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I’m grateful that I decided to make the 100+ mile drive to Harrisonburg, VA, very much off my path after my diversion to Richmond to avoid the scary weather. I am also grateful that I stopped to explore the Grand Cavern in route Harrisonburg. A tourist attraction since its discovery in 1806, the massive cavern 200 feet below the surface was just as much of a draw for the Victorian crowd, including civil war soldiers from the North and the South, as it is today. The guide explained that the 1½ tour was an all-day adventure before the cave walkway was improved with stairs and handrails. He explained that a few years ago, search and rescue dogs training in the cavern discovered that there is another section, many times larger, that is currently without the improvements of a walkway and electric lights. As we walked from one “room” to the next, each with its own arrangement of shields, stalactites and stalagmites reaching towards each other, I was astonished to see that wherever I looked, I saw something unique. Great “chandeliered ballrooms” with 100 foot ceilings, hanging drapery like formations, and small inaccessible jeweled caves decorated like hollow sugar Easter Eggs, delight eye and imagination. Thanks to Mark Twain, and Huck Finn’s misadventure with Becky in their cavern, I couldn’t peer down the dark crevasses or look at a succession of chambers visible behind other chambers, without getting goosebumps. At one point, the electric lights went out for a bit, ramping up the thrill factor. 

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In Harrisonburg, Donna Heatwole, the Blue Ridge TC director, had arranged for me to overnight in the Mennonite church parking lot and I arrived in time to change clothes and clean up a bit before the practice. Of the 18 members present at the rehearsal, most were part of the Mennonite community and had been singing hymns together for many years, which probably contributes to the angelic harmonies of this 3 year old choir. When introShirley ductions went around the room, I notice that some of the women shared a last name, either through birth, marriage or because there are common family names in this community. The practice started with updates about ailing family members and friends in the community and singing that was done for them. Many of the hospice patients the choir sings for are well known to them and part of the community. 

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One of the choir members offered to show me around town the next day, which was quite an education. I learned that Harrisonburg was the home Eastern Mennonite University and the historic home of many different sects of Mennonites, including those in modern dress like the TC members I met. Shirley drove me around the lush green Mennonite farm country in the hills around the city where traditional Mennonites live. She pointed out the small and very neat subsistence farms with a few black horses grazing, and clotheslines hung with muted colored clothing stretching from the modest two story homes. We visited a Mennonite nursery, one of the businesses the farming community runs to subsidize their small farms, that was saturated with color. I learned about the homeless assistance the church provides, along with a coalition of other churches in Harrisonburg, and the assistance they provide for immigrants. I was also interested in the history of pacifism and conscientious objection in this community and how that played out in the Civil War and more recent wars. 

Shirley told me that the Mennonites are one of only 3 religions recognized as Conscientious Objectors by the US Government. She explained when her husband’s daft number came up when they were newlyweds, his CO status required foreign service for the US Government. For two years,  she worked as a nurse while her husband had a government job in Haiti. She said it was a wonderful time. Later, they lived in India for five years, where Shirley was in charge of a support program for mothers and children. She also told me about the focus on education in this community and that EMU offers a well-respected nursing program. 

Before visiting Harrisonburg, my only experience with Mennonites was with FEMA in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, after a devasting flood in 2008. Within days of the flood, Mennonites in traditional dress, (women in plain colored long skirts, unadorned blouses and head veils and men in black pants and jackets with white shirts), showed up, bringing wood and supplies with them, and proceeded remove damaged floors and walls and rebuilding them, as is required after a flood. They offered their service at no cost to the many elderly residents who could not afford to hire help to do this work, something FEMA, Red Cross and Insurance Companies did not offer. 

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A tornado warning on the way to Roanoke sent me seeking shelter at a Subway shop, the only structure visible from Highway 81, where I was driving north along the Blue Ridge Mountains. This time I had my “Go Bag” ready, including my auto insurance paperwork, which I dragged into Subway and placed on a chair beside me, as far away from the windows as possible, until the warning was lifted. Deadly tornados hit Texas that day and the same weather system was expected to hit Roanoke the following afternoon. I had planned to spend the next 2 days continuing my exploration of the Blue Ridge Parkway, but the storm changed my plans. Overall, I drove about 5 hours on the Blue Ridge Parkway spread over three days, forced to head down the mountain when poor visibility made for dangerous driving. Seen through a veil of cloud cover, the endless vistas took on a mystical quality. Driving the winding parkway takes the same kind of concentration required to drive the Big Sur Coastline, but here, the view is endless mountain ridges and an ocean of forests. The breathtaking views are ablaze with flowering dogwood, eastern redbud, mountain laurel and rhododendron in an assortment of magenta, pink and white blossoms this time of year.  

