The meaning behind an original drawing by Me

When I sat down to start this drawing, I was unprepared for the level of emotion that emerged.  Of course I can't create without some degree of feeling, but the intensity was surprising and overwhelming.  I don't usually share much about the meaning of my art.  I like to let the viewers experience their own emotions without influence.  I want them to imagine with innocence rather than to try and see my intention.  However, I think this piece needs the story behind it to be told, not only to show how I create, but also the degree of my vulnerability while creating.  Besides, I am really proud of  it and kind of just want to show it off.   And hopefully after reading the short story,  you will see where my emotions are reflected in the drawing and perhaps relate to them in your own life as well.  Enjoy.

Sometimes you find yourself on a path in life with no clear direction.  You follow, not sure of where you are, but you keep going because you know no better. 

Sometimes the walk turns into a climb.  It is hard and you struggle.  You want to quit and return to the easy path, even though you know it was not right.  From somewhere a whisper urges you forward.  You do not recognize the voice, but you are compelled to go on.

One, two, a dozen hurdles overcome.  

With each step you become stronger physically, emotionally, and spiritually.  The whisper becomes louder.  It is encouraging, supportive, reassuring.  It sings in your ears. A beautiful and melodic expression of love.  Your confidence grows.  Your steps quicken.  You recognize the voice now.  It is your own.

You strive to climb higher and higher and then suddenly, you find yourself on another path, in another place.  This path ventures further outside of your comfort zone.  Further than you have ever been.  Further than you have ever imagined.  You do not know where it leads or what lies ahead, but as terrifying as that is, you continue to walk because you like the direction in which you are headed.  

You do not know when it happened, it just was, but no longer are you following a path, you are now creating one.  This new path is of your own doing.  You are forging it for yourself and no one else.  The only footsteps you see and hear are your own.

You do not know when it happened, it just was, but you have found that you like walking.  Sometimes you even run because it feels like flying and that makes you feel free.  And after what seemed like an eternity, you are no longer afraid to be yourself.

And with that discovery, you are finally happy with the woman you are.

The process of my drawing

Pandemic Road Trip: Thanksgiving 2020 "Always find a way back to myself" - The End

It's a beautiful day.

Sunny and 65-degrees, but the weather is deceiving. 

The wind chases after me as I leave Bosque del Apache and head towards White Sands National Park. My truck rocks from side to side with each gust, but I don't realize its strength until I stop for gas in Alamogordo.  As soon as I open the door, the wind rips it from my hand, but as a side note, gas is only $1.96/gallon.

I'm rethinking my decision to visit a place with 'sand' in its name on such a windy day, but this is a new National Park to be checked off on my list.  Regardless of the weather, I don't want to miss the opportunity to visit.  Besides, I am only 20 minutes away so I drive on.

Traveling has taught me many things.

It has taught me to be spontaneous and flexible.  It has taught me to be open to new experiences and trust myself.  It has taught me to be confident.  I've struggled, but at various times during this trip, I've been all of those things.  I am proud of myself, but traveling has also shown me how alone I am.

It's not so much being alone that bothers me.  I've always been good with my own company, but it's the loneliness that sometimes accompanies it.  It is on this trip that I experience it the most, especially after photographing birds in Bosque del Apache.

My excitement was palpable, but there was no one to share it with, no one to laugh with (especially when I thought I was going to die at the jaws of a javelina), and no one to talk with.  And of course, people tend to look at me a bit funny when I'm laughing and talking to myself, although I do it anyway.

Sometimes I wish I wasn't so alone.

White Sands National Park covers almost 146,000 acres, including 275-square miles of white sand dunes composed of gypsum crystals.  It is the largest gypsum dune field of its kind on Earth. Although White Sands has been a National Monument since 1933, it is a fairly new national park, having gained national park status in 2019.

The Dune Life Nature Trail is a one-mile loop hike and my first stop inside the park.  People are scattered across the dunes as there really isn't a trail to follow, just signs marking a self-guided route.  I try to follow them as best I can, but get confused as to which sign is next.  I stray from the route and become just like everyone else, aimlessly wandering about.

I stop next at the backcountry camping loop, but don't follow the trail as I have no idea where it begins.  Instead, I trudge through the sand making my own way.  I drop down into the dunes and my reference points disappear.  I am in complete isolation and it's disconcerting.  Hurrying to the top of the dunes, I reorient myself.  I keep the porta-potty in view so I don't get lost again.

