Daily life flies into brick wall. You go along, you don’t feel well, you finally decide to get some tests and at the end of the tests you get the Diagnosis: Philadelphia chromosome positive, Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia (ALL), B-cell.

Not knowing what to think, you take a day to prepare, not knowing for what or how long or anything.

The first few days here were so busy that I hardly had time to breathe. Things are slowing down now. The bone marrow biopsy confirmed the presence of leukemia. A spinal tap injected chemo directly into the spinal fluid. They tested every little function of my body, including an ultrasound of the heart. When I mentioned I might have a sore throat it prompted a throat swab and high isolation for two days so that Steve and Elena both had to wear masks and gloves and gowns to be in my room. It was a great relief when that came back negative.

I have a Hickman Line, basically a type of central venous catheter used for the long-term administration of substances such as antibiotics, blood transfusions, nutrition, or chemo. The Hickman is attached to me permanently and it spares me the bruising pinpricks of numerous blood draws.

I have a cocktail of things regularly pumped into me. And they draw out blood for testing on the same line. My IV pole is now my tether and my constant companion. I have named him Herman and I try not to mind his little beeps and sounds. I drag him around for a walk twice a day, 10 rounds around the hall equals a mile. Two miles a day is my goal for now. I don’t always make it. It is a love hate relationship, but through Herman, I receive not only all the chemo (well some is oral too) but also life saving fluids, anti-nausea, anti-fungal, antibiotics, etc etc.  So far, I have also received several  blood transfusions through Herman. Blood clotting agents, Vitamin K, whole red platelets. All those times you have given blood…I am the one getting the benefits now. Thanks for that, by the way.

The steroids they give me cause an insulin resistance that spikes the blood sugar. So for the first time in my life, I submit to blood sugar tests and then get an insulin shot before I eat. I am humbled by this, knowing home many people walk around with full blown diabetes everyday. We all have our battles.

I can’t say enough good things about WHERE I am. If I had to come down with this, it is the best place to be. A friend of mine emailed Brian Drucker, who is one of the highest authorities in the field of Leukemia. Here is what he said:  “The treatment for acute lymphoblastic leukemia can be pretty brutal, but the disease has a reasonably high cure rate. A bone marrow transplant might also be considered if she has a good match. Since she has the Philadelphia chromosome,  Gleevec or one of its relatives would be used. UW is a great place for her to be.”

Strange comforting words, in their own way. I just have try and survive the treat. I am on a Gleevec relative called Cyclophoshamide and the newest and best medicine, so the big deal now is to keep me tolerating the chemo while it is killing the leukemia. I hope onto the doctor’s comment that “the leukemia cells are literally dying by the hundreds of thousands right now.” Along with the rest of me.

We have a new definition of Home. Home to the doctors here is a place they can send me which is within 20 minutes of the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance (Fred Hutchinson Center). This treatment for Acute Lymphoblastic Leukemia is interspersed with hospital intensive chemo and blood transfusions for 5 days, followed by me being able to go “home”. Then for 2-3 weeks, we watched the blood counts and hope they come up. When they do, and I feel better, they will hit it again, back in the hospital.

So part of the new normal is a small cottage that has been made available to us. The island community, has helped us create a place we will call the Cottage; And that will be home for awhile. By summer, I may be ready –hopefully–for a stem cell transplant. That will require a good 2 weeks of hospitalization and then more time at the cottage. My goal is simple: If I can fight back all the things that are trying to kill me, and my body can recover, I may granted a leukemia-free life again.

Jack the dog has gone to live on the island with Josh and Julie, our house sitters. I want you all to know how deeply I feel the connections that I have been showered with. Thank you. My nights have been so difficult with nausea that the days also pass in a blur. Thus, I hope you might understand that I am not up to entertaining visitors at this point. The best for me really is email or snail contact right now, rather than phone calls. Steve and the daughters have been utterly amazing, so tender and connected. I am indeed a blessed woman. And I am most grateful for the love and support of my friends and community. So many of you have written some of the most wonderful things I have ever read. My own responses will be slow and will fight with fatigue and nausea. But keep them coming. They mean so much.

Elena has to suit up to be in my room for 1st 2 days.

Steve takes a map on bench, in full gear.

One of our many chats. I could never do this without my family.

Jack and Steve say hi from the canal.

My favorite artwork here.

Getting ready to go bald.

Mariya, Steve, Elena .. .
superstars!

I just learned what “ALL means”, in the past few days, when plans for a trip to South America got replaced by a trip to the UW Hospital. It was like falling out of an airplane. I went from walking 2 hours a day to fatigue and no appetite, to the couch to the doctor to the hospital in pretty short order. So, on this day, when we were scheduled to fly out to Quito, Ecuador, I sit instead in a hospital room and prepare for chemotherapy and bone marrow biopsies and spinal taps and things I never knew about.

Sunday, we slipped away from our home on the island. We had one day to prepare. Though I have always been the ultimate symptom-checker and internet warrior researcher, there was no impulse to do it now. Just a deep pool of quiet.

Before we left home I walked around our land to see the quickening stir, the new bulbs bursting through wet ground, the bright green of new growth coming up between storm debris and last year’s still rotting leaves. The air was fresh on a gusty wind, playing tag with a raven. I admired the old lichens and rocks, the spongy moss and newborn nettles. I hugged a few trees. And I sent out a prayer to the Creator, the deep living Essence that dwells within the Universe and us, breathing life into our lives and setting the Great Cycles into motion that fuel this magical existence.