I decided to make an unplanned 2 hour drive east to Richmond on 4/13, where the storm warning was downgraded from the severe rain, flash floods, hail, winds and tornados expected to roll into Roanoke, and most of the mid Atlantic region, that afternoon. I was up at 5:30 AM, to get ready to leave my overnight spot at the Roanoke Cracker Barrell. I didn’t get a chance to explore Roanoke, something I have wanted to do since 1972, when I met Chip Terry, the sweet talking Virginia man, who was from that city. Chip drove an old Willy’s Jeep, had a son he called Bubba, and he was an outdoorsman who had lived in a log cabin in the woods. Our paths crossed many times in the early 70s in Laurel Canyon, Topanga Canyon and Venice Beach. He was the only person from the South I had met at that point in my life, and I was intrigued. All I would see of Roanoke this trip was highway, and the Cracker Barrel Parking lot. 

As it turned out, I did make a friend in the parking lot. A retired teacher who has been full timing it for 2 years in a new, slightly larger and wider, Pleasure Way, stopped me to tell me how valuable my Roadtrek is. He was very impressed by the condition, and told me he had searched for years to find a 190 Popular model, like mine, and bought the Pleasure Way because he couldn’t find one. He even knew what year Wanda is. He said the quality of the newer Roadtreks doesn’t compare to these older models and with Roadtrek out of business now, these older Roadies have even more value. He said he saw someone offering $80,000 for a 190 in any condition. This lifted my spirits after a hard drive, tornado warnings, and the constant concerns I have about repairs to the fiberglass roof and the paint job that the van needs. 

I spent the day driving highways flanked by bucolic Virginia farm country, rolling hills, and classic barns and farmhouses,  listening to weather reports, and trying to stay out of harm’s way.  This kind of vulnerability makes me feel very alone. No one could tell me where I would be safe in my little van with the weather threat predicted for the mid-Atlantic region, not even the weather reporters. The severe weather was due in the afternoon, and I arrived In Richmond just after lunch. I checked into a hotel, and went to the movies to see the new “Dumbo” and forget about the weather while my room was readied. 

Having access to a TV in my hotel room meant that I would watch the weather reports until I fell asleep, and it didn’t look good. I prepared the van, as best I could, and brought food, a flashlight, a change of clothes, my computer and my most important paperwork indoors, with the paperwork stashed in the bathtub, in my designated “Safe Room”.  It was calm until I was awakened by heavy rain and a tremendous clap of thunder at 1:30 AM. Several “cells” would pass over Richmond in the early morning hours, bring rain, thunder and lightning, but the towns just a few miles northeast were threatened with two tornados. Luckily, the storms passing over Richmond moved fast and did not do much damage, but high winds and 16 tornados caused deaths and major damage from Texas to Pennsylvania in the past 48 hours.

I woke up to sunshine, and as I drove west, backtracking to meet up with the Blue Ridge Threshold Choir in Harrisonburg, VA, tonight, the day shone with an “after rain” glimmer. I stopped half-way to make lunch at a rest stop, and do some writing, and by this time, I had already passed three “Speed Limit Enforced by Aircraft” signs. Really? I remember wondering about those signs on California roadways when I was a kid, but until I reached Virginia, it had been decades since I saw that particular threat. How the heck does that work, anyway? I certainly haven’t seen any aircraft today, and in my 67 years, I have never seen aircraft patrolling highways. Is this an old bluff, or new technology?  Are Virginia highways now patrolled by satellite surveillance or drones? Does anyone out there have any information about speed limit enforcing aircraft to pass on? I’m confused. 

Heading West from Asheville, I met with a Threshold Choir member from the Waynesville Choir halfway between Asheville and the park. Besides providing service through Threshold Choir, Mary is Reiki Master, a Death Doula, a volunteer for the NAACP, and a new age minister, but she confided that residents of the small town of Waynesville are not interested in the services she has to offer. Instead, she drives 30 minutes down the mountain to Asheville to volunteer in homeless shelters where she provides Reiki treatments that include singing. She also told me that she is interested in helping folks whose beloved pets have to be put down. She told me of providing Reiki to a cat prior to the scheduled Euthanasia, but following the Reiki treatment, the cat passed peacefully when the sedative was administered and euthanasian was not required. Her story reminded me of how much I appreciated the opportunity to join Lisa Siders, a TC member I stayed with on Whidbey Island, in a song bath for her sweet dog just days before he crossed over. 

