Rolling On

View near South Pass

Lander Cut-off road.

photos from the web

For many years my husband drove an 18 wheeler across the country. He owned his truck and leased it to a company which hauled heavy equipment. After our children were on their own, I sometimes went with him. I would pack changes of clothes and sufficient books to be gone about 2 weeks, arrange for the care of my cats, make up the truck's bunk with clean sheets, and we would head for the first loading point. Most of our route was on interstate highways; we ate, showered, and parked to sleep at "truck stops." With one load delivered, J. would phone the nearest of the company terminals to learn what loads and destinations would next be available. In the course of nearly 20 years we saw a great deal of the US. We both have an interest in history and made a point of learning something of the regions we passed through. Neither of us care to be in a city and prefered the open spaces of the midwest---long stretches of nearly flat roads, running past acres of crop land and feed lots.

I have ridden across Nebraska during every season of the year. It is a long haul, miles and miles of rolling grassland. Always my thoughts would turn to those decades during the 1800's when the westward migration was at peak. I considered those monotonous miles--day after day of heat and dust, creaking wagon wheels, balky livestock. No truckstops with air-conditioned dining rooms and a menu of food and drink, no hot showers. For that matter, no repair fascilities in the event of a break down.

Having made our own westward move 11 years ago, we now live where settlement and road building are a fairly recent history. Here, when a journey is contemplated we don't figure in terms of miles--we ask how many hours it will take to drive there in decent weather. It is impossible to travel far in any direction without traversing a mountain pass or two. From North Platte, Nebraska the terrain climbs steadily toward the eastern border of Wyoming, grassland gradually giving way to the sagebrush of high desert. We live at an elevation slightly over a mile high in the foothills of the Wind River Mountains.

On Thursday, J. announced about noon that he had a buyer for one of his motor homes. The buyer lives near Salt Lake City, Utah and wondered if it would be possible for J. to meet him at a halfway point. I was drafted to follow in our car. My job for many years involved driving to and from a vehicle auction as well as the pick up and delivery of customer's cars for the body shop and auto sales where I worked. I take the responsibility of driving seriously, reminding myself to be alert and attentive, never completely at ease. For the past few years I have done very little distance driving and wasn't really enthused at the prospect of a 140 mile drive.

We headed over South Pass. Within 20 miles, the twisting road climbs more than 2000 feet until the terrain levels out at the Continental Divide. This is the area where the emmigrant trails--the Oregon Trail, the Mormon Trail, the Lander Cut-off and the Parting of the Ways converge. For miles the rutted wagon tracks are still visible, carved into the dry and dusty ground. It is not settled country, even today. Standing in those ruts, hearing the sound of the ceaseless wind, watching bleached grass bend and sway, it is easy to conjure a convoy of wagons, handcarts, oxen, appearing in the shimmering heat of the horizon. Easy to imagine calloused and dirty bare feet, garments stiff with sweat, to imagine eyes strained with squinting into the brilliance of blue sky sunlight. I can empathize with those women who by this point in the journey were having second thoughts, remembering with painful longing a snug farmhouse with tidy kitchen, small bedrooms tucked beneath the eaves, a fenced garden, clean laundry on a clothesline, a rocking chair. Is it presumption to guess how they may have felt knowing that there could now be no turning back and that there were many miles of rough travel still to be faced?

When our meeting with the family buying the motor home was concluded and the transaction "signed, sealed and delivered", J. and I went into the Little America restaurant. We drank iced tea from glasses that clinked with ice, ate a delicious meal of steak, mashed potato, green beans. We made use of the clean restrooms before getting into the Toyota for the return trip. We turned on the A/C, slipped a CD of Celtic music into the player. Across the return miles of open country we watched small groups of antelope browsing through the sagebrush, the slender, nearly new fawns trotting to keep up. A bald eagle cruised low ahead of us, swerving to land with talons outstretched toward some small prey.

We drove back down South Pass into Red Canyon as the sun flamed and ebbed in the west. It was not quite full dark when we walked into our house; the round trip had taken about 7 hours.

