We left Albuquerque, NM around 10 this morning. Seen from the gallop of the car, Albuquerque reminds me of the "normal" part of Vegas: desert and full of brown stucco homes. Albuquerque is tucked under beautiful tall, steep mountains, almost as steep and as green as the Hawaii mountains.
The Eastern part of New Mexico is a high desert, with very little vegetation, and lots of ups and down. And lots and lots of winds ... And then, we crossed into Texas.
I have sworn that I would never bring myself to the "Great State of Texas", but here I was, willing or not, crossing the Texas panhandle. I had so many preconceived notions about Texas: will there be all cows and cowboys? People carrying guns and chasing everyone everywhere with bad intent in mind?! Will cops stop me just because they are bored and fine me just 'cause? Will there be huge Texas flags with 'Stay out or we shoot you' writing everywhere? Will every gas station sell guns and liquor?! Will Christian billboards take over the entire state?! And so forth.
Well, I still don't know some of the answers to all these preconceived notions and questions, but here's what I found out during our drive of a few hours today: Texas is also very windy. No fun pulling a camper in the high winds, let me tell you. Or let Aa. tell you. We were still in high elevations of 3000 ft or more, although it all seemed flat. The radio spoke about "The High Plains", so I guess that's what the Northern part of Texas is: a high plain. There were farms everywhere, and sometimes, nothing for a long time, and then a farm in the middle of that nothing. All I could think of was that farms here must be thousand of acres wide, because there was literally nothing but a farmhouse, and stables, with cow round-ups adjacent to them ever so often.
I thought Amarillo would be larger than it was. I-40 was lined up by cheesy billboards of all kinds of normal and weird announcements. I will let the pictures speak for themselves on that.
We stopped at this tiny (and I mean minuscule) gas station with ONE pump. The small cottage servicing it screamed 'Texas' (look for the pictures to understand why).
Yes, there was the Texas flag and the Texas Star everywhere they could find a place for them - and this was just what I could see from the speed of driving down the Interstate.
One thing that totally baffled me was that the entire length of the Texas panhandle was literally lined with giant windmills. I was waiting for an end of them, but there was not one. It made me wonder: if Texas gets it, why isn't the entire American wide, un-populated land filled with these beauties, making electricity for all of us?! Not that Texas would be lesser than other states, but they tend to be less ... hip and up on embracing modern technologies than other states. Typically.
In the later afternoon, we crossed into Oklahoma. I swear people who cut up the States at some point paid very close attention to their geography: it seems the states are very carefully cut up to be very distinctive and unique in themselves: as soon as the red rock of Utah ends and the yellow and brown stone starts, Utah turns into Colorado. Such, as soon as the yellow sand of Texas ends, and the red clay and lush green of Oklahoma starts, there you have a new state.
Oklahoma must have some law against the cheesy billboards, because as soon as left Texas, they were gone. The interstate resembled Northern Germany more than South Carolina. The farms were lush and green and very manicured lands, compared to the mish-mash in Texas. The wind was stronger. Well, it IS Oklahoma, you know. The roads are better here, too, than anywhere else we have been in the past two days.
Apart from being windy, the windiest yet, Oklahoma is also the most humid yet. The temperature has been hanging out in the 80's all day here, and it is humid, even now, into the night, with the windows wide open. A sign we're getting closer and closer to The South, I am sure.
We are down for the night in Elk City, OK. Right on the highway, so this will make it for a very windy and noisy (from the traffic) night.
In Tucumcari, NM, we had lunch at Denny's. Our waitress, CC, was blown away that the two sides that came with my tilapia had to be both mashed potatoes. She told me to watch for diabetes.
The smallest gas station in America, probably. Can you tell what state we were in?!
This Oklahoma sunset was greeting us at out campsite when we pulled in tonight.
As I am passing this exist, The Eagles' "Tequila Sunrise" is coming on the radio. True story!
Our ride today was in its entirety on Historic Route 66. We only saw two hitchhikers (a sign that Kerouac's time have changed), but it made me think back of the history, nonetheless. A piece of Americana that I am grateful to say I have partaken in.
Solitary ranch in Texas.
The many tens of miles of Texan windmills - the entire length of the Panhandle, for sure.
I took this for a friend: Adrian, your town in Texas.
The many 'interesting' Texas billboards.
Texas cotton fields.
Texas: where America's burgers come from.
A rushed look at Amarillo.
After watching "Dallas" (the series) as a child, I thought that white split rail fences were invented in Texas. I am still not sure that is the case, but we have seen lots of them today.
Everything is supposed to be bigger in Texas, and this cross is testimony to that. Look at the size of the building next to it!
Almost the first sign of real water for a long, long time now - right as we crossed into Oklahoma.
The red clay of Oklahoma: it is very unique: sort of a copper meets manure shade of red.