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It is an easy 30 minute drive to the Smoky Mountains from Waynesville, and I had time to explore the town of Cherokee, at the park entrance. Smoky Mountain National Park borders a small Cherokee Reservation, and the town of Cherokee is the seat of the Reservation Government and tourism. I didn’t get a chance to see the “Cherokee Drama” that dates back to the 1950s, but there is a spectacular amphitheater where Indian (a word used by the native people here) productions are staged. The town was a disappointment for me with most shops filled with trinkets made in China, clothing from Indonesia and garish mass produced Indian art. In Cherokee, you can purchase a dreamcatcher made with pink and purple feathers, a velvet Elvis Presley painting, rugs made in Mexico, a Dukes of Hazard poster, or get a Henna Tattoo. In the profusion of trinket shops, I found one shop with authentic silver jewelry with turquoise and shell inlays made by a Cherokee silversmith, and was wowed by an eagle head carved into a moose antler. In case you are wondering, the turquoise, moose antler and shells are not from the Smoky Mountains, the artist trades with other tribes for these goods. I did hear people of all ages speaking the native language in Cherokee, and it heartened me to know the language is thriving.    

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I found the Smokemont Campground refreshingly open with the barely leafed deciduous forest leaving plenty of space for sky and stars. A river running through the campground is in view of all campsites. After 3 days in bustling Asheville, the peace of the mountains is a welcome change. Camping in the Smoky Mountain National Park includes the music of the rushing river and the surprise of elk wandering through the campsite, but it does not include showers, phone service or internet. 

Silva, a quant mountain village 30 miles south of the park, is where I hoped to catch up on internet time, needing to plan overnights and choir practices to meet my goal of reaching Massachusetts by 4/30. Mary told me about the majestic Library in this town, where she grew up, and I had read about the City Lights Bookstore and Café there, and didn’t want to miss that.

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Walking Main Street, I saw a number of high end outdoor stores, a fly fishing shop, a music store and local craft and furniture shops, all geared towards tourists. At the end of the 3 block street, I spotted an old fashioned barber shop with a wooden hand lettered sign that said $10 Men’s Haircuts. I was badly in need of a trim, and was thinking the barbershop was the perfect place for a simple trim (something accomplished in less than 10 minutes at Supercuts in Monterey). Despite the “Men’s Haircuts” sign, I stepped into the American flag draped shop with worn Naugahyde seating, and felt I had stepped back in time. Vance was one of the two barbers there, a friendly, tattooed 40 something man sporting a head wrap and man bun, while the other barber, a proper white haired southern gentleman, was a bit nervous about my presence in this man’s world. Vance said he could trim my hair, so I waited for him to finish with the customer in his chair. When the cut ahead of me was done, Vance refused to take payment from the customer, saying he was just glad to see him, but after some back and forth, the customer insisted he take the $12.00 offered. Until this point, I wasn’t sure that haircuts were really $10, and thought the sign might be decades old and hanging there for the ambience. When it was my turn in the chair, Vance divided my hair into sections and went to work on it, this was not going to be a Supercuts trim. When I told him about my Threshold Choir travels, he said that he looks forward to death. I asked about that and the discussion got really interesting as he told me his theories about death and time, a theme John O’Donohue writes about. I learned that before moving back to his family farm, with his wife and 5 kids, Vance spent 10 years in the Marine Corp, had been a police officer and had served in the coast guard on the Mississippi River. He said the Mississippi River work was the hardest for him because his work involved recovering murder victims from the river and he talked about the tears he shed after seeing a woman fall to her death when she was pushed off a bridge by her lover.

After a at last an hour of cutting and deep discussion (I had to stop him when he pulled out the electric trimmer), he refused my money, saying the last customer had paid ahead for my cut. He thanked me for coming into his life, wrote down John O’Donohue’s name and gave me a hug. I left feeling lifted and challenged about any notion I have ever had about small town Southerners.    

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Your assistance for gas to fuel this journey of discovery is much appreciated, donations can be sent to: https://paypal.me/pools/c/86OfWkYwej

I don’t drive more than 4 hours a day if I can help it. Driving requires my full attention and I find myself exhausted if I push it. Breaks every couple of hours and limiting the hours behind the wheel help me stay alert. Besides, there is so much to see along the way; historic downtowns, riverfront parks, nature centers and wildlife preserves. 

