It had been about 12 years since I camped on the Sonoma and Mendocino Coast and I couldn’t wait to make my way down River Road to see my old friends the Russian River, Jenner, the Navarro River, Big River and the Mendocino coastline. Like a compass needle, my little Toyota, with my kayak lashed to the roof, would point to these exquisite sites whenever I had free time. I found the rugged coast unchanged, the narrow winding highway heading north from Jenner still clings bravely to the edge of the vertical coast range, cattle still cross the road at blind curves, and the spectacular view still takes my breath away. I took my time meandering up the coast, and couldn’t help noticing that vultures circled everywhere I went. They sat on fence posts along the roads, rode the updraft of the ocean cliffs, glided in front of my car, and circled overhead wherever I stopped to hike. The bright sun reflecting on shiny black wing feathers transformed those magnificent wings into glowing silver angel wings. Still, being followed by vultures is a bit ominous. Whenever I see vultures circling above me, I am reminded of this Robinson Jeffers poem, Vulture:  

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean.

 I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheelinghigh up in heaven,

And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit narrowing,
I understood then
That I was under inspection.

I lay death-still and heard the flight-feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring.

I said, ‘My dear bird, we are wasting timehere.
These old bones will still work; they are not for you.’ 

But how beautiful he looked, gliding down
On those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering away

in the sea-light over the precipice. I tell you solemnly
That I was sorry to have disappointed him. 

To be eaten by that beak and
become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes–
What a sublime end of one’s body, what an enskyment; 

what a lifeafter death. 

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Gualala and Mendocino

A friend in Sonoma told me about the Gualala River Regional Campground and I was delighted to find the enchanted redwood forest just passed Sea Ranch to be all that was promised. The friendly forest ranger who collected the camp fee ($32, this is the minimum for camping in California, State Parks are now $40 a night), had a questionnaire to complete that included a zip code for home, which I don’t have; how long I would stay, which I couldn’t answer; and what direction I was headed, of which I wasn’t sure. She was delighted to hear my traveling plans and my Threshold Choir connection. As I often do, given the opportunity, I gifted her with a song. My years singing with Threshold and Lisa Littlebird’s Wholehearted Chorus have provided an abundance of songs that deserve sharing. I consider it good fun to surprise people with something they are not expecting. 

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I headed to Mendocino the next day, the artsy coastal village with a world class music festival, delicious marionberry cobbler at the old Mendocino Hotel and a headlands trail with spectacular ocean views. I have spent many memorable days paddling solo up the quiet Big River in Mendocino with Ravens, soaring Osprey and timid River Otters for company. One of my most memorable kayak trips was in the clear waters off the Mendocino coastline on a rare calm and sunny day. I spent 8 hours on the ocean that magnificent day, shooting through stone arches and paddling into “Goony Caves” in a sparkling sea that was blooming with translucent moon jellyfish. 

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I decided I would not pay the $40 fee to camp in the state campground at Russian Gulch the next night, and settled on sleepy little Casper, the town just north of Mendocino, to find a place to park for the night. I found a deserted street next to a gorge, with level off-street parking and a glimpse of the ocean. At midnight, my sleep was awakened by a loud male voice near the van. The van is locked, and I feel safe inside, but I got the impression someone didn’t want me parking there, and I was concerned they might do damage to the vehicle. I couldn’t hear anyone walking around, but I wanted to leave. I quickly realized that I was not battened down enough to drive away, so I started securing things in the darkness. The curtains were closed, but I didn’t want to turn on lights which could escalate the situation. Once everything was secure, and not hearing anything movement outside, I laid down again with the keys in my hand, ready to drive away, if needed. I napped a bit, and after 1:00 am, I heard the loud, rather aggressive voice again. It may have been a homeless person camped in the gulch who resented me staying nearby. I was ready this time, and even though I didn’t see anyone, I moved the van a few blocks, to “downtown” Casper, where I felt safer. Lesson learned; 1) Make sure the van is ready to drive away before going to sleep, 2) I can always relocate if things get sketchy. 

At sunrise, I headed to my favorite morning place, the Mendocino Headlands, for a spectacular crimson sky and breakfast in the van, followed by a hike, and a bath in the redwood hot tubs at the Sweetwater Inn. Ahhh. 

