Western New Mexico stretches out in gritty waves, a perpetual sea of sand inhabited by scorpions and sidewinders. Its voice is the wind, now moaning, now howling, now scraping its sandpaper claws against the metal sides of a motor home, or the soft skin of a woman on her way to Alaska. New Mexico shimmers with its own heat. It can turn a grandma into a crispy critter in less time than it takes her to walk the dogs and check the oil of her vehicle.
Nearing the Four Corners area—the confluence of New Mexico, Colorado, Arizona and Utah—the land is stripped bare. Other than highway 666 and the (very) occasional vehicle roaring along on its struggle to cross the desert, there’s not one thing under the sun but barren sand. It’s easy to see why no communications company in the world would waste a tower for cell phone coverage here. Even if someone could make a call out of this lifeless sandpit, there’s no guarantee she could last long enough to finish her conversation.
Travel Sis gripped the motor home’s steering wheel as she and her doglets neared Four Corners. “No signal” flashed on her cell phone screen. She chided herself for the anxiety that lumped like a stone in her stomach. Before she’d left Alabama, she’d spent thousands on repairs and updates to the vintage motor home so the big rig would take her safely across the continent. Still, thoughts nagged. What if something went awry in the middle of this oven of nothingness? She and her little companions would be at the mercy of whomever—or whatever—happened upon her.
She decided not to stop to take a picture of Shiprock Mountain.
Travel Sis’s rig did indeed carry her safely through the Four Corners desert, and on into Utah. It wasn’t until she entered Moab’s city limits that the engine started missing. Within a few blocks a loud knocking sounded in the motor. That was when the smell of smoke filled the cabin.
Pat the mechanic didn’t want to give Travel Sis the news. She was a nice lady. She didn’t deserve bad news. On the other hand, she and her little dogs were mighty lucky to have made it into the RV repair shop when they did.
Yes, the experienced mechanic told her, her rig was fixed and road ready. He leveled a long look at the petite traveler. “How far you going?”
“Alaska,” she said. “Will this rig get me there?”
Pat looked away, shrugged. “Maybe,” he said. “If you’re careful.”
How can you be careful driving 10% grades on the Alaska Highway? How can you be careful on the rough, desolate road to Ft. Liard in Canada’s Northwest Territory? How can you be careful driving the frost heaves and boulders of the Cassiar Highway?
Travel Sis is grateful to have made it to Moab, Utah, before all hell broke loose under the hood of her rig. She’s grateful for Pat’s skill in getting her coach fixed and ready to go.
But, still ....
The lilt was gone from her voice when she called to tell us she’s heading home. “I’m disappointed,” she said, “but I’m not foolish.”
—to be continued—
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Travel Sis — Wild Western Winds
She’s five foot, three inches tall. Her eyes change color with the weather, and whatever clothes she happens to be wearing, and her moods, and the state of her passion at the moment; they can register anywhere on the color wheel from aqua to emerald green to vivid blue. All things being equal, her eyes settle somewhere between aqua and turquoise. But, as everyone knows, all things are never equal. She’s a fine-boned, blond-going-grey purveyor of a blazing smile and a merry laugh.
Did I tell you she’s sixty-eight years old?
Oh, and did I mention she’s driving herself to Alaska? Alone?
She wouldn’t appreciate that “alone” designation, seeing as how she’s accompanied by her three little dogs. It’s true that her doglets, as Travel Sis calls them, are good company: great cuddlers, jolly walking buddies. They can’t help her with the 11,600 miles of driving, of course. She’s on her own for that. Ditto tending to the physical demands of caring for her 34-foot motor home.
It’s a long way from north Alabama to central Alaska, and home again. 11,600 miles, to be exact. Yes, I know I’ve already told you that. I happen to believe it’s startling enough to bear repeating.
Actually, she’s already got the first thousand miles behind her. She started her grand adventure by attending her daughter’s graduation from the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. I went with her, across the mighty Mississippi, then across Arkansas and Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle, across the vast and sandy span of New Mexico—a landscape so wide and desolate that I could see the curvature of the earth. Between my window and the edge of the world were random stalks of dry grass, and between those were the twisted shapes of desiccated cacti.
The winds began in Oklahoma. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the western winds. I was born in El Paso, Texas, and lived there the first 26 years of my life.
Our family reminisced about the desert wind. I remembered not being able to ride my bike to school because the wind knocked me over. My older sister remembered the redness of sand-blasted calves when she walked home from school. My brother-in-law remembered sand in the refrigerator. (His memory won the why-I-hate-sandstorms contest.)
Oklahoma’s May wind was a living thing, a beast that roared and screamed and clawed at the motor home. It shook our little house-on-wheels until it woke Travel Sis and me at one in the morning. We slipped jeans over our jammies and put on our tennis shoes in case we had to grab the doglets and make a run to the safety of the concrete block bath house.
The next day we heard weather-folk reporting the night’s wind at a steady 55 miles per hour with gusts to 80 miles an hour. Hurricane force winds, they said, and Travel Sis and I shook our heads in grateful wonder at the sturdiness of the motor home. Hours later I watched in pure admiration as Travel Sis held the motor home on I-40 against relentless winds that pushed and battered and did their darndest to topple us over.
We made it to Albuquerque, to the exuberant graduation, to a dinner spiced with the joy and pride of extended family celebrating the summa cum laude success of our beloved daughter/niece. We refused to let the wind blow away our happiness.
