Sleeping with the Giants

The sequoia, or redwood trees, are apparently the biggest trees on earth. In fact, they are the largest living organisim on land anywhere. The only place they live is in Northern California along the coast. According to wikipedia (and State Park brochures agree), the redwood tree “is an evergreen, long-lived, living for up to 2,200 years, and this species includes the tallest trees on Earth, reaching up to 115.5 m (379.1 ft) in height and 8m (26ft) diameter at breast height. It is native to coastal California.”

I've seen the BBC Planet Earth programme on these trees and kept them in mind as I pointed the Jamboree's nose north through California. I wondered along the drive when I would spot the first one, and if it really would be as obviously enormous as I've heard.

I found them. They weren't hard to find. And I'm happy to report that they really are obviously enormous.

I drove into the Humbolt Redwoods State Park very slowly, mouth hanging open in awe at the size of the trees along the side of the road. I found the state park campsite, and parked the Jamboree under one of the giant trees. I got out my camera and walked through the forest. I sat way down there on the ground under the trees as the sun set, sipping a glass of newly acquired Napa Valley wine. Later, I slept with the giants. I woke in the morning, the sun hinting at its existence out there beyond the top tips of the trees, way, way up there. I got Betty out and we cycled 25 early morning miles along the Avenue of the Giants.

I was impressed. Awed. Humbled. Happy. And rejuvenated. Sleeping in this park might have been the most spectacular spot I've parked the Jamboree. It absolutely beats WalMart parking lots and RV parks crammed with bus-homes. I love the quiet of the forest, the moist, cool mornings with sun peering through the tree tops, the sound of the wind rustling through the trees and, often, a fire crackling in the distance somewhere. The smell of fresh dew, green and wet on wood and leaves and dirt. These redwoods took the forest to a new level for me, literally and experientially, and inspired a nod of respect and appreciation for their age and beauty and grace. Anything I try to write might sound cliché and so I apologize for that, but if you have ever slept with these stunning giants, witnesses to the ages, silently and proudly watching over their little corner of the world, you'll understand why I say: Wow.

Northern California Redwood Forest

The Romantic California Coastal Drive

We love to drive. There's a whole romantic ethos to hitting the open road. There's a dedication to one's vehicle, trusty carrier from point A to B. And sometimes its interrupted by drama, fist waving, and venting frustrations out on the idiot ahead of you.

“Driving” can mean so many different things. There's the long, drawn out cruise through the unending desert. There's the stop and start truncated frustration of big city traffic. There's the slow Sunday drive, admiring the gorgeous scenery pass by your window. There's the gas guzzling mountain drive, up and up and around and further up, until the final, satisfactory sail downhill, what goes up must go down, I always say. There's the “I gotta find it!” GPS guided drive. The drive on icy roads, making you suck in your breath and ease off both gas and brakes. There's the lonely drive, turning up the tunes or the radio documentary. There's the drive that makes you forget you are driving, surrounded by chatter and engaged in conversation.

And then there's the California coastal drive.

I started in Long Beach with the big city traffic kind. Slow and typically frustrating. Carolynn in the passenger seat beside me gave conversation and functioned as a pretty good DJ. On the outskirts of the city the traffic took a while to thin out. When it finally did, the highway met the ocean and promised to meander a breathtaking path along the coast, a stunning route we'd been hoping for. The road carved precariously at some points along the cliffs that dove nearly straight down into the ocean. We climbed, curved, and oohed and aaahhed at the unbelievable scenery we were driving along. The hills reminded us of Switzerland and Italy and Ireland. Soft green carpeted hills, well manicured, misty and lush with the warm, moist coastal air. Every 20 miles or so, cars parked along the side of the road and surfers gathered in the ocean waves. Some parts along the drive were so remote, our cell phones lost service for the first time in the US.

