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!

Yes, I had to go to the Virgin Islands. It was on the list.

Here was my grand idea:  Work hard, run a marathon, then go sit on the beach and do nothing like a normal person.  This is something that I have never done.  Every trip seems to be planned around running.  I find myself in these incredible locations only to feel like I need to go to bed early, eat responsibly and get up early to torture myself in the morning.  I cannot count how many exotic places I have raced but felt like I never had the opportunity to enjoy the area.  So for the Virgin Islands, I was going to try something new.  I was going to take a vacation.

            This was going well until three weeks before my marathon, I strained my hamstring. It wasn’t one of those injuries that was just a nagging pain.  I couldn’t run faster than a stroll without tearing pain.  I hobbled along until I gave up on the idea of running the Pittsburgh Marathon; but having put in months of work and desperately wanting a miraculous recovery, I thought maybe I could rebound for another marathon 5-6 weeks later.  The only problem with this is that my trip to the Virgin Islands sat in the middle.  So I dutifully packed my running gear and committed to continuing my training through my vacation once again. 

            The island is stereotypical Caribbean gorgeous with crystal clear water lapping onto white sand beaches.  It had once been completely cleared of its forest to produce sugar cane but Mother Nature rolled her eyes and has reclaimed the land.  Hidden beneath a dense forest are endless stone ruins of a once bustling island.  The place looks like it should be haunted. 

            I quickly discovered the reason people do nothing but sit around and drink pina coladas is that if you get any ideas of doing something with effort, that perfect weather will instantly feel absolutely miserable. The weather was a steady 80 degrees and 80% humidity. Since it is exactly the same temperature at 6AM and noon, the idea of getting up early to run in the “cool” part of the day was irrelevant.  To compound the problem, the island’s trails and roads are nearly vertical.  My attempts to run were comical. In other words, there was really no reason to get out of bed at all.  Each passing day made a marathon seem like a ridiculously bad idea.

            Instead I worked on my tan lines and snorkeled with turtles.  I slept in.  I stayed up late.  I drank “pain killers” even though I didn’t have any pain to kill.  I ate fish so fresh I watched it carted in through the door.  I allowed myself to be coated in sand and didn’t mind. For the first time in a long time, I took a vacation and it was good. I might just have to try that again.

            

Trying to Die in Death Valley

Very few sequels live up to the hype. That hasn’t stopped the industry from pumping out bad follow-ups to otherwise perfectly good stories. Rocky tried five or six times. Perhaps only Indiana Jones comes close to having a successful follow up but the pressure rides on a handsome leading man and some unexpected twists and turns. So in the Return to Death Valley, it was only natural for me to take a new cast of characters to create a whole new story.

            For the first time on my National Park Tour, I didn’t just take someone along, I took a whole party.  Not only did both my parents come, but so did Dwight and Susie.  Dwight and Susie are special friends selected for their good looks, intelligent conversation and not coincidentally, their Jeep.  Little did I know that a second jeep was my Dad’s entire back up plan, survival guide and escape route.

            My prior trip to Death Valley was limited by lack of appropriate vehicle to navigate some of the dirt/rock roads leading to some of the most famous landmarks. Expressing my frustration inspired my father to plan a trip back using his now souped up Jeep with extra large tires, high clearance and super powers designed to conquer anything…I thought.

            My goal was to see the Racetrack and Titus Canyon.  Knowing this, my dad put in a great deal of research into interesting routes and sites along the way.  He even went so far as to ask the ranger on arrival about the route.  The park ranger had no idea what to tell him because no one had been there for while which should have been our first clue.

            My father’s ambitious plan was to head out of Death Valley and take the back way into the Racetrack.  Death Valley is famous for being the lowest point in the US but it gets overlooked for the incredible mountains (11,000ft+) around it. While it may be warm and toasty in the valley, the peaks are in fact snow covered.  So much snow that Titus Canyon was closed due to snow.  This should have been our second clue.

            The view on most of our drive was a stark desert landscape, barely a green thing in sight, much less snow.  That was until Hunter Pass when we found ourselves on the north side of the mountain and into some snow.  The first snow patch went pretty easy.  We slid around the second snow patch a bit but made it.  With so much success behind us, we boldly started down the third. 

            Dad stopped 100 meters in to assess the situation.  I hopped out to run down the road and get a sense of how much more snow to expect.  There was no end in sight.  Finally we came to our senses and decided that this was probably a bad idea.  Let’s turn around.

            Easier said than done.

            The snow was turning to mush as the day warmed and all we could do was spin the wheels.  We spent three hours digging and spinning and going nowhere.  It was then that the little details came out, like we had no matches or saw to collect wood to start a fire.  No, my dad did not have a winch to pull himself out.  No, there was not anything that might do us any good if we got stuck on a cold mountain pass in the middle of nowhere.  In Death Valley they always warn you about dying from the heat but no one said that you might freeze to death stuck in the snow.