I got a late start leaving Myrtle Beach on 4/5 and rain was coming down hard. I had planned a side trip to Charleston, which I very much wanted to visit, but the 2 hour drive south would mean 5 hours on the road before reaching my overnight destination. Starting south along the NC coast for Charleston, I found driving conditions bad. The rain made visibility poor, and driving the flooded highway was hazardous. Checking the weather radar map, I saw that it was clear to the west of Myrtle Beach, so I turned around and headed for Columbia, the capitol of Georgia, which is on the route to Asheville. After spending several nights in expensive State Park campgounds, I consulted my trusty “All Stays” app, looking for a free place to overnight.  There are two options in Columbia,  a Camping World Parking lot, or a Cracker Barrell parking lot. I arrived in Columbia in time for heavy commute traffic and after many wrong turns, I found  Camping World before closing. I was in time to have my Propane tank filled, but did not want to stay off a busy highway in this commercial area. That left Cracker Barrel. If you haven’t traveled in the South, you might not know this chain of restaurants. Like Waffle Houses, Cracker Barrells are an institution here. Serving down home meals, and cobbler, at a reasonable price, the restaurants are popular with locals and tourists. The busy décor includes “old time” signage, rocking chairs and a retail store selling all manner of “cute”. They also provide a few RV parking spots for overnight guests. This was my first experience with a Cracker Barrell since my FEMA deployment in Georgia in 2007.  This Cracker Barrell was practically a resort. The friendly staff was happy for me to stay overnight in their huge parking lot, it was a good distance from the Highway, and expansive lawns buffered the space between the nearest neighbors, a Hyatt hotel on one side and Doubletree on the other side. I passed the night quietly, grateful for the berry cobbler and the free parking. 

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Heading to Asheland the next day, the drive through the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains was stunning. I stopped to walk a nature trail and take in an historic Walnut Plantation. The sun was shining and the temperature was just under 70°, which made for a perfect walk in the woods. I walked the plantation graveyard with about 20 headstones with dates in the 1700 and 1800s, and was astonished to see at least a hundred “fieldstones”, humble unmarked stones, where a sign explained that lesser members of the family and slaves were buried.      

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Once I reached Asheville, the fresh feel in the air let me know that I was in the mountains. The city was bustling with activity, and the art and tattooed wild haired youth reminded me of Portland. After finding my campsite at nearby Lake Powhatan, I ventured back into town to explore the River Arts District. Wide swaths of park and greenspace along the river were alive with activity on this warm Saturday and after passing miles of park lands along the river, I arrived at a neighborhood of repurposed warehouses in the flood path of the river where a very happening art and craft beer scene has developed. I ventured into the studio of a brilliant young artist whose intricate paintings carried me off to other worlds. We talked for a while and I learned she had moved from San Francisco four years ago because this had been her ex-husband’s home, but instead of “ex-husband”, she used the word “wasband”, a term worthy of passing on, I think. Thanks, Cat.

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I also met a young woman in Asheland who had overcome an addiction to opioids five years ago. It took leaving the father of her kids, and rehab, to get clean. As a single mom in Asheville, she shared what a struggle it is to find affordable housing for her family. Asheville’s booming tourism has resulted in the conversion of long term rentals to vacation rentals, and with increased demand for housing, rent has skyrocketed. A familiar story.  

I had a great time singing and sharing dinner with the Asheville Threshold Choir in the community room of the cooperative community where some of the members live. I especially appreciated the stretches and circle shoulder rub at the start of the practice. 

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I was not anxious to leave Hetty, or Georgia, and was glad to have planned a stop in Savanah before traveling north to South Carolina. The highway to Savannah was dressed for Spring with fields ablaze in red wildflowers, pecan orchards with tiny buds of green, and, as I got closer to the coast, wisteria in full bloom draping the forests, with some vines climbing 30 feet up into the pines.

On reaching Savannah, I happened to land in the historic district, where walking tours and tour buses crowded the cobbled streets and monumental squares. It was a surprise to find the exquisite brick homes there were adorned with elaborate ironwork, much like that in New Orleans. I had to circle a bit to find parking, but it was well worth the effort to walk the gorgeous oak lined streets, read the historical plaques and see the imposing statues in the squares. Savannah was a hotbed of American Revolutionary Activity and the headquarters for Sherman during the North’s March to the Sea in 1864. Statues commemorating Confederate leaders remain prominent and a source of pride for this city. In discussions with choir members from New Orleans, where Confederate statues have come down, and from South Carolina, both expressed their wish that the historic statues remain, and that statues of African American and Civil Rights heroes be erected to exhibit a more balanced account of history. It makes sense to me to honor history in that way.  