This drive was definitely of the romantic kind, Carolynn and I agreed, and laughed that while we enjoyed it together, it might otherwise have been the perfect setting to experience with a lover. The camping under redwoods in state parks along the way was basic and added to the romantic feeling of the journey. We stopped in charming Santa Barbara, where we sipped California bubbly and glimpsed lounging seals, seemingly lovers themselves, on a sunset sail boat cruise. Coffee and breakfast in Carmel, California's answer to the east coast's Martha's Vineyard, where the swanky moneyed Californians go for a weekend or a month away from the hustle and bustle of bigger city life. Walking around the gorgeous San Francisco. Tasting wine in Napa Valley (I recommend my newest discovery, the Freemark Abbey winery).

My rose-coloured windshield was disturbed today by an incident of the fist-waving kind. I realize the Jamboree is big and bulky and slow and since I am rarely in a hurry, I do my best to be considerate. On highways with two or more lanes, I stay over in the right hand side so everyone else can easily pass. On single lane roads, I pull over into roadside pullouts whenever I can when I notice a few cars trailing behind me. I wouldn't want to be stuck behind me either, if I were in one of those fast little cars. This morning, as I wove my way slowly in the early morning across a quiet Napa Valley road, I was faced with a driver of the idiot kind. An irritating, impatient know-it-all. He made a big deal of passing me when there was a long enough stretch of road to do so, obviously impressed with his own daring and skill behind the wheel. Right after this amazing display of driving ability, a roadside pullout appeared, into which I was about to pull, as per my general habit. Since he is ahead of me now, though, and presumably much smarter and experienced a driver than I, he found it necessary to slow down, stick his hand out the window and point at the pull out for me. Good grief, how thankful I was that he was there to teach me what to do! I mean, really, I'm surprised he managed to squeeze both himself and his ego into that tiny little car. I flipped him the bird through the Jamboree's window and pulled over for the cars who were still travelling behind me. Interestingly, none of them thanked me, and along the entire coastal drive, I only got one wave despite pulling over for hundreds of cars. Waves and toots and light flashes to indicate thanks apparently only happen on Canadian roads.

LA-Napa

A trip into Mexico

My friend, Carolynn, didn't have to ask me twice to join her at her family's house in Mexico at some point during this year of rediscovery of North America. Really, a year and a trip like this wouldn't be complete without a foray into the third country in the Americas that still belongs to the North, just before it becomes Central. We agreed on mid-March, and that I would not attempt to drive the Jamboree down but instead hop in an overnight bus from Tucson to Alamos, about 9 hours directly south. I wrote as I went, and what follows is your Mexico blog installment. It goes nowhere except on a bus and back, very briefly and succinctly, and says very little, but it may be fun, light reading material for you anyway.

Here's what I was thinking as I travelled on the overnight bus from Tucson to Alamos, Mexico:

I really should learn to speak Spanish. I seem to travel in Spanish-speaking countries with relative frequency, and after a few hours of exposure I find that I can make out basic statements and questions, and the few words of Spanish that I do know I find in the recesses of my brain and can suddenly use again. Like finding a poem that you read a while back and then remember the nuance or the image that struck you in that earlier encounter.

I am on a bus into Mexico from the states. We just crossed the border, and the border experience rates among one of the more interesting ones I've experienced; and not unpleasant. In fact, the three immigration guards who came out to stamp my visa, and mine alone, as everyone else on the bus was Mexican, were down right jolly. Chatty. All smiles. As the bus ride wore on, I remembered more of my Spanish words and used one or two of them as my travelling companions became braver and spoke to me at rest stops, the only Gringa on board. The drive has rolled at a snail's pace, taking hours at the border, stopping prettty much everywhere to pick more people up and rearrange luggage below.

At the border there was a group customs talk. It went like this. A few men with official looking jackets offloaded all the luggage from below. At one point someone got on board and said something, and then everyone started to file off, collect their bags and then go into a room to listen to instructions from what I assume was a customs officer. I grabbed my bag and, completely linguistically oblivious, used the time to send a couple of text messages.