I asked, quite simply, for a miracle. The miracle of health, which every one of us takes for granted . . . until we don’t have it. And then, when we don’t have it, it is the one thing we want with all of our hearts.

Next, I sent a prayer to my angels. Well, I had to have a little talk with my mom about wanting to outlive her for many years. Mom always was fierce about pretty much everything. She loved family exclusively. So, I asked for her fierceness now in my healing. I talked to my dad, calling him back from exploring the heavens and to my dear loving grandparents and my beloved aunt Maria Elena and Steve’s Mom, Virginia. I asked for my unknown angels too, the ones you can feel by your side when you don’t take the turn that could have ended badly and all the other unemployed and altruistic angels who might be interested in me. I asked for them to be at my side and make angel things happen.

Once I was in the bewildering maze of the UW Hospital, I knew I had one more thing to do. I had to tell my friends and extended family and community. In doing so, I felt like I had unleashed the angels of Love. I believe in prayer. Whether it is done alone or in community, to God or nature sprits or just good old-fashioned love energy. I have always believed in the strength and amazing energy of friends and of community. I have banked my whole life on it. So, now—even more—I do so again. I figure anyone who wants to send me healing prayers—I am going to say welcome and thank you.

Having asked the Creator for the miracle of health and set the angels to work, I will hang tight with my sweet family, take in the wonderful notes from friends, and remember that we are all timeless and huge souls. I want to give my faithful body pure compassion and love and never let the small confines of hospital rooms rule my whole reality. I have led a blessed life. I have nothing but gratitude in my heart.

When the doctors were here today, I said— so it’s like this: an intruder breaks into the junkyard. So you release the guard-dogs and they snarl and run after and destroy the intruders. But then, they turn that furious energy on everyone else—the customers, the employees. Somehow you have to reel in the ferocious hounds that you just unleashed. It’s a good analogy, they said as they left the room. I know I have months ahead of chemotherapy. So, in 2 weeks, I will look like Jean Luc Picard. A bone marrow transplant is also on the horizon. I will keep blogging whenever I can.

P.S. We are feeling hopeful and want to stay that way. I am visualizing myself on another Grand Canyon adventure with Steve.  If you do that too, it would be much appreciated. My address for awhile: University of Washington Medical Center, 1959 NE Pacific St, Box 356125, Room 8452, Seattle, WA 98195-6125.

Also…not yet entertaining visitors at this point. And also prefer only email or snail contact right now, rather than phone calls. I can’t do flowers here. But I have a bulletin board and shelf space for notes and I check my email even more than usual right now.

We are very nearly home. Now in Olympia, we will be home on Saturday, and very glad of it.

Before we went on this journey, there was a song that I played over and over, usually a sign that I am identifying with its message. I was needing to go on the road. Didn’t think much about the El Camino and where it was or what, but now I know. Highway 101 and other parallel roads, linked by Missions, Presidos and towns—600 miles worth from San Diego to Sonoma County.

I’m headed out to that Mission Bell
Gonna wash my soul, gonna get it clean
Heading down the border road called the El Camino

I needed the open road. I can’t tell you exactly why. I wanted to wash my soul. Maybe it was years of underfunded jobs that could never gain the purchase of stable funding. Maybe it was the lightly called and deeply felt empty nest syndrome. Maybe it was saying goodbye to both parents and feeling my own age creeping up on me. Or maybe its just a few too many days spent mostly indoors last winter.

This song, by Mary Chapin Carpenter comes closest to saying it.

Life astounds us in an instant,
Changing all we know.
Blink just once and then you’ve missed it,
all that you can do is watch it go.

Chorus
I want to feel what the wind feels like,
I want to go that high.
Feel no fear instead of being down here,
Holding up the sky.

I found myself between two lifetimes, the sunset and the dawn.
I reached up and took the lifeline
Offered up between here and gone.

We were in California for a month.
Now, as we approach the Northwest in the rain, it already seems like a dream.

Our first starry night found us stuck in sand up to the gunnels of our van.
Our last day, we woke up in fog, in a meadow full of Roosevelt elk north of Eureka.
We took that old van from 282 feet below sea level in Death Valley and over
the Sierra pass at 7, 382 feet, right through the 5 feet of new snow fall, to celebrate
Christmas and Solstice 2012 and my birthday at Mariya’s home in Tahoe.

We froze our fannies in San Diego during the California cold spell . . .
But when it broke, and the days bloomed into the seventies, we donned shorts at Big Sur, watching breaching humpbacks and migrating gray whales.

We marveled at the silence of the redwoods,
Watched a pup die, in the wilderness of elephant seals—

Laughed our way into the New Year in side-by-side claw foot outdoor bathtubs,
Walked Venice Beach, ate fresh local fruit and veggies in winter,

Studied the surfers at Malibu,
Walked in mountain lion, tick and rattlesnake country,

Went “flying” (aerial yoga) with a Maori yoga master at the Giving Garden urban communal living space in Santa Monica.

We touched hot springs that touched our lives,
Visited old friends and family, made new friends,
Sampled hostels, sought dog-friendly beaches and watched many sunsets.
So.
I guess that was the opposite of holding up the sky.
You know, down here on earth, holding it all up.
Making a habit of doing that, day after day.
I guess washing my soul meant taking the lifeline offered up between here and gone.
That is, as we discovered, sometimes—hard.

