Author: Nyla Anne

Driving into Venice, Florida to pick up Pearl, my 2022 Helio O4, at 10:00 am I was as nervous as a young person getting ready for their first date.

After all, I’d driven 4157 miles to collect her, based on a phone call, an I Phone hand held live camera walk around, and my instinct that the people selling her are good people. Still, with all those miles behind me, I did find myself worrying.

What if there is something wrong that didn’t show up in the video tour or walk around?  What if, after seeing her in person, I have buyer’s remorse? What if I’m unable to hook her up myself, back her into place myself, handle her on the road?

All of those doubts melted as Allen led me to her. She is as pretty as I remember. As solid as advertised. And her red flame matches my red Rav Prime, which is just cool.

Yes, a bit silly that it matters, because it did happento be a coincidence, her color. It had nothing to do with my decision to buy her. But still, hooked up, what a sweet visual.

And the guy at the RV supply shop I went to first thing after driving her away (I needed to get mirror extenders; the expensive ones I brought all the way from Portland didn’t fit), said, “That sure is a real cute set up. I’ve never seen one of those Helio’s before.”

I proceeded to tell him about her molded fiberglass on aluminum frame with sealed seams, the solar/electric/propane power options, the fact she was built in Canada. He said, “Oh, if this cute little trailer was made in Canada, she’ll last.”

But back to her pick-up.

Allen walked me around the outside, explaining everything in detail. Then, opened the door and showed me around the inside. I’d done so much research online, including reading the owner’s manual last night, that none of what he explained was new, but it still is nice to see things in 3D.

He’d purchased a new closed seal battery for me, had everything lubed, greased, and oiled. Corrected the tire pressure right before I arrived. He even replaced the non-slip waterproof top to the step. Such a kind man.

I practiced hitching her up. One side of the chains turns out to be a tight fit– I wish it had just one more link. I’ll have to figure that out. We then tested the lights. Perfect. Turn signals? Yep. We tested my new blue tooth brake system. Perfect.

He then helped me assemble that portable side mirror system I’d brought along, which was a good thing. The instructions were confusing and it really did require two people.  But….not perfect. The stupid thing didn’t fit, though I’d been assured it would.

Turns out the bottom railing is just too narrow for my vehicle.

Damn. I’d have to drive with less-than-ideal visibility my first time on the road to find an RV service department.

Fortunately, there was one about seven miles away.  This is Florida. Smile. Though I could see pretty well along the sides, just not far enough back to feel completely comfortable.

I located the dealership. They had suction cup mirror extenders which fit my mirrors. They work pretty good.We hit the road,

Durga pulling Pearl on our maiden voyage. I drove quite carefully at first, testing my faithful Durga’s ability to handle the load. She is a champ. Easy acceleration, good braking, corners well. Minimal wind resistance until I hit the freeway and those big trucks go zooming by. Even then it’s not too bad, but you feel them. Still, I’ve also decided not to drive faster than 60 while towing. I think that’s wise. And once I can get off the freeways, I’ll stick to blue highways as much as possible, which I prefer anyway.

I brought her back to my little Myakka River retreat, unhooked her, came inside to eat some lunch at last.

This evening I’ll do a smudge ritual to cleanse and prepare her for her part of the pilgrimage.  Then, tomorrow morning, I’ll begin the first of two days of setting her up inside, creating my cozy home on the road.

Blessed Be.

Turning south down I-75 in Florida, I begin to feel the pull of Wesley Chapel. A beautiful lakeside 4 acres where Janice, the kids, and I lived for one memorable year of a lease/option to purchase a dream, never fully realized.

Wesley Chapel was a year which included manifesting a beautiful chestnut mare, Jessie; Erinna defying gravity with the Barnum and Bailey Circus for the Kids; me coaching David and his Odyssey of the Mind team to 4^th place in the national IBM smart kid’s competition, after which he then nailed First Place in the Pasco County Mathletes contest ; Erinna dancing to the oh, so ironic and fitting Green Acres theme song in her third grade jazz recital;  my working on the statewide anti-gay initiative (which, this being Florida, failed); Jan leaving at 5:00 am to go travel with, photograph, and report on Jeb Bush’s campaign; me coordinating a statewide Planned Parenthood social marketing campaign targeted at males for reducing teen pregnancy and building a multi-racial coalition to take it over, something which the people who hired me said couldn’t be done.

It was a year of smelling springtime evening breezes sweetened by orange blossoms in the neighboring orchards, taking summer afternoon dips naked in our pool, marveling as box turtles migrated in the hundreds

down the sandy roads to our property, startling through a season of opening doors as a plague of small green frogs leapt through from every direction, after which we would discover their desiccated bodies in full extension throughout the house.

Wesley Chapel was the year the gorgeous dead scarab beetle we’d found on our land, then kept on the kitchen window ledge all winter long, suddenly resurrected.

Its metallic green, red, and black body lifting airborne by transparent silverfish wings while I stood, amazed, washing the dishes.

It was a year of coming to understand that despite this seeming bucolic country living, Florida was not home.

