Keeping house in the time of COVID

I consider myself a very tidy person.  Before bed, everything must be back in place, down to my shoes in their assigned slot, the coffee cups gathered up and all the dishes put away.  I prefer that my clothes hang in the closet because folding them in a drawer leaves them wrinkled and I have no talent for ironing.  I abhor stacks of mail on counter.  Let’s face it.  Nothing good comes in the mail anymore.  It is either junk or bad news so just seeing the pile makes me anxious. 

 While I consider soap a necessity, I find it irritating to be sitting right there by the sink, scum accumulating around the nozzle and dripping out its nose like a congested child. Even in my car I prefer to keep it free of detritus.  There are two towels to deal with unexpected dirty objects.  There are also two reusable grocery bags.  While I would like to say this has entirely to do with the noble practice of minimizing waste, if I am honest, I just don’t like them spilling out into my closet.  

The paradox is that I absolutely hate making my bed.  It feels so final, like that option is now closed for the day. The Navy SEAL that gave the commencement address about making your bed first thing when you get up doesn’t have his priorities straight.  This man obviously missed out on kindergarten. One must always leave open an invitation to nap.  Then you will actually have the energy to carry out all the other little things that you need to do for the rest of the day like carrying out top secret missions, capturing the enemy and being a hero.  

I am very happy to sort, toss and organize.  I am Marie Kondo without the book deal. I am the person silently judging you on how unorganized you are.  I imagine coming in to clean out your cupboards and rearrange them into a more functional order.  It is my personal mission and makes me feel like a hero.  A bit of an obsessive-compulsive, presumptive hero but, hey, only after my nap.

While I am tidy, I hate to clean. A tidy person puts things away and makes it appear as though everything is well organized.  A clean person actually cares if there are crumbs on the counter or spots on the mirror.  While I do like a clean house, I find this to be a great burden.  It ranks right up there with doing my taxes.  While I appreciate a clean house the way I look forward to a tax refund, at least the taxes I only have to do once a year.  Therefore, I admit that just like I do not do my own taxes, I do not clean my own home. 

This trend started when I was in medical school.  I was ambitiously clean at the time thinking that cleaning the house would be a fine break from studying.  No, it is not.  It is not a break from anything.  It is not a break from cooking, studying, childcare, or work.  I am pretty sure it isn’t even a break from cleaning sewers, telemarketing or slaughtering chickens.  Anyone that says that keeping house is noble obviously has a nanny, cook and a maid.  They probably have a gardener, too, just for good measure.  

The first few weeks of med school my house got dirty enough I felt compelled to clean. The more I cleaned, the more I thought about my anatomy that I needed to be studying.  I tried to recall all the muscles of the forearm allowing me to dust.  I mopped and vacuumed with rising jealousy, imagining my classmates deep in their books and acing the tests.  Why bother changing the sheets if I was going to pull an all-nighter to make up for all this time cleaning? By the time I got to the bathroom, I was convinced that I should worry more about crappy test scores than a clean crapper.  I only cleaned that house once.  

After a couple attempts, I found an efficient housekeeper. After that day, the vacuum was only white noise as I reviewed biochemistry.  Nothing stimulated my brain like the smell of lemon scented 409 during neuroanatomy.  I sat in a freshly made bed while whipping through my pathology flash cards.  I could not afford this luxury and yet, with hundreds of thousands of dollars of debt riding on passing the board, I could not afford to clean my own house. I called it an investment.

I thought that as I entered residency, I would save some money and clean my own place. It was actually a smaller condo than the one I lived in during medical school so surely, I could manage 900 square feet of cleaning.  Nope.  80 hours a week on my feet with frequent all-night shifts at the beck and call of pompous attendings still did not elevate housework to feel like a break. Once again finding a housekeeper took the urgency of a code blue.  Trust me, the magic of Disneyland ain’t got nothing on a house that is magically clean every two weeks even though you are never home.

I have now risen to the rank of full doctor.  I actually have time off.  I still live in a very small apartment that I could easily clean myself.  I have not even considered doing so. It is no longer a luxury; it has become a necessity like water and electricity.  Remember when you didn’t need a cell phone and now you don’t know how to live without it? Yes, that is my housekeeper.  Besides, at this point as I recently realized, I own neither a mop nor a vacuum.  I have a simple hand vac for popcorn that seems to actively escape from the bag and manages to find all corners of the room.  I will make the bed only if company is coming since it is possible to see the pile of pillows and twisted blankets from the kitchen.  Otherwise, I leave it to my cleaners who bring their own tools.  If you are going to live simply, why keep the things that bring no joy and you will never use?  