There's something to be said for oblivion, though. For being the clueless foreigner in the group. Smile, follow the others, and they end up helping. This most recent Mexican adventure reminds me of a bus trip I took in Egypt a few years ago from Cairo to the Red Sea coast. Also overnight, and I was also the only foreigner on board. The bus stopped periodically for checks by the authorities to ensure all passengers had the appropriate papers. I think they radioed ahead to each stop that a foreign girl was on this particular bus, because as the stops became more and more frequent, it became obvious that the officals headed straight to my seat in the back. By this point, sign language and smiles had awarded me with protecting friends among my fellow travellers, who offered me bread and oranges and finally called out in exasperation what I can only assume was something like “she's FINE, her passport and visa are valid, can we carry on please??”. Thankfully, they didn't hold the guards' curiosity against me personally.


While in Alamos, Mexico:

I DID learn a bit of spanish!

But first: when I arrived at the Casa de Chocolate, early in the morning, squinting from the bus ride and the bright sun, I was greeted by Elia, the staff at the casa who rescued me with coffee and put me in my room. I thought I was staying in a hotel when I first wandered the grounds of the Casa, until Carolynn arrived to inform me that, yes, it does sometimes function as a hotel of sorts, but that it is her family's through her father's work. We rattled around in this “casa”, aka “palacita” or, better, “Hacienda” for an entire week, not doing very much. It felt wonderful (except for the one day my stomache revolted. All a part of the Mexican experience, I suppose.)

Alamos is known as the town of “portales”, and the casa is one its best loved because it has the most portales of any other casa in its entranceway. It is called the Casa de Chocolate, however, because among its previous owners were the Mars family, as in Mars Bars. Mars bars, were, of course, not available in Mexico, so as a final twist the locals know it as the Hershey Casa.

Carolynn arranged morning Spanish lessons. She was quite a bit further advanced than I, but patiently allowed me to figure out how to conjugate Estar and how to ask for kitchen utensils. I think I learned the equivalent of about 4 months of basic Spanish in 3 morning sessions, and I'm left now with a pile of pages of Spanish words and phrases in my backpack and a few more swimming around in my head. Revision will definitely be required. I doubt its enough yet to engage in conversation on the bus ride back.

And on the return bus back to the States:

Sitting at the US-Mexican border again, a week later, this time in the sunny mid-March morning, and this time in a very long and slow moving line into the states. If the crossing into Mexico was a procedure, it kept up a certain pace at least. With everything that has been happening around this border, understandably the American entry point is a bit longer of a wait while those responsible take their very careful inspections. I've been in my seat on the bus reading for about an hour and a half already, the bus inching its painfully slow way towards the crossing up ahead, so I thought I'd take my computer out and write a play-by-play of the wait we are making to get into the US (this is the reason for the sudden switch to the present tense).

Thank goodness for a good book and a clean toilet at the back of the bus. I sit and read and watch through the window the Mexican salesmen and women walking among the cars and trucks and buses waiting for their turn to get into America, plying everything from cheap, last-minute Mexican souvenirs such as sombreros and glittery jewellery, to snacks and drinks, to newspapers.

The girl behind me throws up in a bag her mother holds for her as we sit here. Strange, I think. Most people do that while the bus is moving. Sleeping on the bus through the night was intermittent, frequently disrupted by stops in towns along the way, the bus driver deciding to turn up the volume on what is apparently one of his favourite songs, and a security check of all bags and possessions about an hour or so away from the border to ensure there were no sneaky packages on board. I can see the US border guards walking around with their drug-sniffing dogs up ahead for yet another, last precaution.

One of the sales people just walked on the bus to relieve hunger pains during what's turning into a wait of several hours, carrying a tray of peanuts and brittle candy. A truck and camper with Alberta license plates are waiting in the lane next to me. As much fun as I'm having, I'm looking forward to getting into the Jamboree (which implies, naturally, that I'm looking forward to first getting into the United States. Answering questions that I last entered the US in Austin, left my Canadian-registered RV in Tucson which I now plan to drive back to Canada, that I'm a Canadian citizen, resident of the Netherlands, a teacher on a sort of sabbatical, always raises the eyebrows of the immigration officer doing the asking. Its a fun rigamarole, I recommend it to anyone who's only ever tried a simple story.)

I think I'm about half an hour away now. 9 cars in front of our bus. Our bus driver has his papers ready, and I can see the dogs up ahead, waiting patiently in the sun.