As I type these words the afternoon wind has begun. Dark clouds are gathered in the southwest. There has been no shower here, but stepping onto the front porch I encounter the smell of rain-wet sage blown on the wind. I have been in the west for 11 years and still that scent seems new to my senses. Eleven years--and still a New England dooryard and a side hill garden speak to me.

http://www.untraveledroad.com/USA/Wyoming/Lincoln/H89A/37ESign.htm

http://wyoshpo.state.wy.us/trailsdemo/prtingoftheways.htm

Recently Seen

Night Hawk
Buck [photo, M. Gould]

Bunny [M. Gould]



What is this?

Interesting Creepy-Crawly

Simply Clean

This tall cactus is a common one in Arizona.

The carved wooden bear has a chain around one leg anchoring him to a cement block!


Cactus garden in motel courtyard.

"We can't spend the night in the motor home," my husband stated flatly. "It is way too hot to sleep in here."

Leaving the first motor home, disabled, at a garage early that morning, we had climbed back into the Toyota and returned to Yuma where the second motor coach was meant to be readied for us. It was disheartening, to say the least, to find that once again inspection had not been carried out and the second of the purchased units was not road ready. The salesman involved attempted to hide in his office, while we wearily pointed out to the service crew that the engine would not idle properly, oil was pouring from the on-board generator, the retractable steps were not retracting. The service people did their best on short notice. A younger salesman came out, tried to make amends by tightening the bolts on wobbly mirror brackets. "The boss is not going to be pleased about this," he said. It seemed useless to reply that we were not pleased, either.

Late in the day, feeling some trepidation and not a little anger at the irresponsibility of the salesman, we again started a return trip to Wyoming. Temperatures were well over 100 degrees F. and within a few hours it became evident that the A/C was faltering. I moved from the impossible heat of the front passenger seat to the center section of the unit where we had lowered the blinds. While husband doggedly drove on I sat with a book, sweaty fingers sticking to the pages, mopping my face with a tea towel.

Shortly before dusk we came into a small, dusty town, nameless now in my memory. A modest looking motel appeared on our left and J. hastily drove into a large empty lot the other side of the narrow side street. We clambered stiffly down from our oven-like coach and approached the motel office on foot.

We were intercepted part way across the courtyard by a slender, olive-skinned man, who scuttled ahead of us through the office door. It was quickly obvious that English was not his first language. He was most insistent, dramatically so, that we should not leave the motorhome with the Toyota behind it over in the lot. "People open doors!" he declared anxiously, raising small hands in the motions of one turning a knob and opening a door. "But I've locked the doors on the motor home and on the car" my husband replied. "No, No," the man pleaded, "They break, they steal. Must bring over here. Bring inside my fence." He flapped wildly toward the neat white fence surrounding the property.

J. conceded in the face of such insistence and crossed back to move the coach. I stood between our suitcases while the little man repeated his worried broken sentences. "Yes, yes," I replied, feeling as though I too was reduced to sparse phrases. "See, there, he will drive it over here." As the motorhome and its car trailer lumbered over the stretch of road and eased into the driveway, our host danced about, arms flailing to indicate that J. must move around the circular courtyard and then position the entourage under a tree.

Trying to find enough energy to get myself to the door of the room where we were to lodge, I bent toward the suitcases. With a quick dart the man intercepted me, seized the bags, and repeating the number of the room he sprinted ahead. Dashing inside he twitched the controls of an air conditioning unit, flung open the door of the bathroom. He rushed to the fridge behind the entry door and pointing at the bottle of water I clutched he announced, "Water in here--cold". I stood, dazed, saying at intervals, "Yes. Yes, I see, Thank you. Thank you."

While J. tinkered at the motor home, trying to find the source of the A/C problems I took stock of our accomodations. Inside and out the cinder block walls were painted white. The floors were a pale grey tile. Two beds were covered with inexpensive quilted spreads of faded blue and white, windows were draped with a cheap silky fabric. I realized that the whole small cubicle was immaculate although there was no aggressive odor of cleaning products. The casement windows were functional unlike those great immovable expanses of plate glass in chain motels. I cranked open the window and flopped onto the bed, holding the flimsy curtain aside to let the evening breeze stir the warm still air of the room. The pillow, the quilt covered mattress, the very walls exuded trapped heat. Closing my eyes I could still feel the motion of the coach. I opened them, lulled by the sight of cottonwood leaves moving against a shadowy evening sky. I didn't hear J. lock the door or turn on the shower. I jerked out of my stupor when he came to the side of the bed, smelling of shampoo, and gently removed the fold of the curtain from my fingers.