We learned what winter is to the body when the dark cold curtain fell at 5 PM and didn’t come back up until after 7 AM.
And there was, often, no place else to go. We just had us and the van.
Sometimes, this was giddy essential living.
Sometimes it was plain gritty.
We observed that an evening with light and warmth was precious.
And that being on the road was to be prized.
The two realities existed side by side in our world. Knowing both felt like a privilege.

I wanted to feel what the wind feels like. Being too safe in my world wasn’t giving me that feeling. At the same time, really knowing what the wind feels like makes home more precious than ever.
Hard times are a dime a dozen.
Good times are made by sanctuary in a big, often raw world.
Blessings to all who gave us that sanctuary.
You were friends and family who took us in, and showered us with hospitality and friends who sent us support and home greetings.

You were strangers who went out of your way to invite us to your world and who pointed the way to free parking areas, drew us maps so we wouldn’t get lost, and who co-created experiences with us that we won’t soon forget.
You were people we will never meet who made the trails, told the stories, preserved the hot springs, and created and protected the public spaces we enjoyed.
You were the servers at restaurants and bars, the gas stations and a myriad of other roadside places who gave us a kind smile and the helpful energy to speed us on our journey.

You were the Pacific Ocean, our constant companion for many days, the red rock Canyonlands, the deserts and mountains, rivers and the sunlit landscapes that made our hearts sing. You were the deep and extraordinary sacred places of America that were entrusted to us. We will sing your praises and encourage others to find your beauty and keep you safe for the generations to come.

You were a simple 1996 Ford Econoline Van that took us to all these experiences. Gratitude.

So, we are in Venice Beach. And Jack has just taken a poop on the grass and I am bent over putting it neatly into a little baggie. And a burly police officer motors up so fast I almost drop the precious nuggets and shuts off his engine. I scroll through the possible things I could get chastised for, “but Jack is on a leash’, I think and “I am picking “IT” up”.

“That a labradoodle?” patrolman asks eagerly. I smile and nod. We get asked this many times a day.

“Nice,” he says and motors his big-ass motorcycle away. Yep. That’s what it’s like walking the dog. Reminds me of when I walk alongside the daughters, where I am invisible and all eyes are trained on them.

Okay, while I am on topic, I will now refute the oft-issued challenge by said daughters that Jack is the “most photographed dog in the world”.  Perhaps they are a bit jealous but we really do love them more than Jack. That said, the boy deserves mention. He has had some great fun adventures but oh my, he has had a lot of things thrown at him. He’s been attacked by Chihuahuas (and many other little dogs…doing things that a big dog could never get away with), rushed by pit bulls and made “friends” with Great Danes100 pounds heavier than him. Jack has had cactus in his paws, ticks in his skin, been startled awake by marauding raccoons, then told to be quiet and go back to sleep, asked to walk straight up and down slick rock cliffs, walked the streets of Las Vegas and Venice Beach, amongst many other places— from Death Valley to the Temple Square of Salt Lake City. Occasionally, he’s scared people with his size, but more often delighted people. He’s slept a whole lot of nights in the van alone and a whole lot more with his two humans, scrunched up into his small space as we step around him, never flinching from the things that drop on him. He’s eaten pistachios every evening at our own version of happy hour, floundered in Tahoe snow over his head, galloped on beaches, been confused over times when it was okay to chase squirrels and times when it was forbidden, stayed in the Grand Canyon dog kennel, lounged in hotel rooms, and sat around many campfires. He has been an amazing companion.

From day to day, our human perspective of the trip changes. We have reached the end of the travel south. The road warriors have become road weary, and our talk turns more often to home than to travel.  We haven’t forgotten: it was the NW winter climate that propelled us into this trip. Travelers know how much the daily weather matters to their moods and ability to do things. Last winter, on days when I could not remember the color of the sky beyond the dense pewter cloud bank, I wanted light and access to sun more than the comforts of home. Only now, after weeks of travel, has this drive wavered. Ironically, it is an unusually rainy and cool winter in California. Here, the sun is high and warm and bright at its zenith. There is a gleaming luminosity to the days that still feeds our hunger for it. Soon enough we will be headed north, to good friends and to our good home in the Salish Sea. This will have its own warm radiance. And the sun has rounded the corner of winter and is on its way back. What a miracle.

I never really explored California. It is more than worthy of all the superlatives that portray it. For all of you who have been here many times, I can’t to begin to try and describe it. To call it favored and gorgeous seems laughably obvious. I grew up in San Diego but left when I was 18. Ask me about Oregon, Washington and Alaska, fine. I know them. But not California. Many of you have explored and experienced more it than we will on this trip, so what to say…?

We can’t pretend to be suave about it. Steve and I have been tourists here like all the vacationers who crowd our San Juan Islands in summer. Now it’s our turn to gawk and marvel. We stared so long at 28,000 Monarchs fluttering and clustering for the night in the long rays of the setting sun that my neck took awhile to work out the resulting spasm. A small patch of 800-year-old live oaks, huge and twisted and gorgeous, gave us a hint of how California used to look. The night farmer’s market in January in SLO (San Luis Obispo) was nothing short of astounding, a rainbow-colored profusion of fresh vegetables and fruits, nuts, berries, and dates; all grown locally. The wineries and vineyards of the Edna Valley, and Santa Maria valleys, vast agricultural fields, stunning beaches—seriously, I don’t know where to start. I have been dazzled by California’s diverse splendor and made speechless. Just kidding, so don’t get excited.