Why take such a long bus journey, anyway? Well, despite the obvious 800 dollar savings between the bus and flight options between the same two points, think of all the adventure and stories and sleep I'd have missed if it weren't for the bus trip?

Alamos, Mexico

Driving across the Desert

The Drive

I-10 West. Austin, Texas to Tucson, Arizona. 17 hours of watching the desert go by. Never more glad for my iPod, and that I have developed such a good relationship with the Jamboree that I didn't feel ridiculous at all talking into the steering wheel. In one afternoon, along one small section of the enormous Texas, I listened to an entire 200+ page audiobook. And still the desert stretched on in front of me, all around me on each side, way way behind me. The afternoon sun in my eyes and burning my arms through the windshield. The occasional mountain. Sometimes a few clumped together, as if for companionship along the lonely stretch of dust.

At first it was beautiful. But after so many hours with only gradual changes to the landscape, I suddenly understood why those aliens chose this part of the world to crash into back in the '50s. I didn't make it to Roswell, but I'm sure it looked a lot like what I saw from the highway. A lot of wide open space.

Like oases, El Paso TX and Las Cruces NM, only 45 minutes from one another, offered the welcome reminder of civilzation beyond rusty towns and squeaky villages. I continued through the first city, determined to sleep in a different state that night. And once I reached a campsite in New Mexico and found a spot to park for the night, I couldn't even finish either my dinner or my beer before my eyes were drooping and my body was pulling me mindlessly to bed. Safe to say, I slept like a baby (which isn't unusual in the Jamboree anyway).

Seriously, folks. Do not attempt this drive alone, all in one day, or without stopping to see and do something other than drive in order to maintain your sanity. It comes with a bright, bold, neon warning sign of boring you to tears otherwise.

Encounters with desert wildlife

Just when I was getting lulled into the 8th hour or so, I noticed up on a ridge next to the road a small herd of what looked like deer but with darker brown fur and fat, curly horns on their heads. A cross between an antelope, a deer and a mountain goat. Admiring them, and describing them in excited detail to the Jamboree's dashboard, I realized they were standing there as if waiting. Hmm what could they be waiting for...? I looked quickly to the other side of the road just in time to see the last two of the herd decide it was a good time to join the party. They leaped out onto the road in front of me and, at the sound of the Jamboree wailing along at interstate highway speeds, kicked into a full out run. Right across the jamboree's path. I jammed the brakes, but the Jamboree doesn't exactly stop on a dime. Like slow motion, I watched them gallop across the road, getting closer and closer while feeling the pressure of my feet on the brakes. In reality we slowed down quite quickly, all the while me yelling urgent encouragment for those animals to get their dum asses off the road and away from the front of the Jamboree. Faster, faster! Go go go! Stop Jamboree, stop! Whew. The last animal's bum and hind legs leaped off the road to the safety of the desert about a metre and a half from the Jamboree's nose.

I do not want to hit any animals. Big or small, but especially big as they could make a mess, not only of themselves but of the Jamboree and I as well. That near miss did, however, liven things up a bit. My heart raced for the next few miles and I was certainly on the alert, watching into the corners of the desert, for the rest of the drive that day. Terrified while braking, when I realized I'd missed them, the relief made me laugh.

Another day, as I was leaving Las Cruces, NM, I noticed one of those tacky/wacky oddities that pass for attractions to bored drivers in need of something new or interesting to see. Remember in National Lampoon's Vacation, Chevy Chase was determined to find the world's largest ball of twine? On the hill, proudly overlooking the city, stands a giant roadrunner made of recyled trash. I wasn't quick enough to get a photo of it, sorry. But the sight of it, beyond making me cringe a little bit, reminded me of all those joyous hours spent as a child watching Wily Coyote try, using any means possible, to capture the Roadrunner. I had always figured that a roadrunner was a fictional animal, like a wookie or snuffalupagus. I mean, really, who had ever actually seen a roadrunner in real life?

The next step my brain took was to remember the setting for those Coyote/Roadrunner cartoon scenes. It was desert. Red rock and dust. Small bushes and cactuses. Cliffs and a few mountains. Turns out, it resembles the desert I'd been driving through here in Texas and New Mexico!

