A Querks and the beginning of the Desert

So. I want to finish blogging about my trip for the single reason that I want to finish some journey here in blog land. I always get distracted, have a poor finish record.




Thursday.

I hiked in Black Kettle National Grasslands and at the sight of a Native American slaughter by we friendly whites back in the times of covered wagons and 'rights to land' we thought we had. I cried and walked through amazing grasslands at the exact place of the murder of so many innocent native americans and 200 ponies.

After that walk, I walked in the bright sun on a trail in the Grasslands were I scared pheasants (?) and collected burrs on my shoes and sun on my skin. Lovely warm breeze, hot sun... great walk.

I found Celeste easily in Albuquerqe, we had a brief chat before she left for her class. I spilled my bear story and chatted with the flair of a twelve year old girl who had been grounded. She left for class, I showered, (amazing!) and settled on watching New Moon, the second of this crazy vampire story that has taken the 10-20 year olds by storm the past several years. Angrily, I did some sit ups as I watched an insufficient female star lack personality, remaining, however as the woman everyone loved and fought for. Also, my closing comment on the matter is this: it is not necessary to have the main character hit her head so often and have a man run to her side each time. Get up, girl, and make your own path in life from time to time.

Celeste returned much later than planned, and we went out with her friend Jamie to a local pub. Pub faire did not treat me well. I foolishly ordered a blue cheese dip, served with brown Irish bread and Irish potato chips. This can be boiled down, or fried down, into a simple description: cheesy fat. It hurt my heart to eat, but through alternating with Celeste’s nacho’s and Jamie’s green chile cheese fries, my heart went from hurting to pumping slowly past closing arteries. The conversation was delightful, as well as the beer and the surroundings. You win some, you lose some, and some leave you on the toilet.

The next morning I took a 20 minute jog, hoping to dislodge some of the cheese and grease. Short, but successful, through the warming streets of Albuquerqe, I was so glad to work up a sweat and be moving, not sitting. There was a breeze in the air, and I greeted pancake cacti and prickly pears as I jogged to the grocery store, made stock of the flower choices, and then jogged back and forth again to make my sweaty purchases. I should have run longer, that’s clear, but that I got my butt in gear is something notable, I’d say.

I left the Querk (as I’d like it to be called) and took off for the petrified forest. As I drove I created a new goal: take petrified photos in the petrified forest. I enjoyed my coffee and scones as the mid day southwest lay out before me along I-40.

Vistas. This began a whole new land of vistas, a whole newly designed horizon, like the Midwest and the southwest decided to etch out something unique, in order to be unique. Dry and flat, with tufts of tough green shrubbery and the occasional tumble weed (I kid you not). The mesas in the distance, flat tables of earth, were so different than everything I new mountains to be. I’d seen these before, and I was no stranger to the horizons of the southwest, but, even so, I was impressed. Being easily impressed is a great personality trait, I’ve decided.

I met a NY couple who huffed and puffed quickly with me on the many short hikes, trying to beat the sun and the clock and the ranger that threatetened to kick us out when the sun dissappeared.

Petrified, and a camera filled with petrifed photos, missing the big horn sheep (?), I left to the unknown yet familiar Flagstaff.

I Know I Overreacted

I'll be the first to tell you. The first. I. Over.Re.Act.Ed.

Ozarks were wet, green and foggy but wet wet wet. Up the mountain, 15 miles away from any human and I met a bear on a lovely trail. A mountain side rim trail. Blues babies in the moring, bears in the evening... oh yeah, lots of driving in between. AND. Here is where Bill Bryson comes into play.

In the third chapter, maybe, of Bill Bryson's 'A Walk in the Woods' he discusses his fear and factoids about bear attacks. This goes on for about 5 minutes in the Hoda Fit as I ascend White Rock Mountain in the fog, rain and mud of the Ozarks.

This was a poor choice, you see, when, 45 minutes later, I met a bear on the trail. We could have high fived really, the bear and I.

Let's just say when I sing "Singing in the Rain" I will fondly remember this moment... jacket over my head, shouting the chorus over and over again... no, not the chorus, the one line I know... because it seemed appropiriate to not getting eaten by a bear while alone on a mountain rim in the rain and fog.

Now we can go back to that earlier post that describes my fitful sleep on the lonely mountain. This is where stories join and the journey continues. Details about the bear have been left out, this is one too many posts for one day.

Blue Babies of Memphis

Memphis.

