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Visiting Vicki and Murray in Corvallis is always a joyful experience. Their spacious home is alive with color. Walls painted a collection of delicious colors meet plush jewel toned carpeting to create a symphony of color. It is a happy house. Each time I visit, I am reminded of what Vicki told me about being color starved after two years living with white walls in an apartment in Monterey. Monterey is where we met, singing with Lisa Littlebird’s Community Chorus. Vicki is an exceptional singer/songwriter, author, motivational speaker, personal coach, and now, a professional story teller. Our visits are filled with fun: food, drink, stories, songs and politics. On this trip we discussed the elements of a good story. Her feedback was encouraging, and useful in my quest to gather momentum for my book project. 

Leaving Corvallis, I headed west for a few days on the coast. Dealing with the growing popularity of RV travel here, and the posting of “Day Use Only” signs at all of the pullouts and rest stops where I once camped, my overnight options in Oregon are now limited to friend’s driveways or campgrounds with fees. After paying the fees at the Beachside State Park Campground south of Waldport, I was greeted by the sign, “Caution, High Surf And Heavy Rain Can Flood The Campground”. The sign, the rain and the constant roar of high surf made for a couple of uncomfortable nights. I tried walking the beach at low tide, but wind whipped sand sent me back to the comfort of my van. Although there are stunning views along this wild coastline, there are not many days when the Oregon Coast can claim beach weather. 

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Pleased to find a library near the campground, and anxious to connect to the internet and write, I entered the Waldport Public Library and passed the desk without a glance, moving directly to the back room of the library where I set up at a table with power. I looked up only when I heard the tapping of a cane approaching as three people moved toward a book shelf behind me. It took me a moment to realize that the frail looking elder in the approaching group, a woman who looked to be close to 100 years old, was the librarian. Her voice was as thin as her tiny bent body, and I found myself compelled to watch her as she worked the room in a worn cotton dress that exposed impossibly slender legs marked with the blood bruises that bloom on aged skin. Waldport, is a small enough town that everyone who entered the library knew the intrepid librarian, and showed no surprise at her remarkable resolve. What an inspiration! I may have visited 150 libraries, large and small, in this year of traveling the country, but this was something totally unexpected. This woman, who I will call Nadine because I consider a name more respectful than a pronoun (even if it is a pseudonym), could have worked this library for more than 70 years. Throughout the afternoon, Nadine walked students and adults to shelves, knowing, with pinpoint precision, where the books they sought were located. Touched by her pluck, her competence and her refusal to bow to physical limitation, this Nadine made me proud. We aging females need our sheros.

Thunder woke me this morning after a night of steady rain. I felt the need to move quickly before a deluge had an opportunity to further muddy the rain soaked drive to the cabin on the Alsea River where I was parked. I arrived at Ellie’s family cabin yesterday, after a couple of days of gate key coordination with my friend, Ellie, currently visiting her grandkids in Switzerland, and 9 hours ahead with limited internet, and, when I had phone service (a rarity on the coast of Oregon), Ellie’s sister, Jinny, in Portland. It was well worth the effort to spend a day exploring the magical riverfront gardens of what the Kincaid family has named “Riverhaven”, and sleep in the golden forest that surrounds the cabin.

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The grey skies and soft intermittent rain of the day I arrived added a mystical quality to the riverfront property where mossy, leaf strewn pathways lead to secret gardens, a tumbling stream and the roiling river. Fallen golden, green and sienna leaves, some more than 12 inches wide, covered the ground in a wet tapestry of patterns, cushioning every step and running interference with my mushroom hunting. To my surprise, I found the forest inundated with Hydrangeas in full bloom. What I imagine was once the manicured flower garden planted at the river’s edge by Ellie’s grandmother decades ago, had morphed into elegantly colored bouquets hiding among the ferns and the blackberries. Although it was the traditional blue Hydrangeas that caught my attention, on closer inspection, I saw that the woods were filled with cabbage sized pom pom blossoms that had adjusted to their surroundings by adopting the leaf green colors around them. Full of gratitude for the chance to spend time in the Kincaid family’s sanctuary, and having no problem exiting the property’s rain saturated dirt road, I managed to lock the gate behind me just as a heavy shower descended.

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Even with the rain showers, my journey following Highway 34 along the Alsea River to the coast was bathed in the golden light of autumn leaves. One couldn’t ask for a more gorgeous morning commute. I stopped at the Tidewater estuary to make my morning coffee where I was surrounded by water and golden forests. Next, I will follow the Oregon Coast Highway north to Newport and Lincoln City for another visit with family before leaving Oregon. 

