloem(?) and more. Alas. That naming is not for me.

I'm just wondering...Could this be FridaMexicoBlue? Ah, well, the sun is washing it out.