When I reached Myrtle Beach, I found myself in a vacation mecca. Massive RV “Resorts” lined the oceanfront road, and recreational activity and surf shops offer anything a beach lover could want. Just a couple of miles in either direction from where I camped at Myrtle Beach State Park, high rise hotels lined the beaches. The State Park occupied prime beachfront property. And the beach was beautiful. Things were busy, and there were lots of families with kids on Spring Break, but I imagine this beach in summer is something quite different. What a perfect place this is for Southerners seeking escape from the oppressive summer heat.

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The Threshold Choir director, Cynthia, took me to her favorite Asian Fusion restaurant for a memorable lunch bowl. The menu here was so creative and healthy menu, it felt like dinning in California. This restaurant is part of a mixed commercial/living space neighborhood surrounded by recreational space with a reservoir that has been developed on land that was once a military base. Well done, Myrtle Beach.  Camping and spending time with Cynthia and the Long Bay Choir in Myrtle Beach was delightful. As I start to think about landing places when the travels come to an end, the thought crossed my mind, I could live here. Next stop, Asheville, North Carolina.

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I have spent this lifetime driven by the urge to see what is around the next bend (much to the annoyance of friends who agreed to kayak with me on meandering California rivers). Taking in the ever changing scene around me as I drive, I’m touched by the familiar and thrilled by what is new to me. The forests, the wildflowers, the wildlife and birds, the gardens and the architecture, all feed my sense of wonder. Traveling through the lush South as spring is budding, how could I help but fall in love? I have driven another 1,000 miles sin the past few days.

On the back roads from Tallahassee to Macon, Georgia, endless forests with bare lacy branches and evergreen pines and hemlock line both sides of the road. In places where the forest has been cleared, green fields glowed in the warm sunshine. I crossed rivers with names honoring the first nations here, like  Ogeechee, Oomulgee, Conecuh and Choctah,and was amused that Georgians would be so audacious to name cities Athens, Rome, Flowery and Peach Tree City. Georgia is beautiful, but complicated, like all of the south. I am tormented by the history of slavery and cannot see the historic plantation homes without envisioning the slave labor that made that opulent life style possible. 

I’m also troubled by the distribution of wealth here. As in other rural communities throughout the southern US, sad looking single wide mobile homes house much of the population. These are not the makeshift tent and tarp shanty towns that shelter the homeless of Oakland, and other cities on West Coast, and these residents do have a roof over their heads, but it is sad to know that these widespread permanent living quarters house families for generations with little hope for anything more. 

I blundered into just such a joyless trailer community in route to Macon when SIRI mistakenly directed me to a similar address on Stonewall Place in a town more than an hour south of Macon. Passing through sweeping agriculture areas and grazing cattle (and a single voluntary field of cotton), I was shocked by what I saw when I passed a dusty lot where mangled and abandoned single wide trailer homes where intermingled with beat-up occupied trailers. It was hard to tell if the homes suffered from neglect, or they had been hit by a tornado, (in FEMA, trailer parks were known as tornado magnets), or both. Clearly, the occupied trailers were not suitable homes for healthy living. The school kids I saw coming home to the area were all African American, and they did not look kindly on me. As I dutifully followed SIRI’s directions deeper into the neighborhood, I passed some well cared for trailer homes on individual lots with trees and manicured lawns side by side with neglected trailers on dirt lots. The address Siri directed me to was off the road down a long dirt driveway with overgrown shrubs, making passage tight for the van. At the end of the road, a clearing with abandoned cars and a trailer in disrepair greeted me. At first, I thought of what an adventure it could be meeting a Threshold Choir member who lived in this neighborhood. Pausing to prepare myself to exit the van and knock on the door, I tried to imagine a Threshold singer living here. When I noticed the discarded beer bottles and cans on the ground, overturned chairs on the damaged deck and the sagging trailer roof, I started to feel unsafe. I realized that if this trailer was occupied, the occupants were not the conscious caring Threshold Choir family I have been meeting around the country. At this, I skedaddled as fast as I could, knowing I was in the wrong place, that I would be trapped if someone came down the drive, and that I would not be welcome here. Just blocks away from this neighborhood, I passed stately mansions surrounded by magnificent lawns and gardens. The contrast was shocking.  