I am fascinated by the textures, patterns and shadows cast by the late afternoon sun and I stay in the park much longer than intended.  There is something comforting about the dunes and I don't want to leave them just yet.

Yes, I may be lonely at times, but other times, like now, I enjoy the solitude. The only energy mingling with mine is that of Mother Nature.  I close my eyes and take several deep breaths, feeling the heat of the sun on my face and the tickling of wind on my skin.

The mountains turn a radiant purple as the sun dips low and its only then when I finally say farewell to White Sands National Park.

...

All pre-planned stops have now been checked off on my itinerary.

It is exhilarating to have no clear destination in mind.  I can go in whichever direction the wind blows, but it is also stressful.  Prior to my road trips, I check mileage and estimate travel times.  I check weather patterns, notate potential attractions, and identify accommodations along every possible route.  Spontaneity doesn't come easily.

The next morning, I leave the Motel 6 in Las Cruces a carefree spirit and ready to embrace the open road, but the planner in me can't help it and sets the GPS for Tucson.  However, I don't get very far.  On impulse, I detour north on Hwy 180 towards Silver City.  Along the way, I see a sign for Gila Cliff Dwellings National Monument and just like that, my next stop has been decided.

It's only 45 miles from Silver City to the cliff dwellings, but NM-15, although beautiful, is narrow with lots of twists and turns.  It's slow going.  I'm uncertain if spontaneity was a good idea and am doubting myself.  However, as I pass several campgrounds, I know I have a place to stay if necessary.  I have packed some camping supplies and having the ability to be self-sufficient, at least for a few days, is reassuring.  Once again, I drive on.

After about an hour and a half, I arrive at the cliff dwellings.  I see a couple of small buildings, a few cars, and a park ranger sitting at a table at the trailhead, but I don't see any dwellings.

The ranger gives me a rundown of COVID protocols.  She instructs me to wash my hands in a makeshift sink.  The water is absolutely freezing!  She apologies but says it's procedure before I'm allowed to enter the dwellings.  I am also reminded to wear my mask and social distance.

She then gives me a brief history of the area.  The Gila Cliff Dwellings give a glimpse into the lives of the Mogollon people who lived here from the 1280s to the early 1300s.  Teddy Roosevelt designated the area a national monument in 1907 and it sits in the middle of the Gila Wilderness, the nation’s first designated wilderness area.

Before I start down the trail, the ranger asks me if I'm in good health.  "Of course" I respond and then she adds, "because the cliff dwellings are there" and points halfway up the cliff face.  Oh boy.  But I suppose that is why they are called cliff dwellings because, well, they are on a cliff.

The trail is a switch back and not incredibly steep, but because I’m at 6867-feet elevation and fat, I struggle to catch my breath.  I gulp down my water within the first 30 yards and the battle within begins as it so often has during this trip.  The part of me that is always fearful wants to turn around, to go back to where it’s easy and familiar.  

However, another smaller, but rebellious part, pushes back.  She knows the anxiousness of the moment will subside and the effort will be worth the reward of a new experience.  She wants to live in the present, not in her past. Luckily, that is the me who wins, at least for now.

When I reach the dwellings, it’s quiet.  Birds, the wind, a gurgling stream, and my gasps for breath are the only sounds I hear.  I think again how nice it is to be alone.

...

Chili bubbles in the pot on the camping stove as I set the picnic table for a party of one.  A Cactus Wren gives me the side eye, while a Curve-billed Thrasher scurries to the cover of a nearby bush. Two new birds to check off in my field guide, along with the Gila Woodpecker I saw earlier.

It’s sunny and 59-degrees.  A perfect Thanksgiving morning in Saguaro National Park.

The park is named after the giant saguaro, a cactus native to the Sonoran Desert, and is about 92,000-acres in total but divided into two separate areas.  The Tucson Mountain District is about 10 miles west of Tucson and the Rincon Mountain District, which is where I am enjoying my Thanksgiving meal, is about 10 miles east of the city.  

The Rincon Mountain District was the original section of the park but called Saguaro National Monument at the time.  It was established in 1933 by Herbert Hoover.  John F. Kennedy added the Tucson Mountain District in 1961 and renamed the original tract the Rincon Mountain District. Both sections were combined in 1994 to form what is now known as Saguaro National Park.