            Fortunately Susie and Dwight had not started down the third snowfield so we abandoned the Jeep and headed back to camp to figure out what to do.  As it turns out there is exactly one person that does back country towing but only for a small fortune.  This motivated Dad to be resourceful.  He wandered around the lodge and camping area until he found a vehicle he thought adequate to help out and then he tracked down its owner.  The one ton dually truck belonged to a good Samaritan who was willing to drive 45 miles out of his way to help us.

            I went with my father and our new friend and his wife.  After an hour of getting to know complete strangers, we rounded the bend for the first snow patch.  Our hero gunned it.  The wheels spun and we came to a complete stop.  My father and I looked at each other.  This was the easiest patch and we were already stuck. This was really bad.

            The heavy pickup simply sunk into the snow patch.  Chains and four wheel drive made no difference.  The more he tried, the worse it looked until finally he was precariously perched on the edge of the cliff, unable to risk moving the truck at all out of fear it would simply slide off.

            I ran up the mountain to the stuck Jeep to retrieve the shovel so they could get to work on the dually.  Then I ran down the mountain to the meeting place to retrieve the second Jeep.  I was glad I had not done my usual run that morning.  The chance of needing to run 17 miles back to the highway to retrieve help was looking more and more likely.

            Finally the gods smiled on us.  With the help of Dwight’s Jeep, they were able to pull the dually through the snow patch. It still didn’t make it through the second.  That was okay because after assessing the situation, they made a decision to deflate the tires on my father’s Jeep.  The snow was still frozen enough that they were able to back it up onto the crusty top and it made it out on its own power. 

            Flush with success, we thanked our helpers and waved goodbye.  We were off to the Racetrack.

            Almost.

            We returned to the cutoff that would take us to the Racetrack to find our friends waiting for us.  Suddenly they were out of gas according to the fuel gage. It was an hour back to camp and even further than that back to a station with diesel.  We wouldn’t think of abandoning them after helping rescue us, so we instead followed them back out to be sure they made it far enough to get gas. 

            In spite of the late hour and two days of digging trucks out of snow, we decided to give it one more try to see the Racetrack.  One long bumpy ride later, we stood on the mudflat to witness one of nature’s slow but ceaseless wonders.  Here boulders leave tracks in the mud as wind and water slowly push them across the mudflat.  The marks they leave take years to form.  A truly amazing piece of art by Mother Nature: worth every shovel full of snow.

            

A Single Girl's Guide to Thanksgiving

It’s thanksgiving.  My day looks like this:

Yes, I have paired it down to the essentials because if you are celebrating solo, no one will know if you bought cheap wine and pie from the store. If you are feeling indulgent, add a rotisserie chicken and a can of potato soup.  After the bottle of wine, you won’t even taste the difference!

The question you are all asking is, how did it come to this?  Like any holiday, there was some good old-fashioned maneuvering for a place at the table.   This shifted a good number of times this year in my family.  The only thing I was committed to was making myself available to the family for the first time in many years for ALL the holidays, wherever they might be.  Travel to the East Coast during the busiest travel time of the year? Sure, why not? Stay in Sedona to keep parents company? That’s fine!

 For various reasons, all these options caved in front of me with less than two weeks to go.  It didn’t help that I threw a little poorly timed dynamite into my relationship to watch it explode right before Thanksgiving as well.  That left me with exactly no place at any table.  Honestly, I am a little relieved.  I still appear young and hip enough that I have not yet reached the level of spinsterhood that warrants a pity invite.  Cheers!

Face it: a good 50% of America would love to be in my shoes.  This year I will not be groped by TSA.  I will not have to politely listen to Uncle Cracker toast America’s new found greatness.  I will not have to share a bathroom. Grandma’s dinner rolls were always a little dry and Aunt Jane’s salad never did much for me anyway.  This year I won’t have to lie about it.  There is much to be thankful for!

Fortunately this year has left me well practiced at wandering by myself. I planned on Utah to nab Capitol Reef National Park but at the last minute, even the weather turned uninviting.  Undeterred, I headed to Death Valley.  This way I could say that I was in the lowest and most desolate place I could be on Thanksgiving just to layer on the guilt to anyone that asks.

I had the privilege of being present for one of the three days it rains here.  I lay in bed at night listening to it ping off my aluminum roof while thinking of the blanket I left out on the picnic table. I imagined a sopping mess in the morning and worried how I would get it dry before having to pack it away.  No worries.  As it turned out, it evaporates at the exact rate it rains, which means that while it was raining, I folded and stowed a perfectly dry blanket.  I am still entranced by this bit of magic.  Perhaps this explains the price of ice. Death Valley will be memorable for several things not the least of which is the premium on any frozen object.  At twice the price of a gallon of California gas, it is hands down the most expensive ice I have ever purchased. I suppose trying to keep ice frozen while hauling it through one of the hottest places on earth will do that but, damn, it’s not like it turned to wine once it melted.  Ice cream might as well be gold.  Good thing I brought pie!

So raise a glass and a fork! It’s Thanksgiving!