Second installment: Eastward Bound: UT to NC – Day One – Moab, UT. Red Rocks (http://wander-world.blogspot.com/2017/10/eastward-bound-ut-to-nc-day-one-moab-ut.html)
I wonder why one needs so many churches in the desert. We drove today from Moab to Albuquerque, NM, in full desert landscape and I have seen no WalMarts, no full service grocery stores, but plenty of churches. I guess you can go hungry and miss basic necessities, as long as your soul is saved. We're definitely not in Mormon Country anymore, as there have been no LDS churches to speak of. "Church of God", "Of Immaculate Conceptions", even a "Stoic Baptist Church", even a "Holy Ghost Recreating Area", but no "Church of Jesus Christ of the Latter Day Saints." You also know you're not in Utah anymore because of all the "Cold Beer" and "Cold Wine" signs on all the gas stations, and because of all the casinos. I suspect gambling is very much legal in New Mexico judging by all the casinos on the way down. I know pot is also legal in New Mexico, because of the "Minerva Cannabis Dispensary" in Bernalillo. Right after leaving Moab, you go past beautiful red rock canyons, still, and the Wilson Arch, magnificent, almost above the highway. Then, right after Monticello, you see so many killed deer on the side of the road you're thinking the old times fur traders are roaming about back in business. Right as you cross the state border into Colorado, the land becomes milder and greener - lots of farmland, very nicely kept. There is only a short distance from Cortez, CO to the border with New Mexico. Once you enter New Mexico, the land becomes desert and empty again, but more yellow than red. We were misinformed some and the trip was much harder than we expected, because the roads were so hilly. I thought the land will slope down right after we leave Utah, but no chance: we were in the 5500+ (all the way to 7000) feet elevation the entire trip. That and the winds were hard on the camper. Native American landmarks swap up with Hispanic names - you cross three major Native reservations (Ute, Navajo and Apache) during this trip, and many other smaller ones. Then, in New Mexico, you run across names like Rio Puerco, Rio Grande, Bernalillo, Sadoval. We walked into a Wendy's for lunch and the place was full of Native people - staff and customers alike. We were definitely out of place. Leonard Cohen was blasting on their radio (or whatever music device they had). This country is so mixed, so diverse, and so gorgeous because of it that it always makes me humble and fortunate to roam it like this. Whoever sees it otherwise are lower than plain stupid. Off we are on our third day today and ready to cross the great state of Texas. Catch with you later on ... PS: Please forgive any and all typos, due to the hardships of writing against the gun of the internet being taken away.
I thought the road sign next to the entering Colorado marker was appropriate: what we have seen of this state in the Four Corners region is nothing but beautiful farmland.
The most majestic Shiprock formation, outside of the town that bears its name, in new Mexico. It looks like a New York skyscraper.
All around Farmington, NM, we saw these gorgeous Native pots.
Wilson Arch, a few miles South of Moab. I love how the rock has little dimples through which the sun pierces.
Hard to believe that we have reached I-40 East which will take us ALL the way to NC! No turns from here on out. Just a straight drive.
This is the map of our journey with the stops on the way. And yes, we are actually going through Texas, which is something I told myself I would never get to do ...
Off
we are truly now on the way to NC. This is the second time I am doing
this trip, between UT and NC, and this is Aa's third time. Today was
our shortest day, a little over 3 hours of driving.
I
drive alone in the car, except for Gypsy-The-Cat, and there is lots
of time to think, reflect and ponder upon everything, really. We have
made the trip between Spanish Fork and Moab numerous times in the
past seven years, so today I had plenty of time to think back of all
the memories. People we took the trip with, spots on the way where we
stopped for lunch, camping, or just to shoot this beautiful place.
Turns in the road off to other places we visited. It's all sad, and
good, and grateful. I keep wondering when I will see these places
again, if ever at all.
It's
a gorgeous time of the year to be making this trip – not too cold
(except for nighttime), not too hot either. Today, we drove East and
South with the sun blinding us the whole time. It's a warm, Indian
summer kind of weather – my absolute favorite. The leaves are not
all the way turned in Moab, but what are, they are screaming yellow.
These
are just a very few of the many pictures I shot while driving behind
our camper, and trying to keep the wheel from throwing me at the
cement walls lining the winding mountain highways.
Our 'Last Supper' last night was Indian food, at Tadka, in Payson. You locals, make sure you keep them in business. Kindest people ever and some of the best food!
Good bye, beautiful rocky cliffs!
Our camper ('The Pup') approaching red rocks.
Entering Moab, one (maybe) last time ...
The desert in the fall.
We made it to our first KOA (ever, together, and on this trip).
Our caravan at our campsite
Our view for lunch, from our camper - towards the rocks of Moab.
In
a long sigh, I am bidding a melancholy 'good bye' to the gorgeous
state that has been our home for the past seven years.
It
feels like an eternity since I wrote this
(http://wander-world.blogspot.com/2010/05/going-west-3.html),
and in some respects it feels like yesterday. In some sort of a weird
transhumance ritual, we came up to the mountains of The West in the
late spring, seven years ago. And now we are going back to lower
ground, in the fall.
We
don't have the three cats anymore, and the Toyota Echo that brought
us across America has long been gone. We have one cat, who is getting
to make the journey back, to his home state of North Carolina. Gypsy
is sixteen and five months. This time, I will drive alone, if you're
not counting Gypsy, and my husband is driving his truck which will be
pulling our camper. Our camper will be our hotel throughout the trip.