The people, the food, the climate, the intolerance, the lack of community, the Mormon sheriff across the road who led Militia maneuvers on his land every Sunday after church, filling the air with the sound of gunfire, grenades, the occasional rocket launcher; the absence of friends and family—it simply proved too much for David, Erinna and me.

The only reason we were in Florida in the first place was because Janice had insisted we nurture our fledgling relationship on her turf, her terms. Desperate to make it work, I’d acquiesced, selling my home,  uprooting our lives, leaving it all behind for the dream of a family happy ever after.

Which wasn’t to be.

After a Christmas flight home to visit those we’d left behind, a visit in which I watched the faces of my children light up with a joy it never did in Wesley Chapel, I promised them we’d return to Portland at the end of the school year if they were still unhappy.

Janice and I fought almost every day after that. She became exhausted from working 10-12 hour days, eating almost nothing, drinking copious amounts of coffee, coming home depleted, expecting me to caretake.

Daily, despite my own fatigue, I worked to bring her back to life. Her Crohn’s Disease flared over and over again, frightening us both. Yet she would do nothing to change the pattern.

By the time we took an ill-fated family spring vacation trip to the beach, bringing along Janice’s mother, Marion, as an attempt to forge family, a symbolic, but very real, hurricane raged all around us.

Janice confessed to the first of many side relationships she would have throughout our life together as we stood, beaten by the wind and rain.

“Janice,” I said, “I love you. I gave up a life, a home, even my children’s happiness as proof of that love. I thought things would be different. I think we gave it our best shot here. I’m taking David and Erinna back to Portland where they belong, where they have friends, family and community.

If you want to come with us, I will be happy. If you don’t, I will understand. But things have to be different, Janice.  I have to be able to trust, to believe you if it’s going to work out.”

In the days that followed, we aimed our minds toward the change, I sold my mare to a kind man who said, “If this horse could cook, I’d leave my wife for her, I love her that much.” Janice sold her golf clubs. Said goodbye to Cris.

We packed our things, put the kids on a flight home to spare them another long road trip. Janice and I left the house with our three stowaway cats, racing a hurricane named Erin, all the way through Missouri, where it finally veered north and left us in peace.

Thirty years is a long time, which is exactly how many years have passed since that drive back across the country  to save our relationship, our family life. To try to make things work in Portland.

So much happened.

After ten years, our volatile, passionate, overwhelming relationship morphed. Our love became some kind of confusing, toxic, mutually hurtful stew.

When out of her mind one night after I’d confronted her with yet another secret, she tried to push me down a flight of stairs, I knew we’d finally crossed the line.

I left the next morning.

A decade and a half after that sad night, after a battle with Cancer she faced courageously, Janice died. She stayed close to David and Erinna to the very end, a true second mother loving them as her own children.

She and I had managed to forge a strange kind of partnership, both understanding that our love would never go away, but that we needed to find a different way to actualize it.

Her death tore me to pieces. I broke down. Afterward, out of necessity, I compartmentalized, placing her memory gently into a closed corner of my heart.

But her spirit is growing stronger and louder with every passing mile I travel. She is with me as I close in on the turn off to Wesley Chapel.

Then, it hits me: this part of my pilgrimage, the reason I’ve come all the way to Florida. Ostensibly to pick up a trailer, it’s really about making peace with that chapter of my life. Which was so huge in defining who I became. Who I am.

Making peace with Janice and me.  Making peace with our love.

The community of Wesley Chapel has grown up in the decades since we lived in its sleepy patch of pine and sand. It is the fastest growing community in Pasco County. There is even a Toyota dealership at the intersection which was once wild land. Which is where I am writing this, waiting for an oil change and tire rotation that need to occur before my journey home.

The road to our property is still sand, I am pleased to see, albeit, now graded. No more wash boarded ruts jarring your shocks if you drive faster than 10 miles per hour.

Our house is still there,

much as I remember it.

A good house, well built. Two stories, three bedrooms, a comfortable, sizable country kitchen, screened Florida room leading to the pool. A loft which became my office. A garage addition which became Janice’s.

It is a good family house, still housing a family from the looks of the things strewn about the front. But as I step out of my car to walk the perimeter, I note that the property is in disrepair. It breaks my heart.

The fencing is falling down in sections. The beautiful oak barn has weathered badly, the wood untreated, its metal roof and doors rusted. Jessie’s paddock and box stall with its attached tack room, an area I maintained scrupulously, has collapsed. A mound of old boards is all that remains.

The pasture, with it’s then young trees, has overgrown.

There is so much beauty. The lake has edged closer to the property, the wetland is a marvel to behold.  The huge pile of horse poo created by David shoveling the paddock to earn comic book money is now ablaze with wildflowers.

The air is sweet. Hundreds of songbirds are singing. A breeze moves gently through the beautiful moss draped trees. I close my eyes, feel the love that flourished. Breathe in, breathe out.

Let go of the anger, the pain. Allow the grief to move through me, vanish into the air.

I make my peace with Wesley Chapel.

When I left Florida with David, Erinna, and Janice in the late 1990’s, I said I would never return.  The year we’d lived in Wesley Chapel gave us many good experiences, yes, but in total, it was not a place I felt at home. Neither did the kids.