I am deeply grateful for the women that make me as clean as I like to pretend that I am, but I am ashamed to say that I know much less about them than they know about me. These woman have all treated me kindly, cheerfully asking about my life as we pass.  They are aware of subtle changes in the house that reveal the ups and downs of my life.  The extra toothbrush that appears and then disappears.  The wrappers in the garbage that screams out if I am binging or dieting.  The books stacked on my nightstand confess my flaws and insecurities.  I’m sure they are silently judging me.  I consider this a small price to pay for a well made bed.

I have only ever had female house keepers and I have never even met a man that cleans houses. It is telling that only woman have the strength for the most difficult, menial job in the world.  I contemplate how our lives would be different if men engaged in professional house cleaning.  Would a wide shield be implemented on all toilets to catch the piss they spray around?  Would electric shavers come with a suction attached so that stubble isn’t left sprouting on the bathroom counter?  Based on precedent the only thing we can say for certain is that if men did the job, it would pay better!

Due to the panic over COVID 19, my housekeeper suddenly canceled my cleaning. There is some irony in this since when we most need to keep things clean, she backed out.  I can’t really blame her.  We need doctors right now and I would like the opt out button as well.  But after two weeks with no cleaning, my socks were sticking to the kitchen floor, the dust bunnies were reproducing in the corner and there was enough hair in the drain to create wigs for several cancer patients.  So I decided to clean my own house for the first time in 14 years.  

This was a task I was woefully unprepared for. Lacking the tools for the job was the first barrier.  First, I had to borrow a vacuum cleaner from my mother which had a way of making me feel like an adolescent again.  Then I discovered that I no longer owned a mop.  Due to everyone’s newfound zeal for sterilization, the stores were out of every know cleaning product.  I took inventory of what could find in my house. I had two bottles of Windex, a bottle of furniture oil (as if my pressboard Ikea furniture needs regular polishing) and a bottle of Barkeeper’s Friend.  This meant that while nothing was going to get very clean, it was guaranteed to shine!  

I am sure there is some rule about what order of tasks you are supposed to clean the house, but I decided that something was better than nothing.  I started with dusting.  I set to my task with great determination.  Dust, it turns out, is everywhere!  Where does this stuff come from?  It also became clear just how tall my housekeeper is because everything above her head had a significantly thicker layer of dust.  I made it 15 minutes before tedium set in and I took a break to scroll through the doom and gloom of the news.  

Reassured by the experts that I or someone I loved was going to die soon of COVID, I returned to my work.  I vacuumed the rugs and went so far as to move furniture where I found lost treasures like my grocery list from November and runaway hair ties.  As I took out my garbage, I was waylaid by a nice conversation with my neighbor (at a safe distance, of course) about how she was fairing working from home.  Everyone is very anxious to hear firsthand tales of people gasping of breath and dying in front of me in the ER.  While this is actually part of my job with or without COVID, I reassured them that here in Arizona it has not come to Hollywood drama levels just yet.  I returned to check my email, floss my teeth then I move onto the bathroom.  

Bathrooms confound me.  In principle, this is where we go to get clean.  So why are they so gross?  I wipe at spots on the mirror only to find that I have left new spots behind.  Hair of various lengths and colors is everywhere. How am I not bald if all my hair is on the floor?  Mystery scum appears on every surface.  I pretend it is something benign like makeup or toothpaste. While scrubbing the toilet I find myself deeply grateful that there is no permanent male resident in my apartment. 

I take a break to watch my bird feeders.  I’m guessing that none of them feel compelled to oil their nest to a sparkly finish.  I check my phone again for good measure.  Another 948 people have caught COVID in my absence.   The kitchen is next.

I scrub down the counter tops until they are glossy.  Given the size of my kitchen this doesn’t actually take too long.  The fortunate thing is that the stove is so rarely used I just skip over that.  The true disaster lies behind the closed doors.  The cabinets are littered with spilled salt, rice and something dark that might be molasses or balsamic reduction. I am not brave enough to taste it to find out.  The refrigerator is no better. My veggie drawer is becoming its own mulch pit of liquifying veggies.  Salad dressings precede my move to the apartment three and half years ago.  I am not sure what is in the Tupperware anymore, but it smells like sourdough starter at this point.  

I consider the kitchen difficult because you really must consider the timing of the cleaning.  Either you make your snack and clean up the mess with the rest of the kitchen or you wait until you have a clean surface and then instantly get it all dirty again.  Entropy is exhausting.  I relent and eat my lunch on my shiny countertop pretending the trail of crumbs is part of the pattern in the granite.