We will start the journey back in two days, but I wanted to get this
out there, before my internet dies on us, tomorrow. Tonight is the
last night in this house. It will feel weird, and lonely and empty, I
am sure, but in many ways we have zero regrets, and are so excited
about what lies ahead.
We
have learned and grown beyond measure in the past seven years and we
have seen a part of the world which many millions of people only
dream of seeing. The Rockies have been our back yard, and we have not
taken them for granted even once.
It
it surreal, really – that we are not going to be able to jump in
the truck, hitch the camper and drive to Nebo for the weekend or camp
on the side of the road in Diamond Fork, jump in the Toyota and have
dinner and see a concert in Park City at the end of a busy week.
Surreal that we won't be spending any more weekends at Snowbird in
the summer. But alas, the road is waiting and we must go. New
adventures, new states to see, old friends to visit, and new ones to
make.
I
will try to post a little something every day once we hit the road,
from all of the many stops we'll have across America. This land is
wide open and waiting for us. Till next stop, from yet another state,
perhaps … stay well, all, and for those of you in The West: thank
you for seven years of friendship, neighborly love, and memories. We
will miss you!
Gypsy supervising packing and wondering when are we ready to leave already.
I
started this a few days ago, as I was mentally playing a slideshow of
favorite places I have acquainted with in the past seven years of
living in The American West. It was supposed to be just a few words,
but it took on a life of its own. Hope you have the patience and the
time. Here we are …
If
spring makes my heart sing, fall makes my heart be quiet. And listen.
Listen to the swoosh of the leaves lazily, unconvincingly floating down
from trees towards the eternal grave of the earth. Listen for the
rain violently hitting the dusty desert windows, in rage and hunger.
Listen for the time to pass, the days to shrink, and the nights to
swallow us whole for six more gray months. Fall makes me quiet and
makes me listen to my life passing and my time being left behind me.
Rear view mirror, but no rear drive. This is my last fall in The
Rockies, and it's extra special for this reason.
Even
people that know me well might not know this about myself, but I had
two dreams amongst the many I grew up with. I told myself that if I
ever were to move to America (which I did, with the Good Lord's
mercy) I was going to have two experiences: one would be that of
living in The South. I wanted the diversity, to be close to that
history, to that dialect, to the food, to the sweet and gritty
people, to the “Gone with the Wind” days of the past. The second
one was that of living in The West. I wanted to roam aimlessly across
the plains of The West, listen to the enormous silence of the desert,
put roots where the soil was too harsh to harvest, climb the majestic
Rockies, and step on the same trails where the white man and The
Indians met, where the buffalo roamed and the antelope skittishly
but confidently called home. And again, by His grace, I
did this, too.
And
now it's come to the time when I close this second chapter of my
American life. We're saying 'good bye' to The West. My husband wrote
(http://aaronkuehn.net/tol/?p=825)
about all the reasons why, so I won't go into details. I will just
say that there comes a time in everyone's life when things must move
on. Naturally and without effort. We must move forward. And this is
our forward time.
I
will have to say that The West has proven to be everything I was
expecting and dreaming about for decades, and at the same time
absolutely nothing I was expecting. It's bigger. Larger than life,
really. Overwhelming. Much louder and faster than I expected it. Less
American Melting Pot and more American Puritanical. It's tough, but
this was no surprise. I am convinced now that you need more grit to
make it out here than you do in the South. The South welcomes you and
patches up your wounds. The West digs the dagger into them deeper and
makes you bleed more. Makes you a stronger human, for sure, but a
more scarred one. People are colder and more aloof here. Their gaze,
lost in the red dirt of the desert, looking for that chimera that
might never come; dreaming in an abandoned resignation for a
forgiveness that might never come. The West is purging. The South is
the absolution.
If
I have loved The South like I love my mother and father, if I have
loved it like the safe, balmy heaven that I need to rest my body and
find comfort in when it is tired and unsettled, I have loved The West
like you love a sexy, crazy, abusive, but passionate lover. The
temptation is huge, the luring is powerful, the scars deep. I love
The West like you love a drug that you cannot quit.
The
West is made up of stuff the movies, and the legends are made of, and
I got to see it, smell it, taste it with my own senses – a bigger
privilege and adventure cannot be possible.
Life
has not always been easy for us here, if at all. But we made
incredibly beautiful memories in this part of the world. I am beyond
words grateful to have been given the opportunity to have lived here
for seven years! What was but a dream has been my seven (7!!) year
reality now. I have the gray hair and the wrinkles to prove it.
I
can firmly say that we made a life here, a life that was very
different than the one before, but very good, albeit very tough. We
had almost no friends, for the most part. The ones we had left sooner
than us. We will remember long, lonely years when we reveled into
just being on our own, learning the land, camping alone, hiking in
search of the next beautiful corner of The Rockies (and that was
always plenty!), and finding each other, stronger and more in love.
There
are things I won't miss, for sure: I have never used this many
bottles of lotion to keep my skin moist as I have in the past seven
years. The dry air, and the harsh mineral waters cut your skin. I
probably aged faster because of how quickly and often my skin lost its moisture.
Traffic
is insane, at least in the part of the country we're in (Utah
Valley). Pollution is incredibly and surprisingly high in lots of
Western cities, not just in Utah. It's depressing. Services are
mediocre at best.