Today, I crossed the line from Alabama into the Panhandle of Florida while it was still morning. The skies were full of the kind white clouds I remember gathering just before a big storm may or may not hit. It was beautiful.

Driving in silence, so many thoughts, memories, emotions making their way through me, I decided that I would make my peace with Florida. I would focus on all that I had enjoyed about it, would look this trip for the beauty Jan grew up seeing. Would overlook, just this once, the politics, the orange one’s influence, the greed and vanity I remember encountering in so many who choose to move here so they can exploit the land and its people.

A few hours in to the state, I needed a break. Time to get out of the car. Move my body. Walk.  I began scouting the exit signs as I always do when I’m in heart wide open mode.

Falling Waters State Park, next exit, appeared.

Couldn’t be better, I thought, as I negotiated the turn.

Falling Waters turns out to be the highest waterfall in Florida, which is a bit of a misnomer.  The spring is so tall because it falls into a deep sink hole.

The sink hole allows the spring water to fall a total distance of 73 feet, which in flat Florida, is a lot.

Here’s the jump off point:

Here’s where it lands

The entire park is riddled with sink holes,

a phenomenon I first experienced personally with horror shortly after our move to Wesley Chapel.

I’d found my dream horse. A 12 year old Chestnut Arab/Quarter cross mare named Jessie. I was over the moon. Our four acres included a fenced and quarter fenced ½ acre paddock, a very nice box stall with attached tack room and feed room, and a gorgeous, huge wooden barn big enough to work on a semi-truck inside (which is what the previous tenant had done). Plus, three acres of pine tree studded pasture backing to a wetland, then lake.  And yes, there were gators.

I’m going to find the right horse and bring her home, I told the family.  Everyone was excited.

After a couple of months of looking, trying, and then rejecting this horse and that for various reasons, I found Jessie.  At a very posh ranch about six miles down the back roads from our property.

She was beautiful, had been well trained, and had excellent trail sense, which is what I was looking for.

I scrubbed up our own sturdy box stall, laid fresh straw down, moved good quality hay and feed into the storage room, loaded up the saddle, blanket, and bridle into the car. Asked Jan to give me a lift to the ranch.

“What are you going to do, Nyla Anne?”  she demanded in a stern voice.

“I’m going to ride my horse home,” I said. “I’ve been waiting my adult life for this day and I’m going to do it the old way. I’m not trailering her. I’m riding her. It’s only five and a half miles.”

After a fair amount of discussion, the matter was settled. Jan drove me to the barn after making sure I understand she had first photo rights.  I tacked up my mare, pulled myself into the saddle. Gave her a little cluck and we were on our way.

Jessie was fresh, so a bit dancey at first, but she soon settled into the groove.

Jan kept following us, then passing us to get ahead to take another picture. Both Jessie and I were becoming anxious and  uncomfortable by this, so I finally sent her on home.

We rode the rest of the way companionably, me singing to her as she  more than once looked anxiously backward toward what she still considered home.

At last, we arrived at Wesley Chapel.  I brought her into the pasture. Led her to the fence by the tack room. Took off her saddle and exchanged the bridle for a halter. Rubbed her down.

 I led her around the entire perimeter of the fence of her new digs. speaking in a calm voice, explaining this was her new home, showing her the gate, the water trough, the feed box. I led her into her box stall and stayed awhile with her, reassuring and brushing her.

I finally unhooked the halter and said, “I hope you’ll be happy here,” then turned to walk toward the house.

A moment later, I heard Jessie thundering out of the box behind me, heading full bore across the paddock. Her head was high, mane flowing, tale aloft in that gorgeous Arabian way.  She was beautiful, but she was frantic.

“Jessie, whoa. Whoa there!” I said, moving across to try to head her off.

Suddenly, when she was in full flight, the earth just opened up beneath her.

I watched my beautiful chestnut mare fall into a gaping sink hole that materialized out of nowhere.  She went down, rolling, then stopped.

I freaked, imagining broken legs. Broke into my own frantic run.

Before I could reach her, she righted herself, managed to kind of crawl out by digging in with her front hooves and pulling herself forward.  I reached her just as she got all four feet on the ground.

She was trembling.  I was trembling.  I tore off my tee shirt and wrapped it around her neck for a catch rope, cooing and murmuring, “you’re all right, you’re all right.”

I ran my hands over her legs, her body, could see nothing wrong. But I understood in that moment that I had just lost all trust I had gained with that mare. And indeed, that proved to be true.

So, back to Falling Waters.

This park triggered that memory, it flowing from my road fatigued brain as easily as those fallings waters were falling down into that limestone sink hole. Before disappearing.

I walked the trails above the hole, below the hole, then through the other sink holes which are still growing in size. Other Florida memories came crowding back.

The air smelled of ozone and pine. Birds were singing their hearts out. I began my peace-making in earnest.

XXXXXXXXX

A few hours later, I arrived at my humble little converted barn room at this rural animal rescue and healing center.  It definitely has the feel of old Florida. I believe Jan would approve.

These guys welcomed me.

Then, as I was carrying my things inside, this girl came to say hello

On the road at 5:30 am. Still dark. A busy smattering of trucks and cars are already on route to here and there. I join them.