The Cactus Forest Scenic Loop Drive is about 8 miles long.  Because it is paved, it is popular for bicyclists and joggers, but very few cars are here this morning.  I drive slowly looking for wildlife.  I only have one near miss with a bicyclist and that is because she yelled, “on your right!” startling me which caused me to swerve to my right.  Fortunately I was driving like a sloth so she had plenty of time to get out of the way.

After I finish eating, I decide to hike the 2-mile Mica View Loop trail.  However, just as I get to the trailhead, a group of screaming children run down the trail in front of me, shattering the tranquility of the morning.  They are closely followed by several loud-talking adults.  I do not begrudge them their family time on Thanksgiving and am glad the littles are having fun, but….ugh!

Instead, I go to the end of the trail to begin my hike, thinking I will go in the opposite direction of everyone else, but it doesn't take long for me to become disoriented.  I follow what I think is the trail, but it ends in a tangle of brush.  I back track, find what looks like a possible trail, but it's another dead end.  I listen for the noisy children, but they are silent.  I wander further and further away from where I should be.

My ex-husband once told me I couldn't find my way out of a paper bag and it's true.  If I don't have the ocean in view, then I have no idea which way is south, east, up or down. There is no water in sight and  I start to panic.  I don't have much, if any, wilderness training, but I think what would Les Stroud do.  Or maybe Bear Grylls, but he'd probably drink his own urine and I'm not quite ready to do that just yet.

I stop and assess the situation.  The sun is there, I am here, and a tall saguaro rising above the rest is near the bathrooms.  I bushwhack my way towards the cactus, eventually finding my way to where I began, which is less than a 1/4-mile away from where I got turned around.

How easy it is to become lost!

But I always find away back to myself.

- To see more pictures from this and other road trips, visit my Facebook page and Instagram.

Pandemic Road Trip: Thanksgiving 2020 "No eyeball pecking today" - The Middle

I am reminded of Alfred Hitchcock’s 1963 horror classic, The Birds, but a much friendlier version with nicer cast members.  There are a gazillion flying feathered creatures, like in the movie, but what is absent is the gruesome pecking of eyeballs.  

Instead, the birds peck in the fields and occasionally at one another, while the horrifying screams of eyeless people have been replaced by the squawking and quacking of cranes, geese, and ducks.

It’s winter migration. 

There have been 374 different bird species observed at Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge in New Mexico, but I have come for just one – the long legged, long necked Sandhill Crane. 

This is the week of the Festival of the Cranes, but since we are in the middle of a pandemic, the festivities have been cancelled.  However, the birds obviously did not get the memo.  

Typically, about 10,000 cranes migrate through the refuge, along with the 20,000 or so of Ross’s and Snow geese and they all seem to be here on this day.  

It’s only 7:30am, but I am already late to the party. 

It’s well past sunrise, the time when the flocks of birds who roost in the refuge move to the agricultural fields to feed.  Apparently, that is quite the spectacle and as I enter the refuge, I notice a slew of photographers with their big lenses and just as many other birders with binoculars dangling from their necks.  They were here before dawn to get into position to get the perfect view, to get the perfect shot.  I envy them for their dedication.  I suppose that is the downfall of my success as a wildlife photographer.  I like my sleep. 

The refuge is over 57,000 acres of flooded plains, wetlands, grasslands, scrublands, and desert terrain.  Prime habitat for birding, but I have no expectations.  I am simply hoping to “see a few birds,” but as soon as I enter the refuge, I see my Sandhill Cranes and my heart skips a beat. 

My head is on a swivel. 

Birds are everywhere.  

I do not know where to look, however, it is the sound that intensifies my excitement.  With no human noise to contend with, the calls of thousands of birds echoing in the early morning stillness is jarring.  It is a sound I have never heard before at this level.  Loud and obnoxious, yet beautiful and hypnotizing. 

A deep breath letting nature flow through me.  Now I am ready to be a wildlife photographer and unashamedly, a bird nerd.

My Field Guide to Birds of North America is at the ready.  In between taking pictures, I attempt to identify birds.  Many I have seen before, like the swarms of red-winged black birds that swirl into the air as one, reminding me of the crows in Hitchcock’s movie.  

However, there are many first timers that I can check off in my book, like the Northern Pintail and Ross’s Goose.  The Sandhill Cranes were, of course, a major highlight, but seeing two bald eagles was a wonderful surprise.   