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After my fill of Portland stimuli, I followed Highway 84 east towards the town of Hood River, diverting to old Highway 30 to view the Columbia Gorge National Scenic Area, when possible. Just 30 minutes from Portland, the waterfalls, forest trails and weather etched rock formations of the gorge draw locals and tourists alike, and even on an off-season weekday, full parking lots limited my adventuring to one waterfall out of the seven that flank the old highway. Some visitors carried baskets or buckets, and I suspect mushrooms foraging is part of the draw in this abundant mushroom season.

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On the river side of the highway, 3 hydro-electric dams harness the power of the Columbia’s flow. I stopped at the Visitor Center at the Bonneville Dam, where windows in the fish ladder make it possible to view salmon and steelhead swimming against the current. The Army Corps of Engineers employs fish counters to track the numbers and species that pass though the fish ladder each day, and the statistics show that the chinook, sockeye and coho salmon counts this year are only one-half to one-third the number that made it to Bonneville Dam 15 years ago. On what is now Indigenous People’s Day, the native people of the Columbia River Gorge made a public request for the dams be removed. Without a free flowing river, they fear that the salmon that they are charged to protect will continue to decline. The salmon population not only affects the tribes on the Columbia, but northern tribes that hunt Orcas in the Salish Sea off the coast of Washington. Chinook are the preferred prey of Orcas, and with fish numbers crashing, orcas are starving, and are now listed as endangered. According to the JoDe Goudy, the Yakima Nation Chairman, “We have a choice, and it’s one or the other: dams or salmon”. The native people choose salmon, both to honor the ways of the ancestors and to provide for future generations. I camped at Celilo Falls Campground, built where the most important native fishing site stood before the Dalles Dam drowned the falls under deep placid water. With 40,000 jobs and electricity production for the northwest hanging in the balance, the salmon, and the tribes, are likely to continue losing. My environmental champion sister-in-law, Perky, stopped eating all fish and seafood because those industries are not sustainable. The plight of migrating salmon reminded me to renew my commitment not to buy salmon. 

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The charming town of Hood River is charged with the energy of the adrenalin seekers who gather here. In the heart of the Columbia River Gorge, which acts as a funnel for wind created when the cold air from the Cascade mountains meets the river, Hood River professes to offer the world’s best windsurfing. The dam-slowed current in this stretch of the Columbia also draws  kayakers and stand up paddle boarders. As the gateway to snow-capped Hood Mountain, the town also draws skiers and mountain bikers. As if this weren’t enough, the nearby wine growing regions of Eastern Oregon and Washington have established tasting rooms all over town. I had come to sing with the newly birthed Hood River Threshold Choir, and after singing, crossed the mighty river on the incredibly rickety and narrow trellis bridge to White Salmon, WA, to stay in the driveway of a choir member who lives there. It may have been less frightening to cross the miles long bridge in daylight, when the river below was visible, but I didn’t test this, going out of my way to find other bridges to cross the gap instead. 

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White Salmon is a sleepy little town with modest homes built on a mountainside overlooking the river. From there, I continued east on the Washington side of the river, following winding mountain roads, chasing brilliant fall foliage and fast running streams. Wind turbines stretching as far as the eye can see line the crests of the mountains in this area. I have been keeping tabs, of sorts, as I travel the country, recognizing what I think of as “progressive” states where available resources, whether it is sun, wind, or water are utilized for power, as opposed to states like Montana, that is 100% coal powered. Despite the drawbacks, and I recognize there are drawbacks (the dams or salmon dilemma being one of them), it is heartening to see renewable energy production in place of other forms of energy production. Conversely, a sinking feeling comes over me each time I see a nuclear power plant with its promise of a dark future.

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Drawn by the powerful river, and the spectacular stone buttresses carved by the river, I returned to the Gorge to spend two nights camped at the edge of the river before heading south to Corvallis.  

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Rather than travel Highway 5, I chose to take the scenic route to Portland, following the coast north again to Astoria, and east on Highway 30 along the Columbia. I spent another night at the Dismal Ditch Rest Stop, this time with the city lights across the channel appearing sporadically when the misty rain shroud lifted. Having lived on the foggy Central Coast of California for 14 years, I have grown to appreciate the softening influence of fog, and found the blanket of clouds that settled on the river and river banks a comforting invitation to dreamy sleep. The next day brought shine and showers, and something I hadn’t seen on my last trip, an explosion of color in the trees. It is October in the Northwest, and Autumn is in full bloom. 

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Driving along the Columbia was spectacular, and I pulled over often to take in the estuaries and multitudes of islands, ports and houseboat communities along the river’s Oregon shores. The river is also a highway of commerce, and the Washington shoreline along this stretch is bustling with industry.. I lunched in a park on Sauvie Island, just west of Portland, and caught up on some writing before the sights of Portland would divert my attention. Sitting in the swivel chair that is the passenger seat of the van, with the drop down table serving as my desk, I was busy writing when a great wind rustled through the trees around me. With an upward blast, yellow leaves were liberated from all of the trees at once, and carried high into the air. It took a moment or two for the leaves to change course and flutter down from the heights, affording me the most marvelous view of the spectacle as if inside a water globe. 