Getting out of Texas becomes a bit of a chore.  High speeds.  Constant road construction leading to narrowed lanes, concrete walls right up against the roadway. Lanes ending or appearing suddenly without warning.

After an hour, I stop to get coffee and a spinach egg white plate with fresh fruit at some little cafe at some exit I don’t remember. The server calls me Ma’am constantly, though she is my age or so.

It’s just me, her, and the cook. Lively Mexican music fills the air.

Finally, I make Louisiana.  Slowly the road opens up. Swamps with giant pines and dead looking cedars surround the freeway. At one point, a river is diverted right down the middle of east and west bound lanes until it opens at a wide bayou mouth.

I spot Pelicans cruising the waters at a leisurely speed. The sun is beginning to rise so I’m thinking morning insects mean fish biting mean happy Pelicans feeding.

Then, I get  tricked by Lafayette.

,

I assume a town named after a famous pirate will have to be interesting. I head downtown. It’s 10:00 and not a thing is open.

I meander up and down the four block historical square. A beautiful courthouse which, if I didn’t have to pee so bad, I would have stopped to photograph.

I finally spot a public parking lot. Pull in. AM immediately accosted by thirtyish meth woman on bicycle.

“That sure is a pretty dress,” she opens, coming within a foot of my driver’s side door as I’m preparing to  step out. Too much in my space.

“Thank you,” I stay congenial despite the proximity. “First day I’ve worn a dress in months. The humidity makes it seem like a good choice.”

“Listen Ma’am, I’m sorry to bother you but I’m start\ting a new job on Saturday at xxxxx (some place I sure don’t know).”

“Good for you,” I say. “Congratulations.”

I edge by her, closing my door, move around until we’re face to face.

“See, I can take the bus most of the way,” she says, both oblivious and earnest.”But I have to ride this bike after the line ends.  (it’s a strong, heavy, steel thing with big, wide tires). And I need a new tube.  I’ve already got most of the money….”

“How much is a tube?”  I ask.

“Nine dollars, Ma”am.”

She pulls out a small roll of bills, all ones, and a few coins.

“I got a little over six now.” She holds it up for my approval.

“Where’s the bike shop?” I ask.

“It’s just right around the corner, up there a block. They be open in a few minutes.”

‘Tell you what,” I say, “I want to help celebrate your new job.  Walk there with me and I’ll buy you your tube.”

I smile.  She look at her bills. At me. Puts the money away.

“Well,” she waivers, “Mebbe I’ll meet you there in five minutes. You go eat or whatever.”

“Oh, I’m not eating. I just need to pee.”

That embarrasses her.  She blushes.  Says, “See you.” Gets on her seat, begins paddling away.

So I guess that’s appropriate for a pirate city, after all.

Late lunch is in  “Something Springs” somewhere past all the miles of rice paddies

and over the giant spans across the big Mississippi Rivers,

down onto a lush pastured countryside.

I drive past fast food joints, noticing how many offer cracklin’s, fried shrimp, crayfish/crawdads, and boutin.

Past the “historic center,” which consists of exactly two blocks of antique shops, one after another. No services, nothing save sales.

Turning down a side road I spot a little green corner cafe, named The Green Cafe. Decid to trust it.

The Green Cafe is a Mediterranean cafe run by a father and his son, neither with much English.  They didn’t advertise which country their recipes are from but I had smooth, fresh hummus, a great feta Greek style salad with a bit of cajun kick, some thin sliced grilled chicken and warm pita bread. And a powerful connection with a cajun girl.

I strike up conversation with this eighteen year old girl who is blind.  She is blind because some older boys raped, then beat her, when she was thirteen. They threw her so hard against a wall that her ocular nerve was damaged.  The sight in one eye went immediately, the other is slowly degenerating.

She and I trade brain injury stories, recovery stories, and a few selected anecdotes from our mutual lives of having been bullied and mocked for being “special.”

She is a feisty, smart young woman; I tell her so.

She is also training a three month old Belgian Malanois (yikes) as her service dog, insists it is actually going quite well.

“He’s so smart,” she tells me, “He was shaking hands and laying down after just four days.  People say they’re mean, nervous dogs. But they are just really smart and they need to be kept busy. They like to work.”

Turns out today is her birthday. I wish her happy birthday and happy life. Tell her, “You can be anything you want. Don’t ever let anyone limit you but yourself. When you need to.”

I head onward East.

Soon I arrive in Alabama.

My turn off to Long Beach comes pretty quickly. One minute, I am barreling down the interstate, the next I’m slow driving down side roads with my window down, breathing the air. Something sweet I don’t recognize. I am reminded I’m in the Land of Dixie when I notice this

It’s interesting because I only saw two T===P bumper stickers in all of Texas. One giant billboard in Louisiana with a picture of Jesus, T and Vance sported the text, God wants you to Trust Jesus, Trump and Vance. The thing was the size of a three story barn.  No missing that sucker.

Nevertheless, you can feel it’s deep red South. There are churches or Christian billboards every where I look.  People are incredibly polite or they’re hostile (especially the men) for no reason other than they don’t know me. And I guess because I’m a woman traveling alone. Thankfully, there seems to be a 9:1 nice person to asshole  ratio.