And
then there are the people, again: they never answer calls. Waiters
and waitresses never acknowledge a woman is sitting at the table.
Employers, at least in Utah, severely underpay women for the same
jobs (or harder) than men. As a woman you really don't exist in this
state, especially as a childless woman.
I
never did understand neighbors here, either: they are not friendly
enough to come over for dinner, or invite you over for a bbq, but
they do leave stuff you don't need nor ask for at your door in
secrecy. I am not sure I'll ever understand that,
even if I were to remain here 20 more
years.
But
warts and all, I am desperately in love with this place, and I will
sorely miss it! There is something surreally cathartic about sitting
on the porch of a log cabin overlooking The Rockies, and taking in
the rocks, the pines, listening to the trickling river, watching the
wild creatures come for a sip of water, and hearing the wind
sheepishly crawling through the trees. Like I said: like a strong
drug you can't quit, I will crave it painfully. I will miss jumping
in the car and driving for 10 minutes to stare at a valley from a
high peak. I will miss the camping in crisp cold mountain air, the
buffalo on the prairie, and the vast lands, with limitless mountain
ranges. I will miss having a mountain view from every window in my
house. I'll even miss the snow peaks in the middle of June!
There
have been hundreds (with no exaggeration) of memories we have made in
the past seven years, and I really would like (another dream) to sit
down one day and write my Big Fat Western Memoir. But I will mention
just some of them here, just in the hope that someone might need some
reasons to move up here. Like I said: it started out with just a few
thoughts, and it grew into this …
In
no particular order, these have been some of my most favorite moments
in my seven years of living in The West:
… being
able to go on a road trip to Napa Valley and winery hop for our
honeymoon. Sipping the best (my husband says) Long Island ice tea on
the San Francisco Harbor. Eating at Morimoto's
in Napa and experiencing California – every bit of its diversity
and noise.
… driving
on a whim to Vegas for some world famous cocktails and a show.
Tripling my money at the penny machines.
… playing
Bingo in Mesquite, NV, and then getting lost in antique stores down
there, full of memories of The Western Past, a mixture of Native
Indian art and Old Frontier paraphernalia.
… eating
at old timey saloons in Park City, Cody, WY, or Jackson Hole. You can
smell the stinky leather boots to this day, and trip on the warped
wooden floors.
… sipping
hot toddies at Hotel
Monaco
in Salt Lake City on New Year's Eve, waiting for the fancy dinner to
start at Bambara's
and for the fireworks show to begin at midnight.
… eating
the best Thai food in America (to date, for us) at Sawadees
in Salt Lake, right before going to see Saturday's
Voyeur
at Salt
Lake Acting Company.
How we're going to miss that
show!
… riding
the chairlift at Sundance during a full moon. Coldest summer night
you will ever experience! Watching the moose lazily bathing in Silver
Lake on Big Cottonwood Canyon, or sipping a cold brew at Solitude on
a lazy, Sunday afternoon in July. Just us, the mountains and the tall
skies – the Nature's Cathedral just for us.
… we
went to this tiny little town of Afton, WY one summer for the
weekend. Never in a million years would I have wanted to go there –
why Wyoming?! What's in Afton?! But they have some of the best cabins
to rent and they have the best trails on the edge of Bridger National
Forest – gushing rivers and tall firs, rocks and peace, deafening
peace everywhere. And believe it or not, some of the best seafood you
find here, in a mom'n'pop store in the middle of downtown.
...lakes
are deeper and cleaner here – except for Utah Lake. I do believe
that there is a huge monster, maybe a whole family of them, living
in Utah Lake that spew out neon waste every hour to give it it's
gloomy, dirty, neon glow every other day. Outside of this lake,
however, the lakes out here are pristine, cold, crystal clear, and
deep.
… wandering
the streets of Ketchum, ID, where Hemingway scattered his last steps
before he died. Ketchum has the best breakfast potatoes at Bigwood
Breakfast Cafe – a
sure sign you're in Idaho.
… sampling
absinthe in a gourmet store and eating elk chili at the brewery in
Jackson Hole, WY. Walking under the elk antler arches in the downtown
– nothing says more “wild” and more “West” than that! Afton
had the antler arches, too. Or maybe I am wrong: there is at least
one thing that says more “wild” than that: wandering in the
middle of the desert and running into hungry hawling coyotes and
wolves in the middle of the day, or seeing horse, cow, or deer
carcasses in almost every hike. Vultures and crows feasting on naked
bones in a melting summer mid-day.
...we
will probably not run again into many establishments with names that
bring ghosts of the past and John Wayne movie memories to mind –
places with “wild”, “cowboy”, “lonely”, “ranger”,
“Indian”, “saloon”, “claim jumper”, “desert rose”,
“one eye”, “buffalo”, “shooter”, “gun” , 'barrel”,
“rain(dance)”, “sun(dance)”, “wind”, “last chance”,
“trading post” in the name.
… going
up the Provo Canyon to Sundance on a whim: whether it was a long
weekend, a boring weekend with nothing to do, a dinner craving, a
Sunday brunch – we could always rely on Sundance to be there for
us. And once we were there, the views, the peace, the chill in the
mountain air took all the pains of the everyday life away. Bob (as in
Redford), we will miss you!