I joined the Valley of the Moon Threshold Choir last night under the gracious leadership of Eleanor Decker and Barbara Bazett. It was wonderful to finally sing with this choir, a group with membership that includes many long-time friends. Eleanor, a long time songstress and community leader, led a choir of docents from the Bouverie Preserve singing familiar tunes with updated environmental lyrics with students in Sonoma schools, and also sang with Kate Munger in her rounds choir before Kate started the Threshold Choir in 2000. I missed the opportunity to sing with Eleanor when I lived in Glen Ellen, my Threshold Choir singing began in 2008, 3 years after I moved from Glen Ellen to Pacific Grove. I was particularly moved by Eleanor’s comments last night regarding the reason she uses a lifted arm movement to signal the end of a song, instead of the closed hand that most choir directors use. She said that because the songs we sing are meaningful offerings, rather than close a song at the end, the sweeping arm releases the song to allow it to continue to resonate. She called our songs blessings, and reminded us that the world needs blessings right now.

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I had arranged to park the Roadtrek in the Foster’s driveway in Glen Ellen during my two week stay in Sonoma Valley. Margie and Ritch were our next door neighbors (the best neighbors anyone could ask for) when my youngest son and I moved to the creek front house off Warm Springs Road after leaving Maui. In 1989. A small town in the shadow of Sonoma Mountain, Glen Ellen was home for 16 years, the longest I have lived anywhere. Warm Springs Road, 14 months after the Nuns fire, is busy with construction traffic. Trees, driveways and fences are conspicuously missing from swaths of land on both sides of the road. Even concrete foundations were damaged by the fire and had to be removed.  Now a dozen new concrete foundations mark the beginning of reconstruction where 33 houses once stood. You can clearly see how fickle the fire was, sparing a house or tree here and there, and taking the rest.  

By a quirk of fate, the Fosters home, and the 3 homes around theirs, were spared by the fast moving fire that raced down the face of the Macayama Mountains and through Glen Ellen on the night of October 8, 2017. With flames being pushed by winds clocked as high as 100 MPH, leaping fireballs spawned more fires, and by 1:00 am, the Adobe fire that started in Kenwood, the community next door to Glen Ellen, merged with the Nuns fire and new fronts moved toward downtown Sonoma and Napa. In the early morning hours of Oct 9, the Tubbs fire swept down from the mountains destroying 1400 homes, hotels and businesses in the north end of Santa Rosa. Because of the extreme conditions, fire fighters and first responders were forced to focus on saving lives, not property. Miraculously, no lives were lost that first night. The trauma of harrowing escapes and tremendous losses weighs heavily on the community. Twenty-five percent of the Glen Ellen population lost homes in the fires. Driving the roads in the impacted areas and seeing scorched trees and empty lots is painful, even for an outsider, like myself. A friend from Sonoma confided that she still can’t bring herself to drive through the burned areas. 

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Those who were forced to evacuate spent days, and sometimes weeks, not knowing if they had a home to return to. Margie spoke of the apocalyptic scene that she and Ritch found when they were permitted to walk passed the Warm Springs barricade to feed their chickens (and neighbor’s chickens). Besides the shock of seeing the charred remnants of homes, cars and trees, live downed power lines dancing on the scorched ground spewed showers of sparks and flames burned where gas lines would connect to homes that no longer existed. 

I have many friends here who lost their homes, including my close friend, Marj Davis, who, at 97 years old, had only 10 minutes to escape. She and her husband would have perished were it not for a neighbor, who barely escaped with his family before his house burned, took the time to call and warn them to leave. Working for FEMA, I have witnessed how disasters can bring out the best in people, and the tight knit community of Glen Ellen is a brilliant example. Even without electricity, the Glen Ellen Star Restaurant partnered with other the restaurants in the valley to provide meals for fire fighters and displaced residents; residents who had shelter, provided housing to neighbors with nowhere to go; and a community coalition, The Forum, was formed to raise donation funds for essentials not covered by insurance, such as the construction sheds and water shut-off valves needed to start rebuilding. The Fosters, ever grateful that their home was spared, wasted no time placing RVs, and a communal washer and dryer on their property for neighbors who lost their homes. I expect the same generous spirit prevails in Redding, Paradise and other fire ravaged communities where lives, homes, businesses and residents’ sense of security were lost. Some have chosen to leave the area altogether. 