I am down to making the bed.  Instead I lay down to nap.  Fortified, I check my phone to know which celebrity is COVID positive.  Reassured that Tom Hanks is recovering in Australia, I stuff pillows into cases.  I still don’t understand why sheet makers are not more helpful.  Is it too hard to make a little tag that says which corner the fitted sheet should match?  I find a corner, tuck it in and then attempt to stretch the sheet to the next corner only to find that I have the wrong edge and it is too short.  I rip it off and start over only to find that the sheet is now on inside out.  So I try again.  And again.  And again.

I declare my house clean, or at least as clean as Windex and my interest allow. My housekeeper is in and out in one hour.  It has taken me four.  Like driver’s ed or jury duty, I didn’t need to do it again to remember that I didn’t like it the first time.  In the meantime, I can only pray that our president is right about something for once and this virus has magically run its course by Easter.  For now it looks like the only thing stopping by my house are the dust bunnies and the damn things don’t leave chocolate eggs.

Florida

It probably serves me right that I had to struggle to find a space in my schedule to spend a whole week in Florida picking off three more parks. My parents lived there for 15 years. I made numerous trips over the years to see them.  I love my parents but always dreaded Florida.  It was always just so…damp.  In spite of my reoccurring trips to Florida, I will admit that I never actually saw Florida beyond I-10 headed to and from Jacksonville.  Outside of one trip to Clearwater to swim with manatees (something that even in my resentful-of-having-to-be-in-Florida attitude was super cool), I basically saw nothing but Florida suburbia.  Now at least I can tell you why.  To see Florida requires a boat and my father remained firmly land locked inside his gated country club hitting little white balls.

As luck would have it, the Olympic Trials were held in Atlanta.  It made for a very short direct flight to Key West where pina coladas and bakeries were on every corner and I was ready to indulge.  Let’s just say that I can see why Key West is very, very popular.  I think I have made it clear that I am not a beach bum but I do appreciate the great outdoors and a nice view.  Key West has this figured out where basically everything is alfresco.  I am sure it makes living alfresco after a hurricane has swept away your home feel less like a disruption.

Between drinks I had business to attend to. The first stop was Dry Tortuga.   Dry Tortuga requires a 2.5 hour boat ride to a sand bar in the middle of the Caribbean. Almost 200 years ago, someone thought it would be a good idea to put a large military fort on it.  This is no backyard tree fort.  This is just shy of a castle and even has a moat to prove it.  The fact it still stands after 150 years of hurricanes makes me wish the contractor who built it was still alive.  Even I would consider moving back to the coast with brick walls three feet thick.  Given its location it was also used as a prison.  Think of the savings on security personnel. The water is warmer but beats Alcatraz hands down with a full 70 mile swim to shore through shark and jelly fish infested waters.  Even Diana Dyad took four tries to finally get across.

Overall it seems like a testament to our willingness to invest in war, much like the cold war missile silo south of Tucson.  The technology that goes into protecting ourselves is the most advanced and expensive of the time.  It makes me wonder what were could do if we put all that thought into healthier, peaceful practices.  

Unfortunately time passes very quickly in Key West and it was on to see Key Biscayne. Biscayne is underwater, quite literally.  A boat ride out to a lovely little island is about the extent of it for those of us without fins.  The national park is the tropical version of Voyageurs, mostly a lot of people boating and fishing and I suspect very few have any idea that they are in a national park. My memory of the park will always be to the sound track of loud Latin pop beating in the background.  It is fitting that it is a place to party.  The island we went to was once owned by a rich man who used it as a party destination, complete with full orchestras and trained elephants.  He even built himself a lighthouse, except that it isn’t and never was intended to be a lighthouse.  It is more of an observation platform designed to taunt his friends and enemies back on the Miami shore.  The greatest disappointment is that the national park service has not embraced the party culture.  The visitor center has wrap around porches that overlook the marina and water, truly the best views around.  Yet, they refuse to serve complex beverages to enjoy while sitting in their rocking chairs and enjoying the breeze. I do believe that Biscanye could put itself into the top 10 visited parks and bump their revenue with the small but key addition of a bartender.

Everglades did not disappoint. On yet another boat trip, crocodiles, birds and manatees all appeared on cue.  The alligators were artfully arranged along the walking paths.  I am still not convinced that they were real because I swear not a single one of them moved.  For once I was hoping to witness stupid tourist tricks where they dare each other to touch the wildlife.  Unfortunately, the alligators appeared to be well fed and remained unprovoked by the fleshy meal options taking selfies with the reptiles.  Looking over the park brochure after visiting, I felt good that the only flora and fauna I missed on their list of famous residents was the panther. Obviously, I will be downgrading them on TripAdvisor for missing wildlife.