… going
down to Zion or Moab for the weekend and shooting the moon-like
desert life for hours. Getting lost in the redness and getting
speechless in the face of a nature like no other on Earth. The red
rock is as unique as the limestone mountains of Turkey, the jungle of
the Amazon, and the vastness of Antarctica. There is nothing like it,
nothing compares – it just must be seen with your own eyes to
understand. Or to puzzle upon.
… speaking
of Moab: if you can only go there once, make sure you eat dinner in
the sunset, on the Colorado River at the Red
Cliffs Lodge
– about 14 miles off the main drag. Leave time and the world behind
you and go die for a minute – just you, the mighty Colorado, the
red rocks and the sunset. If you still believe that God is bogus, you
have no feelings, really …
… getting
lost in the desert was still my favorite past time here. Going to
Bluff, UT in the winter, when no one is there and there is only one
restaurant in town open and one gas station with a cranky host gives
new meaning to the words “lonely” and “desert”. You
understand why the Navajos are not people of many words in these
parts: they don't dare disturb the serenity of nature and God. Their
turmoils are internal, just like the riveting life of the desert –
all under wraps and in the shadows.
… I
will equally miss the salmon supper in Payson, UT – best, largest
wild Alaskan salmon cooked on an open fire - and the Indian food at
Bombay
House
in Provo. The people at the Bombay
House
were the best hosts I have met in my stay here. The friendliest, most
efficient, and most passionate about what they do.
… I
will miss shooting. Shooting (as in camera) is so easy here: you just
point the camera and make sure you have a steady hand. The light is
almost always perfect and the landscape is begging to be shot. You
can never run out of things to shoot here, but my most special
moments were when we chased the buffalo on Antelope Island, on the
big Salt Lake, or the birds, frisky with frost, in the deep winter,
on Utah Lake. Utah Lake in the sunset goes apey! I will miss shooting
sunsets …
… I
will miss the skies here, mostly. There are no rainbows I have ever
seen anywhere bigger and brighter than here. The sunsets and sunrises
are glorious odes to God and to Earth, painted canvases in search for
an audience. Such show-offs!
… I
have loved all the trips we took from here – from California to
Washington State, from Colorado to Nevada, Montana to Arizona. But
the one place in my heart that will remain like the ever-burning flame
of my life here, and of my memories of The West will be Monument Valley
in the heart of the Navajo Reservation. That place, between the
buttes, in July, at sunset, is the place where all of the energy of
the world and the universe comes for supper. Time truly stands still
and is visible, so you can see it sitting down and having dinner,
chewing ever so slowly till the sun dips into the red dirt. If I have
to take one picture and one picture only from The West with me, snug
in my heart and my sinews, it would be that piece of land right
there.
… Montana
had always been my Mecca. Unlike any other European person that
dreams of coming to America for New York and L.A. and Miami, I wanted
to come to the US for Montana. The untouched land, the wilderness,
the candle-like trees bordering the rocky cliffs – it's all there,
and it's what I think about when I think of The Rockies. For a while
we thought we might even move there, but alas, altitude got the
better of my heart, and we can't anymore, for wanting to live.
Glacier National Park was like coming home, finally. Everything I
have ever dreamed about and loved about mountains, mountain absolute
perfection is achieved there. There is a feeling of reaching an apex,
like I felt when climbing the Twin Towers in New York in 1999, of
achieving something great when you cross the Continental Divide and
stare into the immense valleys below. When you watch olden glaciers
melt into water and air right before your eyes. There is also a
feeling of smallness and unimportance about yourself, in the grand
scheme of things. Montana is all that and so much more.
… when
I think of more Old West reminders, I think of every other eating
place in downtown Park City, I think of The
Lodge at
Bryce, Irma
Hotel
in Cody, WY, The
Mahogany Grill
in Durango, CO, or The
Cowboy Grill
at The Red Cliffs Lodge in Moab, UT. You step into any one of them
and you're expecting that Buffalo Bill is sitting at the bar, Bourbon
in hand.
I
know The American West stops at the level of family photo albums as
far as history is measured, but it does have its own history and its
own character, to be sure, unfound elsewhere in America, I believe.
It's a land of cowboys, hunters, law breakers, women who had to
either make it on their own or hide between the husband and 10 kids,
and maybe even 2 or 3 other wives. If I had a dollar for every time I
said “Wow! We really do live in the Wild West” because someone
shot a cop, or made their own justice somehow, I would be rich now.
History has caught up with these parts, in some ways, but some people
still think the gun and the land run supreme, and nothing and no one
will stand between them and those sacred treasures!
… some
of my favorite time has been spent enjoying the small towns we live
in and near-by: going to the rodeo or buying the annual funnel cake
at Fiesta Days in Spanish Fork, or going to Park Silly in Park City,
or to Oktoberfest in Snowbird. Solitude is such a gem of a resort,
and as deep and powerful as the name itself. Pure, crystallized …
solitude.