We made it all the way to San Diego, where I was raised. I had a posse in those days, and the four of us rode fat-tired bikes and swam in the Pacific Ocean as our home country. We galloped horses on open slopes that now are covered with homes and businesses. The vacant lots, fruit-tree-studded back yards, and big canyons with their magical springs and life-giving seasonal ponds were the center of our world, along with the sandy beaches and secret coves of our shorelines. I hadn’t been back for over 40 years. Without a guide, in my old friend Robin, I would have felt adrift in a city I had never been to before, shining and interesting, but without these landscapes that had been my bedrock. Even the San Diego Zoo, and Balboa Park, the Serengeti and wilderness of my youth, felt domesticated and smaller. This, I think is not a unique experience, to go “home” and find it smaller and tame. Some of it is because we were smaller and the world more open, quite literally, in terms of humanity’s footprint and sheer populous weight. Now I feel the edge of my neighbor on the border of my own space. Then I felt… a spacious opening around me, populated by many creatures who were very real and not human. These places of my youth now exist only in my dreamscapes. Now that I have another vivid confirmation of that, I want only for those dreamscapes to remain as testament to the worlds of beauty that lived alongside me, that nurtured and fed me and taught me.

Anyway, that’s where we are. Road weary. Soaked in beauty. Tough. Hardy. Tired. Ready to go home, almost, but not quite. Every day, we experience the best of all times, and the worst. Every day, I find out that good things come in flashes, when you set down the wariness of your own little world and let someone else’s in. My favorite moment on Venice Beach was when I stopped when offered a “free” CD. I looked into the face of a Jamaican man. It was a face I liked. I took the CD. He put the head phones on my head and his own reggae music played warm into my ears. “It’s my first CD,” he told me proudly. He asked for a small donation. $5 dollars later, I walked on, smiling. Best five bucks I ever spent.

Holy smokes, has it really been 3 weeks or a month, since I got my paws on this key board?  Well let me start most recent and work backwards; given my age (just turned six) my memory isn’t what it used to be!

So, today I had a decent walk on the beach (illegally– as dogs aren’t welcomed on most California beaches), in a place called Carpenteria—-Just south of Santa Barbara.  There’s this real active railroad on one side, and then there is the beach with surfers in the foreground and these 7 oil platforms a couple miles out, that break the vista toward the Channel Islands.  Sleep has been a bit ‘catch as catch can’ given the raccoons, ground squirrels, gulls, coyotes, people and train bells and whistles, to say nothing of the surf that seeps in and around the window that the boss man keeps open at night (he claims it’s needed for the sake of his beauty sleep?!).  This beach has black gooo seeping naturally out of the rock formations just above the beach, and lots of oil soaked outcroppings—the Beverly hillbillies  must have seen this and sold the rights to the petrol companies that have been active in this beautiful chunk of semi wild California.    O—and did I mention being attacked by three more yappy Chihuahuas on the beach today?  Boss man was unhappy and loudly cursed out the errant and ‘out to lunch’ dog owners that did nothing to curb the curr’s!  I just danced around them and tried to keep my heels from getting bit.  We also met up with another in a string of old Alaskana, by the name of Culbertson—-some connection with the Koponens , from the little bit I was able to gather as they sipped

black java from the French press.

Ok now for yesterday—em, it seems so long ago—there have been so many places, people and things—-I think even the two leggeds are getting a bit tired of being on the move so much! Yesterday I hung out with Big, I mean really BIG dogs in Santa Barbara, called Great Danes— 165 pounds worth!  That was the hallmark of yesterday, as bossman and ‘The Lady’ hung out with some old Pipeline friend called Mertens and another called Ben/Barb Fitzgerald—they watched the Irish get crushed and Seattle win a big one and get this; ate eggs Benedict with lobster  and drank 10 year old Rye Whiskey—-Boss man was in hog heaven, especially as Mertens has a steam bath and a hot tub!  I got a nice consolation prize in the form of a beef rib that Alpha got at some farmers market thingie that happens every Thursday in what the locals call SLO—San luis Obispo—another one of the pretty cool places we’ve over nighted in!

“Kooks”, lots of kooks out here wandering the byways and highways that we seem to be crisscrossing;  like the elderly couple (nearly as old as my two humans—hangovers from the wild and wooly 60’s I think!–) that buy a $95 annual parking sticker and just live free and legal on the streets and along the beaches of Santa Barbara in their modified hippie wagon.  I think ‘boss man’ is getting some new survival ideas on how to do South California on a dollar a day—–seems there was a book out some years back, that he used in Europe and was/still is, his ‘bible’?  We are supposed to meet up in Venice Beach with a university professor they met at a natural Death Valley hot springs, who is writing a book about living for 6 months on gleaned food from the fields/trees and dumpsters of L.A.—-no doubt more fodder for his $1/day inclinations!!!!

In days past we have had some very interesting times at places like the cemetery above  Cambria, that had the most varied and interesting head stones and paraphernalia one could ever imagine—bossman even said he wanted to be buried there?!   O—lordie beeee, I could go on and on, but its time for me to yawn and stretch and let these two ‘chowder heads’ know its my time to get out and relieve myself—-they sometimes forget that I too have needs!