I drive through miles of pretty pine barrens and swampy, overgrown fields until I arrive at the gulf. Right there before me.

I get out, take off my shoes, wade through thick, soft, sugary white sand to the water’s edge.

I intend to wade in the water until I see it: how close the refinery and big sewer run-off pipes are, I  gingerly dip my toes into the water, walk the beach instead.

I stare south, east, the directions I’ll be heading tomorrow.

Spring break along Gulfport and surrounds, into the Panhandle of Florida. Should be an experience.

But for now, I’m here, in this modest, magical, earth mama cabin provided by  a Christian witch (that warrants a good conversation).

It’s just me,

many song birds, the biggest, friendliest bumble bee I’ve ever seen–I mean, two and a half inches long, for realz- and insects humming away all around as the wind whispers through the pines

  I rock in that chair on the porch after a nice long, walk down the lane.

Faintly off in the distance, voices of happy children playing.  The night begins to cool.

Respite night.

Blessed Be.

I drove two hours out of my original planned way to get to these caverns once I read that they are the largest known crystal show cavern in the world.

This means that unlike caves filled with limestone stalactites and stalagmites, this cave system is filled with crystals, composed of varying strains of calcite.  Some of the helictites are of a purity not seen anywhere else.

The caverns were discovered by accident when Stanley Mayfield was out hunting with his dog on his ranch. The dog went off in pursuit of a raccoon, then disappeared down a hole. Mr. Mayfield whistled for the dog to reappear but he didn’t.

He could hear far away yelping so pushed his head down into the hole to have a look. What he saw was the opening to a chamber of connected caves which he’d had no idea was down there.

He rescued his dog, got himself out of there, and hired a professional spelunker who brought in a team to explore. What they discovered amazed them all because it was clear no humans had ever been down there.

There are 7 underground miles discovered so far in this cavern complex, two of which are open to the public via tours. These tours began in 1960 as a way to protect the cave from careless visitors who had begun vandalizing the caverns. The entrance and exits are now locked except during business hours.

In 1965, the National Park Service included the Caverns in the National Register of Natural Landmarks.

I left Truth or Consequences at 7:00 to allow for enough time.  The GPS said 7 1/2 hours.  Of course, the GPS doesn’t factor in road construction or the stop just outside of El Paso for “inspection.”  I thought it was going to be a produce inspection, but no.  This inspection was newly set up to check traveler’s citizenship status.

The border agent, er….”inspector” asked for proof of citizenship. As a white, senior citizen clearly traveling solo, I was not subjected to a vehicle inspection. But several ahead of me were.

I saw buses parked to the side by the temporary offices. I don’t know if people were in them or not.

Back on the road, I passed through mile after mile of dry, flat, desert. Even though it’s spring, there was very little green to be seen.

At one point, I drove through about twenty miles reeking of natural gas. I noticed small, high output looking drills, like mini-oil derricks, here and there amidst the sage brush. Then, lo!  A huge wind farm sharing the land with the natural gas derricks. This went on until just about mid-west Texas.

Closing in on 4:30  I saw a very small sign which said, Caverns of Sonora, next exit, Private Road.

Now, there had been not only spring forward clock change this day, but also change to central time, so two hours later than my earlier calculations I was becoming anxious. What if they closed at 5:00?

I turned onto the private road and twenty minutes later, after meandering through the creosote bush laden landscape, for several mile I arrived.

There were no cars in the parking lot. Uh oh.

I walked past this old dentist’s chair on the front porch.  Yikes! Imagine sitting there while someone drilled on your teeth without anesthesia.

I entered the door.

There were five staff standing around looking like they were ready to wrap up for the day.  Fortunately, no one groaned audibly at my arrival.

The owner greeted me with a smile.

I explained I was from Oregon, that I’d driven two and half hours out of my way to visit the caverns after reading about them on-line.  He appreciated a fellow spelunker at heart so asked a young man named Elizuardo, if he’d be willing to take down one more person.  The usual tour group size is 5-10 apparently, so this was a kind of big ask.  Elizuarado (call me Eli), was very sweet. He said yes.  (Don’t worry, I tipped him generously at the end).

He told me that the temperature inside was 85 with a 98% percent humidity, so suggested I leave my over shirt off and just go in my tee shirt. Bring nothing, except my I-Phone for taking pictures.

We descended. Our first flight of stairs going deep–a total of 185 feet below the surface- over the course of our two miles.  There were many stairs and steps to come, much more primitive than these.

Besides stairs,

there were narrow ledges with sheer drop offs into the dark depths below, arches to crawl under, rocks to clamber over, slippery flowstone to glide across.

There was even one place where it would have been possible to crawl into a side cave and rappel down to a huge chamber on a lower level if I were interested.

Sweet Elizuardo. As if I were capable of that. But had I been, damn, I’d have been on that rope in a heart beat.

These formations are interesting.

Due to the temperature inside the cavern system, with its high humidity, there is a constant slow drip over the centuries as  condensation gathers enough force.

The drip down of calcium creates the stalactite.  It then bounces up to create the stalagmite. When enough time has passed, the two form one great pillar, or stagnate.

There are myriad pillars at varying levels and colors of the cavern system as the calcite pressure changes.