… I
will miss the mountain streams skipping step from rock to rock in the
spring. Camping on the mountain tops in the fall and hearing the
tired, not so full sound of the springs running towards the valleys
in rest, waiting for the winter snow and ice to mute them.
… I
will miss the sweet tomatoes my rocky, sandy soil yields – sweetest
I have ever tasted in this hemisphere, because dryness makes sweet.
Same for grapes. Harvesting tomatoes, grapes, pears and cherries was
as close as I ever got to being a true Pioneer woman and taming these
dry, stubborn, rock-full lands. I never did learn how to make apple
pie, neither here, not in The South. I did learn a thing or two about
funeral potatoes. It's not any kind of special recipe, really –
it's just whatever potato dish you want to bring to a funeral to
share. Why not a wedding, or a christening, I have not a clue!
… you
get used to driving long roads here, because there is nothing for
hundreds of miles but the desert and a few bad barns, leaning on one
side. Nothing but beauty and nature, that is. Nothing but wilderness
and the almighty sun. But as long as the drives were, I will still
miss taking them and being in very different climates, and flora and
fauna zones. I will miss planning road trips to places like Lake
Tahoe, CA, Yellowstone National Park, Whitefish, MT, Sun Valley, ID,
Durango, CO, Vernal, UT.
… the
winds in The West are what I underestimated the most. I don't believe
the tornadoes of the South will make me wince anymore, after having
lived here, where 60 mph gusts are the norm. Especially at my house,
at the mouth of the canyon. Winds will always carry me back here, on
their swift wings …
There
are still places I have not seen and I am kicking myself for not
having done so. Would you believe that I still have not see The Grand
Canyon, or the Sequoia Forest in California?! Or Yosemite? Or
Portland, OR? Or Grand Staircase Escalante? For these and many more,
I will be back. That is a promise, health and money not being an
issue.
I
quiet down now and let the wind take my memories away and scatter
them across the plains. I came of another age in this place, both
wonderful and mean. I am older, stronger, tougher, and I probably
used to being lonely, just me and Aa., more than before. We have
grown into a couple here, strong and loving, from the two entities we
came here as, when we had barely gotten married. Some say that no
toughness is built unless there is loss, and as much as we have
gained in these past seven years (us, our love, our marriage, our
travels, our many hundreds of thousands of photographs, our lives
stronger and more accomplished), we have also lost. We lost jobs, two
adorable, amazing kittens, money, even (and not in gambling), health,
patience … It made us stronger and it shaped our road from here, so
zero regrets and much looking forward to the door that is now
opening.
Oh,
I could go on for another 10 pages, but I am looking at my count and
I am into five of them right now, so I better stop! These are all
things that came to mind as I am sitting here, on a windy Tuesday
night, all alone, pondering upon the recent past.
It
is somewhat poetic that the end of such an adventure comes in the
fall for us: it's when my heart gets quiet and can think and reflect
on things past, somewhat melancholy, somewhat longing, but always
accomplished.
I
am already longing for some of the places I stopped to document here,
for posterity. As much as my heart is filled with the apprehension of
what my next chapter back in my beloved South might bring, it is also
filled with the memories and the emotional baggage I have stored in
these past seven years.
And
speaking of my heart: there will forever be a more organic, more
material connection to this place than to any other place in the
world: when they took my aorta and my aortic valve out of it last
year, you could say that a piece of my heart will forever stay in The
West. Quite literally. The West is not for quitters, that's for sure.
And we are not that. We're just ready for the next road trip.
So
long, Utah, and Montana, and Wyoming, and Colorado, California,
Nevada, and Arizona, too … Till next time …
You know, my least favorite day of the year, since I moved out West is that first day in late August, or could even be early September, when you go outside and you feel the first bite of fall. The air is cooler, the crisp is sharper, there is a chill down your spine and your exposed toes remind you they need to be covered: you got the wrong shoes on! It's a mean day, really, because as much as I hate the chill in the air, and the long sleeves, and the sweatshirts ... I love the mountains this time of the year. I love when the mountains and the trees are still deep, dark green (before they turn into the muted and deaf brown), and the prairie grass looks like the melted liquid balloon of the sun burst and poured all over it. The contrast between the gold and the green can only be achieved by one painter and one painter alone - and He lives up there, in the sky.
Prairie grass and mountains outside our neighborhood
And speaking about the skies: that's another thing that makes me fall in love with the mountains, here in the West - and this goes for any season, really: the sunsets and the sunrises are out of this world eerie. The colors you see out here are impossible to find anywhere else - the deep reds and yellows, the crazy, tormented, confused and complicated clouds, moving at surreal speeds, and the height, this crazy Big Sky of the West that dwarfs you and makes you feel like an ant.
September sunrise in my backyard
September sunset in my backyard
It's all love and helpless abandon. And all awe. And it's going to be imprinted in my brain, no matter how bad my Alzheimer's might get one day. No matter how far away from it all I will be ...
I
tell this story all the time, of how I remember my sister's birthday,
on a hot August day when I was 3 years old and a little bit. And I do
– as long as I have some remembrance in my brain, I will always see
that day, somewhat fuzzy, but the sound of that news will be clear.
