The start of  the series.

hiatus /hī-ā′təs/ – A gap or interruption in space, time, or continuity; a break.

Yeah, that’s it. That’s what I’ve been on, a hiatus. I had bigger plans for the past year, we’ve actually had a very busy and exciting past year with both family and adventure! And I wanted to share. But I’ve always said to accomplish anything that you need time, money, and energy. Two of those are generally easy to come by, having all three can be fairly difficult. So for the blog, the energy has been lacking. Maybe this journey will help with that.

This year, we had even bigger plans spaced throughout the year, finishing up with a couple of major adventures this fall.

And then an unexpected thing happened.

Our family of 12 is becoming a baker’s dozen! Right in the midst of the fall finish. And in a moment, a natural adjustment of priorities has cleared the harvest time calendar and crowded the next few months with blessings, what a nice problem to have.

So as we started our trip west, we took a few days to swing north and sneak in some quality time with family.

Our first stop was Buchanan, TN to visit my sister Pat and her husband Don. They have a nice spot in the country and spring was in full swing. And it was such a treat when their daughter Sheri came up to see us as well! With what has become a tradition, we had dinner at the Stockade in Murray, KY. Locally known as the Bull, it’s a fine all-you-can-eat buffet.

And here I made a mistake. A harbinger of sorts. The weather in middle Tennessee has been very dry this spring, and there was only a slight chance of rain in the evening. As we were finishing up our meal, thunder rattled the restaurant. “Uh oh,” I thought, I left the camper door and roof vent open! A strong line of storms had swept in and we were 30 minutes away. Don hurried us home, but the squall line had outrun us before we ever left the parking lot.

On a personal note, I actually feel like I handled the stress pretty well hahaha. Not a thing I could do except to just relax and hope maybe the storm didn’t reach that far south.

But it had. And the door was facing it. Even with the screen door closed, all the cabinets and much of the interior was soaked, all the way to the far side. At first the floor didn’t look too bad, but that was because the water was running into the bathroom and pooling in front of the shower, over an inch deep. Well, I had been meaning to wipe down the interior before we left…

But there was much good news. We hadn’t set the tv up, so it was spared. Airstream had switched to a non-wood laminate subfloor the year our camper was made, so no damage there. And the new roof vent was guaranteed to ward off the rain when open, which it did admirably.

Lesson learned. Count your blessings.

After a nice visit, we headed north to Indianapolis, having avoided interstate highway the entire way so far. The expectant couple was already feathering the nest for the new arrival. They live in a big subdivision, with tight housing and parking. There are tons of kids in the neighborhood too, with a parade of school busses rolling through on schedule. Bret and Rachel’s house is pretty unique in that the back yard is up against a large pond used for runoff control, it even has a fountain! As such, they get to enjoy much wildlife around the pond throughout the year. And about once a quarter, they do a trash pickup around it to keep it looking nice and to protect the critters from all the entangling plastic and other trash. Kudos to them!

We just parked Ooo Shiny on the street (with one eye peeled for errant soccer balls until Rachel assured me that the kids were mindful) and enjoyed a couple of days of just chillin’. Walking the ‘hood, watching movies, and just plain ‘ol hanging out. Honestly, it was the most that I had slowed down in months. Such a sweet visit!

Bret mentioned that I-74 was pretty decent, so after the rush hour crowd, we finally headed west, following I-74 and I-72 to Hannibal, MO.

En route, I chuckled at this gravel truck’s warning, are you paying attention? 319 feet?

We had just passed a different truck with giant letters saying STAY BACK 200 FEET, but there was a car literally within 50 feet. Go figure.

We were, at this point, undecided towards a more northerly route over to Utah, so we thought Ray Behrens Campground on Mark Twain Lake would keep our options open. Besides, it was morel mushroom hunting season, with Missouri and Illinois being prime hunting grounds…

Upon our arrival, we found our spot and Patricia started to guide me as I backed in. I heard a shout, and lo and behold, there was a blond morel literally sprouting out of the ground right beside the driveway! The first we have ever found east of the Rockies! We were so excited we didn’t even unpack. We walked the woods, looking and looking for supper!

And we didn’t find another one. We did find a severed stem, apparently the morel hunters had beat us out. And the one we did find had the top bitten out of it, probably why the morel hunters left it.

I hate morel hunters. They don’t share and they’re just full of lies, lies, lies concerning the little gems whereabouts. And then they just gloat over their full baskets. Ugg. Okay, I don’t really hate them, but I disdain them as a general rule.

Being near the Mark Twain birthplace, we wanted to check out the museum. The Adventures of Tom Sawyer and the Adventures of Huckleberry Finn were staples growing up! Losing yourself in one of Twain’s adventures as a youngster is almost like teleportation.