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I was relieved when I found Hetty in her handsome neighborhood just a stone’s throw from downtown Macon. Macon is enchanting with its tree lined residential neighborhoods, well-cared for gardens in Spring bloom, and grand, Greek like architecture gracing the downtown. After 2 nights staying with Hetty in friendly Macon, and an evening singing and sharing a pub dinner with the kindred spirits of the Heart of Georgia Threshold Choir, it was time to head to the coast and my date with the Long Bay Threshold Choir in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. 

I reach my six month mark on March 3, and I’m now on a northward heading. I arrived in Macon Georgia yesterday to sing with the choir here before heading north east to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina to join a choir practice there. So many choirs to visit and so little time. I have not been focused on a landing place that is affordable on my Social Security income, trusting that the right location will surface, but now that time is closing in, it is time start thinking about that. 

I spent an entire month in Florida and found it hard to leave this welcoming and enchanting land. I was moved by the people I met there, the forests, the rivers, the lakes and beaches and the critters. The palm and pine forests where both strange and lovely and the tropical scenery reminded me of my home on Maui, a place I consider my heart’s home. I discovered a vibrant art scene here and fell in love with the dream like mid-century paintings of the African American artists known as the Florida Highwaymen. Of course, being in Florida in March, I avoided the oppressive heat (and mosquitos) that drive many residents to travel during the summer months. Georgine and Cliff were leaving the Miccosukee Land Coop at the end of May, as were many of the choir members I spent time with. I did experience a gamut of weather changes that included some warm humid weather, rain and thunder showers, and a tornado scare, but, for the most part, the weather was sunny and delightful. 

Now I need to start planning my travels north and then west, a task I find difficult. I have found that it is challenging and time consuming to plan travels around the US based on choir locations and rehearsal dates. There is mapping, and making contacts with choirs, confirming practice dates and times, finding a place to park near the practice and figuring out a route and places to stay while in route. This combined with maintaining the van and getting repairs done in route requires that much of my time is spent on logistics. Most of the scheduling requires internet, making library time essential. When visiting family and friends, I don’t want to spend hours online when our time to visit is short. Then here is the matter of reservations. In Florida and Georgia, I have needed to cancel camping reservations when plans change, which is very costly and rarely results in any kind of refund. I hesitate to plan too far in advance, not knowing if I will be ready to move quickly through a town, or make connections with choir members and find locations where I want to spend more time.

Scheduling competes with time I would spend visiting, camping in the wilds, hiking and writing this blog. Not that I’m complaining, the past two weeks have afforded opportunities to spend time with my nephews, camp in the national forest and return to Tallahassee where I did an art project with Georgine and visit with the amazing Tallahassee director, Susan Smith, and was able to sing with Threshold Choir members. And now I am in historic Macon Georgia, staying with Hetty and glad to rekindle our friendship began when we were roommates at an All Choir Gathering at Bishop’s Ranch many years ago.

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Life is good, and I am grateful, and a bit exhausted. If you wish to help with the gas fund for my continued travels, you can donate at: paypal.me/pools/c/86OfWkYwej

After time visiting with my sisters, I headed north to spend four days at a Jacksonville Beach campground where I had a chance to visit with two nephews who live there. The campground had everything, beaches, lakes, hiking trails and a nice shower, and it was great to be able to prepare dinners for my nephews that we ate next to a campfire. The Spanish history in the area is interesting, and I explored settlements that predated Jamestown, including the 1560 settlement at St. Augustine that was not mentioned in the history books that I studied in school. 

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Driving West from Jacksonville, I camped in the Osceola National Forest where I discovered pines as far as the eye can see, white sand roads, ponds, lakes and alligator warnings. I felt compelled to walk the Olustee Civil War battleground within the national forest where 3,000 soldiers lost their lives. Tears fell as I was overcome by the sadness of the war (and all war), and the hardships and loss suffered by the soldiers and their families.

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Between the Osceola National Forest and Jacksonville, I stumbled upon the Suwanee River Music Camp. This is a huge camp with an outside stage, looking very much like the Strawberry Music Festival stage, as well as indoor stages and tented restaurants and shops. Popular bands draw large crowds to the camp and there happened to be an RV convention with thousands of RVers when I drove in. I managed to avoid the crowds by heading to the Suwanee River, where I ate my lunch in solitude on a white sand riverbank with gentle breezes stirring the surface of the black water to create drifting patterns of diamonds reflecting the sun. For some reason, I have no need to connect through RV gatherings. Maybe it’s because I am a full-timer in a van that is so different from the massive RV trailers that fill the RV parks (some of which sell for as much as $300,000), but I suspect it has more to do with the fact that my focus is meeting up with Threshold Choirs, and that that balancing my time in solitude and with the kindred spirits of Threshold Choir is important to me. 