It's
been 39 years since that day and my baby sister is getting ready to
enter her last year of the third decade of her life. A life that's
been fun, and hard, and challenging, and interesting, sad, and
incredibly funny, lonely at times, and not so lonely for the most
part, and all in all, a life that's been worth it all! This much time
passing just about knocks the breath right out of my chest! 39 years!
I
have more memories with my sister than I have with anyone else I have
ever met, I believe. Even when we're apart, we pick each other's
brain – maybe more now that we're adults and respectful of each
other than when we were little and picking on each other all the
time.
I
have learned so much from her. First off, I learned how to stop being
the spoiled brat only child I was when she came along, and how to
start sharing everything with her. She taught me that we're not alone
in the world. We have a soul mate. And she has been mine. Not in the
“exact match” kind of soul mate, but more in the “ying-and-yang”
sense of the word. She is the light of my darkness, and I am hers.
As
a typical second baby, she was always the competitive one. I learned
patience to yield to her and teach her things. I taught her how to
read and write, and later on, she taught me music and art. She has
taught me love and warmth all my life, and goodness.
She
is an odd mix of tender and bitey, small and powerful, meek and
don't-f*-with-me-people!. Above all, she has the most
beautiful, most pure smile, and the most clear twinkle in the eye.
She
makes me melt only by thinking of her.
We've
been through everything together and through it all, I always know
she's got my back. She's raising her own family now, but I still feel
like she and I share a heart just as much as when we were kids and
shared a bed. Our relationship will always be strong and unique, no
matter the rest of our liaisons in life. There is this bond, this
sacred understanding, this blood that runs through our veins and
connects our every thought that will always be there, no matter how
many thousands of miles or people are between us.
Today,
I remember everything: how we fought, how we laughed, how we made
pranks together. I remember climbing mountains, tanning at the beach
(she never burned, unlike me), eating berries till our tongues would
turn black, fishing for trout with our bare hands. I remember her
tom-boyish years when she was hung by her leg in a rusty nail on a
tall fence. I remember fighting for boyfriends, and crying ourselves
to sleep with a sigh. The following morning, we were sisters again.
I
remember when she went to the ER as a small kid, with an infected
hand, full of puss, and she spent days hooked up to IV's and I could
not go visit her. Broke my heart! I remember dancing in clubs on the
beach when I was in college and falling asleep in each other's arms,
in the sand till the first rays of sun would sneak under our eyelids
and wake us up.
I
remember when she went to France the first time in middle school,
when I thought she would never come back home. I remember how her
world fell apart when I moved to the States and I thought I'd never
see her again.
I
remember her wedding. Her first pregnancy, every heart beat of it,
every emotion, every notebook she filled with knowledge about “what
to expect when you're expecting.” Then, the immense love she had to
give to this small baby. I remember my wedding. Her second baby. I
remember all four of us, with mom and dad, smiling for pictures and
knowing that those moments were precious as they would be rare.
I
wish you the best in life to come, sis, and more bright days than
not, more sunny summers than not, more health, more love, and more
abundance than ever before. As you approach your 40th year
of life, I thank God that you exist and I thank you for giving us
your all. May the next year be your best one yet, and may you forever
smile and keep us guessing … I miss you more!
“Ooh Ms. Parsley sing it out as a prayer It's floating on sensational You make the change in the air Let's let it be all right Step it up to life” (Jeb Puryear - Ms. Parsley) I can't remember as far back as when I was first introduced to Donna the Buffalo. I was single, living in North Carolina, in my early 30's, and I was 'friends' with this guy on My Space. Remember My Space?! His name was Turk (or so he said) and he was a veterinarian (so he said). I never did keep in touch with Turk, but he will always have a special place in my heart for opening it to Donna the Buffalo. He sent me an illegal link with hundreds of Donna concerts. I downloaded all I could download and I got myself my first 100% pirated 4 cd's and I was hooked! He said “if you like The Dead, you will love Donna.” And he was right: I only like The Dead, and I do love Donna. I am not sure what it is about what they do, but their music is hypnotic to me. I can be tired, head-achy, moody, wanting silence and a heavy bowl of mashed potatoes, and I listen to a Donna song and it's like elements align and the world makes sense again – no pain, or discomfort, just peace. Works better than Tylenol, every time. When I lived on the East Coast, the opportunities to see them were numerous. They are a house band, almost literally, for the Shakori Festival, and they come to NC often (sometimes several times in the same month). But when I moved out West, things got pretty sketchy: I subscribe to their newsletter and they seldom, if ever, come out there. I have lived here for seven years now and I only know of two times that they have come close to Utah (I believe they made it out here more then this, but not close enough within driving distance for me): one was four years ago in Montana, at the Red Ants Pants Festival (I am not making this up, this is the real name – https://wander-world.blogspot.com/2013/08/chasing-some-dreams.html), and the second time was this month, in Park City. This second time, I could almost not believe my eyes when I saw the announcement: Park City is practically home for me. How did I get so lucky for these folks from Upstate New York to wander all the way over here?! So, it was a no-brainer: even if I was on a stretcher, I had to figure out a way to go see them. And thank God, I was not on a stretcher. I have seen them all in all live for about 4 times, I think. And every time I tell myself: you've got to really love them to really keep coming back. And it's not the music: the music is amazing, and it's not even much of an acquired taste: it just has one of those melodies that just appeals to just about anyone. Not many people remain