I can’t imagine what it would be like to lose all in a disaster like the fires. When I liquidated my belongings and gave up my apartment in Pacific Grove in August, it was important to me to carefully examine every photo, book, piece of paper, journal, CD, DVD, piece of jewelry, painting, cooking pan, blanket, bedsheet, pillow, tool, plate, basket, jar of pickles and pretty stone I had collected, to determine what to do with them. I scanned most of the photos, transferred the music CDs to paper sleeves that I am able to carry in the van, sold some things, mostly furniture, and carefully chose friends and family members to receive the things that were important to me. The sorting process was tedious, but it was an essential step for me to let go of the things I had collected over 67 years.  I did not have to walk away from everything without looking back. Even with my process, there is grieving. The loss of home and a lifetime of belongings has to be a heavy weight for the fire victims. 

Kate Munger, the mother of the Threshold Choir, came up with an idea for a very special offering for Sonoma County fire victims. She sent the word out to Threshold Choir members (there are something like 2,000 of us), that she needed personal treasures for gift boxes to be assembled and delivered to Sonoma County fire victims. Angela Morgan, a friend in the Valley of the Moon TC choir who helped Kate with the project, told stories of witnessing the anonymous treasure boxes falling into the hands of the person who needed it, like the woman who received a tea set like her grandmother’s that was lost in the fire, and the box of angels that reminded another recipient that her son, who had passed, was watching over her. 

Almost a month had passed before I was able to join another Threshold Choir practice. I have been communicating with Jane Riggan of the Arcata Choir in Humboldt County since I left Monterey in August, but my last trip through Arcata did not intersect with a practice. Arcata has been a regular stop for visiting family, and checking in with my nephews, now strapping young men, on my sojourns north to Oregon, but this was the first time I would connect with the choir. Now I have reunions with beloved family, a hot bath in my sister in-law’s charming claw foot tub, and Threshold Choir family, all in the redwood lush city of Arcata. I am often awed by the number of choirs and how Kate Munger’s dedication brought her vision to fruition. Kudos also to Marilyn, Marti, and the other devoted Threshold Choir angels, who have continued the mission of midwifing new choirs.   

The Arcata choir was preparing for a seasonal Hospice event, as many of the choirs I have visited have been. This choir has assigned a person to be the liaison for visitors, and Donna Luckey made me feel very welcome. We recognized each other from Threshold Choir gatherings, as I recognized many of the choir members. Maggie McKnight, the music director, is a fun and lively leader, who also leads a monthly community sing and knows Big Sur’s much-loved song leader and teacher, Lisa Littlebird. The choir sang upbeat opening and closing songs, a ritual that all appreciated. As a visitor, I don’t know all of the songs sung at the practices I visit, but I know enough to feel one with the group, and being introduced to new songs is always a gift. I record songs I don’t know (when I remember to turn on my phone recorder) and have started taking pictures of choirs, which for some reason I hadn’t thought of until it was suggested by Barbara Mossberg. The photos start with Choir #9 on my journey, Arcata, CA. I feel I have contributed when there is time to teach a song the choir doesn’t know, and Maggie kindly made time for me to teach a song. 

Back in California, I am ever conscious that the authorities do not have the generous attitude about sleeping in vehicles that prevails in Oregon. Even the rest areas in California often have signs posted, “No Overnight Parking”. Fortunately, I am getting better at finding places to sleep; a neighborhood street, an out of view parking lot, or a little used road, like the old highway along the Eel River where I parked near Garberville, are sufficient for one night. Those very public places do require showing up late and leaving early in the morning. Finding a place to park where I am comfortable turning on lights and preparing meals is harder. With more and more retirees choosing full time RVing, it is not easy to find a place to park. Campground fees start at $32 a night, RV Parks with hookups can be $70 or more. As a “full timer”, I could spend as much as $2,100 on campsites each month if I didn’t have alternatives. My goal is to find free camping for at least 20 days each month so I can afford camping in exquisite county, state, and national parks, with showers, for 10 days each month. I am pleased with myself when I find the perfect place in the woods or on a river (Boondocking in RV talk), both because it is blissful to wake up in nature, and because I found a place to sleep that is free. Driveway parking doesn’t offer the same opportunity to build a campfire and open curtains to let in the sky that camping offers, but it is legal in California, and it gives me an opportunity to spend time with new and old friends. I’m so grateful to those choir members, friends and family who have offered me space to park in their driveways, I promise not to overstay my welcome.