This is called Cavern Bacon.  It is an interesting phenomenon where the crystals, instead of dripping straight down, slide into tendrils. It only happens in one part of the cave system.

This face just appeared out of nowhere. If you look closely, you can see that it is, in fact, mirror image flows that merged.

And a little way on, this fossil of a jawbone in the ceiling caught my eye. But it’s actually another rare calcite formation.

This white stuff is called cavern chalk. Here it is again, only this time with a somewhat rare phenomenon, small pillars that grow sideways, then raise upward.

These embedded round things are actually geodes.

There is an entire gigantic hall in the cavern system where geodes grow out of the surface.

And look here, the wall of elephants

Both the geodes and the elephants are comprised of flowstone. Flowstone is a form of naturally de-gassed calcite which flows along the walls of the cave instead of dripping. Eventually, the flow hardens. Of course, we’re talking thousands of years.  Amazing.

What you are seeing here is a pool of water. It is about ten feet deep, shaped like a horseshoe of about 30 feet length.

Look closely. You can see a ripple spreading across the pool. The ripple is made from drops falling from the ceiling above. We are looking down about 20 feet, by the way. Distances are hard to gauge.

There are several pools of water in the cavern system.  They are formed when the condensation has enough force to wear through the flowstone or surface, creating a pool. The water is ancient. Nothing grows in it. No one is allowed to touch it in order to preserve its purity. It comes from inside the earth, where it will remain.

This red is rather impressive. It comes from the flashlight bouncing off a vein of calcite which is able to amplify the hue.

At 185 feet down, before we began climbing our way up a different route, we came upon this

Another pool of water can be seen down there with what look like anemones but are faux vents.

And thiscurious, sensuous formation.

This next collection of helictites is world famous for its complexity, abundance, and purity.  Elizuardo called it “the snake’s nest.”

By this time, nearly two miles into our journey, the humidity and heat, combined with all that climbing and clambering, was really taking its toll. I felt like my legs might give out.

I asked Elizuardo if we could  rest.  He was embarrassed not to have thought of that sooner.  He said,  “I’m so sorry. You are just so interested in it all.”

Here’s where we stopped. Before the lights went out.

I asked if we might turn off the flashlight, just be in the darkness in silence for a few minutes.

He loved that idea, said no one had yet asked him that.

So we stood together in the pitch black, surrounded by the drips, plips, and ploops of millennia old water, the lifeblood of our planet, doing its magical work inside our Mother Earth.

I felt very small, yet oddly, very much part of it all.

Spirit exists in so many forms, in so many places.

 

 

 

 

 

In the desert outside of Truth or Consequences, New Mexico, basically in the middle of nowhere, sits Spaceport America. It is the only spaceport in the world built for the purpose of accommodating commercial spaceflights.

While it is technically owned by the State of New Mexico, thus allowing it to be sited on 18,000 acres of Public Trust Land, Virgin Galactic, owned by Sir Richard Branson, is the tenant. Of equal interest to me is that fact that the 18,000 acres hosting Spaceport America, sit in the middle of a 350,000-acre old Spanish land grant now owned by Ted Turner.  Best buds in commerce?

Another interesting fact is that the location is just to the east of the White Sands Missile Testing Range, which is ideal for the spaceport because the missile range has restricted air space, thus protecting the Spaceport from curious aviators or “bad actors.”

Also, the Spaceport sits at 4600 feet above sea level in the high desert which means that much larger payloads can be launched using the same amount of fuel as would be used at lower levels.  Gosh, it’s environmentally friendly. Though the terminal was built to mimic the desert surrounds and nearly disappears from view at higher altitudes. 

The runway is currently 10,000 feet long and 43 inches of poured concrete thick (so environmentally friendly), with another 2000 in length being added to accommodate the safe landing of spacecraft with full rockets.

So, this spaceport, sitting on public land, owned by the State of Mexico, subsidized by public dollars and tax subsidies is NOT open to the public.

This is as close as you can get. There are armed “security personnel” to help redirect you should you want to visit your public facility.

In the meantime, should you successfully find a way to follow along, the 7^th Galactic Research and Commercial Launch is scheduled for June 8, 2025.

Tickets to ride begin at $450,000 for four chosen passengers who will board the Unity, the small aircraft attached to spacecraft Eve until she blasts off into deeper space. At the time, Unity disengages and resumes normal super jet flight until landing.

These four will apparently experience a few moments of weightlessness.

Get your tickets now!

The research crew’s names are not made public. They are referred to as Astronauts 027, 028, 029, and 030.  Virgin Galactic’s crew names have been released. VSS Unity Commander Nicola Pecile and pilot Jameel Janjua will be joined by VMS Eve Commander Andy Edgell and pilot C.J. Sturckow. Also of note, Axiom Space is a financial partner.

Apparently, an alignment pin detached from Galactic 06 mission on January 06, 2024, sending Unity and those aboard, into a freefall flight. No one was injured.

The FAA investigation into why this happened just concluded, findings not available to the public. Still, mission 07, the twelfth total galactic flight thus far of Branson’s dream, has been cleared for take off.