motionless and don't start to dance while listening to them. They are catchy. Beyond that, they are all also really great musicians. The organ player has always been my favorite, but what Tara does with her instruments is not short of amazing, either. Jeb's guitar picking is what gives them their unique sound, I think – they are all pretty much flawless when it comes to their peerformances. But … there is this stage presence thing … My mom used to always say that a singer must know how to dance, or how to let us know they're happy to be on a stage in order for them to be memorable. For me, most people on this band have always been struggling just a bit with this part. Especially Tara: as talented and flawless as she is as a musician, as inspiring as a song writer, she does not look like she is having fun on that stage. She looks like she has a very serious, and very constraining job to do and she is trying really hard not to get in trouble. What she does does look very natural and very effortless. But she does it with … fear and concentration, for lack of better words. She is tense, and crisp. And frowning … I feel like she is forced to be there, rather than enjoys to be there. I am pretty sure I am wrong – being on the road for almost 20 years must offer some amount of pleasure to you, or else you'd stop doing it. But … Jeb has some loose moments, although he can be very serious, too. For the most part, he is a warmer presence, softer, his voice very much drone-like just flows. He is more like a very easy-going hippie than an official business person (like Tara). From the other three musicians, only Kyle, the bass player, seems like he really loves being on stage, and he really loves his audience. He is the one making eye contact with people, smiling, winking, moving about, dancing. And there is another thing: I know that Kyle is the bass player, because the wiki told me so: they don't present their band on stage. I think it's the same thing for Tara and Jeb – I know their names because I investigated. As warm and inviting and party-like as their music is, there is always this guardrail at the edge of that stage, and for some reason, we are not fully invited in. I have also noticed that they are so much more relaxed and well received by the audience (or maybe relaxed because they are well received by the audience) on the East Coast than here, in the West. I guess, to some extent, that's understandable: they are a household name back there, whereas here they are a rare apparition. I remember going to their shows in NC and people at work knew exactly who I am going to see. I have had their bumper sticker on my car for years here, and not a soul knows what the heck that means. The other night, when we saw them in Park City, this couple approached us before the show, to ask us if we like them and if we have ever seen them live. They had never seen them live, but they listened to them, and “they sounded good”. We said yes, we had seen them live before, but I was nervous to talk them up. I love their music and I think that anyone in general should give them a listen, but especially anyone who likes bluegrass. But when it comes to their live performances, I am afraid people will be put off. The show we saw in Montana a few years ago was a disaster, I thought: what very few people know (including us, at the time) about Montana is that it is wicked windy! Think hurricane winds as a matter of fact, howling and constant. The festival is in this wide open prairie, and there is no tree, nor mountain around to stop the wind and the sand whipping your face. Non. Stop. They came on stage and their guitar picks were blown away in the wind. The sound blew away with them. Tara got visibly mad. They were rushed, and wanted to get it done with, it seemed. People started leaving early. The crowd dwindled, and that was painful to watch. For the first time, everyone there was not there for Donna. It was new to me. The Park City show was much, much better, I thought. The venue was small and intimate (an underground cocktail lounge called O.P. Rockwell). The sound was a bit hard, as they sounded very loud, but you got used to it fast. Tara had issues, again, which strained her nerves, visibly, because her mic was not loud enough, she thought. Their sound was a bit flat (all mics sounded like they were tuned equally, and I would have liked the instruments to be a bit more dimmed than their voices, perhaps), but they sounded good, overall, if you were not picky! And Tara is. People were great sports. Most everyone danced and stayed till the end. They played for more than two hours, solidly – almost no breaks between songs, no introductions. They did have a short intermission. The one thing that I can clearly see that could alike them to The Dead is their long jamming sessions. They get into these long instrumental rifts that go on for a good 20-30 minutes sometimes, just wailing away. They have instrument solos during it, and dialogues, and are somewhat psychedelic, very 60's-like. They did several of these the other night, too, and the crowd exploded a couple of times. They sounded as great as usual – like I said before: these folks surely know their stuff. It was great to hear some old songs (Positive Friction, Everyday, In Another World), but also some new ones. I would tell you what they are called, but they didn't tell us. I guess they might be on their next album, if bands do albums anymore?! Every single song had the same effect their music has on me: feels like every blood cell in my blood stream moves with their rhythm. It's like your whole body becomes plugged into some unseen electrical outlet which makes it move with the music. They are powerful, and entertaining, but on a more cerebral level, I suppose. If I have one bit of advice for trying them for the first time is this: listen to their recordings first. If you like what you hear, then, listen to more and more of their music. If you really think you're hooked, then, go see them live. You can be very forgiving when you love them for their music first. And they are truly lovable because of what they do and because of the precision and energy with which they are doing it. They take their seriousness and attention to every note and “step it up to life.” Donna is the reason why I would never sneeze at an unknown hometown band – because beauty and talent does not always need a Grammy to be legitimate. I leave you to one of my favorite tunes, and in this video Tara looks like maybe she is having just a smidgen of fun. Proud to be a herd member!