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As I head to Sonoma, I travel the Redwood Highway, always a balm for the spirit. Diverting off the main road, the Avenue of the Giants offers emersion into the fragrant shadow world of the ancient Redwoods and glimpses of the Eel River. Walking among the trees on the spongy carpet of red duff where lacy ferns and clover like sorrel flourish always reminds me that I am on sacred ground. On this sunny day, shimmering sunlight beams through the tree tops transforming sheltering redwood circles into radiant altars. A sunlit altar such as this was the setting for the spectacular wedding of Ruthie, the tightrope walker, and Billy, the clown, whom I befriended in 1973 when their traveling circus passed through Venice Beach. With flowers in her hair, and white lace trailing, Ruthie entered the brilliant opening in the trees riding a white horse. Her attendants, costumed in renaissance garb, helped her dismount and escorted her to a white lace canopy where Billy waited. The ceremony was attended by hundreds of costumed guests, including a fantastic satyr goat man coyly fliting about the dreamlike forest playing a pan flute. Even without the mythical creatures, redwood forests continue to hold deep magic for me. 

Although it was glorious to be back in the Roadtrek again after Joe drove me to the shop last night (and I forked out the $1300 for the repairs), I felt the heavy sadness that has come over me the past few years when we say goodbye. I don’t expect to see him for another year, and that is tough for me. I feel a similar sadness saying goodbye to new friends, and old friends, I am meeting along the way, not knowing when, or if, I will see them again. 

Once I claimed a campsite on the Oregon Coast, I was back in my element. The trees and the night sky welcomed me. Deep breathing, I strung cheery Christmas lights in the RV and was able to stream the PBS News Hour while I prepared my evening meal. The rain has started this week and heavy showers are pummeling the van. I have always loved the sound of rain, but the heavy night rain is interrupting my sleep, and after a week of night showers, I’m dragging. 

I awoke to a radiant morning, with the sun almost blinding bright as it reflected in puddles and on wet foliage. An unexpected warm, almost tropical wind, was blowing. A storm was moving in and I had a 6.5 hour drive ahead down the Oregon and California Coast. Once underway, I confidently plowed through the wind and thundershowers with my new ball joints, wheel alignment, and wiper blades. The height of the Roadtrek does create a hazard in strong wind, but I was finding that the weight of the RV compensates for it. The van was handling well. After stopping at the 1950’s classic, the Pancake Mill, in Coos Bay (I don’t care what others think about it, I like it when waitresses call you sweetheart), the wind picked up and serious rain began to fall. The view point at Port Orford was my next planned stop, but the wind was so strong at this point, I was afraid to get too close to the lookout where the cliff drops a couple hundred feet to the boiling bay below. I kept thinking about the woman who blew off a cliff when she was sleeping in her caravan (Irish for camper) near where I was staying in Ireland in September. The windshield photo with sideways rain is my view from the lookout at Port Orford. I made it another hour and got as far south as Gold’s Beach before I had to stop for over 2 hours waiting out a deluge that included raging wind, hail, lightning and thunder. I cancelled my plans to join a community singing circle in Arcata that night, but still had at least 4 hours of driving ahead to make the Threshold practice in Arcata the next morning. Luckily, the weather let up a bit as I continued south and I found a great place to hunker in for the night an hour north of Arcata. 

I have loved wind since I was a child listening to the wind sing as it squeezed through the poorly sealed window frames in my bedroom. In 1975, I learned to sail and my passion for wind grew. Moving to Maui in 1977, I learned to dance with the lush Hawaiian trade winds and one of my fondest memories is flying a kite at midnight on a bluff at the Seven Sacred Pools while camping with my sons. I have known the wind as an ally, and I didn’t want driving the Roadtrek to change that relationship. I am greatly relieved that weathering the stormy day on the coast did not send the van careening all over the road, or over a cliff, like the woman in Ireland. 

I write this from the dining room of Joe and Gretchen’s home while I wait for a call from the mechanic telling me that repairs to the Roadtrek have been completed. I returned to the farm 10 days ago to begin maintenance projects on the Roadtrek, with Joe’s kind assistance, workshop and tools. I was also waiting for parts for yet more repairs to the front end suspension. Everything has taken longer than expected, refinishing the oak cabinets required days of sanding and multiple coats of finish, while delays in appointment and parts availability for the mechanical repair extended my stay longer than was comfortable for my son and daughter-in-law. Couples need their privacy. We all need our privacy. Even though I have been sleeping in the van, I have been sharing the kitchen, meals, evening movie time, and the limited internet and hot water availability. They have also had to drive me to the mechanic in the next town as we ferried the van back and forth to the shop. Even Joe, who, is the most patient and kind being I know, was stressed. Adding to the tension, I am antsy. I want to start heading south. I have Threshold Choir dates in Arcata, Sonoma and Napa, and I have been looking forward to taking time camping as I head south along the Oregon coast and into the redwoods of northern California. 