The next game I played with the Jamboree was to be on the lookout for a roadrunner. That first day, no luck. Nothing. But the second day, as I was sipping my coffee on a quiet stretch of road, I suddenly noticed a much smaller animal leap out onto the pavement in front of me. It sort of ran and hopped and even almost flew, quite quickly, to the other side of the road. It was fast, so fast that I didn't need to touch the brakes this time. It leaned its head far forward into the run; there was a sharp little beak at the end of its head, the first point to cross the finish line if it had one, and two long scrawny legs twittering underneath it. Feathers and wings, definitely bird-like, but running. Across the road. A real, genuine roadrunner! A-ha! That made my morning that day.

“Meep Meep!”

The third animal I encountered was when I was slowly winding my way down a road in the Chiricahua National Monument and, coming around a bend, I was stopped by a policeman standing on the road ahead, holding a gun. His car was parked behind a minivan, both heading in the opposite direction from where I was going, lights flashing.

He wasn't a policeman, actually, but a park ranger, and hiding underneath the minivan was a fox. I watched, fascinated, wondering why the fox was hanging out under what must have been a moving car, and why the ranger was standing on the road beside the van, his gun out and somewhat poised. After a few minutes, the fox spooked out from under the car and ran up the side of the cliff next to the road. It didn't go very far, though; it didn't run away like I would expect any other wild animal that encounters humans and cars and guns would do. It almost seemed ready to leap back out onto the road again. The ranger, continuing to motion to me and the driver of the minivan to stay put, walked up towards the cliff wall and shot his gun. Actually shot it at the fox. He missed, and I saw the fox scurry up over the top of the cliff.

I couldn't believe it. Nor could I figure it out. Aren't rangers supposed to protect wildlife? Seemed to me shooting it just because it got stuck in a roadside misunderstanding was a bit drastic. He motioned for me to carry on driving, so I edged my way slowly forward to where the ranger was beginning to climb the cliff wall in pursuit. He turned to look at me as I inched by so I asked out my window what that was all about.

“Rabid fox”, he said. Ok, then. Keep driving.

And finally, the fun I found to break up the drive and keep me sane

In Texas... Upon landing at Austin airport, I picked up the Jamboree and headed straight back to where I was 5 weeks earlier. Fredericksburg, Texas, my cycling heaven. I woke up feeling healthy and strong, the weather was sunny and calm, and Betty was aching to get out for a spin. We did a 50 mile route, which took 55 miles including getting to the campsite and back again, which, according to my calculations, is about 89 kms.

My legs felt good. The countryside was hilly and Texan-pretty. Lots of ranches, cows, goats and Texas gates as obstacles and scenery. Several really fun parts, undulating hills that Betty and I sailed over. Speed was good and I just wanted to keep on going. All up until about mile 39. That's where my wall hit, slowing me down, making my legs work for it, suddenly head into a slight wind, a-ha, that must be it. I stopped, ate a snack, rested for a few minutes by the side of the road. For the next 5 miles or so, I had to force my body to listen to my head and get going. It listened grudgingly, not overly responsively, but by the time I got to mile 44 or so, the snack had kicked in and I regained enough power to sail the rest of the way home. I finished as I started, albeit bit more tired, but that good tired that you feel after a tough, great ride. Lekker.

No pictures of the ride this time, if you want the visuals click on the album I posted in January.

In New Mexico... I had heard about the Organ mountains, and could see them from my campsite in the morning. Slightly east of the city, so backtracking somewhat, I was debating between mountain biking or hiking. In consultation with the rangers at the Dripping Springs park and the ladies behind the campsite office counter, I was convinced to do the hike.

As it turned out, the hike was short, easy and ok. The springs really were just dripping, and apparently I was lucky to have seen that as I happened to be there during the short period when the snow that dusts the tops of the mountains started to melt. Not overly challenging but enough to get out and stretch my legs a bit before climbing back in behind the Jamboree's wheel. One of the things that makes travelling interesting is the people I meet along the way... if you happen to check out the album below, you'll have to take notice of the couple I met along his hike and chatted with for a while. Classic California hippie. He even offered me a joint.