Signing off for now—your friend, Jack—-ps  Steve got a big kick out of The Mrs. and me  watching Dr. Who on her smart phone the other night—me in the drivers seat and she sitting all bundled up in the passengers seat, reaching over scratching my head—-seemed just right to me!!

We Left Tahoe on Christmas Day. Took Elena tothe Reno airport so she could fly home to Seattle, and then found another one of those cheap rooms in the Casino.  So, from the window of Harrahs, we watched more snow fall on Christmas Day eve. Went to see Les Miserables. And felt a little lonely.

It took us nearly 5 hours to get over Donner Pass the next day. Between the holiday traffic and the snow, it was just a very long haul.  It was absolutely wonderful to break out into the green of the foothills. And then to arrive at the inviting home of my Aunt and Uncle in Cool just after dark felt like something of a miracle.

And it was a wonderful visit. We set off, back on the road the next day, well fed and rested. All we knew for sure was that we were headed south.  Made our way to I-5 and drove through the dark until we made the decision to take the turn off to Paso Robles (hah, I made that sound so easy).  Arrived late, slept in our van on a darkened side street.

More than a little road weary, after nearly two months traveling, we only knew we had to get back to the Pacific Ocean. We didn’t expect the startling beauty of Highway 46, from Paso Robles to Cambria—old oaks, vineyards and sycamores in undulating hills. After weeks in the desert and then in snow, fifty shades of vibrant green took our breath away.

We looked the coastline up and down. Took a remarkable walk on the leash-free beach near Morro Bay where dogs in sizes XS to XL were flying free as kites, scampering with great canine abandon from surf to sand.  We noticed not one dropping, as all the owners seem well schooled in doggie-doodoo-picking-up-etiquette, used the bags provided, and disposed in the simple trash bags tied to the fence.

But after our explorations, we came back to Cambria. We could tell it was the right place at the right time for us. How do you find a great town, anyway?  I started by googling “great towns of southern California”. As travelers, we know for sure that we don’t want to spend time in bad towns. And we also know great towns are rare. So when we found a sweet hostel in an appealing setting, we knew we were blessed.  The hostel was the Bridge Street Inn. We were thrilled to find it.

The hostel life, if anyone wants to know, is one of the most sublime experiences I have ever known. Cooking together, eating together, talking with travelers, forming a short-lived but rich community—it far outshines any sterile hotel room. The hostel in Cambria, Bridge Street Inn, is managed by Brandon, with an easy hand and an eye for spontaneous creativity. A modern day beat poet, Brandon played songs for us on his guitar and read his own stories, while we thoroughly enjoyed his distinctive humorous style; pure irony with a satirical twist that made me laugh out loud more than once. I was fascinated by the way Brandon encouraged co-creation and collaboration with his visitors; from conversation to projects to bonfires and potlucks.

People told us to go see the elephant seals.  Not knowing what to expect, we went.  “World-class” is a travel term that often falls short but I would put the viewing of the elephant seals in that category without hesitation. Never mind that it is just steps away from Highway 101 and that you view their lives elbow to elbow with a whole lot of other people. In fact, those facts make it seem more amazing to me. There is some kind of one-way mirror between the human community and the elephant seal community.  We watch them but they seem remarkably oblivious to us. They are 25 feet away on the sand; you are on the boardwalk. They are fighting, nursing, dying, birthing, swimming and resting. You are watching this with a combination of awe, inspiration and heartbreak for those that lose or die. Many questions arise, and as soon as you say them out loud, one of the other extraordinary features of this experience appear… docents. People who love the Wild, and can articulate it over and over to endless questions (and often stupid—I know, I asked them myself!)—are special. The elephant seal world is so raw and untamed that it nearly defies description. They are the fundamental nature of the sea personified.

The next day, I woke up drenched by elephant seal dreams. We decided to check out Fiscalini Ranch Preserve, following Brandon’s suggestion. Walking right from the hostel, we entered this beautiful community treasure and thoroughly enjoyed its riparian and woodland communities, the rich birding and the fabulous views. The story is one that makes my heart delight and echoes a San Juan County triumph: Turtleback mountain.  When a community decides to make something last into perpetuity, it is the best of human teamwork and vision. I quote here the inspirational Fiscalini story, for it needs no amendments

“The Fiscalini family owned the property for nearly a century, raising first dairy stock and then beef cattle. The family sold the Town Ranch out of tax necessity in 1979 and it went through a series of development plans by ambitious owners. These plans were blocked by Friends of the RanchLand until they realized that the only way to save the land was to buy it, bringing in the American Land Conservancy (ALC) in 1999.”

 Bottom-line, a series of partners appeared and pledged funds to save the Ranch but these funds needed to be matched by local efforts.

 “Cambrians, through numerous fundraisers, donations and an eleventh hour donation by Midstate Bank of their creek side property, accomplished the impossible. With hard work and determination the purchase was finalized in November of 2000. The Ranch now belongs to all of us, forever.The Ranch is open for public enjoyment every day.”