When things got tense at the farm, I was overcome by a triple whammy of bad feelings; loss of independence, the knowledge that there is not a place for me on the farm, and feeling I had failed my family by not giving them the privacy they needed. The spirit crushing weight of failure is not unfamiliar to me. Joe and I often muse about what a burden it is to be driven by a need to do the job right, whatever job it is. In this case, my job is to be a good guest, to contribute, not to be a burden, and to leave. As a mother, I am particularly sensitive to causing distress to my children, in my experience, moms are wired to take care of their kids. 

I remember other times I have felt the black cloud coloring family harmony. The Thanksgiving holiday of 1995 is a particularly vivid memory (OK, it was 23 years ago, but it is burned into my memory). I was in the midst of moving from the rustic house on Sonoma Creek where Kelly & I lived for 7 years, to an apartment in Glen Ellen Manor (now called The Grove), where I had been hired to manage the property. Joe, his girlfriend, Heidi, and Sage, Heidi’s 3 year old, drove down from Seattle to spend the 4 day holiday weekend with me and spend one last holiday in the charming creek front house. It was the first time meting for Heidi, Sage and I, a relationship wit Joe that was already 2 years old. All went well until Friday, when the chaotic state of the house made me uncomfortable. There was the usual after feast mess, and little Sage had entertained herself by sorting through and unpacking the moving boxes I was in the process of filling. Joe and Heidi took her to the park to give me the opportunity to do some cleaning and get the move back on track. By the time they returned that afternoon, I had the place in order; moving boxes were sealed, the trash truck had come and removed a great accumulation of moving garbage and I had made two trips to the Goodwill Donation Box. Something was up with Heidi and Joe, and they finally worked up to asking what I did with the Thanksgiving card that my sister had sent to them at my address. I remembered Joe opening the card, reading it, and placing the card back in the envelope, a Goldenrod Autumny color fitting for the season, on the fireplace mantle. It wasn’t there now. When Heidi made it known that she had stashed $300 cash in that envelope, the money for their drive back to Seattle, we launched into a search of every inch of the house, opening the repacked boxes, examining every room and every empty trash receptacle. They needed that $300, and I didn’t have the money to help them, having been out of work for a few months and having spent what money I had on the move. Black cloud.

As sunset approached, I had run out of apologies and, in an attempt to release me from blame, Joe and Heidi had run through all of the scenarios of cash that was lost due to Heidi’s mishandling of money. We had no more words, and I was feeling the weight of the black cloud. By this time, we had worked our way out the front door to the carport, and we stood around the empty trash can in silence. All hope was lost until I started thinking about trash days. I pictured the scraps often left behind for me to pick up after the friendly garbage man lifted and dumped the cans into the massive truck, at warp speed, and charged up the gravel driveway. The idea came to me that the envelope could have fallen out of the trash can during the sweep into the jaws of the garbage truck, just like messy yogurt containers and chewed chicken drumsticks have done. Looking down, I did not see the envelope, but I did see that one of Joe’s big black Doc Martin boots was resting on top of a large leaf dropped from the Big Leaf Maple in the yard, and that the leaf was the same goldenrod color as the envelope. When I asked him to lift his foot, he shrugged, and did as I asked. When I asked him to lift the leaf, he resisted. When I told him the envelope was under the leaf, he humored me, and my magical thinking, by bending down and lifting the leaf. The envelope, and the missing money, were there, completely hidden by the leaf. Black cloud gone. Even bad moms have their angels. 

Back on the farm, the mechanic wasn’t sure he would have my vehicle ready for pick up today, and if he didn’t, it would mean another night in the shop for the van and another night on the farm for me. As darkness approached, Gretchen called the shop every 30 minutes or so, until at 5:30, we finally got the word that it would be ready for pick up by 6:15. The black cloud lift and we parted on good terms.  

Evening 11/15/18

A perfect day of beaching in the small port of Garibaldi, hiking in the woods and visiting the Tillamook Pioneer Museum, that, by the way, boasts a mechanical Smoky the Bear that tells the story of how he came to fire prevention service. It was sunny and warm, a day begging for outdoor play. I even caught a glimpse of a Bald Eagle as it was chased away from Garibaldi harbor by 3 Western Gulls. I even got to talk with my granddaughter, my Apple Guru, as she attempted to fix my photo transfer problem over the phone.  She reported that the air in Sacramento has been so smoky from California fi­­­res that they closed the schools. 