In Arizona... Now THAT was a hike! And spectacular scenery, very welcome at the almost end of this long stretch of the journey. I'll let the pictures do a lot of the talking for me for this one, I've blathered on long enough in this blog. But briefly I'll say I climbed the mountain and looped around the Chiricahua natural geological wondersite, hiked for about 4 hours, got the heart rate pumping, the muscles working, the sweat seeping. The rocks were formed by a volcanic eruption a very long time ago, and hiking through them confirms for me that Arizona really is a place of cool rock formations.

New Mexico-Arizona

A little theoretical tangent

Since January I have been “home” in Canada. While there, I have been part of a few significant happenings, and I wondered how I would connect them here in this blog. My original thinking was to start with something like “I chose the right year to be here in North America”, which got me pondering the choice of the word “right” and all the connotations of this statement. So, through the writing of this post, I've reworded that idea and have spewed a little bit of theory according to me to support that rewording, for your reading pleasure. The result is the following.

Fate and destiny are popular themes in literature. I talk about them sometimes in the classes I teach. Macbeth believing in the fate prophesied to him by the witches and then doing everything in his power to make sure it all comes true; unfortunate Oedipus who finally plucked his own eyes out for his attempts to avoid his fate and, thus, fulfilling it. And we all know what happened to those poor “star-crossed lovers”. While these are rather tragic examples, the message that one shouldn't attempt to control one's own fate is clear, and worth discussing within the context of art. Even more popular modern stories love to play with the idea of fate: Harry Potter's famous scar and his fate to be the young hero of the magic world and defeat his enemy, Voldemort, is just one relatively recent example. But what about believing in destiny for real?

I can see why it is such a tempting idea, one that in a way alieviates one from a certain level of responsibility. It was meant to be. There was a reason that it happened this way. It was fate. There was a sign. And, even worse, its all a part of the grand plan. But it seems to me that real life works a little differently than the imagined world of literature and entertainment.

My favourite word to throw into this mix is “coincidence”. Or, if you like, “chance”, or “toeval”. The idea that one event can lead to another and then cause another one. A chain reaction. Like atoms bumping off of one another, sending each other into another direction to bump off of whatever is there.

I won't use the word “random”, though, don't worry. I'm not that callous. But the idea that things happen for a reason, and that reason is because they were meant to happen, they were pre-determined by some unknown force, is a concept I'll save for theoretical discussion in the classroom.

I figured that as a result of my decision to be here this year instead of working in Amsterdam, I would “bump into” some interesting people and events. I won't say my coming home this year was “meant to be”, but its definitely been full of interesting and handy coincidental events; so as chance would have it, I can say that its definitely been a “good” year to do it. I've got a few examples why.

I've met some people along the way that I'd like to keep in touch with. One or two who I do keep in touch with and one that I'm getting to know quite well. All thanks to a coincidental “being in the right place at the right time.”

Being home in Calgary has allowed me to support my parents through various situations as they continue to transition between working life and retired life. I was there the past week to help my friend get through the death of her mother. I was there, in the same week, to travel to Victoria and witness my brother's marriage.

Add the element of destiny, and the fact that I was around for all of this could make these stories classic. Art. But as real life, its been luck, coincidence, good timing. That, and intelligent decision making and action by getting plane tickets and making arrangements to physically be where I needed/wanted to be. I am absolutely glad the way this year has been working out. Whether any of it was “meant to be”, though, I doubt.

The same friend's father died a few years ago and there was no way for me to get there to help her. My mother was hit by a car while I was living in Norway and it took a week until I was able to be with her. My father had heart surgery, and since that operation took place during summer holiday, I was able to be there; I did have to leave sooner than we would have liked, though, to return to my life. Was it “meant to be” that I was away for these things? Or a coincidental result of my circumstances living so far away?

Stories that contain fate and destiny have a beginning and an end. Real life rolls along in its time and space. In the end, the snow was good in the mountains this winter, and I was able to watch Canada win gold at home and feel the pride honking and shouting its exuberant way down the streets last Sunday afternoon. Chance, or fate? :)