The museum was closed, so we set our sights on USACE campground Tuttle Creek near Manhattan, Kansas, home of Kansas State University. Backroads all the way today.

We found ourselves on Route 36 for most of it. We began noticing silhouettes of riders on galloping horses randomly placed on hilltops along the highway. Did you know that this was part of the route for the Pony Express? Do you even know what the Pony Express was? Well, dear reader, it was, according to https://www.nps.gov/poex/index.htm :

“…the west’s most direct means of east–west communication before the first transcontinental telegraph was established…”

Between Missouri and California, the express shaved communication down to an unheard of 10 days! And it was in operation for about 18 months until the telegraph was constructed.

Traveling through Seneca, KS, there was a sign pointing to the historical downtown. Should we take the side trip? Patricia says jokingly, “Why not? We might see a hand-dug well or something!” She was referring to the Big Well we had discovered last year in Greensberg, KS.

Reaching the beautiful little downtown, we found the Pony Express Museum, which was of course….closed. But on the way out there was literally another hand-dug well! Probably tapping in to the Ogallala Aquifer as well.

As we turned off of the Pony Express route, we now found ourselves on the Road to Oz!! How crazy is that?! Well, it is Kansas. Fortunately, we turned again before we got there. I didn’t want to go to Oz, I’m still traumatized from childhood by all the flying monkeys pulling the stuffings out of the Straw Man…

We had a nice dinner in downtown Manhattan (Kansas lol) at the Tallgrass Taphouse and snagged a couple of local brews for the journey. Stretching west the next day, we were looking to stop around Brush, Colorado at a city park for the next night, and it was going to be a long day. The park was first come, first serve, and there wasn’t the best feeling about it when I called. So we’ll see.

Rolling up through Nebraska, we were amazed at the extent of irrigation, cattle farming, and grain hauling. While all of the secondary roads were is really good shape, the grain trucks doing 90mph and the heavy winds were taking a toll. We were still 100 miles from Brush when we spotted Enders SRA, located beside the eponymous reservoir.

Yeah, it’s time to take a break. There was an attendant attempting to water newly planted saplings, but he was having a go of it with the wind and dust whipping around. I pulled down to ask how to register, and he suggested I go a little further down, where the cottonwoods would better block the wind. He kept trying to show us the place on his phone, and kept apologizing for all the dust that kept covering it up! We took his advice, which added several miles of dusty, washboard road, but ended up at a nice, grassy spot creekside. The whole enterprise was a bit run down, but we had it to ourselves and around midnight the wind finally calmed itself.

The little park was surrounded by huge irrigation plots. While the entire upper midwest is under a severe fire risk, the plots are using ancient water pulled from the Ogallala Aquifer.

It was good to relax! We figured we could leave early to make up the miles, but determining the next camp would have to wait, this place was isolated and there was no cell service. Which in itself was nice, we found ourselves chatting about stuff we normally wouldn’t chat about, took outside showers, and listened to the only six songs I had downloaded on my phone. The next morning we were greeted with a cacophony of mourning doves, turkey gobbles, and woodpecker discussions. And not another manmade sound.

Loading up with fresh water, we followed Route 6 all the way to I-70 at Sterling, arriving with a whisper of fuel left in the gas tank.

We rolled through Colorado, stopping only for fuel and the occasional break. Colorado may be the only state where you generally cannot do the speed limit safely! Between the rough roads, potholes, construction, and oh yeah, the Rockies, I rarely kept up with the speed limit.

Strange as it may seem, we almost completely ignored the State of Colorado and traveled nearly to the Utah border from Nebraska. This was all a bit punishing, but it takes effort to find a camping spot unless you want to be in a parking lot somewhere, especially at this time of the year. For just an overnighter, we didn’t want a high-dollar RV park. And for Colorado state parks, there’s a hefty vehicle permit fee added. Opting to avoid all the humanity, we eventually aimed for Rabbit Valley as our destination. I don’t know why, just a feeling I guess. A primitive BLM campground on the other side of Grand Junction and just a couple of miles from the Utah border.

This turned out to be a good choice and a turning point in the quest west.

LAST in the series.

Better than the Bees Knees…

Our work schedule initially consisted of half shifts each. Normally, this would give each of us time to explore or chill. But I knew this wasn’t going to happen. Patricia was as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs in the beginning. My shift became her shift and her’s mine. And that’s totally cool. It’s certainly not her comfort zone. But I also know that she spent twenty years supporting a dozen crotchety engineers. So, in a way, I was curious to see what she would do. We both wanted to “do more” and so this “giving back” is a learning process.

There was some “vibe” from Kirsten that just gave me peace in our first correspondence. I knew we would both do well.