11/16/18  You Don’t Own This and Wayfinding

I returned to the Tillamook River Rest Area last night. That same sweet rest area that offers parking away from the lighted bathroom area where I can open my curtains to the night sky, and in the morning light, look down on a green meadow that gives way to the gently flowing Tillamook River. This is where I slept and breakfasted the day before, and I was delighted to see no cars in the desirable parking loop, or anywhere in the rest area, when I returned last night to prepare my dinner, sleep and enjoy the morning view. At about 9:00 PM, just when dinner dishes 

were washed and put away and I was ready to climb into bed with a book, a noisy 10 wheeler pulled into the empty rest area and backed up, with its backing alarm shouting, until it was parallel with, and just 10 inches from my van. The truck created a wall on one side, stretching as far as I could see forward and behind. I still had one side facing the river, but the noise of the massive engine (which was not turned off all night) and the crowding was just too much for me, so I pulled up stakes and moved away from the beast. Relocating closer to the bathroom meant utilizing all of the window coverings to cocoon myself from the overhead lighting, and the folks stopping to use the facilities. Even at this distance, ear plugs were needed to muffle the roar of the truck’s engine. I woke before 7:00 and prepared to reclaim “my spot” when the trucker moved on, as I expected he would be anxious to transport his cargo to its destination. No such luck. Instead, he repositioned his truck, pulling forward and then backing into the premium spot I had abandoned next to meadow and river. Put out by the audacity of that trucker to fowl my plan for the perfect spot, I left the rest area for a lusher setting for my breakfast, the picnic area at secluded Munson Falls. 

Lesson of the Day:  You do not own this. Share the gifts. Remembering that lesson could save the planet.  

Tillamook is an agricultural town, dominated by the massive Tillamook Cheese Factory. The smell of livestock permeates. The green fields of dairy farms dominate the valley around Tillamook Bay with the great forested coastal range skirting the fields. A market with the sign “Groceries and Firearms” pretty much describes the flavor of the small towns in the area. Heading south on 101, I pulled over at Winema Wayfinding Point to take in the view of Daley Lake and the Ocean below, but also because I was sparked by the term “Wayfinding” and wanted to explore the idea. This suggests to me more than merely locating your physical position at this moment in time, but stopping to consider the way you want to be traveling. I stayed a bit to ponder this, taking advantage of the beautifully constructed stone benches to eat my lunch in the sun. Heading back to Joe and Gretchen’s farm in Lincoln City would be my next stop on this wayfinding journey. 

I left the campsite south of Florence for Joe and Gretchen’s farm in Lincoln City on Monday. My son and daughter-in-law live close to the land, with springs providing their water, a vegetable garden, chickens, goats, dogs, a dense forest behind the house and a river running through the front yard. Joe built an indoor gym, and set up a trampoline and tightrope on the property. Gretchen is a bad ass trail runner. It is pretty much paradise, except for the 100” of rain that fall each year (in Ireland, I asked around for rainfall figures, but so much rain falls there, that nobody cares to measure). There is precious little sunshine on the farm, and both Joe and Gretchen dream about Hawaii during the long winters. The visit included hot showers and I took the opportunity to use a ladder to wash the van. This was the first time I have been able to reach the top of the roof since buying the van in March. The van and I were squeaky clean when we headed north towards Pacific City and Tillamook yesterday. I scrubbed every inch of the vehicle, using elbow grease instead of chemical cleaners that would contaminate the river. The goats watched me with amusement and by the time I was done, my arms were worked. I was reminded of Lin Marie’s complaint that her arms were noodles and she couldn’t paddle any further the afternoon we paddled kayaks into the wind towards Jenner, on the Russian River. 

Dense fog on the 3 Capes Coastline chased me inland to Tillamook by yesterday afternoon. There I discovered the brilliance of the Tillamook Library. I have been spending a lot of time in libraries seeking internet connection, and I have developed a great appreciation for the community services they provide. The Tillamook Library is housed in a shiny new 2 story building with abundant natural light, comfortable seating and walls with colorful murals. The contrast is stark after having visited the drab Lincoln City library just 2 days ago. The most spectacular library I have seen so far was in Eugene, with a café and multiple levels of community rooms that included a community choir practice with their songs ringing through the building. The Portland “Hollywood” library offered the same new shiny, window laden style on a smaller scale. Although these shiny new libraries, built to serve the needs of the community, are impressive, and it warms my heart to see them being utilized, it is the Carnegie Libraries built between 1883 and 1929, like the Pacific Grove Public Library, that exude a gracious elegance that can’t be matched. 