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Traveling around Florida, one cannot avoid controlled burns. The forest undergrowth is regularly burned, which, for some reason does not destroy the pines. Almost everywhere I have been the pine bark is scarred black, but the pines are thriving and do not seem to be affected by the burning. I don’t think a day has passed that I didn’t see smoke coming from a patch of forest. Florida seems to know how to manage forests. I do remember that Florida had massive fires a few years ago during a drought period. I don’t know if the regular burning grew from that disaster or if it has always been in place here. I know that burning was used by the native people long before Europeans settled the state.

It was a beautiful sunny day when I reached Cocoa Beach on the Space Coast, where a full-on summer beach scene greeted me 22 weeks after starting my trip on the West Coast. The miles of white sand beaches here draw overwhelming crowds. Living in Pacific Grove for the past 13 years, where summer heat in California inland valleys brings cool wet fog to the coast from June through August, I associate summer with vacation. I was now in vacation land, and it was glorious. The ocean was still at around 68°and not at the summer high temperature of 86°, and not many people were in the water, but with kids on spring break, the beach was a joyful scene.  Those not in the water are working on their tan. Like Hawaii, a sun loving tan is expected here, and even the snowbirds who spend the winter months “summering” here sport the golden glow. Choosing to avoid sun damage in my hat, long sleeves and long pants, I don’t exactly blend.

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I visited my sister, Sally, and her husband, Erik, on Merritt Island, a barrier island across a bridge from the beach at Cocoa. It is a bedroom community for the space center wedged between the massive Indian River and the mile wide Banana River, both are brackish rivers that offer excellent fishing and are home to all kinds of wild life, including manatees and gators. This is what inspired my parents to move from California to Merritt Island in 1977, the same year I moved to Maui. Sally took me to the National Wildlife Reserve there, where miles of dirt roads wind through wetlands that are home to ibis, roseate spoonbills, many varieties of herons and egrets, venomous snakes and plenty of gators.   

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From Merritt Island, I drove an hour south to Sebastian, the home of my other sister, Sharon, and her significant other, Tommy. They live near a small lake and spend their days feeding the Ibis, ducks and geese that reside there. Sharon had two skin cancer surgeries scheduled while I was there, and was now seeing Sally’s surgeon who had done a masterful job making her skin cancer scars disappear. In our outdoor and water loving family, living in the California, Hawaii and Florida sun may not have been the best choices for our skin type. Fortunately, melanoma does not seem to be in our cards. 

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Driving to Sebastian, Wanda developed an oil pressure problem which required attention before I could continue on. It took some time to find a garage that could handle the size of the van and make time for the 2 day repair. The 10 days I spent in Sebastian meant I had to cancel a trip to the Everglades and south Florida. It also interfered with the rescheduled Threshold Choir practice with the Sarasota Choir. With Sarasota on the West Coast, and 3 hours away, I had to rent a car to get there. Again, feeling my determination to follow through with my plans, or, maybe a lack of flexibility, I knew I was not willing to cancel a second time. I can truly say that making the trip was well worth it, and, my tax return showed up in my bank account just in time to pay for the $1,200 in van repairs. A timely blessing.

Sarasota is a bustling resort with Caribbean like water surrounding the city, miles of beaches and luxury condos on the barrier islands, art and circus museums and a botanical garden that reminded me of my lush tropical garden on Maui. I loved singing with the choir there and know that the choir members I met in Sarasota will be friends for life. Sharing our passion for Threshold choir, our life stories and the current challenges in our lives is an incredible bond. I’m so eternally grateful for Threshold Choir and the connections I am making with choir members as I travel.  A very special thanks to Hannah and Linda.  

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After returning to Sebastian to reunite with my van/home, I headed north along the East coast to spend time with my nephews in Jacksonville, Florida.