Travel Sis is back on the road. She and her doglets continue their grand adventure, as I sit in my quiet office with the window that looks out on Alabama’s lush green trees and blooming flowers. I check my email every couple of hours. Travel Sis is consistently thoughtful in choosing RV parks with Wifi.
I’ll keep you posted as she explores North America. Again. Did I tell you this is her second time to drive herself from Alabama to Alaska and home once more?
Last time, she was a mere youth of sixty-three.
Did I tell you she’s sixty-eight years old?
Oh, and did I mention she’s driving herself to Alaska? Alone?
She wouldn’t appreciate that “alone” designation, seeing as how she’s accompanied by her three little dogs. It’s true that her doglets, as Travel Sis calls them, are good company: great cuddlers, jolly walking buddies. They can’t help her with the 11,600 miles of driving, of course. She’s on her own for that. Ditto tending to the physical demands of caring for her 34-foot motor home.
It’s a long way from north Alabama to central Alaska, and home again. 11,600 miles, to be exact. Yes, I know I’ve already told you that. I happen to believe it’s startling enough to bear repeating.
Actually, she’s already got the first thousand miles behind her. She started her grand adventure by attending her daughter’s graduation from the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque. I went with her, across the mighty Mississippi, then across Arkansas and Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle, across the vast and sandy span of New Mexico—a landscape so wide and desolate that I could see the curvature of the earth. Between my window and the edge of the world were random stalks of dry grass, and between those were the twisted shapes of desiccated cacti.
The winds began in Oklahoma. I shouldn’t have been surprised by the western winds. I was born in El Paso, Texas, and lived there the first 26 years of my life.
Our family reminisced about the desert wind. I remembered not being able to ride my bike to school because the wind knocked me over. My older sister remembered the redness of sand-blasted calves when she walked home from school. My brother-in-law remembered sand in the refrigerator. (His memory won the why-I-hate-sandstorms contest.)
Oklahoma’s May wind was a living thing, a beast that roared and screamed and clawed at the motor home. It shook our little house-on-wheels until it woke Travel Sis and me at one in the morning. We slipped jeans over our jammies and put on our tennis shoes in case we had to grab the doglets and make a run to the safety of the concrete block bath house.
The next day we heard weather-folk reporting the night’s wind at a steady 55 miles per hour with gusts to 80 miles an hour. Hurricane force winds, they said, and Travel Sis and I shook our heads in grateful wonder at the sturdiness of the motor home. Hours later I watched in pure admiration as Travel Sis held the motor home on I-40 against relentless winds that pushed and battered and did their darndest to topple us over.
We made it to Albuquerque, to the exuberant graduation, to a dinner spiced with the joy and pride of extended family celebrating the summa cum laude success of our beloved daughter/niece. We refused to let the wind blow away our happiness.
Travel Sis is back on the road. She and her doglets continue their grand adventure, as I sit in my quiet office with the window that looks out on Alabama’s lush green trees and blooming flowers. I check my email every couple of hours. Travel Sis is consistently thoughtful in choosing RV parks with Wifi.
I’ll keep you posted as she explores North America. Again. Did I tell you this is her second time to drive herself from Alabama to Alaska and home once more?
Last time, she was a mere youth of sixty-three.
—to be continued—
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Whether Report
Didja ever notice how some folks speak of the weather as an optional experience?
“Looks like we may get some weather this afternoon,” they say, or, “Think we’ll have any weather later in the week?”
I’ve tried to picture a day on, say, Alabama’s Monte Sano, without any weather. Would the sun peek above the eastern ridge? Surely not, for if it did we’d be enjoying sunny weather. And if the sun did rise to its appointed rounds but hid its face to keep from making weather, then we’d call that an overcast day. Otherwise known as cloudy weather.
Okay, forget the sun. We’re going to have a sun in this planetary system, so we’ll not count that as having weather, really. Not including the sun, what would a day be like without weather? Well, it wouldn’t rain or that would be rainy weather. And the wind wouldn’t blow or we’d be registering blustery weather. The fog would have to stay away to keep from making foggy weather, too. Likewise any smog and its attendant smoggy weather.
So a day without any weather would be a day in which there wouldn’t be a breath of air, a drop of rain, a hint of fog or even the tiniest tinge of smog. It couldn’t be hot, and it couldn’t be cold. It would be a day of even temperature, still air, and open skies.
Sounds like perfect weather to me!
—end—
“Looks like we may get some weather this afternoon,” they say, or, “Think we’ll have any weather later in the week?”
I’ve tried to picture a day on, say, Alabama’s Monte Sano, without any weather. Would the sun peek above the eastern ridge? Surely not, for if it did we’d be enjoying sunny weather. And if the sun did rise to its appointed rounds but hid its face to keep from making weather, then we’d call that an overcast day. Otherwise known as cloudy weather.
Okay, forget the sun. We’re going to have a sun in this planetary system, so we’ll not count that as having weather, really. Not including the sun, what would a day be like without weather? Well, it wouldn’t rain or that would be rainy weather. And the wind wouldn’t blow or we’d be registering blustery weather. The fog would have to stay away to keep from making foggy weather, too. Likewise any smog and its attendant smoggy weather.
So a day without any weather would be a day in which there wouldn’t be a breath of air, a drop of rain, a hint of fog or even the tiniest tinge of smog. It couldn’t be hot, and it couldn’t be cold. It would be a day of even temperature, still air, and open skies.
Sounds like perfect weather to me!
—end—
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