Although it isn't just the birds I watch.  There is other wildlife as well, like deer and coyote, however, if I had to pick one memory from being at Bosque, it would be watching a squadron of javelina.   As with some of the birds, this was my first time seeing javelina, which I thought were wild boar.

Although the speed limit on the auto-tour road is 25mph, the lack of traffic allowed me to drive much slower.  Puttering along the north loop, I saw two men crouched down with lenses aimed into the brush.  I couldn’t see what they saw, but when a photographer has his face pressed against his camera,  you know something is there worthy of a photograph!

Javelina!

Many national parks require you to remain 25-yards away from wildlife.  I don’t know if that applies in Bosque, but if it did, I clearly violated the rules.  I didn’t realize how close I was until I peeked out from behind my camera.  I was standing less than 10-feet away.  He, or she, stopped eating and looked at me. We made eye contact.

“Oh shit.” 

I weighed my options and there were none.  No nearby tree to climb, no car to jump into, and nowhere to run.  Basically, I was wide open for attack, but lucky for me, he was more interested in eating leaves rather than eating me.  Cautiously, I moved away in the opposite direction in which he was headed. 

Eventually, they crossed the road in front of the handful of photographers who had gathered and that is when I took my favorite image from this entire trip.  A few ran across and then a mother and her baby stopped hidden partially by the bushes.  The baby nursed for several seconds and then mama crossed the road with the baby right behind her.  That is the picture I took.  I turned to the woman next to me and we both had tears in our eyes.  Watching the baby nurse was a very touching moment and one I will never forget.   

My second morning at the refuge didn’t present quite the same birding experiences as the day before.  

The weather was different.  Previously, it was overcast with a sprinkling of rain, but calm, now it was sunny and very windy.  The birds weren’t as active and neither the bald eagles nor javelina could be found, although I did get some good photos of cranes in flight.  

What an incredible two days of photography at Bosque and I'm already planning to go back!  But for now, I have a decision to make...

Where to next?

…to be continued.

To see more pictures from this and other road trips, visit my Facebook Page and Instagram.

Western Meadowlark

A bald eagle watches over everything

Pandemic Road Trip: Thanksgiving 2020 "It's a good day to have a good day" - The Beginning

I stay busy with my art, with my photography, with my part-time job, but that occupies me for only so long.  I am restless, unfulfilled, and depressed to a certain degree.  These feelings come often and with a strength that leaves me wanting.  

I look at my reflection in the mirror and I am dissatisfied.  It goes beyond my physical appearance, that is superficial.  What I feel is internal.  Something deep that I can’t quite grasp, can’t quite understand.  It is an ache, in my body and in my mind.  It is an urge, but an urgency for what?

Wanderlust.

I don’t need an excuse to travel, but it is nice when there is a reason.  My friend has invited me for Thanksgiving in Denver, so of course a road trip is in order.  Unfortunately, after I started planning my trip, tighter COVID restrictions caused us concern, so we err on the side of caution.  Although I won’t be traveling to Colorado to visit my friend, doesn’t mean I won’t travel. 

The apartment is sparkling clean as is my truck.  Two of my prerequisites before traveling.  

My camera gear is in the backseat next to the ice chest full of water, tea, and snacks.  With the addition of a new camera and converter, I realize I will need to buy a bigger case.  For now, my equipment is divided between two backpacks.  

My big, purple suitcase is crammed with clothes for every season because I can never be too prepared.  Besides, the weather will vary as I travel across several states and elevations.  There is a box of camping supplies next to my luggage.  Again, I can never be too prepared.  My co-pilot, Gee, hangs out on the dash and keeps me company.

I am ready for adventure.

I live the wanderer’s dream the first night in a two-star hotel in Holbrook, Arizona, 587-miles from home.  I awake tired with muscles still tense from the previous days driving, but I eagerly get behind the wheel again.  I am not going far.  My first scheduled stop on this road trip is just 30-miles from my room at the Days Inn.   

It’s a good day to have a good day and I drive towards Petrified Forest National Park with a purpose.  That purpose is to let nature soothe my soul, calm my restless spirit, and help me forget my monotonous life back in San Diego.  And, of course, do some photography.

Petrified Forest was originally a National Monument established in 1906 by one of my favorite conservationalists, but who most people know as the 26^th President, Theodore Roosevelt.  It became a National Park in 1962 and in 2004, during President George W. Bush's presidency, expanded to over 218,500 acres.  