I was happy to arrive in bustling Portland to sing with the Portland Threshold Choir, and revisit a friend I made when I stayed there a year ago. My visit fell less than a week before she had major surgery scheduled, and I was anxious to help with whatever was needed. She needed her refrigerator cleaned, a task I am not only good at, but find satisfying. With no garbage disposal in my friend’s apartment, the lost-in-time contents of every plastic bag and container would be emptied into the compost bin, and the countless yogurt and deli containers would be cleaned for reuse. This took 5 hours. but ended well. I did not lose my cookies, although I came close, and I have the satisfaction of knowing that my friend was relieved of one of her worries. 

Other than the spoiled food images that I’m trying to forget, I love the sights of Portland. It is a city alive with funky young hipsters in motion in an endless a parade of bicyclists, pedestrians, cars, buses, and trains and a Parisian style restaurant/café scene that teases Portlanders out of doors to gather in mass for lively social interaction. 

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I spent four days exploring the turbulent mouth of the Columbia River, the rich history of the area, and the Southwestern Washington beaches, which include black sand beaches and a beach they call Waikiki. I camped in the Cape Disappointment State Park on the northern approach to the Columbia River, a location that was named by early explorers who failed in their attempts to find the river mouth. Dismal Ditch, which proved to be an ideal overnight stop for me on Washington shore, is where the Lewis and Clark party camped in 1805, unable to paddle their canoes those last few miles to the sea because of a raging storm. They named the place Dismal Ditch and wrote in the expedition journal that they were as wet, as cold, and as hungry here as they had been on the entire 8,000 mile journey. After 8 days, they were able to cross the channel and completed their journey to the Pacific on the south side of the river. At what is now the Dismal Ditch Rest Stop, I am delighted to have riverfront parking, a bathroom, and a spectacular view of the city lights of Astoria directly across the 4.5 mile wide channel. 

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Not anxious to leave the mighty Columbia, I lingered on the Oregon side of the river in the “mini Portland” town of Astoria. The walkable downtown is a mecca of hip restaurants, breweries and food trucks. My favorite stop, the Buoy Brewery, is built on a dock with windows in the flooring that provide close up views of gigantic Stellar Sea Lions lounging on the cross beams below. Astoria is a busy commercial port that got its start during the early fur trade. Barges, tugboats and cargo ships are a common site on the Columbia, and I heard a morning shipping report on the Astoria radio station that detailed what ships will be passing through the port, the country of origin, the cargo they carry and the time they can be seen passing. I kayaked the Columbia on an earlier trip, cautiously sticking close to the shoreline to avoid the powerful current and the shipping lane. 

Venturing south along Oregon’s wet and wild North Coast, I took my time. A rainy day was perfect for a soup stop at the Pelican Brewery in Pacific City, where, sitting at the bar, I made the acquaintance of a young home schooling mom with a motorcycle helmet. She told me that she had ridden her motorcycle 100 miles, in the rain, from Portland that morning. She said that she had never taken a motorcycle trip without her husband before, and that it was hard for her. I was intrigued when she told me that she challenges herself to do something “hard” every day. She journals about the challenges she tackles and systematically reviews her achievements each quarter, before making plans for future challenges. I was reminded of my long-time ritual of reviewing my endeavors of the past year on New Year’s Day, and how empowering I find that exercise. Dedicating time to take stock of what has been accomplished, and, of equal value, what was attempted, whether or not the goal was achieved, is a welcome change in focus that provides respite from the borage of things that “need to be done”. This determined motorcycle mama reminded me to seek challenge, acknowledge the hard things that we navigate and take the time recognize our accomplishments.

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Continuing south, I made it to Lincoln City, on Oregon’s Central Coast, on a rare afternoon when Joe and Gretchen’s farm was bathed in warm sunlight. On the banks of Schooner Creek, in a swale between mountains, the farm gets over 100 inches of rain a year, and not a lot of sun. They grow much of their food, but the growing season is short. During my visit, cucumbers and apples were bountiful, and we foraged for mushrooms. My son and daughter-in-law always inspire me with their healthy lifestyle and vegan diet. Joe told me he is going through a mid-life crises and is considering leaving his electrician job to focus on building an alternative, energy efficient house. With his mad skills and creativity, and Gretchen’s full support for the plan, it appears the time to follow his passion has arrived. Go Joe!

Portland and singing with the spectacular Portland Threshold Choir is my next stop. 