The floor of the bathroom was warm, the fixtures gleaming; the towel I pulled from the rack after a shower held the heat of the day. I rubbed moisture from my hair, rummaged a nightgown from my suitcase. Settling between the warm sheets I wondered muzzily if the small energetic man or maybe his wife, hung the motel's linen to dry in the sun and wind. There was a brief creaking as J. rolled onto his side in the other bed. The elderly air conditioner whirred bravely against the languid heat. Blessed by the utter simplicity and cleanliness of the small space, we slept.

Train

This miniature train created from oil drums was at the entrance of the garage where we left our ailing motor home.

The Shop Cat

Such a plaintive pointy face!


Note her right paw is like a club foot.

Not a pampered cat, but a friendly one.

Our trip to Yuma, AZ last week was for the purpose of buying and driving back to Wyoming two used "motor homes." Husband has bought and sold several since late spring, adding them to his ever changing stock of vintage tractors and refurbished construction equipment. Coming from a long paternal lineage of "wheeler-dealers" it is a natural side line for him and for his twin brother.

The units are meant to be checked over at the dealer's shop so that we have a reasonable assurance of all systems in good working order. Although we suspected that the man who was meant to be in charge of this inspection had been less than vigilant, still there was no reason to suspect that the fuel pump would "die" on the newer coach less than 150 miles into our return journey. We loaded our Toyota Rav onto a car trailer behind the motor home and set out late in the afternoon.

I was sitting at the little kitchenette table reading [of course!] when I felt the vehicle slowing. We were in a long stretch of red rocks, dust and sagebrush. "Why are we stopping here?" I asked. "Because," said husband grimly, "the engine has quit!" Providentially, he was able to coast the coach off the highway onto the flat verge. As sunset added a ruddy stain to the sky, he prodded at the engine, checked fuses, tried again and again to start the motor. "Fuel pump," we speculated.

We sat in the gathering darkness, the motorhome rocked by passing trucks. Giving up hope that the engine would start, husband removed the binder chains and backed the Toyota off the car trailer. Lights in the distance suggested there might be a town up ahead, although the chances of contacting help after business hours seemed remote. We locked the coach, transferred our suitcases to the car and headed toward the town, hoping at least to find a motel and contact a tow service in the morning. Driving down the dark road we decided to punch in 911 on the cell phone and report the location of our disabled and abandoned vehicle. The emergency dispatcher rang us back directly to state that a trooper in a patrol car was in the area and would meet us near the motor home if we would turn around. Within moments of returning to the roadside, flashing red and blue lights heralded the arrival of the trooper. He proceeded to scold us for having stopped in that particular spot! [I thought it rather obvious that we had little choice.] When he had done fussing, he rang up a 24 hour tow service and left us, sand spurting under his tires.

The tow truck operator was a competant and agreeable man who quickly had the front of the motorhome jacked up and ready to be "dragged" to a garage. Back in our car, ready to follow him, we noted that although the sun had now been down for several hours, the temperature was still at nearly 100 degrees. The motor home was detached and settled in the corner of a large lot behind a garage and we rather disconsolately made ready for the rest of the night, glad at least that we could occupy the comfortable bed with the clean linens we had brought with us.

We had breakfast at a small cafe and returned to the garage just as the tow truck man arrived for work. As we talked with him, a bony cat appeared and gave a tentative "meow." I bent to stroke her coarse and dusty coat and she purred with pleasure. "Do they feed you here?" I asked her. "Oh yes, she gets food," the man replied, offhandedly. He went on to say that her damaged foot had "always been that way, doesn't seem to bother her." The cat had one paw on my sandaled foot and gave a gentle nip to my bare ankle. Her rusty purr accompanied our arrangements for repairs. As we crunched across the gravel to our car, she sat calmly on the gritty cement floor, only her yellow-eyed stare acknowledging our departure.

Fresh Fruit

Notice the strawberries!



Colorful and fresh.

A recurring theme in my thinking and writing is the lack of good gardening conditions where I now live. Growing fruit and vegetables for fresh eating and to "put up" for winter was a major part of my life for many years. Nothing can equal a tomato picked and eaten in the garden, the sun-warmed juice dribbling down one's chin or the taste of berries just plucked and eaten from sticky fingers.