Sunday Night, Monday and Tuesday Morning. Carlos time.

Wonderful sweet Carlos the now kindergarden teacher of some cute babies, I mean children in the land of the blues.

The highlights of my time with Miestro Navarro?

Sunset on the Mississippi River, Big Ass Beers on Beale street and the adorable kindergarden class of characters. Each little baby's first time in school-- only 5 years on the planet and you could write a book about eacho of those little munchkins.

Smokey Mountain plus Every human in the bistate area...

Brevard. Saturday I rememebered that this particular Saturday was the worst Saturday to be where I was.



Great Smokey's National Park is the most visited national park in the country. Labor day weekend, the clear marking to the end of summer. The end of family camping, RV's and picnics, carefree swimming in rivers and barbeques.



While it may mark the end of this, it does so by overdoing all of these things. All of which fit perfectly, or can be crammed perfectly, into the smokies and the adjoining Pisgah National Forest, which is where I searched for a campsite.



I had read that you could camp anywhere on the main road that went through the forest. Perfect! I'll throw down my tent on the side of the road somewhere and meet Jason for dinner in Brevard. I called, letting him know I would need 1/2 hour to find a spot and rendez vous in town, and that, after a year, I was excited to see him.



Well, you can't camp on that road. That is clearly stated in a large sign with lettering that would make our nys health inspector proud (everything over 2"!). You can, however, camp on the sides roads, where the brown tent signs are posted... which happen to very few and far between.



After almost 45 minutes of gravel road hunting in the Fit, I headed back to town, ready to try out the camper feature of the car (lowering the front seat as far back as it will go), and sleep in a parking lot. Happy Labor Day!



The town of Brevard, is a cute little southern brick town at the foothills of the Pisgah National Forest, just south of Asheville (or Ashvegas as Jason calls it), with the slight air of a new england college town. Very slight, but noticable if you turn your head the right way and the breeze is blowing just so.

I headed the right way to pick up Jason and head into town for dinner. Seeing him was great! Seeing old friends you haven't seen in awhile is almost always great. We enjoyed a nice dinner in town and drank local brews as we caught up and told stories from the previous summer. From the goodness of his heart he let me stay in his extra bed, albeit against the rules of his housing arrangement. 6 days later I would sleep in my car, utilizing the 'RV setting,' and would be reflectively grateful for the bed in Brevard.

The next day--- Sunday?-- found me plus every human in Tenesseee and North Carolina attempting to reach clingman's dome (by car, of course). Before this several hour fiasco I enjoyed a delightful hummusy breakfast by Looking Glass falls after meeting Eve, who used to travel a lot and admired my solo nature. Before Clingman's I also had an amazing, but short, hour walk beside a stream where I splashed in the cool waters of a babbling brook in the heat of the afternoon. Oh so nice.

Clingman's dome was a test in my patience, and I passed with flying colors. I mean, waiting a traffic line in nature is not quintessential outdoor fun... but, a sunny sunday with amazing views was just pleasant. What could I do anyways? I was stuck, physically, might as well be stuck mentally.

When I got to the walking up the mountain part, I was so relieved to be sweating in the sun, a delicious cool breeze bringing startelingly piney smells that stopped me suddenly in my tracks. I must have looked drunk, pausing with my eyes closed to smell the air and smile serenely. Anyways, we huffed and puffed and made it to the 60's era concrete rampway above the mountain. 'We' is the aforementioned mob of humans. Everyone, from fit hikers to the grandma and the out of shape every-year-olds pushed ourselves up the hill. Everyone muttering that they would work out more after that evening's barbeque.

"I can't doooo it" a little plump girl around five puffed, her red curls and pink face stopping on the side of the trail.
"You can do it!" Her father said, " You have to say that you can do it, you have to to think that you CAN. So let me hear you say it, say you can do it! We'll do it together!"
He was so motivational it stopped me. I looked at the little girl, "You're almost there, and doing a great job!"
"See," the father said, "we're going to do this together!"

Hours of traffice, HOURS through a town whose name I forget, but is excellently described by Bill Bryson in A Walk in the Woods.

Bryson's book would fill the Fit for the next several hours, a timing mistake to be noted in another entry.

Georgia Georgia Bush

I always think about that song snippet when I think of Georgia. "Georgia, Georgia--BUSH." Anyways, Georgia was a short, yet pleasant saunter out of the way of my cross country trek. 6 hours of driving, 8 hours of socializing and 4 hours back to hit the 'start' of my westward expansion.