Only 7 more to go but so much left to do!

Indiana Sand Dunes

“So where is your next park?” They ask.

“Indiana.”

There is always a pause before the inevitable next question, “what’s in Indiana?”

Having gone through this routine a few times, I have to think that Indiana has an image problem because what could there possibly be in Indiana worth seeing?  The answer is not much but to really answer that question we must turn to politics.  Indiana Dunes National Lakeshore was magically renamed Indiana Dunes National Park in February of this year making it park #61. No boundaries were added or changed with the designation of national park. Per the park newspaper, the funding remains the same as well.  But our president who appears to be no friend of the environment upgraded it, as if he has any idea what that means.

Indeed, I will wonder until my death what votes were traded to get it to pass. Was this just a thank you gift to Pence? If so it must be the equivalent of buying a snow globe souvenir at the airport because you couldn’t think of anything else. I mean it hardly seems like the Christmas present Pence has always wanted.  But someone in the state understood the significance. The national park encompasses the land surrounding the state park, which encompasses the most significant dunes. While the park is free, the state park requires a separate fee, a natural boon to business.  

I arrived to have all my worst expectations fulfilled. Yup, I forgot a rather long list of items. This includes warm up pants, sleeping clothes and thick socks to name a few. None of these things should really matter if I was visiting during the proper season, aka summer. But clearly this place was not designed with idea that guests might show up after Labor Day or when the temperature goes anywhere south of 60 degrees. Since this is a more urban park and I am “camping” in a beach house, I imagined myself replicating the sense of camping where you just have to make due. That is until the next day when I could hit up the outlet mall. Nothing says national park like a little consumer binge. In the mean time, I practiced at Walgreens. There I stood behind a man buying a gallon of vodka, a woman buying cigarettes and a man buying his children a pile of candy.  We all have our most urgent needs. I found a fabulous pair of socks (as seen on TV!) that are super fuzzy and have a sticky underside just like the ones at the hospital so that I don’t slip. I kept thinking the floors were covered in syrup. Turns out it was just the socks. They will be perfect when I move into a nursing home. 

Every park offers a few surprises, some I anticipate more than others. Obviously I went to this one with a bit more cynicism than the rest. Let’s face it, Indiana sand dunes and its cousin over in Ohio are the red headed step children of the National Parks. While Cuyahoga was a cover up job for an industrial waste site, this feels more like a rebranding project.  A massive power plant sits at one end of the park and giant power lines run over to the good people of Chicago so they can create light pollution and smog.  As if to say, industry and nature can go together! Look, all that discharge makes for better sunsets! 

The dunes were sandy. Yup, real sandy. But there were strict instructions not to climb on the dunes. Yes, hate to mess up the sand. There was no surfing the dunes. Very disappointing. I’m still searching for the joy in sand. They really tried to sell the beautiful views of the lake from the top of the dunes. As far as I could tell, it looked blue, wet and big from the top or bottom. At the top though, you could kill time dumping sand from your shoes. The real highlights are the marshes. I just didn’t know this on my first trip out to the woods. As the puddles got bigger and bigger, it got clear that water was a big feature of the park and the lakeshore had nothing to do with it.  If you are into bird watching, this should be on your destination list.

Perhaps the most fascinating finding is the houses from the 1933 World’s Fair. There was a competition to demonstrate new materials, building techniques and other future conveniences such as air conditioning and dishwashers. Five of them were preserved and transported by barge across the lake. In the spirit of all things old come back in style, these houses looked remarkably modern. It is my greatest disappointment that house tours were not available. I want to know if the clothes washer still works and if it is quieter than my new one or if the dishwasher takes less than three hours because that is progress I am still looking forward to. 

Fall colors were just getting started. Every day felt like it was changing a bit more. I talked to the ranger about various hikes. She strongly recommended one area for its “popping color”. Unless you are  colorblind and you can’t see the difference between red and green, this was incredibly disappointing. I saw a pretty but very solid mass of still very green trees. It reinforces my belief that the rangers spend way too much time behind the desk and rely on rumors about trail conditions that may be years old.