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The sun was shining when I left the watery wonderland of Whidbey Island to ferry to the Washington mainland. Whidbey is a long narrow island, with views of the surrounding sea from all along its 55 mile length. Where there isn’t water, picturesque farms and forests adorn the landscape. Fresh organic produce is revered here, the politics are liberal, artists thrive on this picturesque island and the Threshold Choir is wonderful. As I approach the end of my year of Threshold travels and the need to find a place to settle is bubbling up, Whidbey is one of the locations I’m considering. 

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The ferry ride from Whidbey to Seattle was short, and to my surprise, the cost was only $10.00 with my senior discount, despite the fact that the charge is based on vehicle length with an add on for height over 7’2”.  My first stop would be Shoreline, just north of Seattle, where I would park in Robin Rose’s driveway, eat tasty faux crab cakes made with zucchini from her prolific garden, and dive into in-depth discussions about Threshold Choir. I visited Robin and sang with the Threshold Choir she directs last November and another time, 8 years ago. She has also visited our Threshold Choir in Pacific Grove. Robin is one of the most dedicated Threshold Choir directors I know, and the only person I have heard of who learned all of the 450 songs that were in the original Threshold Choir songbook. Seattle is fertile Threshold Choir territory, and Robin leads 53 choir members in three weekly practices (with help from a co-director for one of these weekly practices), and schedules all of the bedside singing. Her enthusiasm and competence produces a constant stream of requests to join the choir, a logistics problem that many choirs would like to have, including the little choir in Pacific Grove that I directed.

Following the Wednesday night choir practice in Seattle, I drove east to Kirkland, where I attended the Evergreen Threshold Singers practice. With the Whidbey practice on Tuesday, Seattle on Wednesday and Kirkland on Thursday, I was on a run, three Threshold Choirs in as many days. New friends, old friends, new songs, familiar songs, pure bliss.

Now I would begin heading south in earnest, with a little over a week before a reunion with my first born son on his farm on the Oregon Coast, I could take my time. In route, I stopped in Tacoma to see a close friend. Adina introduced me to downtown Tacoma, where Chihuly glass and a mix of traditional and modern structures form industrial Tacoma’s unique and unexpectedly artsy civic center. Then, I followed my urge to head to the Washington coast. It was miles out of my way, and I suffered bumper to bumper traffic getting there, but I haven’t seen this stretch of coastline before, and I could.

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I can’t help myself, I have a deep seated longing to be near the water, if I can’t be in the water, that is. I love the feel of water on my skin; the gentle caress of it, the calm that is the gift of warm water, and the invigoration that is the gift of cold water. I’m comforted seeing spectrum of blues and greens of rivers, lakes and oceans (I was easily won over by the aqua ocean-like colors of my Roadtrek the minute I saw it), I’m mesmerized by the glints of light that dance on the surface, and electrified by the power of waterfalls, coursing rivers and stormy seas. I am drawn to the water by the astonishing diversity of the creatures there, and by the chance that I might glimpse them moving about in the water, on the shore or in flight over the water. One of my favorite literary passages is in Ulysses, where James Joyce gives a lengthy detailed description of what “waterlover,” Bloom, admired in water, that starts with this stimulating thought, “Its universality: its democratic equality and constancy to its nature in seeking its own level…”.

I can’t really explain it, and Pisces is not in my astrological chart, but the desire to be near the ocean has been part of me for as long as I can remember. Growing up in the arid inland valleys of Southern California, escape to the beach was always on my mind. As a teen, I often hitchhiked to Venice Beach with my best friend, Peggy on Saturdays. Once I could drive, I would borrow my dad’s car to “go to the library” (in the 60’s, students actually did have to go to the library to use encyclopedias to research school reports), but would drive 40 minutes to Ventura Beach, instead. With only enough time to run down to the water, get my feet wet, and then turn around and head home, I felt it was worth the effort, and the lies, to see the ocean’s sparkle, breath in the fresh sea breeze and feel the shock of cold water on my skin. On the fateful day that I had to call my parents because I lost dad’s car keys in the sand, I had no complaints about being grounded for my escapades. 

Perhaps the urge to be near water is in my genes. Love of water is a common thread in my family, and it drove my parents to relocate to Florida’s east coast about the time I moved to Maui. My brother was a Navy Seal, one sister is a lifeguard and my other sister became a Marine Biologist. My two sons love the water, too. Joe, moved to Oregon’s Central Coast where he is a kite surfer and starts his days by jumping into the icy cold river on his property, and Kel, who was born on Maui, and was swimming before he could walk, lives in the SF Bay Area and loves to bodysurf at Santa Cruz and Marin beaches. 