I slept in a rest stop off HWY 101 last night, as I often do, another gracious offering that I take full advantage of. Surrounded by trees, with clean bathrooms, picnic tables and level parking, they offer a free place for me to safely hunker down for the night. With my own kitchen, heat and lighting onboard, I have no need, or use, for the hookups in the expensive RV parking lots that are advertised as RV Parks. Unlike camping, I feel the need to pull the curtains and retreat into my little shell when I sleep at Rest Stops, but the inside of the van is cozy and comfortable, and I have plenty of music, books, movies, art materials, and the ukulele onboard to entertain myself.  

Tillamook Library Mural

A clear sunny day on the Oregon Dunes Coast yesterday gave way to a night of spectacular star gazing. I walked in the pre moon darkness, taking in the show of starlight that decorated the exquisite black cloak of night. I crave dark nights after so many years living in apartment buildings where landlord’s liabilities result in blazing lights strategically placed everywhere darkness might be hiding. What is this fear of darkness about?

I am reminded of a cub scout camp out where I led the 9 year old boys on a night hike at Sugarloaf State Park, without flashlights. It was a moonless night and their imaginations ran wild inventing all manner of sightings of scary things lurking in the night. I walked with a flashlight last night, mindful that I am in the habitat of cougars and bears, as the signs posted in the campgrounds I have visited keep reminding. I befriended a young woman in a Vancouver Island campground just two weeks ago (wow, it was 2 weeks ago yesterday that I was camping in Vancouver) who told me that her flashlight illuminated the eerily glowing eyes of a cougar in the forest on a hike the night before. I suppose I should not have been surprised by the pile of what I imagine to be dried bear scat that I came upon while foraging huckleberries for my breakfast this morning.

When the moon rose last night, from my cozy bed inside the van I could see the silhouettes of the coastal pines gently dancing in the wind. The pines stand tall on slender legs, uniquely fashioned for breezy coastal living. With almost a circular motion, they move with the wind and then easily return to their standing place, reminding me of Laurence Cole’s song, Trees Grow Slow. This was one of those times when I would rather watch the night than sleep.

The morning arrived with sunshine and a warm(ish) breeze. From the music I recorded on my computer before leaving PG, I chose to listen to the warm and familiar voice of Kate Munger teaching Laurence Cole songs (recorded last year at a gathering in Oakland) as I prepared my morning coffee. I imagine it is human instinct to cling to ritual. Starting the day with my morning coffee is that for me; boiling the water, filling the filter with the right amount of grinds, the first pour, just enough water to moisten the grounds, giving them time to expand, and then filling the filter with enough water to fill the cup, but not overflow (as sometimes happens). I don’t get the same satisfaction buying a cup of coffee at Starbucks, or the like.

I will spend time today committing to memory, or “heart knowing”, as my friend Laura Hooper would say, a Mary Oliver poem that speaks so perfectly to my “wonder driven” life.

Mindful, by Mary Oliver

Everyday
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack

of light.
It was, what I was born for-
to look, to listen,
to lose myself

inside this soft world-
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant-
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these-
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

 

Below freezing overnight temperatures chased me out of Eugene last night and I headed towards the coast where the nights are milder. I haven’t “winterized” the van yet, and I just don’t know what kind of damage freezing temperatures will do to the propane and water tanks and the systems that are visible below the van. Arriving at the coast about 11:00 PM, I wasn’t sure where I would park for the night, but followed a camping sign south of Florence that led me to Lagoon Park where I enjoyed a quiet starry night and a brisk morning walk around the lush lagoon that is hidden in the forest. Birds were chattering everywhere and I could here the cry of hawk nearby. With no internet and very little phone reception, I’m once again on “disconnect”, experiencing the joy and the edge of discomfort that accompanies that condition. I will have to drive to a library today to send this blog.

Fortunately, I was able to connect with my friend, Dr. Barbara Mossberg, in Eugene, before leaving town. Her effervescent support for my adventure was even more nourishing than the fabulous breakfast we shared at a charming café embedded in the University of Oregon campus. She suggested grant funding ideas to help me get around the country without having to deplete my savings.