 We ended 2012 with a stop at the Stolo Family Winery. Together with our new friend, Alison, another Bridge Street Inn hosteller, we toasted to our intentions for 2013 in between tastes of delicious and high quality wine. I have never been able to figure out why people think that getting smashed on New Years is the way to celebrate. I love this holiday. I love wrapping up the old year, out loud and in writing, reflecting on it and marveling on all that happened. As for resolutions, I don’t subscribe. If I get past February, it’s a wonder. But I do like goals, and I do think there is much truth in the saying “as soon as you can think it, ink it.” We can direct our lives in more ways than we think possible, especially when we say it out loud and then write it down.

This stop was what we needed. We had to give up the notion of warm, but replaced it with sunny and “pretty warm” (60’s). The sun is bright and you can actually feel its heat. Now, in San Luis Obispo, we are taking our time in central California. It wasn’t ever really on our radar but for now, it is providing us with much that we have been looking for: beauty, nice towns, long sandy beaches, splendid hikes and rustic hot springs.

Amazing how the journeys along the way feel as though they belong to another lifetime. Walking into the Grand Canyon? Yeah, we did that long long ago, right? The shimmering red rock of the Grand Staircase Escalante and Canyonlands? Kayaking outside Prescott? A walk on the immigrant trail, along the Mexican border? Las Vegas? Really? Even Death Valley seems years ago.

Now our world is beautiful snow and Christmas with family. Since the day after we arrived, the cold stuff has been falling.  Daily, Jack and I go Walking in Thigh-High Winter Wonderland. I have stopped Dreaming of a White Christmas for fear the Universe will respond with more!  It is good. It tells my body that So This Is Christmas—even though it has traveled through all of these diverse climates.

I can never fully shed the irony and paradox of Christmas. But here, with daughters and Will’s family, we are on the edge of Forest Service land, so the view out the window sweeps toward trees and river and mountains. The snow slows us from dashing to get one last thing, and makes us all feel cozy to be inside. And, cheesy as it can be, it is also somehow profound. This time of year has always been so sacred that not even the vast engines of commercialization can bulldoze it. The Winter Solstice is a moment on the wheel of time that simply stops in the northern hemisphere for just a few days. The Pause. We have passed through the portal of the longest night of the year and before the sun begins to really gather steam, there is just this one long deep breath where not much moves in the celestial reckoning of our lives. For us, this year, this is most definitely the Pause, the intermission of our travels. That is part of the time warp or head spin that I go through, for Solstice got unseated by Christmas, and so I always feel like I am secretly observing another holiday which is hidden in the Christmas language.

For thousands of years, humans have gathered at this time to hold each other close and dear, for the winter’s dark and cold remind us of how precious we are to each other. We struggle with the awkwardness of merging and preserving traditions and all the endless lists of what must be done, not to mention the over-spending of the season in an effort to say I Love You. And, for our family, at least , one of the favorite activities of the holiday, is the sitting around, preferably in jammies or lounging outfits, surrounded by food and drink and presents or wrappings. Every year, I simultaneously think—ack, ALL THIS STUFF and oh, it’s The Pause, as we snuggle in, and time slows.

The 2012 energy of the Shift of the Ages became trivialized, like the fierce and shining Irish tribe Tuatha Dé Danann that morphed into Leprechauns. And after awhile, we don’t even remember the original legends that fed and nourished us. We run around calling it the End of the World, either sarcastically or for real, and we lose the chance to really reflect on the Turning Point where we are now. Will it be business as usual or a shift to a future that could actually sustain our children? All I know now is that, though the prospect seems dim for thoughtful positive change, we must focus on the best in humans and the beauty of the earth. We must love it, even if it feels hopeless. Know it, love it, don’t be afraid to feel it. Move to what brings you joy and try to stay there as much as you can. Vow not to hurt yourself or the earth. Find a humble way to do service. And here, unexpectedly, this pagan-Jesus loving person finds deep comfort and inspiration in his story and life. Which brings me back to Christmas and the incongruity and congruity of the stories.

And So This Is Christmas (my favorite “carol”). Especially for all of those who lost their loved ones, I know this humble and familial scene is exactly the one we will all most miss when it disappears. For those who are alone, or in pain, or impoverished or homeless—it seems fitting to say God Bless, without even being one who thinks of an entity to match the God part, I think it is the way of saying the Divine loves you, remember that. Life loves you. The Earth loves you. YOU. All of you. All of us. And I feel you, touch you, and hold you too in my heart. I fold you into this scene and wish the same for you.

(This was written a few days ago, but we have been hemmed in by China Lake Weapons Station, Death Valley, the Mojave Desert and the Sierra and Inyo Mountains, in no towns bigger than a pit-stop and no wifi.)

Ah, it may seem as if we are away from the news, but we carry it with us. Steve loves his NPR, so it is our frequent companion. Like many of you, I woke up this morning trying to see my own life in perspective—how we all barely outrun the crazy man with the gun, metaphorically… and increasingly, in reality. We can feel the hot breath of the end of life on our skin every day; though whatever form it takes will inevitably surprise us: the pancreatic cancer, breast cancer, whatever kind of disease, the sudden accident, the drunk on the road, the precipitous fall off the roof, the sweet or sorrowful surrender, losing our mind, or our body slowly or quickly… it will surprise us. Because of that sure knowledge, we also understand that life is tenuous and fragile and precious. Today, along with the daily journey of our own existence, we carry the helpless and inconsolable heartache of a horrific school shooting, powerless to help the Syrian refugees struggling with the cold or the inconceivable tragedy of elephant families killed for ivory trinkets.