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I found Hawaii the perfect home for a “waterlover” when I traveled there in 1975 as part of the entourage with a Steven Stills tour. My boyfriend, Ben, had been the equipment manager for Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, and other big bands, and after the breakup of CSNY, he toured with Stills. It was fun and exciting to witness the world of rock stars, but the drugs that were part of this world at the time repelled me. I rarely accepted invitations to join Ben on tour, but did join him for Still’s Hawaii tour, and I fell in love with the place. Daily swimming and sailing in the warm, welcoming waters of Hawaii sparked my plan to learn to sail and move to Hawaii, which is exactly what I did.

Six year old Joe, and I, had a bit of a rough start in paradise without the “Rock Star” reception that I was expecting. It had been two years since the red carpet welcome I received with the entourage, and it turned out that I was just another tourist on my return. Unable to rent a car because I had no credit card, and with no place to live and no job prospects, our first night in Lahaina was spent sleeping on the ground in the overgrown Luakini Cemetery. An idyllic year living at the beach in a VW camper van followed, with work and school occupying our days, the days ending with bodysurfing and playing in the ocean together, and at night, we utilized beach parks for showering, grilling fish dinners (I used beer to barter for fresh caught fish from Lahaina Harbor fishermen), and Joe doing his homework while I studied for my real estate license. When I married and became pregnant with Kel, I continued daily ocean swimming, and as my time got close, I used a kick board with hand holds, just in case I went into labor in the water. After 12 years living on Maui, I find it challenging to be far from the sea. Having the Pacific Ocean is sight again is like scratching an itch that lives inside me. 

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When I returned to the Port Townsend State Park, nothing was the same. Either mushrooms had shot up during the week I spent in the Olympic NP, or my newly developed “Tako Eye” revealed what had gone unseen, but on my return, I found that the rain soaked forest had bloomed with shrooms. Bouquets of mushrooms were scattered about wherever there was a space and the air was saturated with a musty mushroom soup smell. I don’t know enough about mushrooms to know which ones are safe to eat, and with no internet access to identify the toxic from the edible varieties, I was free to  marvel at the diversity of design with no concern for discerning which ones could be harvested.  

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I did gather “findings” that had fallen to the ground, seasonal droppings that I used to construct an offering. I was inspired by the photo of a mandala created by Andy Goldsworthy that was sent to me by my consistently inspirational friend, Lin Marie. Remembering the experience of waking to little palm leaf basket offerings filled with flowers in doorways and driveways in Bali, I began leaving found object offerings in the campsites where I stay. This exercise has birthed a new way for me to fashion impermanent art that honors the places I have had the good fortune to visit. For some reason, the temporary aspect of this kind of outdoor art makes it precious.

From Port Townsend, I took the short ferry trip to Whidbey Island to sing with the Threshold Choir based there, and to connect with friends made last October. I camped at the Deception Pass State Park on the first night on Whidbey, feeling welcomed by the familiar smell of the sea and strained music of gulls calling. Deception Pass is a narrow turbulent strait that glows a turquoise green far below a frail looking arched bridge that connects Whidbey to Fidalgo Island. My campsite looked down on a freshwater lake and a beach. I followed a beach trail leading from the log strewn beach on the island strewn sound between Whidbey and the Olympic Peninsula to the forests of the steep rocky shoreline with breath taking views of the deep water passage between the islands. There is such magic at the convergence of forest, mountains and the sea. 

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Lisa, who I stayed with on my last visit, has become a foster parent in the past year, and was caring for two sick babies when I arrived. Accepting the offer to park in the driveway of a new member of the choir, Ellen and I were amazed to find out how much we had in common. She was ecstatic about her lovely new home on Whidbey after living in an RV for two years. Her RV experience was not the joyful journey that I have experienced. Having Threshold Choirs to connect with as I travel has provided me with the perfect balance of solitude and connection with community. I’m so grateful for this time of wonder, connection and singing in community. Ellen drove us to the choir practice, which was a reunion for me. The choir has changed their meeting place to the common room of a co-housing community to accommodate a beloved choir member who is on hospice with a terminal illness and is still able to participate if the choir comes to her. This moving demonstration of compassion is yet another example of how choirs care for each other. Given a choice, this is exactly how I would choose to transition to the next world. 

I had been told about the History Museum on the reservation at Neah Bay, on the Olympic Peninsula, so I left Hwy 101 to take the long coastal route towards the reservation. Just before sunset, I discovered I was in the little town of Joyce, a place I was hoping to see, but had made no conscious effort to get to. I stopped for photos of businesses with my family name (much like I did in Ireland), and consulting my Allstays campground app, I found that t a Forest Service campground at Lyre River, was just a half mile up the road. I drove the winding road in the soft rain, to find myself in a magical fern grotto at the bend of the slow flowing Lyre River. The campground was verdant and welcoming in the soft light of dusk, and there was one space available. This was a stunning find, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. I prepared a nourishing vegie soup and settled in for a quiet night and the best sleep I had for days. 