Petrified Forest is known for its fossils, especially from fallen trees that lived about 225 million years ago, but there are also more than 1200 archeological sites within the park boundary. 

It is 45-degrees and sunny when I flash my National Parks Pass at the entrance gate.  The ranger hands me a map and I tell her it is my first time to the park.  She welcomes me with an enthusiastic smile and compliments the fleece I'm wearing.  I am enthusiastic too.  There are no other cars in front or behind me.  It is definitely a good day and I can’t wait to explore.

Eventually comes more people and more cars, but there is absolutely no competition for parking.  Unlike at the national parks in Utah I visited during October's road trip, here, there is enough space for everyone.   Enough breathing room between us so we don’t worry about wearing our mandatory masks. 

People snap their pictures and rush to the next scenic location noted on their park maps, but I linger.  At many of the viewpoints, I am left alone with only the wind and birds for company.  This is what I crave.  This is what I need and it is beautiful.

The park protects one of the largest concentrations of petrified wood in the world, but when I stop at the Painted Desert Inn I am more interested in the building.  It was designed in the Pueblo Revival style and built in the late 1930s by National Park Service architect Lyle E. Bennett.  In 1987, it was declared a National Historic Landmark. 

Unfortunately, it is closed because of COVID-19 restrictions.  A few people are busy in the parking lot taking pictures, so I wander down a trail to a viewpoint behind the inn.   No one is here.  It is quiet, the air is crisp and fresh, and I can see for miles. 

At Newspaper Rock there are over 650 petroglyphs and pictograph carvings from over 2,000 years ago.  However, I am unable to get close.  I am on a landing about 50 yards up a hill.  

The viewing scope glass is cloudy and with my poor eyesight, I cannot see the petroglyphs clearly, but I am hesitant to push my face against it to get a better view.  Too many germs from too many faces.  Instead, I use the zoom on my camera.  

The artwork is fascinating and I wish I could get closer to do some macro photography. However, it is probably best for the carvings that tourists are kept away.  

It is along the Blue Mesa trail, however, where I finally see what I came for: petrified wood.   

A handful of people are enjoying the trail, but most of them are young and in shape.  They quickly complete the easy one-mile loop, but I am slower.  I take my time, not on purpose, but because I am fat and need to stop often to catch my breath.  

I don’t mind going slow, though.  It gives me time to take pictures and to take in my surroundings.  I trace my fingertips lightly over the hardened wood, hold it in my hands, and imagine what the tree might have looked like in which it came.  

The chunk of petrified wood I am holding is heavier than it looks.  It's not really wood at all, but a fossil made up of different minerals.  The last science class I took was quite a few years ago in high school, so I have no idea what minerals it is composed of.  I only know that it's pretty cool.

The Crystal Forest trail is much more crowded, with families and even a few dogs, but it is an easier trail and where I can see up-close the crystals in the large pieces of petrified wood.  I study the formations, noticing patterns and colors.  Each one is different with varying degrees of beauty.  The looping trail is a mere .75-miles, but it takes me almost an hour to walk it because again, I take my time absorbing the sights, sounds, and smells of the earth.

I have reached the other end of the park.  I am tempted to turn around and travel back through, but I have many more miles to go before stopping for the night.  After consulting my map, I realize the route I will take into New Mexico runs through Pie Town so I make an impromptu stop.

This is the third time I've attempted to stop in Pie Town to get a piece of pie, but the timing was never right.  Until now.  It's almost 3pm.  I stop at the first place I see, The Gathering Place, and surprisingly, it is open.  

I push through the door and am greeted by the most wonderful smells and by a black dog who insists on licking my hand.  There are several tables covered with fresh-out-of-the-oven pies and my stomach rumbles with anticipation.  I eyeball each pie, looking for the perfect one, but the clerk informs me those pies are for a 200 pie order they just received.  

Instead, she shows me four smaller pies in a case that have obviously been sitting there for most of the day.  She says that those are all they have left.   I pick the least pathetic looking one.  It's apricot.  Not my favorite.  I 'd prefer apple or even peach, but it will have to do.   $11 later, I have pie in hand, but it doesn't feel as exciting as I imagined.  But at least now I can say I've had pie in Pie Town.

So far for this trip I have made accommodation reservations.  That's something I usually don't do because I like having the flexibility to deviate from my itinerary.   However, after my most recent and  disastrous road trip of being unable to find a hotel room, I have decided reservations are a must.  