There is a very small visitor’s center at the north end of T of C with limited hours. It recently relocated from this larger one due to “finances.”  Not very reassuring.

Here’s the old center.

It’s much cooler to look at than the tiny new one sharing space with other tourist shops.

In any case,  I missed out on the limited guided PR tours available at certain times for folks who sign up. The center does sell expensive merch for those who still want a taste, tour or no.

I thought perhaps, since it’s a publicly owned enterprise, the public would get a free tee-shirt ($30) if we asked nicely.

Naw.

“This cup makes a more budget friendly gift”, I was told.

I opted out.

I’m waiting to use up my hella lot of frequent flyer miles. Maybe Virgin Galactic will become a partner airline.

As a member of the public, therefore a co-owner of the publicly owned Spaceport, I expect a discount.

Almost eight hours of driving again but for much of this day, instead of fighting traffic,  I was mesmerized by landforms and taking in interesting details.

Such as, supply trains that are longer than anything I’ve ever seen streak across the wide open spaces with great frequency.

First, I noticed that the freight cars were double stacked necessitating a tow by two engines. I counted 144 cars.

Then, there was a second train behind the first,  three engines pulling. After 100 cars there were two more engines inserted, followed by another 100 plus cars.

I stopped counting the cars on the other trains I passed, but marveled at the power of those locomotives as they power through the vast desert, bringing things to us, useful or not.

This place,

is named Texas Canyon though it’s in Arizona. It was another one of those power places that just draw me to them. I went into this one, not deep, because the access road was chained due to weather. But deep enough to walk a bit, to contemplate  aeons.

A couple of hours driving later, I felt the need to get out and walk again so  just turned off at an exit with nothing really to call attention to it. Sometimes those are the most interesting.

As I came off the freeway, I spied a home painted sign on the corner that said, Shakespeare Ghost Town ahead. I laughed. Of course. I now knew why that exit called,  and where I was headed.

Turns out Shakespeare was a major mining community that began life as an overland stage stop in the 1850’s.  There was a reliable spring there, giving fresh water in the midst of the desert, so people began putting down roots.

Silver was discovered in the hills and the rush was on.

William Ralston, the President of the Bank of California, got wind of some small prospecting going on there, so bought up most of the land, which was then named Ralston in his honor. He (and a group of his financier friends) poured resources into building up a town capable of supporting the mineral mining boom that was exploding. They then announced that diamonds had been discovered in the hills and the rush was on.

Several years of corruption and crime and lawlessness came with their style of management, which included hired guns to keep regular miners away from the land. Billy the Kid, Johnny Ringo, Curly Bill, the Clanton Brothers, Jim Hughes, and Sandy King were frequent visitors of the saloons and may or may not have served occasionally as some of those hired guns.

But the diamond find was soon exposed as the hoax it was, the rich investors fled, and the town emptied.

In 1879, Colonel William G. Boyle, a great lover of the writings of Shakespeare, got his hands on most of the good claims, renamed the town Shakespeare, opened up Shakespeares Gold and Silver Mining Company.  Which flourished until the railroad laid down tracks at Lordsburg, three miles away, instead of Shakespeare.  That was the death knoll for the town and it slowly fell into its role as a ghostly memory until 1970, when it was declared a National Historic Site, albeit one not well known. It is also privately funded by the donations they ask for if you take the tour.  It’s a modest, but rather major, piece of the history of the west.

What a great place to stretch my legs!

Back on the road, pushing ever onward toward Truth or Consequences, remembered fondly from my Antique Festival Theatre tour of 1977.

I booked two nights based on that memory, strengthened by a bit of research.  As I was getting closer, I found myself hoping the little casita would be comfortable and a good little home on the way.  I decided that I would love it no matter what because of the mineral waters in the area, the hikes through that powerful geology, and the history.

I arrived to this gate.

I went inside. It is even better than I remembered!

This is the garden you walk through to get to the casita.

Here is the communal area next to the hot mineral bath soaking tubs I will be sitting in soon.

And here is the little casita I will snuggle into with gratitude.

The doves are cooing right outside my open door as the day winds down.  The air is clean and fragrant from desert trees and flowers.

Oh, I am at peace.

 

Today I drove 531 miles.  235 of those miles twice.

Twice, you ask. How so?

Well, I started my day with  a wonderful breakfast at 7:00 am at Cahoots, where the working Cowboys go to eat. These two are the real thing.

You can tell by the boots. They were wearing get to work boots, not show off boots. And they were discussing the deluge which happened overnight and the impact it would have on their crops.

Anyway, a nice little senior cheese, tomato and avocado omelette, strong coffee and I hit the road in excellent spirits despite the thunderstorms and lightening which woke me up several times during the night.  The morning skies were clear and doves were cooing. I gave thanks.

Two hours later I stopped in a very cute little town called Kingsburg.  A tidy little Swedish village,  I was excited to stretch my legs, maybe find a Swedish treat, then get back on the road.

I found a juice bar and ordered a green shot with ginger juice. It was at that moment I realized my purse was back at Cahoots in Oakdale.

I had my phone, which has cash in it, so was able to pay for my juice, but the purse itself was nowhere to be found.