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Reluctant to leave this little Nirvana, but knowing there was more to see, I continued on the next morning, eager to explore Neah Bay and marvel at the tribal history of the area. I was heading towards the Hoh Rainforest National Park, but there was no reason to hurry. After Neah Bay, I drove an hour west to the Mora National Park campground on the Quillayute River, a short drive from Rialto Beach, a log strewn beach on the Pacific Ocean side of the Peninsula. In this campground, the presence of the stately ancient trees was powerful. 

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The sun appeared the next morning, despite the fact that I had been warned that every mile traveled west means another inch of annual rainfall. Back on Hwy 101, I passed through the town of Forks, the biggest town I had seen since Port Angeles. After stopping to do some writing at the Forks Library, it was late afternoon when I reached the winding road to the Hoh NP. The road did not climb into the mountains as I was expecting, it twisted and turned through a ravine, closely following the Hoh River. A change occurred as I drove deeper into this forest primeval, it was as if my vision transitioned from black and white to technicolor. Wet leaves glistened in the play of shadow and sunlight, and vibrant green mosses blanketed the ancient trees and all that lies on the wet forest floor. The campground on the Hoh River was lush and inviting, I was grateful that the busy summer season had passed and campsites could be had (I would soon find out that by the end of the week, Forest Service campgrounds, and some State and National Park campgrounds would close for the season). The haunting bugling of rutting elk echoed through the trees where I took a sunset walk on trails flanked by chest high ferns and pools of crystal clear water. 

I slept well in the dark night of the rainforest with my curtains open to the stars. In the morning, I hiked a trail that winds though an emerald forest of old growth Sitka spruce and western hemlock. I found this enchanted world teeming with layers of sentient growth that radiates with psychedelic intensity. Lichen and mosses growing on trees, ferns growing on mosses, fallen trees feeding living organisms in a dizzying array of shapes, colors and sizes. There is no separation of life and death here, all are entwined in the great circle if life that is the living, breathing rainforest.  

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When the time came to turn back towards Port Townsend, I stopped at the Quillayute Reservation town of La Push on the Pacific for some beach time. There is a resort, of sorts, there, a fishing harbor and 3 beaches, complete with surfers. La Push is across the Quillayute River from the magnificent Mora Campground, where I returned to spend another night.

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Walking the trails in the campground, with drops of water blessing the top of my head where they dropped from the branches of the ancient trees around me, I began to wonder where the mushrooms could be hiding in this fecund laboratory of fertility. Just as that thought occurred to me, I began to see mushrooms all around me in a staggering assortment. In fact, I had to watch where I stepped because they were sprouting from the roots of trees, the trails, even the paved areas of the campground. This was my second visit to this campground, I hadn’t see any of this the first time through. I think the Hoh Rainforest awakened my senses and helped me get my Tako Eye on. Tako Eye is the phrase I heard a Hawaiian chef use to explain the ability to see forgeable delicacies hiding in the wild. He explained that when he would walk Hawaiian reefs looking for Tako (the Japanese word that is used in Hawaii for Octopus) he saw nothing. When he walked the reefs with old Japanese fishermen, they found Tako everywhere and would easily fill buckets with the delicacy. The Japaese fishermen y had Tako Eye. I now have Tako Eye for fungi and walking in the woods will never be the same.  

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My first stop on the Olympic Peninsula was “Sunny Sequim” (pronounced squim, for some reason). Nancy, a choir member with the Port Angeles Threshold Choir, offered her driveway near downtown Sequim, where I stayed for two nights. Sequim is a sweet little town on the glassy strait of Juan De Fuca that happens to occupy what they call a “Pukalani” in Hawaiian, a hole in the heavens where the sun peeks through. The geography of the mountains favors Sequim with more sunshine than any other place on the Peninsula. Sequim is one of the locations I’m considering as a future home, and I so appreciate having a new friend in town. Nancy and I drove the picturesque 20 miles of highway to the Clallam County Threshold Choir practice in Port Angeles. It is always a joy to sing with a new choir, each is different, but the same. The love is palpable in a Threshold circle, and practices are driven by the  desire to create a beautiful sound together, as one. I know most of the songs Threshold Choirs sing, but there is always a song or two that is new to me, or a song I had forgotten that I know. Exposure to these heartfelt songs feeds the soul. In this choir, I got a chance to see Astrid, a friend I made at a Threshold Choir gathering in Portland Oregon in 2017, when I decided that I would embark on this epic Threshold Choir journey at retirement. The Clallam County TC is the 51^st Threshold Choir I have sung with on this trip. 