And it came to pass. Blessed once again by truly amazing people. Kirsten, Carolyn, Sarah, Samira, and even Gabby and Charles at the restaurant. And so many passers-by. Just accepted and absorbed and mellowed in to something different, something unexpected, something very special.

I saw Patricia standing behind the counter having an engagingly good time with the visitors. Her heart was in it. My soul mate has come to love seeking. She didn’t start there. In fact, when we first met, she hadn’t done anything more than some weekend camping. But there must have been something deeper I think. She’s stuck with me through some incredibly uncomfortable, and sometimes scary journeys. But she just tucks in and trusts me.

I’ve had a couple of people ask me why we are doing this. I have tried and tried, but I haven’t been able to pin it down in a way that I can share in words.

Maybe my better half can shed a little light on it.

“A last word from P, the silent partner in this life long journey with Jeff. I cook,  I clean, I encourage, I collaborate, I participate, and I love it. Jeff has taken me to great heights, on some awesome experiences, and to deep and meaningful places. Some quite out of my comfort zone but all with the assurance that he is there with me and for me.

“There is no way to capture this ‘Bears Ears’  experience in pictures although Jeff does an excellent job. The majesty, uniqueness, ever changing, spiritual depth, and historical significance cannot be portrayed in a photograph.

“It must be experienced, first hand, morning, noon and night; with a mind set of reverence and appreciation and understanding of the importance of viewing someone’s life, life style, and their generations of family.

“Oh, if we could only understand the meaning of the art they painted and etched on the rocks! Did they know that thousands of years later we would be studying those sketches and tappings? What about those carved stars? The snake? All the hand prints? The calendar? The list could go on and on.

“We are nearing the end of our ‘giving back’ journey here but, not surprisingly, we have gained much more than we have ‘given back’. We have learned so much, experienced so much, and shared so much.

“We have found a community of like minded people who love nature, love the story of the people who came before us, love the landscape, and love the whole idea of Visit With Respect. We are so thankful to those that have worked to preserve and honor the ancestors and establish the Bears Ears Partnership. Working diligently to teach these principles is necessary for future generations to continue honoring and respecting this land!

“We have fallen in love with Bears Ears. We will be back!💗

#13 in the series.

This has been such an amazing experience. And a lot of it is due to the fact that we’ve been able to spend significant time here. But also, just about everyone we’ve met has been friendly and engaging.

“Are you a long hair?” Leo asked me matter-of-factly when he came through the door of the BEEC. Leo is quite an artist and he creates designs for the partnership.

“Well,” I said, “I do have a little Cherokee heritage.”

“How do you say ‘hello’ in your language? I’m Diné, We say ‘yá’át’ééh’.”

“I don’t have a clue,” I replied, a little embarrassed.

He sat down across from me at the low side counter and we had a nice chat.

This is interesting. I’ve kept a running list of how I’ve been “profiled” over the years and maybe the circle is now finally complete. Let me explain with a somewhat nonlinear story.

Not too long after 9/11, I attended a security conference at Fort Huachuca, near Sierra Vista. The base is very close to the Mexico border. The dinner and evening entertainment one night was at the Officers’ Club. Walking into the club I stopped by the restroom. In typical government style, there was a row of sinks along one wall. A man in a long black Duster had his toiletry/shaving kit out, and was apparently finishing up a shave. His hair was still wet from a rinse and he was completing the wash up by drying and twisting up his mustache.

I’m thinking, “Wow, how did this guy get in the Officers’ Club? How did he get on base?”

Lo and behold, he was a Cowboy Poet, part of a cadre of cowboys that included Baxter Black, the most famous. If you ever get a chance to read (or hear) Black’s “Range Fire,” give it a go, it’s quite captivating. But I digress…

This guy was the entertainment. And apparently he just rode in off the range? Fascinating. So after dinner he took the stage with a deep, booming voice and regaled us with cowboy poetry, steeped in wisdom and mystery. But let’s get back on track…

Driving back to Tucson from Fort Huachuca, I decided to take a more scenic route along state highways. As I topped a hill I saw a state trooper. Now, I wasn’t speeding. But I tan easily and it was summer and I had my shirt off with the windows down. Oh, and I had this massively bushy beard. As I expected, he pulled me over. Obviously an Arab terrorist sneaking across the border.

He asked for my license and looked me over. Then…he asked me my name. As the Appalachia rolled off of my tongue, he just handed me my license back. Yeah, no foreigner can fake an accent like that, you can go.

The second time it happened, I was with my family at Tybee Island. No beard this time. Joe and I were trying to get all the beach gear across the deep dry sand and had everything balanced on a wheeled cooler. The stack was high and unwieldy but we were almost over the rough part. A lady about 30 feet away shouted over to us, “If you put a strap across all of that it would stay together!” My son-in-law Joe and I were a bit dumbfounded that she felt the need to “help” us with our task and I had this quizzical look on my face. She asked, “¿No habla inglés?”