The little horse out front of the juice bar on Main Street, Kingsburg

I called Cahoots. Yep, they had it.

I almost cried.  Then I told myself to get a grip. I was going to be backtracking, so might as well make the most of it rather than  catastrophize the experience.  Reality options abound. I selected a new one.  I was going to  enjoy seeing the scenery from the other side of the freeway.

Two hours later, I was back where I’d begun, only this time with purse in hand.  Is this like a new beginning, I wondered?

I filled my gas tank-again- at the same gas station I’d discovered in the Hispanic part of town. 40 cents a gallon cheaper. Amazing. I gave thanks.

Began driving, thought about what I’d learned.:

Let go of expectations.  A big cosmic lesson, that one.  Things just don’t always turn out the way you imagine.

Yes, life does include suffering–but it also includes joy and celebration. I was joyful that the kind girl who’d served me my breakfast had held onto my purse (and glad I’d tipped her really well).

Where friendly people are also trustworthy.

I celebrated the reality of honesty in our world.  I gave thanks.

Life truly is about the journey, not the destination. If this little experience didn’t drive that home, nothing would.  If I approach every moment mindfully, taking in all that is, I will enjoy it much more.

I can choose to see the things that happen to me as “a trial” or bad luck, or as things to regret OR I can choose to see things as part of the adventure.  Life experiences, life lessons.

Once I accepted that I was going to be retracing my route and adding 4 hours of drive time to my day, I began to look at the scenery closely, noticing things I’d missed the first time. Like the mural with the dancing mastodons on an overpass near Merced.  Or the billboard across from a temple with golden spires which read, Please report violence against Sikhs, near Bakersfield.

I drove awhile in silence, then chanting. Then I turned on some music and really rocked out. I even sort of butt danced in my seat to ease the kinks and back pain.

Another lesson?  Become much more mindful about my things. Pay attention to the purse

I thought about my dear friend, M, who has been diagnosed with early onset dementia. I imagine it feeling like forgetting your purse and retracing three hours every day. the anxiety.

I am fortunate to still have the ability to pay attention. Now I must exercise that ability more.

And the final day’s lesson?

Yes, I can drive a 550 miles a day. But I’d rather not. I prefer the journey allow time for explorations.

Also, when you hit monsoon rain, then snowfall in a mountain pass, it’s preferable to do so by the light of day rather than as the sun sinks in the West.

A day of lessons along the pilgrimage toward seventy….

 

 

 

323 miles, 8 hours of travel including a hike at Castle Crags and a visit to the Gateway Peace Garden.

I stopped in Redding to get gas. $4.69 per gallon.

Then, driven by a primal need I hadn’t expected, I sought out the land where I spent every summer of my young life: my Grandmother’s house.

Some kind of muscle memory led me down the back roads of south Redding, until I found the once country lane we drove from town.

This old teepee burner is all that’s left of the once thriving mill where my uncle Jimmy worked.

I remember stopping in front of it many evenings on the way home from watching Uncles Jimmy and Louis play softball, mesmerized by the sparks and orange flames pouring out of its top, feeling the heat blast of the thing from across the road.

I finally found the turn off leading past the old construction site where I was kicked in the head when we rode trespassing through it to encounter a yapping chihuahua who attacked my horse’s feet. I jumped off intending to grab the bridle before he really erupted. I mis-timed my leap.  It was a freak accident and the resulting brain injury changed my life.

I drove down that lane which dead ends. No more fields of lush grass and cattle on the north side, now just more construction yards.

I pulled up in front of the asphalt sided tiny blue house which had once been my Grandmothers. I was struck dumb by the absolute poverty of the place.

I remember frogs crawling up out of the pipe from the septic into the shower but as a child I just never thought of ourselves as that poor. I knew my clothes were always hand me downs but I didn’t care. They were new to me.

Today, I watched two small children swing on an old rope tied under the massive oak, just like I used to do. Their mother came out of the house concerned about who this stranger was who was driving down their private alley. I smiled, waved, then left. I felt haunted.

I didn’t have the heart to take a single picture.. It seemed too voyeuristic.

About a mile away, I did capture this one shot from a place I remembered riding past on Star during  long summer afternoon rides with my Aunt Linda.

Such a long time ago.

After Redding, it was freeway freeway freeway, trucks again owning the road.

I made good time, holding to 73 so as to avoid a ticket, but was passed constantly for going too slow. I witnessed some of the most dangerous driving I’ve seen in a long time today by California drivers.

The miles into, through, and out of Sacramento were hell. A massive cloud which had been hanging overhead since Anderson finally broke open. The downpour made visibility challenging. People still wanted to go too fast until it became impossible and we crept through the miles.

The sky stayed black and the rain was joined by some wind through Stockton, a sad place where feedlot after feedlot packed with cattle awaiting their grim destiny give the city its name.

Then I cut east off I-5, then south again through miles of agricultural miracle. Irrigated land blooming already in orchard after orchard. I caught thousands of geese alight on what was clearly the remnants of their natural flyway somewhere in there. They were backlit by a few rays of sun peeking through the clouds.

Oakdale is a quiet little western town where Cowboy murals line the Main Street.

Which is why I chose it.  Tomorrow the Cowboy Museum.