I saw many signs pointing to wineries. Since Indiana isn’t exactly my go to place for wine, I was curious. Sure enough, those good Christians are boozing it up. But better yet, they believe in cider. I went to Running Vines winery and Aftermath ciders. True to its name, Running Vines is all about running and whoever owns it is very proud of finishing all the Disney races. Given the lack of medals from higher quality races, I suspect that this person enjoys wine and happens to run. I spent a good deal of time contemplating the possible stories behind the name Aftermath. I imagine it involved heartbreak, hold ups, illicit rendezvous, moonshine and at the very least, a get away car. All I can say is that whatever came before, the result was very good. 

All in all, a fascinating weekend away but had little to do with the sand.  Mostly it has me very excited to plan next year.  Down to my final 9 parks and the big finale in Alaska!

2018

I have written very few words lately.  The words I put into my journal are little more than babbling. Sometimes I force myself to write down mundane details in the vain hope that something more profound will accidentally appear. There is hardly a lack of things to write about.  In attempting to write this I found the stories of 2018 sticking together and I was unable to untangle them into discrete, neat sound bites and thus, the rather long read.  I have done my best to compress it into proper sentences and paragraphs to facilitate communication but to do so feels a little insulting as if it can be diminished into simple facts.  I might as well be sitting alone in the middle of the ocean on a cheap inter-tube and trying to describe the depth.  I really don’t even know myself except to feel it is limitless. 

            Much of last year was dominated by my father’s poor health.  A year ago at this time we were in and out of the hospital for procedure after procedure, each with diminishing returns.  We became unintentional regulars at the hotel and restaurants around the medical center.  Finally my father said, “Enough.” This prompted us to call the family home and sit around for a few weeks anxiously waiting for him to die.  Then he didn’t die. Instead he moved on with life and avidly golfed to the point of exhaustion.  

            Still my mother and I hovered on the side, holding our breath and putting all plans on hold with the presumption that at any moment his health would make its final decline and we would need to resume our deathwatch. My racing dwindled and the thought of investing in something so quasi permanent as a plane ticket seemed foolish.  The few parks I have left are far flung and, in a place like Alaska, there is a very narrow window of opportunity to explore.  A few weeks hesitation in deciding to go was the difference in having full access to a park and having Mother Nature turn it inhospitable. I simply stopped making plans.  As a devoted daughter, this was genuinely done with no regrets or second thoughts.

            Gradually we caught on that he wasn’t going to die tomorrow.  Maybe next week or next month, but not today.  What about Thanksgiving? Imagine if we made it all the way to Christmas! The plans that formed were initially a few days at a time.  It was just a quick trip here or there and not too far from home or help.  It felt like hubris to create such lively and vivid memories right in front of the grim reaper. When my parents made plans to go away for a whole week and even a whole month at a time, I, too, felt the pull of the road. In light of my father’s illness, I let go of my goal to see all the national parks before I was 40; but if anything my father’s illness taught me was the profound urgency and importance to do whatever you found most meaningful in life.

            When a two week gap appeared in my schedule over the summer and with my parents reassurances that they would be fine, I made the most of it by picking one of my most challenging destinations: American Samoa.   I can assure you that no Girl Scouts were spotted and no cookies were harmed on this trip. This is a little known destination in the South Pacific.  In fact it is so little known, they don’t even know they are a destination. We were met with genuine curiosity why we had come to their remote island. With only two flights a week, it seemed to be a community event that most of the island turns out for the arriving or departing passengers, all of whom seemed to be related to each other. Two skinny runners with pale faces drew a good deal of stares among the natives. We were obviously lost and alone among the boisterous reunions.  

            I had not booked a car, unsure if we really needed one.  I had not been able to book the hotel I wanted online because none of the three hotels on the island had such a website.   The language barrier was just enough that we couldn’t figure out how to get a cab.  The whole place smelled like rotting fish thanks to the Star-Kist cannery that is the primary economic driver on the island. I despaired just a little.  I finally had a break and we had spent so much money and come so far, would this be a disaster? I had yet to learn “try less.”

            An angel picked us out among the crowd, not that we were hard to spot. This woman knew everyone and could make anything happen.  While she enthusiastically chatted with us about why we had come and what our plans were, she sorted out our ride, a rental car and rearranged our hotel reservations. It was not unusual for the rest of the trip to ask about something, be told no, and magically have everything sorted out a short time later. The less we tried to make happen, the better it worked out!  While the wind kicked up to 30-40 mph the entire time we were there, obliterating any sort of lazy beach lounging, it also whisk away gag inducing smell of dead fish.  

