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.