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When I visited last October, I took the ferry from Port Angeles to Victoria, BC, to visit the choir there. I stayed with Susannah Day, and I so wanted to see my friend again. I was on Vancouver Island for over a week the last time, spending time with Susannah, singing and camping. I had the opportunity to sing with the Victoria Threshold Choir and to join a blissful community singing circle led by Laurence Cole. This would be a short trip,  a walk on Ferry trip, an overnight visit, and a return to Port Angeles the next evening. Arriving at Susannah’s home, one is greeted by her lush, well-manicured garden. She has filled the small spaces outdoors with an assortment of trees, plants, shrubs and ground cover that impart a delicate graceful charm, a stlye that continues inside her home. Every corner and wall in the house is adorned with color, and art that is simple and elegant. We talked, laughed, ate salmon and walked the farmer’s market. Susannah corrupted me with Empress Gin and craft tonics made in BC. She is a feisty independent sort, a singer and community activist with a playful youthful energy. She knows the poems and poets I know and love. I find in her a kindred spirit. Thanks for hosting me, dear friend.  

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Following the Victoria visit, I returned to Port Townsend for a couple of days, camping in the forest of the Port Townsend State Park while I had a front porch chat with the friend of a friend, and met with the director of the Port Townsend Threshold Choir. I was not feeling well, and concerned that the cold I was fighting was threatening to move to my lungs, which is something I experienced in the Spring and did not want to repeat. When I’m feeling sick, I feel the need to isolate, and the haven of the Olympic Peninsula National Park seemed like the perfect place to relax and focus on healing my body. The fear of impending illness sent me running to the woods to lick my wounds. I was counting on the trees, herbal teas, homemade soups, Echinacea, Goldenseal and plenty of Vitamin C  to fix me. I was also mentally ready, again, for solitude in nature. My heart was full after connecting with Threshold Choirs and embracing friends, both old and new. I became aware of the pendulum swing from needing community to feeling the need to lose myself in the wilderness. What an amazing gift to be living a life that allows me to follow those urges, tend to my needs, and retreat to nature at will. 

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I left Port Townsend knowing that I wanted to head west, but not much else. I was looking forward to the adventure. 

I traveled for 3 days to get to Boise, it was crazy hot, and I passed otherworldly expanses of sagebrush with twisted black lava fields that had risen from the baked soil of the plains. I spent 2 of those days visiting the step-sister of my granddaughter, the grown version of the little girl who spent Christmas holidays with me baking cookies and gingerbread houses. We lost track of each other once she went off to college. Holly’s happy 14 month old baby girl, Stella, entertained us while we caught up on the gap years. It was 98°in the high desert town of Mountain Home, where there are no mountains, or even hills. Holly, and her husband, a firefighter at the nearby Air Force base, spent nearly 2 years in Mountain Home and would soon be moving with his next deployment. Holly kept the air conditioner on high in her charming three bedroom home, and rather than sweat it out in the van, I accepted the invitation to sleep in her cool, well-appointed guest room. I let her know that I would like to have a house just like hers when I grow up.  

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In Boise, I delivered my broken computer to the Apple Store, and was told it would take 5 days to repair. The good news was, my work would not be lost and because I had computer insurance, I would pay only $99 to replace the screen on my laptop. The bad news was, I would be without my computer another 5 days, 8 days altogether. I was feeling helpless and a bit lost without it. During that time, I had a Threshold Choir to connect with and van repairs to pursue. Marcia, the director of the Nampa Threshold Singers, extended such kindness to me, offering her air conditioned guest room for as long as I needed it. She fed me, and drove me back and forth for 4 days of van repairs in two different shops. I got to sing with the Nampa Threshold Choir and spend 5 days with Marcia and her happy baby, a 10 month old Golden Retriever, who was also named Stella.

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Marcia sang with a Threshold Choir in Placerville, CA, before she moved to Nampa, Idaho. When I asked what Threshold Choir means to her, she answered, as other choir members answer, it provides a way to be of service. Marcia explained that she started the choir in Nampa because of a what she calls a pressing need to, “step outside of myself”. In addition to providing service, she said that she loves the family that forms within Threshold Choir, and how the choir supports its members as they weather loss, deaths, injuries, surgeries and celebrations together. She said that when she moved, she was missing the kind of relationships that she had in the Placerville choir, and now she has similar bonds with choir members in Nampa. Thanking Marcia for all she had done for me, she made it clear that she considers it natural to help where help is needed. I felt like Blanche in Tennessee William’s play, A Streetcar Named Desire, when she said, “I have always depended on the kindness of strangers”. Threshold Choir members are more like family than strangers and they have helped me all along the way. I am grateful for the kindnesses. Big Thanks, Marcia. 