Retiring and traveling while my health allows, was a conscious decision I made, knowing the plan would require drawing from savings each month to supplement my Social Security. Gas is my biggest expense, averaging $340 per 1,000 miles (depending on gas prices), but health insurance, auto insurance, auto maintenance, food, campground fees and phone service are other monthly expenses that continue as I travel. October is my first complete month on the road and is pretty much on target with my projection of savings needed to support the adventure.

Sadly, choir contacts must be limited because of travel time and gas expense. Scheduling is complicated and requires utilizing the Threshold Choir website for locations and contacting choirs for practice days and times. I am keeping a spreadsheet with this information that I use to map out my travels, but I find that it is not possible to make practices driving in a straight line and I am often driving back and forth to work in as many choir practices as possible. In Vancouver, Washington and Oregon, I have been fortunate to be able to fill the gaps between practices camping in the woods. Because most choirs practice twice a month, and my travels in the north have been rushed due to oncoming winter weather, Victoria was the only choir I was able to visit in Canada and I had to bypass some of the Washington and Oregon choirs I would have liked to check in with. I was forced to cancel my plans to visit the Evergreen Choir in Kirkland due to mechanical repairs that kept my in Port Townsend for a few days. I’m now beginning to schedule choir visits and community song circles in California for Dec and January, which is very exciting, but with all of the choirs there, and winter weather to contend with, I know that I will not be able to visit all of the choirs I would like to visit.

FYI- I have established a Pay Pal Funding Pool for gas money at: https://paypal.me/pools/c/86OfWkYwej. I’m grateful for contributions of any amount.

 

I attended the Salem Threshold Choir practice on 11/7, and was fortunate to be there for a practice that included an enlightening one hour voice lesson from a dynamic 25 year old choir director, Connor.  The TC choir director, Jan Taylor, and her husband, Don, graciously hosted me in their driveway, fed me and made me feel at home. I so enjoyed the conversations and the palpable love in their home.

I decided to continue south to Eugene hoping to meet with Barbara Mossberg, the exuberant friend and brilliant former Poet in Residence in Pacific Grove with whom I collaborated on poetry events during her 5 year term in PG. Her delightful podcast, the Poetry Slowdown (you can hear it on her website, www.barbaramossberg.com) inspired me last night to start thinking about belonging.

Belonging is a subject that I find intriguing given my current living situation. I have not once felt homeless leaving my home, loved ones and possessions behind. This may be because I have all that I need in the van (in contrast to the folks on the cold streets whose needs are not met), or it could be the feeling of belonging I have with the Threshold Choirs I have visited nearly every week I have been on the road.

In pondering what belonging means to me, I wonder if I allow myself to feel I belong because I have contributed. Training, singing at bedsides, starting a choir, attending TC gatherings, learning songs, teaching songs, directing a choir, and all that is required of that task, and donations of annual membership fees for 10 years, are all things I feel good about contributing to the choir.  Which, of course raises another question, is self-worth based on what we do/produce?

The belonging I feel may be the connection I feel to each and every choir member as a like-minded individual dedicated to service and song and comfortable with death as part of life. Sharing a desire to blend our voices to create the gift of compassion is another connection. The blend requires listening to each other without the need to be heard or acknowledged individually. This is a practice that bypasses ego, which has often driven singing and performance in my life. I consider Threshold singing a higher form of choir singing because of this desire to blend our voices.

On this journey, I have encountered a few choir directors along the way who, for one reason or another, weren’t comfortable having me visit their practice or training. Even though I understand that they had good reason for this (some were training or preparing for public singing), I can’t deny the sting of being an outsider, the feeling that I don’t belong.  The few denials I have received also have me wondering if my travels are purely self-serving. My goal is to carry songs and share information as I travel, but clearly, I am driven by my need for connection.

Being able to provide service and contribute is what I have busied myself with over the past 30 years. I believe it was the wise and wonderful Marilyn Power Scott who reminded me that we have a time in our lives for giving and a time for receiving. This was a relief for me to hear. Receiving is not easy for me, but when I think about the equation, I have given. It could well be that my quest to visit Threshold Choirs around the country is self-serving, and maybe my turn to receive is at hand. It is my work now to allow that idea to soak in and make room for quilt free receiving. Surely, one of the lessons I am learning is asking for help. Requests to join choir practices, share ideas and songs, asking for a place to park my van and take a hot shower, all are humbling for me.