Friday night and Saturday morning I spent with my brother, his adorable son Adam and my soon to be (hm?) sister in law Jinsie. We walked to the park, went to dinner and in general soaked up Adam's infinite cuteness. Three years on this planet and I still want to coddle him in my arms like a baby. Maybe all that time away from him freezes him in an infant state? Either way he's cute, and intelligent, and creative... I forgot how creative little minds are.

Adam reminded me of this several times. Hissing like a cat in the grocery cart at the store, high fiving trees and giving branches back to their 'family' when the leafy relatives were found infront of his tricycle...did I mention how cute he is? I sometimes feel concerned that I can't properly interact with him because I just want to watch him and duck in to pinch his cheeks every few minutes.

Anyways, leaving the dog for his vacation, I shoved off and headed to Brevard to meet Jason and well 'start' what felt very started. Movement. West.

The Days Before

The Days Before my last post take us out of chronological order.

I go back to the beginning, it's a very good place to start.

After purchasing my car, my amazing Honda Fit (which I am trying to stop loving so that I do not create an attachment to a hunk of metal and plastic), I headed north to visit my grandmother in Charlottesville, NC.

I had been, previous to Virginia, more careful about what I consumed. Nothing after dinner, small meals, few processed foods and exercise one or two times a day. Virginia, however, while for lovers, is also for cooks.

My grandmother greeted me with an amazing late lunch after the three hour drive, the practice test for the grand cross country trip. She made a surprising cold peach soup, black bean and rice burgers on bread with a chipotle sauce and huge slices of bright red heirloom tomatos, a slightly creamy corn salad and corn on the cob. All, minus the corn, fruit and burgers were from her garden. Grown, in the heat of an unusually dusty Virginia summer.

It felt like she had wanted me to be there for breakfast and so had cooked for two meals. Eating too much is a strange sort of punishment. Even if you only tasted everything she served, your stomach would have ached. Luckily I knew this was coming and had eaten only a peach earlier. However, dinner was still in the future.

We chatted up a storm, like two hens at tea. Sharing stories of the summer, gardening tips, recipes, travel stories and general life dramas or pleasures. I could have sat at that table for hours chatting and watching the humming birds. Is it terrible that this is one of my favorite things to do? Not eat, although that is obviously up there on the list, but rather, to share food with good people at a table? You could even take away the table and I'd still be happy, although I think my grandmother in particular would not like being denied the joy of setting the table.

After dishes we looked through photos, chatted more and then as our bottoms fell asleep we rose to prepare another meal, this time together. We had corn on the cob, or maybe that was lunch, or maybe dinner, corn was there in some form (definently as a sugar in something). Vegetable lasagna and that day's garden pickings of cold cucumber dill salad paired with a chilled white wine and followed by a Hawaiian pie made for a summer dream.

As we ate the fresh strawberries, pineapple and pecans buried in the whipped cream my Grandmother told me stories of the past. Stories of the old days, of early 20th century, were something I craved when I got near my grandma. Perfect stories, told with her friendly yet deep southern accent and dotted with opinions and the laughter that recollection always brings were better than the pie.

Basement grape wine, thunderstorms, her sleepy head tendencies as a child, poverty, great grandmother, brothers, sisters, cousins and a great deal to do with living off the land because that's how you lived.

After an equally impressive breakfast (french toast, omelettes, fruit and spinach quiches) and the collecting together of my grandma gifts (hand picked and made blackberry and strawberry jams and oregano) I set off back to Raleigh. This trip, to this today, was the worst in my Fit.

I was feeling less than fit. Dizzy, hot and well, dizzy. I stopped and purchased (yes PURCHASED in this country) bottled water thinking maybe my bottle was causing the problem, I bought an air freshner and some crackers. Doesn't fail that we always consider combinations when ill. Could it be the car smell and the sun, or maybe the smell and the bumpy road? Maybe my body was rebelling from the decade's worth of food that I had presented it? Either way, I made it back, with a little help from David Sedaris and bottled water.

Next day passed, and then I set off, leaving my mom in tears, and the dog slobbering all over everything in the car down South now, to leave my brief mark in Georgia.

Days on the Road, Again!