I have two nights booked at the Super 8 in Socorro, still an hour and a half away, but just twenty miles from the main reason for this trip - Bosque del Apache National Wildlife Refuge.  I toss the pie in the ice chest to be devoured later, wash the dog saliva from my hand, and get back on the road.   

    …to be continued.

To see more pictures from this and other road trips, visit my Facebook Page and Instagram.

Petrified wood along Crystal Forest trail

My view: I can see for miles

Road trip: Utah, me and a million other tourists

 

When time is of essence, a single minute feels like eternity and at the moment, it feels like a million eternities. 

I should have been gone by now.  I wasn’t necessarily in a hurry, but I had a plan and that plan included me being on the road five hours ago.  I should have been on the outskirts of Las Vegas instead of pacing my living room while awaiting the UPS guy to deliver my camera lens.

I have had this lens, actually a Canon 1.4x extender, on my Amazon wish list for over a year.  When I realized I could get over $100 off if I used my credit card points, I hastily ordered it.  

It wasn’t until two days later that I realized the scheduled delivery date was on the day I was leaving for Utah.  And that is why I am still at home.  As a side note, UPS attempted delivery the day before, but I was out running errands and a signature is required (sigh).

Finally! 

The driver is here and hands me my package.  I’m ready to sign for it, but he punches a few buttons on his scanner do-hickey and says he doesn’t need a signature.  A quick thank you and off I go!

It’s 6pm when I reach Sin City.   Twilight, but the gaudy lights that usually transform Las Vegas from grunge to glitz have yet to come on.  Mandala Bay, Luxor, and Excalibur Hotel and Casino, among others, sit dark.  Once called the “Entertainment capital of the world,” Las Vegas doesn’t seem so entertaining and I wonder how much of that is due to the pandemic.

Mulberry Inn

This isn’t my final destination and I’ve never really liked Vegas anyway, so I’m not too concerned about their tourism woes.  I’m just passing through, like I’ve done many times over the years.  The last being a little over a year ago.  

I was different then with a fragile mind and heart.  A sentimental and emotional mess.  Although I am driving the same truck, traveling the same road, and probably wearing the same shirt, I am definitely not the same person. 

The me of then and now are in stark contrast.   I remember the past the same as I did last year, but this time it is with a smile and gratitude for a good life shared.   Not a single tear is shed.

It’s 8:45pm when I reach the Mulberry Inn in St. George, Utah.  Somewhere along the way there was a time change making me even later than I already am.  

The Sherlock Room

My friend, Christy, meets me at the curb.  She helps me carry my luggage and camera gear to my room, but she is in her pajamas, so our greeting is brief. 

Edwin Woolley, a prominent judge and merchant, built the house in 1873.  It was one of the largest and finest structures in the city at the time.  Originally known as the Woolley-Foster home, it became Seven Wives Inn in 1981 becoming southern Utah’s first bed and breakfast inn. 

The Mulberry Inn, which it's now called, has only been in existence for less than a year and is still being renovated.  It has about 7 rooms and all are named after characters in literature.  

I am in the attic, which is called the Sherlock Room, named after Sherlock Holmes of course.  It is spacious with two beds, a desk, and a private bathroom with a claw-foot tub.  

Legend has it that the attic was used as a hiding place for polygamists when US Marshals came to town.  The house was also at one time a rest home and even a dormitory for Dixie State College. 

Playing cornhole with
Christy and her Dad

The inn is old and creaky and I am certain it is haunted.

The next morning, I meet Christy and her parent’s downstairs for breakfast.   I make a point of asking the proprietor about any hauntings.  She tells me a story about finding the light outside my door turned off when she knows she left it on.  Long story short, it was her husband turning off the light and not a ghost.  

I am disappointed yet relieved at the same time, however, she never answers my questions about ghosts with a definitive yes or no, so I am left to speculate and wonder.

I spend the next two days relaxing at the inn and driving around St. George with Christy and her parents.  They are interested in moving to St. George, so we look at houses, which also gives me the opportunity to check out different neighborhoods. 

California is too expensive and I do not agree with her liberal politics.  I have lived in San Diego my entire life and I am looking for a change.  I want somewhere more conservative and with a lower cost of living.   I can afford to stay in California, but can’t afford to live in California.  I’d rather spend my pension on plane tickets and not rent. 

Being close to nature is just one of the criteria for my finding a new city to live and St. George clearly meets that requirement.  