            Fortunately, sand dwelling is not my passion. Instead we hiked through the jungle on a trail that looked as if someone had simply taken a weed whacker through the forest to create a random path and likely required daily maintenance to keep the plants from simply swallowing it up again. The park provides critical habitat to sea bird nesting sites as well as protects the reefs around the islands. It also protects two rare species of bats.  In case there was any last question I was a tourist, me stumbling around with my camera aimed at the sky attempting to capture a photo of a flying bat should have eliminated any doubt. Otherwise there was little to do but read and rest.  We could not rush the pace of the Samoan culture any more than we could turn the winds.  American Samoa will one day figure out how to capitalize on their tourists and convince them to do enough they go home worn out from their vacation.  Until then, we tried out doing a little less. 

            The reality that hung over me was that half way around the world there was little I could do for the silent, relentless cancer eroding my father. This was simply an intermission and the hard part had yet to come. I desperately wanted the freedom to feel like I could go fulfill my own goals yet felt profound guilt over the time I lost with him if I chose to go.  I was jealous of any time that I had to share him with others. Each time I set off with profound fear that only one parent would be left when I returned.  Would I accidently miss those final days by being so arrogant as to plan a vacation?

            My worry was unnecessary.  I alone was there in the end, listening to him take his last breath in the middle of the night.  It was over and in spite of it all, I laid their stunned taking in this new reality, the absence of my father, the sound of him gone.  The last four weeks he drifted away from us until only his shell remained, his agonized breathing reminding us he was still there but too far gone to tell us about his pain.  To the end my mother and I traded off providing comfort and medicine to alleviate our own suffering as much as his.  

            His death should have been freeing.  No longer were we waiting for the unknown. Plans could be made with greater certainty and far in advance.  There was no need to check in nightly to see if he had a good day or bad day. But mostly it was disorienting. I had cut short my national park travels in 2016 and moved to Sedona to be with my parents when dad resumed treatment.   I had a home and a job there but never made my own connections.   I lost touch with many of my friends in Tucson. Our experiences were so disparate that we drifted apart. My peers were having babies while I was taking care of my dying father.  The excuses I made for two years that I was just focused on my dad proved so very true so that in his absence, I found myself without a purpose.   

            Months later a stretch of time off work and running appeared on my schedule and I felt compelled to fill it.  Obligated is the real word here. The type A, box-checking ego of mine had an unfulfilled goal. I had made a promise to myself to stay on track to see all the parks.  It was time to start swimming even if the goal was completely arbitrary and without any sort of reward.

            So here was an opportunity to check off all three parks in Florida.  I would have to do it alone as everyone was busy or gone in the pre-holiday rush. The hassle of organizing plane tickets and rental cars and hotels felt joyless. Besides, I didn’t want to be drinking Hemingways in the Keys by myself.   Instead, I tried less.  I dusted off the camper that sat for so many months waiting for me, turned up the music and started driving.  Instead of a warm, sandy beach in Florida, I chose to see the Great Basin, in the off-season no less.

            Initially I was anxious about the simple fact it had been months since I last camped and my mental check list was faint and shifting.  This only worsened as I followed the weather. I knew snow had closed some trails and camping was limited but I crossed my fingers hoping for a nice stretch of weather. Each time I checked the weather, it told me I was falsely optimistic.  Even if there was no precipitation, it was going to be cold, very cold. I worried that my water tank would freeze, cracking pipes and that my battery would be too sluggish, making my furnace useless. I had visions of being both cold and hungry.  Why had I not just gone to Florida in the middle of winter like every other normal person?  

            In the spirit of “try less” (in this case, less anxiety and inconvenience), I checked hotels to find that the advantage of traveling in the off-season is that they are wide open. In the end, I left the camper behind when I headed north.  Still, it felt like a huge compromise to go all that way and still not get any camping done.  

            To call Great Basin remote is putting it lightly.  Both a reflection of the time of year as well as its desolate location, the last two hours passed without seeing another car. The park protects a group of mountains and several unique species to the area.  The snow-covered peak is both beautiful and inaccessible.  Any time I looked at this park, I knew I wanted to climb Wheeler Peak, which dominates the other mountains at 13,000ft.  I conceded before starting the trip that it would be impossible.  I got my stamp, toured the cave and ambled around a bit at the lower elevations.  At least I had did not have to contend with any crowds, I consoled myself, then headed to town.

            Great Basin gave a whole new definition to off-season.  The town of Baker, NV sits at the base of the mountains that make up the park.  While many towns have embraced their role as hosts to the many park visitors, Baker could clearly give a rat’s ass.  It could easily be mistaken for a ghost town or possibly a junkyard.  The two restaurants are closed for the season.  I took one of the nine rooms in the only motel.   