Wednesday

I woke up in the morning with several flips of consciousness. It felt like I was awake all night. Maybe random spots of blankness where I can’t remember laying around and doing nothing. I did, however, do a lot of that. Laying, sitting, rolling, one side or the other wishing for sleep even though I did not feel tired. When I finally pulled myself out of the tent at 8am, I was tired, and everything was wet. It had rained. All night and harder in the morning. I was thankful for this, as it provided a constant and predictable source of noise. Forest rain music really, instead of a continual night of wondering what every noise was and how it would consume me. Really, I did that more than necessary despite soothing heavy rain noises. Something about my solo mind that seems unable to be quieted by my internal and external demands. “Stop it, please” I begged of my ever churning brain. Always churning out the worsts of situations, seemingly unable to appreciate just being.

Well, the morning was a series of weird choices and random tidbits. The highlight being a 15 minute walk in the pouring rain next to Shores Lake. The lowlight being the feeling of defeat and incapability as I drove away without a proper hike, in the pouring rain of highway 215, away from the bear-filled and beautiful Ozarks and back to the trustworthy 40.

The 40 took me to the town of Van Buren, which promised a college, promising (by my standards) a coffee shop with wireless and a hot, steamy latte. I wandered around the internet, trapped in various worldwide web’s of interest and social custom. After about an hour, I had found my next step in the game, had met Kari, who I knicknamed Greedows, for her green eyeshadow and enjoyed a warm cranberry scone and a latte, a little less steamy than I had imagined, but delightful none the less. I checked the weather, promising more rain, and checked the rest stops, promising a break before the texas border where I could stay for free if the idea of spending money to put up a tent in the pouring rain seemed dismal hours later.

Back in the car I finished Bill Bryson’s Walk in the Woods, which was lovely really and perfect for my adventure, although did notably make me more upset with my failures. Highlighted them really, placing my dark and failed tiny goals next to the backdrop of his shining accomplishment of hiking the AT.

After more potholed swiss cheese Interstate 40, the worst of all the states yet, I pulled off at 44 North, towards the town of Foss. Now, if there’s an idea you have of Oklahoma, it will be fulfilled by the small town of Foss. Cows, open fields, wind mills (maybe I imagined that), old, rusting equiptment, bouncing trucks, and stubbly yet surprisingly lush grass fields… that fit your picture at all? Anyways, even in the relentless drizzle, I was happy to be driving down this somewheresville road toward somewhere the internet had said had “wonderful and accommodating hosts.”

What Foss State Recreation Area campsite at “Chinaberry” had was a lack of hosts and signs: just some clean looking RVs, boats, a lapping lake and more of that Midwest drizzle. Oh, and a small tent campsite area amongst a stand of thin trees which seemed to have dropped beer cap leaves and cigarette butt buds everywhere. I cleared a space, put up the tent and then, in an attempt to be left alone after hours, went searching for how to pay. I’d already circled the area twice, pausing at anything with lettering. I went out to the main gate and across to the store… maybe that’s where you pay? The liquor store signs mentioned nothing. At the corner of the road, nothing as well. I did find where I could rent tubes and boats if drizzly Thursday wanted a morning stall. “Sorry I was late, thought I might just take a dip in the downpour on a reservoir in Oklahoma on a rented floaty toy.”

I walked around after I had settled that I had very valiantly attempted to pay for my 10 square feet of tent space and copious usage of toilet paper. I walked through some tall grass, past small trees, trying to quiet my mind that anything or anyone was going to pop out of the wet trees and try to mean me any harm. It was so difficult, and remains one of the trickiest things. I think it’s a self defense mechanism to not allow me to let my guard down, or to always be prepared. Whatever the subconscious reason, it’s getting rather difficult to enjoy my own company.

I tried very hard to enjoy my own silence as I sat in my final outside moments before my retreat into my tent. Pouring myself a glass of wine and adjusting my tiny set of binoculars I watched blue herons quietly do nothing along the shore. I wondered what they were wondering, then sipped my wine in a deliberate attempt to shut my brain, which was making me look back at my campsite every two minutes and wince at every noise that wasn’t a cicada or airplane. Finally I chose to ingnore, an internal bipolar war. I claimed Switzerland and took to neutrality, trying not to feel failure in the battle. I changed, put too much stuff in the tent, and crawled in. After a brief chat with my Uncle and Laura I sat for a spell of typing. Now, all the words I had been shuffling around in my head, in a mental drafting of this entry could be settled. Phew. Tomorrow is another day. A hike in the grasslands, an hour or two of walking in what I expect will be like a wild front yard, then hours on the road, hopefully ending in success of finding Celeste in Albuquerque.