Many berries grow wild in New England, tiny sweet-tart strawberries nestled in a green meadow, blackberries the size of my thumb drooping from the bushes in late summer, blueberries gathered on a high round hillside while the white-throated sparrows sang against a blue sky. Then there were the numerous acres devoted to "pick-your-own" strawberries a short drive away. It was sensible to arrive there early on a mid-June morning, but I have often picked berries late in the afternoon when a day's sunshine had warmed them and the delicious aroma of ripe strawberries hung over the entire field. The first stop was at a shed where trays of heavy waxed cardboard were handed out. I usually went with friends or family and was always the one who wanted to linger and heap still one more tray. We made strawberry shortcake--crumbly homemade biscuits and whipped heavy cream--no substitutes for the real thing. We invited neighbors to share this nightly treat. My husband produced strawberry ice cream from a vintage hand-cranked ice cream maker. Berries went into the freezer, were made into jam in the all too brief season.

Strawberries [any fruit for that matter] are disappointing purchased here from the supermarket. No matter how red the exterior, they are usually tough and white in the interior, lacking in juiciness and flavor.

Last week, traveling to Yuma, AZ we kept watch for a roadside market we have noticed on other trips. Located between Columbus and Quartzite, it consists of a few tables sheltered by canvas. Refridgerated trucks were drawn up alongside when we stopped. Knowing we must buy only what we could consume that day, we settled for 4 bananas and a plastic box of strawberries. I set the berries between us in the car and we ate nearly all of them before we reached our motel. They were not quite the equal of the berries picked from maple-bordered fields in Vermont, but they were the best we have eaten in many years.

A Generous Welcome

Teasel watches me unpack



Maisie keeps me company

Please, don't leave us again!

For me, there is sometimes a moment of awkwardness when I welcome a guest to my home. It is in no way connected to the degree of attachment I may feel for them. There has been the happy anticipation of a visit, special food prepared and waiting, a guest room made up, clean and inviting with a favorite quilt on the bed, a little basket of treats on the bedside stand. Yet, as I wait, poised for an arriving car, or a knock at the door, something in me frays a bit. Perhaps the problem is a lack of spontaneity, a sense that in those first few moments of reconnecting, I need a script, stage directions to guide me until former familiarity is established and I am again at ease.

Our cats have no such reservations. Their rituals of greeting are something we enjoy when returning to the house after work or errands. It has become almost a game. We turn off the car and approach the entry door quietly, stopping to look through the upper glass before turning the knob. It is a rare time that keen feline ears have missed our coming and we usually enter to a gathering of happy cats. Teasel waits for me to bend toward her with my hand outstretched. She rises on her hind legs pushing her stripy head into my palm. Charlie bustles around our ankles, Raisin begins a plaintive litany of neglect, the others chime in, boldly or shyly according to their various natures.

Arriving home yesterday after a five day absence, we found the cats all gathered and alert for greeting duty. We spoke their names and said, "Oh, poor things, did you think we would never return?"

While I changed litter boxes [ phew!] Jimmy lined up dishes and served their "treat"--canned cat food. I opened windows, cleaned up a collection of hawked up hairballs, checked the planters on the porch. The cats followed us from room to room, chatting, a bit anxious.

There are times when we have been away overnight or for a weekend when we return to find that after the initial welcoming ceremony we are treated for a few hours with disdain. The cats hunch furry shoulders and stroll away as if to say, "Think you can leave and come back at your leisure and expect us to fall all over you?" There will be acts of deliberate naughtiness, noisy uproar, wild chasings through the house before they can settle down.

There was none of that last evening. We put things away, righted a begonia which had been knocked from the kitchen windowsill, made an early supper. My husband, tired from days of driving, went for a nap. At last I could sit down in here, read e-mail, open a package, begin to cautiously feel at home again. Sweet-natured Maisie hopped onto my lap and sat, kneading gently for a few minutes. Teasel perched briefly on the edge of the desk. Furry tails flicked past my ankles. Absorbed for awhile in reading and typing it took a bit for the unusual stillness to register. Looking about, I saw that my friends were keeping me company: two sprawled on the windowsill, Teasel curled but alert in my sewing chair; Mrs. Beasely observed me, cross-eyed, from the wing chair. Hearing the soft pad of paws, I watched as Eggnog and Raisin headed for the bedroom to join Jimmy in his nap.

How lovely to be welcomed, to slip into that familiar companionship which needs few words, sharing space in a comfortable and easy sense of simply being home.