It isn’t that we can heal our hearts with this travel. It’s more like we take this pain, all of it, all the land ravaged and the humans and animals so carelessly killed, and we carry it out to the sky and the air and the earth and scatter it like ashes. We burn the grief with our campfires, and we live a simple life. We live a life now more like the rest of the world than when we are home; more elemental, uncomplicated and somehow, more right. We can’t make bad things go away. At home, we would gather with friends and family and hold them close. We would share the anguish. On the Road, we balance the sorrow with the goodness, the beauty, the surprises and the unexpected generosity and the gift of public spaces.

Ash Meadows National Wildlife Refuge, Nevada, was such a find. A sacred place of the Piute and Shoshone peoples, it is a natural desert oasis, full of life. “It was a place we used to waterski and have a great time”, I was told by a local. “Now, it’s all Government Protected.” The tone in his voice was scornful. So we went out to see it. We walked on a boardwalk that allowed us to see the place up close and personal. Non-native species are being taken out. Native species, from the smallest pupfish to the mountain bluebird and verdin thrive; migratory birds have a place to rest and feed. Interpretive signs opened up what we were seeing, illuminating things directly in front of us that we could so easily miss. The Great Basin AmeriCorps young adults work in keep the boardwalk in good shape. Once again, I think this is an under-sung and under-appreciated aspect of our country. I urge everyone to get out and enjoy and support efforts like this, and let the sentient and deep wisdom of this continent heal the injuries inflicted by our culture and our times.

Our caravan is small, our camps minimal in a way only Strider could conceive of as luxury. At the same time, we are surrounded by the enormous prosperity of this country in every way, from the obvious to the more precious and the more subtle wealth of a campground like this one we inhabit for the night in Furnace Creek, Death Valley. Each campsite is its own nation; from humble tents to rigs so big a whole extended family could call it home. But we are all here, in this astonishing place; protected, interpreted, restored by a cast of characters in the epic tale that is the creation and preservation of the National Parks of this country.

We have been through some harder times since leaving Phoenix. Got stuck in soft sand so deep I really wasn’t sure if we’d just driven Into the Wild or what. That was outside Parker, California. Lucky us, the tow company came prepared for Cheechakos (Alaskan term for idiot beginners). They happily hauled us out with their oversized four-wheel drive rig and collected their $300. Steve and I got off kilter for awhile, and had those moments when you both wish you were somewhere else with someone else. Then the hard rains came, ironic . . . since we were in one of the driest parts of the world, approaching Death Valley. We had a magical morning in a natural hotsprings outside of the tiny town of Tecopa under clouds gathering and coming in darker and darker, then ran for the comfort of Vegas in the downpour. Steve had a nephew he wanted to see, and that evening, we rubber-necked our way around Paris, Las Vegas—not gambling, but just looking around like the flabbergasted tourists we were. It rained, but at least we weren’t stuck in the van!

Now, things have smoothed out again, and here we are on a warm December evening, in a Death Valley campground. The stars are spread across the velvety black sky. A new moon is beginning its circuit. Death Valley is awesome; one of those places that has a name like legend and plenty of character. It holds the record for the hottest place on Earth (134 degrees; 40 months without precipitation) but after all the rain and cold, we loved and needed every minute of relative warmth (about 62 degrees during the day and 38 at night). The salt flats of Badwater, at 282 feet below sea level, is officially the lowest place on the American Continent. Often, the perception of the places you get to are completely shaped by the places you’ve just been through. With that in mind, I sure appreciated this rocky, earth-toned palette with eternal autumn colors, an impossibly dry low valley, framed by brown mountains, tipped with snow and a radiantly blue sky.

Soon, we will be in snowy South Lake Tahoe for my birthday, Solstice 2012 and Christmas with both kids. It will be good to stop for awhile though the weather will be COLD and snowy. It will be great to be with our loved ones. After that, we have a month still left on our journey! We both agree, we must find a location to rest and sit, somewhere relatively warm and cheap, or more preferably, free, for a couple of weeks in January. The travel has been good but the nights are nearly 14 hours long. We need some interior time. Anyone have a place they know of? We can take of pets or other things, do work exchange, manage/caretake an area, cook, etc. Mid or southern California, most likely.

This is Jack and my voice has been silenced by my two human travel mates, who want to hog all the attention.  I’ve got about 5 minutes while they slurp a 2^nd cup  (the first one is always way strong,  made by steve in the French press with heated water from the Coleman stove) of java at the Longstreet Casino located on a desert springs just east of  Death Valley and Ash Meadows NWR (where I am sure I WILL HAVE TO BE ON A LEASH).  Not sure how to encapsulate 6 weeks of travel in 4 minutes, but here goes;  My highlights have always been my times of walking in the crazy varieties of natural settings I find  myself with my Alpha male and female.  The long hikes with them in the CanyonLands of Utah were terrific, minus the sore pads I got on the abrasive sand and limestone formations—-I had to take a couple day break from walking with them as a result, but then they left me in this god awful cage with other howling dogs at a kennel on the South rim of the Grand Canyon—I  call it a Gulag!—while they went traipsing out of sight for a couple days.