            Fortunately, the car was still packed with the expectation I would be camping.  I pulled out the loaf of bread bought in Zion to make myself a peanut butter and honey sandwich only to find it was covered in mold.  It seemed that hungry and cold were both still options on this trip.  For dinner I microwaved a pouch of rice and lentils I had thrown in at the last minute with no expectation of needing them.  I ate them feeling that I had come as close to camping as I possibly could without a campfire.

            Park #47 was in the books.  I had checked the box while adding it to the long list of parks I wanted to return to and do a little more.  It was far from perfect but I reminded myself that the journey so far had been far from smooth.  What troubled me was the deep sense of being homesick throughout the trip.  There was nothing but a cold, empty house in Sedona, hardly a place to long for, but it reminded me that my lifeline was now gone.  My father’s constant, steady presence had given me the courage to go boldly knowing that I could always return to home base.  Released from his gravitational pull felt like a chaotic free fall with no clue where I might land.

            Now months later I am still bobbing in the ocean of grief, trying to pick a direction and swim for an unknown shore.  My goals have always compelled me to keep moving but at times the weight of dreams makes it feel forced and cumbersome.  It is my hope as I finish this tour to not just to have a destination but a purpose so that moving forward has meaning and perhaps in the end, a renewed sense of belonging.

Hawaii

Normal people go to a tropical island with an agenda that goes something like this:

 1) sleep in

2) walk hand in hand on beach

3) have fruity umbrella drink

4) get a tan

           

            But I am not the usual sort and managed to avoid most of it.

            The first step to accomplishing this is to skip taking your romantic partner and take your parents instead.  In the company of my parents, trips are decidedly more upscale than my usual trips to a national park.  There were no campers involved and I didn’t have a single peanut butter sandwich the whole trip.  The other upside is that they are super helpful.  I have them so well trained that they think it is actually normal to drop their daughter off and wait around until they find her miles later.  The only drawback is their navigational skills.  First mom lost the park map then dad found us a replacement printed in German.  Lesson learned: dad is no longer fluent in German.

            The second step is to avoid the beach all together. As it turns out, volcanoes are quite tall and just like on the mainland, the higher your go, the colder it gets.  Foolishly believing that I was going to a tropical island, I did not consider the effects of altitude in my packing.  While most people take home a bit more tropical attire, my souvenir was a hooded sweatshirt that I lived in for the week to ward off the cold.

            Volcanoes National Park did not disappoint and graciously put on a nice show for us.  Watching that thing spit and glow really makes you think, why on earth would anyone dare to live here?  As it turns out, lava does not flow nearly as fast as it does in the movies, I’m sure giving everyone a very false sense of reassurance that there will be plenty of time to round up grandma before evacuating. 

            Instead of sand between our toes and waves lapping at our ankles, we chose to ambulate across grossly uneven, disorienting terrain in order to see lava up close.  First bike 4 miles on a gravel road and hike two more miles to an unknown destination across miles and miles of black rock.  If you feel a sudden blast of heat, look for orange and don’t step in it.  That is basically how you find “fresh” lava in a lava field.  In case that isn’t challenging enough, try this in the dark.  

            For part two, we moved to Maui.  Once again, we skipped the beach and headed straight up the mountain to see Haleakala National Park.  This protects the caldera of an ancient volcano that made much of Maui.  While visitors are encouraged to appreciate the rare silversword plant and nene bird, what people literally line up for is sunrise.  This once again defying the purpose of going to a tropical island, this errand required a 3:30 wake up call to stand around shivering in the cold at nearly 10,000ft while waiting for the sun to come up.  Ultimately, this is a bit like watching water boil, tedious but totally worth it in the end.

            With the rising sun we were finally free to explore the beach, but once again, we skipped the beach and headed straight for the water with the primary intention to see sea turtles.  While standing on the shore I could see the damn things poking their heads up taunting me to come find them, but they proved to be elusive in the silty, turning water.  Yet again Hawaii, I was reduced to shivers and retreated to dry ground searching for my now well-worn sweatshirt.  The second attempt was aided by a wetsuit that obviated the need for sunscreen, continuing the trend of bucking the typical tropical agenda.  Once again, there was failure to find a sea turtle but any disappointment I had was diminished by the presence of horny whales.  Testosterone can drive men to do some crazy shit but when it fuels 25 tons of humpback whale, it results in an impressive water show. 

            Altogether a successful trip accomplishing all we set out to do. Fortunately, there are plenty of reasons to go back to Hawaii.  First thing I would do?  Get a fruity umbrella drink.