I had scheduled two campground nights along the east coast of Florida in route to my scheduled meeting with the Sarasota Threshold Choir on 3/7 and the Villages Threshold Choir on 3/8. I was excited about the night at Manatee Springs State Park and found it to be a magical place. Florida has many thermal clear water pools that are popular with manatees, divers, kayakers, tropical birds and alligators. As promised, there were gentle manatees visible in the crystal clear pools, a stunning river and a boardwalk leading into the wetland cypress forest. I was in paradise, but I was sick. My cold had developed into bronchitis, I was coughing up some nasty stuff, and had little energy. I explored the park only briefly that evening, and was able to work in a morning walk by the water before leaving the park in search of an urgent care doctor. If nothing else, I am determined. I was counting on a doctor to fix me, end tell me if I was contagious, so I could continue with me scheduled plans. The doctor did neither, of course. She gave me antibiotics, which I took, even though I knew they wouldn’t help with a virus, which is how bronchitis is classified, and she gave me a mask. I found a hotel for the night in nearby Crystal River, another popular manatee hang-out, and contacted the Sarasota Choir. Somehow, I still thought I could join the choir the next night, and offered to wear the mask. Wisely, the choir decided it was too risky, and they were right. I was forced to cancel the 2 upcoming choir dates, and focus on my health. 

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Getting sick on the road is something that I had been dreading. I was feeling quite lucky that I have not had any health problems during the 5 months I had been traveling, and it was fortunate that I did not have a fever with this illness. I couldn’t sing, and the deep cough was relentless, but I was able to function in slow motion, I could drive and prepare meals and continue my travels. I have everything I need to be comfortable in the van, and have no problem isolating in my well-equipped caravan when I need to with food, my computer, music, books, the ukulele that Sandor gave me for the trip and painting supplies all onboard. And what could be better than taking it easy in a beautiful setting like a state park? I also know that I can use my credit card points (which spend like monopoly money) for a hotel room if I find I am too ill to drive or prepare meals. This illness was another lesson that bolstered my confidence. Being forced to change my plans is the biggest challenge for me. 

After the hotel night in Crystal River, another manatee haven, I pointed Wanda East, heading towards my sisters and the Atlantic. That day, Siri directed me to every toll road that exists in the middle of the state. I had declined the offer to buy a toll pass at the Florida Welcome Center, so I was forced to pull off to the cash payment booth every 20 minutes or so. I spent at least $18 on tolls, burning through the 2 quarter rolls I had intended to use for campground showers. Siri and Apple maps have been indispensable, and for the most part, dependable as a navigator for the 13,000 miles I have driven since October, but sometimes the Siri route is not the path I would choose on my own. 

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I found the next campsite, a primitive county recreational site, most educational. It is not easy to find available campsites in Florida at this time of the year, and I was delighted that this one on the St John’s River was free, which is a big deal in Florida where state campgrounds can be as much as $60 a night, and private RV “Resorts” can be $80. I followed miles of unpaved roads through wild pine and palm forests to the riverside where an outhouse and a boat ramp where the only accommodations. I was lifted by the beauty of the grassy field that served as the campground surrounded by birds, wetlands, sloughs and lakes. Three 40 foot long RVs were parked at the water’s edge, a couple of tents are set up on the grass and there were many trucks and empty boat trailers. An air boat was parked at the shoreline. I parked near the boat ramp, the only place available near the water, cautiously seeking solid ground and avoiding soft sand patches as not to get stuck like my recent disaster in Tallahassee. I opened the van doors to a fresh evening breeze coming from the wandering channels and settled in for an evening meal as a gentle sunset colored the sky and the water. Several couples gathered in chairs at the water’s edge in front of the RVs where a campfire glowed. Still in the grips of bronchitis, I had to avoid the draw of the campfire to hunker down in my cozy home, so glad to be on the water and blissfully unaware of what the evening would bring. 

Just before dark, a truck towing an airboat pulled in very near where I had parked. He dropped the boat from the trailer quite a distance from the water’s edge and started the engine with a powerful force of air that blasted the van and showered it with bits of grass. Within 30 minutes, two more trucks with airboats in tow joined them near the spot I had chosen to park. Knowing nothing about airboats, I curiously watched the activities as engines were tested and strips of lights bright enough to light up the night were turned on. I saw them load large ice chests onto their boats, but no fishing poles or nets. I later learned that these were alligator hunters, and that this park is the launch for nighttime poachers.  

One by one, the roar of the giant fans sent the flat bottom boats sliding willy-nilly out of control on the grass until they dropped onto the water, where they were soon out of sight around the bend. I was too close to the action and the air blasts from the boats strained the seal where the fiberglass roof extension connects to the metal van body. Knowing the air boats would be returning at some point during the night, I found somewhere to park that was as far away from the action as I could get. Sure enough, the boats thundered back into camp just after midnight. Try as I would, it was too dark to see their catch.  

Contributions to my gas fund gratefully accepted. paypal.me/pools/c/86OfWkYwej