The visits with other humans has been entertaining and given my keen interest in the new things that come my way with these two humans, quite varied.  Try these on for goofy:  Hours of me sitting in the van with vehicles swooshing by and neon lights flashing while they party on the ‘Strip’ in Vegas—talk about trying to find proper toilet facilities for a four legged!  Finding a proper chunk of wild, ungroomed grass to do my business was equally challenging  in Sun City outside of Phoenix—also the 80 degree weather sucked—way to warm for this black haired  North- Westerner!  Meeting up and hanging out with family (Deb and Peter Ciani, Bill Porten) and friends (Deborah Neff in Tucson, Dave and Kim in Bisbee, Tim and Raimie in Prescott) has been comforting and easy as they have welcomed me into their homes for an opportunity to roll on my back and stretch out my legs—life in the van with two others gets to be confining sometimes.

O—dang it!  Here comes Steve and he is going to want to push the ‘send’ button and push off further into the Funeral Mts and Death Valley—-word has it I’ll get a walk about with an opportunity to sniff around at some of the varied sized holes in the ground that house everything from red diamond backs, to kangaroo rats.

Signing off for now, and until I can sneak my paws back onto their computer, I remain faithfully yours,  JACK

The night after we climbed out of the Grand Canyon, we hustled ourselves out of the busy parkland, with all their (necessary) regulations. This reminds me of a tangent, so hold on. Debbie from the Phantom Ranch told us the average time spent looking at the Grand Canyon was 18 minutes. All the rest boiled down to shopping and whatever else you came all the way for. I read a description of the hardworking backcountry ranger that unexpectedly brought me to tears because it was so true. All of us looking and asking the same dumb questions, and trying to get ourselves killed (and too often succeeding) and figuring that we ought to be able to get away with something. Them, trying to protect us from our macho fantasies,  and more importantly, protect the sacred ground they have sworn to defend from the hordes who love it. Okay, enough of the rant and rave. But I thought it was worth saying.

ANYWAY! We drove a short distance, still covered by the dust of the Grand Canyon into unfettered National Forest land where “dry camping” is allowed. Nothing like a campfire with an old deer hide next to it and no neighbors to make Porten happy. So we nursed sore muscles and toasted our Canyon trip and enjoyed the starry sky surrounded by Ponderosa Pine and no infrastructure.

We used the busy crossroads of Flagstaff as a working stop, settled in for a few hours at the library, went to see Lincoln, enjoyed the local brew pub and slept at the Wal-Mart parking lot.

Sedona was OMG kitsch, an incongruous study in contrasts: the stunning beauty of the landscape diminished by the commercialization of the Disneyland-like feel of the town. A 15-minute stroll through downtown Sedona was more than enough, so we beat feet out. HOWEVER, one must at least try to experience the vortexes. Right?

Small black and white map in hand, we went out to the Bell Rock to find the energy vortex that was reported to balance the male and female energies (this seemed like something we could use).  Looking for the twisting of Juniper trees as our guide, we walked in, and partway up the red rock flank of Bell Rock. Not knowing what to expect, we both just kind of wandered around, senses open, searching. I can’t say exactly what Steve felt, but I could tell by the look on his face as he leaned up against “his” Juniper that he was experiencing something pleasant.

I didn’t feel much until I sat down. Stillness may be the catalyst for these subtle forces to find us. The voice of nature is always drowned out by the noise of our own minds, and more so, the more delicate shift in the emanating energy of the earth. As for “woo-woo” well, I am a sucker for it. I figure we live on this magical planet where most of what we see and experience as “real and solid” is plain wrong. After all, the true reality is that I am a bag of water—hydrogen, oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, etc. –working in unison, illuminated by some kind of mysterious sentience, walking on a seeming solid surface, which is really a moving planet that is mostly space! So why would I think an energy vortex would be outlandish?

Still,  believing something and feeling it are two entirely different things. But when I sat down, I wasn’t thinking about anything in particular. A feeling of peace and connectedness descended upon me. It truly felt like a rush of pleasurable sensations buzzing in my head. While Steve sat by his own tree and then explored his way back with Jack, I sat by this small little spot on earth, took my shoes off and dug my toes into the crumbled frosting of granite and let myself rest in, and by rejuvenated by, whatever was happening. So, that is really what Sedona is about  . . . and I get why so many people are attracted to this lovely spot. Just skip the town.

Prescott was based in the great oasis of new friends Tim and Ramie, with their handsome standard poodle, Ringo. With amazing hospitality and generosity, they welcomed us and let us re-coup our tired bodies and restore our disheveled van. I can’t even begin to do justice to the incredible feasts we enjoyed, created by Tim with the flair and polish of a professional chef and avid foodie.

Years ago, when Mariya was just a baby, we passed through Prescott and found it to a sweet spot. Nearly 26 years later, we have returned and we had the same attraction to this town and the surrounding landscape. Facilitated by the tremendous hospitality of our hosts, we explored the cohesive downtown, went hiking near Thumb Butte, and kayaking at Watson Lake. I have a feeling we will be back to this place next winter!

We crossed over the land of the Saguaro, winding down into low elevations and traversing the crazy busy freeways between Phoenix and Tucson, headed for Bisbee, along the Mexican border, in SE Arizona. We were glad to only pass briefly through the Phoenix smog and jumble. I write this outside on a sparkling Bisbee afternoon, while guitars play and people chat casually.  OUTSIDE. I love this. Today’s daytime temperatures will hover around 75 degrees. For the first time, I will put away my down coat and hat for the evenings. I could get used to this kind of December.