Redneck Riviera of the North

Not every park is turns out to be what I envisioned and Voyageurs is one of those places.  While most refer to the area as the “boundary waters area”, it is a separately designated area encompassing four large lakes.  It is described as a “water based park” and indeed, that is an accurate description.  One could not walk into the park boundaries without getting your feet wet.  Even the parts of the park that are on “dry land” are quite soggy.  You are encouraged to view the area from appropriately selected water craft based on your needs and interests.  With this, I envisioned gentle paddling around a lake in a canoe and fisherman quietly slumbering over their pole while waiting for a bite.

That isn’t exactly what I discovered.

The lakes felt more like small seas connected together.  I was quietly relieved that before I even arrived I had given up on the idea of renting a canoe to paddle out to one of their many camping spots dotting the lakes.  I’m pretty sure I would have either become lost or drown.  I visualized myself aimlessly paddling like a ship wreck survivor on the high seas, having run out of food and praying for one of the eagles to take pity on me and drop a fish in my boat. 

The reality is that this would never happen because there were so many people out on the lake.  While I did see a couple of canoes, for the most part, these were motor boats and house boats.  The real reason that I would have been stranded on my canoe is that no one would have noticed me with the speed and noise with which they flew by. 

This was no quiet fishing lake. This is the Redneck Riviera of the North.  The bigger, louder and faster the boat, the better your bait must be.  And like most fishy tales, there was much discussion about fish and far fewer fish actually caught.  The good news is that the eagle population is quite robust so clearly not everyone goes home empty handed.

No boat?  No problem.  The National Park Service offers a pleasant tour of the lake on one of their pontoons.  There are several locations they point out where people lived for decades on their own in this very remote area.  There was much discussion of why you would choose to live that way.  My suspicious has something to do with being close to Canada and the Prohibition.  I suspect that these people were neither very alone, nor very poor, but I would only be guessing.

If you aren’t into luring cold blooded animals out of the water and couldn’t fit the canoe in your carry on, it’s okay.  Just don’t forget the rain jacket because if you aren’t getting into the water it will be coming down on you.  I frequently found myself thinking that Voyageurs would be a very pleasant place to visit in the summer…except that it was already July!

Moose Tracks

I will spare you searching Google Maps and tell you Isle Royale is a large island in the middle of Lake Superior.  Not the easiest place to get to which is why it claims the title of least visited park. The ferries have a very short season and the boat carrying about 30 passengers doesn’t go out every day.  What occurred to me on this trip is that I am getting down to the more complicated parks.  By that I mean getting there requires a graduate level degree in logistics to coordinate cars, planes, boats and trains and requires no small investment of time just to get there.  A travel agent’s dream! (Do they still exist?)  Once there you will find yourself on an island so remote even boarder patrol doesn’t bother even though anyone that goes there these days probably contemplates the very short swim to Canada.

This was my first “camping” trip, as in no teardrop in tow.  That meant no down comforter, memory foam mattress or convenient kitchen.  That also meant I had a lot to learn.  I made multiple trips to REI where I personally upped the quarterly revenue.  My impression of camping is that it seems to be one of those last hold outs where they don’t bother with froofroo differences to make it “men’s” or “women’s”.  Everyone needs to be warm, dry and fed and have it be as light as possible.  In other words, there are no pink tents.  I could get used to this.  I borrowed a lot of gear from a friend including a much appreciated air mattress and camp stove.  Like any good novice, I proceeded to over pack until I could barely lift the back pack off the floor.  It was good fortune that on my first trip out I wouldn’t actually need to carry it very far.

Once there you will find yourself on a densely forested island where the entertainment consists entirely of moose watching.  Fortunately this can be done from the comfort and warmth of your sleeping bag because the endless rain put a real damper on going out in search of the beasts.  The campground is on the edge of an inlet where the moose tend to come down and feed in the evenings.  I like to think that we had dinner together: ramen noodles for me and aquatic detritus for him. "Royale" did not refer to the dining. Fortunately a small camp store stocked NutterButters.  It turns out they work well for breakfast, appetizer, dessert, pad thai topping and, well, everything. 

At one point the island also had a large population of wolves but they are unfortunately down to two due to a canine virus.  I guess that answers the question that if you are stuck on an island with the last remaining member of your species, procreation is not your first instinct.

My only disappointment is that I did not have the opportunity to traverse the entire length of this 40 mile island.  That just means I will have to contribute to another one of the park’s statistics: it is one of the most re-visited parks!