I also connectedt with a song leader friend who lives in Boise and sings with Lisa Littlebird. Jolene was one of a group of us who went to Bali with Lisa in 2017 for a singing and yoga retreat. She  took me to hear Jazz at the Bose Penitentiary, now a Botanical Garden and community music venue. The evening was quite exciting, a swing era jazz band performed in a stunning outdoor garden until a thunder storm suddenly rolled in with powerful wind, lightening, thunder and rain. When the music stopped, Jolene took me on a tour of the gardens as the storm gathered strength. It was great fun to be out in the elements together. 

Finally, all was in order with the van and the computer, and I could head to the coast. I followed the Oregon Trail for most of a day, a narrow pass through vertical mountains with few trees and no water. It was hot, close to 100°, when I stopped to read about the dangers that the pass presented to pioneers traveling west in covered wagons not even 200 years ago. When I see mountain passes like this one, I think about their history. A geologist once told me that our highways follow the paths that native people followed, and that native people followed the paths that prehistoric creatures had followed. Seeing this stretch of the Oregon trail cutting through the treacherous mountains, it makes sense that this was the only possible chose to travel east and west going back beyond human history. The hip cowboy town of Pendleton lies in the path of the Oregon Trail and offers more fancy cowboy boot stores than I have ever seen. It’s a good thing I arrived after the shops closed for the day or I might have been tempted to squeeze more footwear into my little gypsy wagon. 

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Although I was planning to head to Oregon and had been looking at routes that would pass along the awe inspiring Columbia River, I also considered heading to Washington State to explore the Olympic Peninsula, visit friends I made last October and join some Threshold Choirs I missed the last time through. The Olympic Peninsula is a place that calls to me, and it is one of the places I’m considering for a future home. When I came to the intersection where I had to decide, I exercised my right to choose my path and turned toward Washington. It was a good choice. Forests and mountains greeted me in Washington State and I spent a cool night at a rest stop in the misty cloud shadow of Mt Rainier.

Most of my days start with music, a cup of strong coffee and my computer. I sit in the swivel chair that is the passenger seat of the van, surrounded by windows, using my drop down table as a desk. If it is cold, my dependable little propane heater warms my cozy “den” in no time. On my last morning in the Yellowstone campground with tall trees around me, all was well until I opened my laptop and found the screen damaged. Compelled to write each day, I typed anyway, positioning my work around the prism of color that had exploded in the center of the screen. I continued writing this way until horizontal and vertical lines spread from the damaged center, making the screen inaccessible. I panicked, not having the ability to write is like having my hands tied behind my back, and I was concerned about losing the spreadsheets that chronical were I have been, where I slept each night of this journey, Threshold experiences and contacts, and the 80 something multi page blogs I have written that I will draw from for my book. 

My next scheduled stop was the Grand Canyon, where I had reserved a campsite in the National Park for a week. I had nine days to reach the park in Arizona, the route would take me south through the Grand Tetons, and all of Wyoming and Utah, spectacular territory I have been looking forward to experiencing. Only Salt Lake City offered an Apple Store and a Threshold Choir to meet with, and the memory of my 1972 visit to Salt Lake City traveling in a van with a Native American turquoise trader who wore buckskin pants, no shirt, and feathers tied in his long unruly hair, was less than welcoming. I also was feeling a shimmy in my brakes that needed attention.  

Even before the “troubles”, I had considered rerouting my trip to the Pacific Northwest. I was feeling saturated, perhaps over saturated, with the wonder of all that I was experiencing, and the need to return to the familiarity of west coast. I yearned for the ocean, the cool forests of the Pacific Northwest, and I yearned for my people. It had also become apparent to me that I had reached my limit for this stretch of solitude, and limited phone and internet connection, it was time to rebalance. 

I’m just beginning to realize that my work on this journey is to be aware of my needs, and to do what will feed my joy (other than indulging the urge to eat chocolate, or cool down with ice cream on a hot day, that is, I’ve always been good at feeding those yearnings). Like learning to sail, I am learning to read the wind, the wind that speaks only to me, and to trim the sails to correspond. With a lifetime of dedication to commitment and dependability, I sometimes forget that at this particular time in my life, I have the rare and enviable ability to change course on this journey of discovery. In this case, it took a broken computer and shaky brakes to remind me to assess my needs and change direction accordingly. 

Once I decided to return to the west coast, I cancelled my Grand Canyon reservation and called my friend, Vicki, in Corvallis, Oregon, to ask if I could stay with her for a week or two. I told her that I expected to arrive in Corvallis in 3 to 4 weeks, but couldn’t give her an exact date. Vicki is an inspiration, a creative and courageous warrior woman, who would understand my need to hunker down for a bit to focus on my writing. I left Yellowstone heading west toward Boise, where an Apple Store, a step-granddaughter with a 14 month old baby, a Threshold Choir, a Community singing circle led by a friend and plenty of options for brake repairs waited.