We both just fell out laughing. And we have laughed over it many times since.

So it became a thing for me over the years:

• A man with a clipboard approached me in front of a quick mart and asked me if I was the owner, thinking India.
• An office worker in Huntsville thought I was Sicilian.
• A veteran at a campground in PA, who was Brazilian, thought I was Columbian.
• In Belize, a local thought I owned the ice cream store up the street. Another, on hearing about my red meat allergy, just wanted to know, “How do you live here?!”
• In Peru, one of our drivers eyed me over and thought that maybe I was Bolivian.

Something is just not quite right about me. They can’t put their finger on it. Maybe it’s the green eyes.

So – and maybe sadly – my frame and skin tone have never been recognized as Native American, let alone Cherokee.

Do you remember Iron Eyes Cody? He was popular in some of the old westerns, but he became most famous as the “Crying Indian” for anti-litter campaigns in the 1970’s. He wasn’t Native American at all! He was in fact a Sicilian through and through, one  Espera de Corti. Interestingly, he became a strong advocate of Native Americans, and near the end of his life actually believed he was Native American. Truth is stranger than fiction.

Anyway, I think Leo brought it on home. He came in a couple of days later and I was ready. He announced, “Yá’át’ééh!” I replied in Cherokee, “O si yo!”

Ya know, I’m kinda glad to get that off my chest. I’ve always wondered if my ancestry would ever be recognized. It seems that Native Americans are just an afterthought these days. You don’t hear much about them, other than some “pain” they want to cause. And back east it’s only street and place names that seem to carry their legacy. Just like our beautiful springs, the reason most towns got their start. But that’s another discussion.

We’ve gotten comfortable here in Bluff. And there’s so much more to explore. But it feels like it’s time to head back home.

I briefly met another Joe, this one being a local artist. A fascinating man whom I learned not only discovered the mammoth petroglyph at Sand Island but also the oldest named dinosaur species in all of Utah. He walks to the beat of his own drum, you can feel it and see it in his demeanor. As we talked, he asked why we were here. I mentioned that we were volunteering for a month and that we like to spend time in a place in order to get a feel for it.

He said, “We call that eddying out.”

That hit me like a bolt of lightning. I’ve spent a lifetime of “swimming upstream.” Sometimes because I’ve had to, sometimes because I like questioning things to sift out their true meaning, sometimes, because I just enjoy it. It can be hard, and every once in a while I just give up and float aimlessly back down the river like an electro-shocked fish until I snap out of it. I have learned that taking the stream head-on in the channel will tire me quickly. Steadily working upstream along the streambanks is a better way to go.

But this idea of drifting along downstream while looking for the calm eddies is something I will have to consider. Or maybe it is something I’ve been doing all along.

The comment reminded me of late last summer when Patricia and I were floating the 16-mile remnant of Glen Canyon to Lee’s Ferry from the dam. The Colorado twists and turns and there are huge, deep pools just before the riffles where the river narrows and the flow regains speed. Patricia and I had been gently pulled into an eddy that split from the riffle and literally carried us several hundred feet back upstream along the inside of the bend along the magnificent bluff wall. It took minutes to circle around…and we just let the eddy circle us around a second time.

And then with a single paddle stroke at the appropriate time, we slipped out of the eddy to move on downstream. Delicious.

So yeah, eddying out. Some circle a while, some never leave. I love the chill.

It’s a unique place. Steve at Twin Rocks Trading Post is first class, as is his beautiful store. His “watch dogs” are not to be confused with “guard dogs” and have their own special purpose, tripping up any ne’er-do-well attempting to flee the front door.

I guess those rocks have been there a long time, but man they are huge.

Across the street, Cow Canyon Trading Post has its own vibe. Liza has a beautiful space with a little music from time to time.

And there are even crazier rocks down the road. Mexican Hat gets its name because it looks like an upside down sombrero.

It kinda defies belief. Especially when you think about how long it has balanced there.

But I love the city limit signs in Bluff. Stating that it was “established” in 650AD, it acknowledges that cultures come and go. Centuries and centuries of indigenous tribes, and more recently the Mormons made a go of it before mostly moving on to Blanding and Monticello.

Maybe that’s the story of the Colorado Plateau and its people. A dynamic landscape and a living history. Maybe that’s the way life is supposed to be lived. Settle where you might, move when you need, return if you can.

The buttes at Bears Ears were recognized by five different and distinct tribes as “Bears Ears.” A centerpoint of ancestral lands. The Bears Ears Partnership, in kind, is at the center of a cultural renaissance. One where we begin to more fully understand the history of our great nation and earnestly begin to teach it to our children. Our country has a history and culture like no other, it seems we should awaken to it and respect it in a manner it deserves.