Utah has five national parks, with Zion, being less than an hour’s drive from St. George.  However, the city has a desert climate and I am looking for more of a mountainous area with pine trees and perhaps snow. 

Although I’ve crossed St. George off my list of prospective cities to live in, Utah is still one of my favorite states and I intend to enjoy her beauty while I am here.  

When our time is up in St. George, Christy and I say our goodbyes.  She heads for Colorado and I head towards Zion, Utah's first National Park, but instead of the tranquility I’d hoped for, I am met with traffic and crowds.

The Mt. Carmel tunnel in Zion is a little over a mile long and a highlight of the park.  It was built in 1927 and the reason for the congestion.  

It is a very narrow tunnel so park rangers are allowing only one direction of traffic to go through at a time.  It is a time-consuming process as the line of cars and RVs stretching in each direction seems endless.

I am frustrated.  It is difficult to find parking and I bypass many of the viewpoints because they are already full.  For the most part, my camera sits untouched on the passenger’s seat. I exit the park with perhaps a handful of photos taken on my cell phone pointed out the window.

View out the Mt. Carmel tunnel

Highway 89 leads to Bryce Canyon National Park.  

Originally a national monument, Bryce Canyon was re-designated a National Park in 1928 by Congress and it is my next planned stop.  The park supposedly receives fewer visitors than Zion, but the line of cars waiting to enter is long and it makes me wonder.  However, I am still happy to be here.  

It was December 2007 when I last visited Bryce Canyon.  The park was covered in snow with only one viewpoint open, but it was incredibly beautiful!  However, this time….

Park rangers have closed the first several viewpoints as the parking lots are packed.   That should have been my first clue, but instead, I remained optimistic.  Had I consulted a map, I would have known that the road through Bryce was in and out, not a thoroughfare like at Zion.  However, I didn’t so when traffic came to a standstill, I was momentarily excited.

Were we stopped for deer?  Elk?  Maybe a bear?!  My camera was at the ready, but when traffic inched along with no wildlife in sight, I finally glanced at my map.  The road ended at a visitor’s center.  It circled through the parking lot and that is why we were gridlocked.  A thousand more cars than spaces. 

I never made it to the end.  I lost patience and flipped an illegal U-turn in the middle of the road. I bypassed everything and headed straight for the exit, which was also congested with traffic.  Too many cars and not enough national park.  The entrance was closed and visitors were being turned away.  

A disappointing day to say the least. 

Bryce Canyon NP

If only I knew then what I know now, I would have come straight home, but a small part of me was still hopeful and I stuck with my original plan.  And that was to continue to Pando Aspen Grove via scenic Hwy 12. 

With nature, one can never accurately predict the changing of color in the fall, but I was confident I would see some along this stretch of highway.  I was encouraged by the groves of trees near Grover with their leaves of varying shades of orange and red and my earlier irritation was replaced with delight.

It took me longer than anticipated to drive Hwy 12 and it was nearly dark by the time I reached the turnoff to Pando.  The campground was still 30 minutes away with no guarantee it was even open because of Covid-19 restrictions.  Change of plans.  Drive to Richfield and return the following day. 

However, in Richfield, I couldn’t find a hotel room, at least not one within my budget.  Another change of plan.  Skip Pando and perhaps head into Nevada.  Maybe Mesa Verde National Park was open.  I was tired and agitated because of the unavailability of hotel rooms, but looked upon this as a learning experience in both patience and adaptability.

I drove another hour to Beaver and stopped at the first hotel I saw, but they too had no available rooms.  I called another five or six hotels but all were booked.  What was happening?  Where did all these people come from?  Were we not in the middle of a pandemic?  Shouldn’t people be staying at home? 

Exhausted, hungry and on the verge of tears, I got back on Hwy 15 and headed south.  By the time I reached Cedar City, it was 9:45pm.  I’d been on the road for 12 hours!  

My normally frugal self didn’t care about price.   All I wanted was a hot shower and a comfortable bed.  After making numerous calls to different hotels, I finally found a room at Best Western.  Lucky for me there had been a last-minute cancellation. 

The next morning, I looked at a map thinking of how I could salvage this road trip.  However, when I realized I had driven over 415 miles in one day only to end up a mere 52 miles north of where I had started, all motivation was lost.  

I drove home instead and enjoyed a hot shower in my own apartment.

 Total mileage: 1424 miles.