Looking Back - Notes on Quest to the Southwest

So I think that was the end of the story. Just a few comments about my Quest. In writing about my trip in the story form I did have lots of practice. I also realized how much editing and changing takes place when writing. The opportunity for doing this was lost in the method of posting chapters as I went along. In my actual writing I made giant leaps on this trip. I discovered that when something happens in Chapter Two, later on in Chapter Ten, I had to go back and make changes so the story would fit together. I also found out that when writing about a trip it is pretty boring! So, of course, Martha's adventures had to be much more dramatic than my own. While all the things that happened to Martha were spins off of real experiences on the trip, my trip was far less dramatic and actually more fun and happier than poor Martha.

Some highlights:

The sky! You cannot believe the sky, which doesn't reflect it's drama in photos. The clouds, snow storms, fog, thunder and lightning, cliffs, blues, these were unbelievable. I would park and sit for hours just watching. Anyone who has not driven through the southwest should make the trip. The geology is endless, each curve in the road presenting new things to look at.

The town of Tierra Amarilla. This is the small town in Northern New Mexico I stayed at, the town where my father was born and my grandparents grew up. It is a very depressed area, although still the county seat, with the courthouse and jail in town (not much else). This town is surrounded by other very small towns. These towns are so close together that in the 1940's the young men played a game which was kind of an extended field hockey. The object was to get the ball back to your own town, running through pasture, over creeks etc. Each of these small towns has it's own "flavor", Los Ojos, Ensenada, La Puente, Chama, Tierra Amarilla. All of the people were so welcoming and friendly. When they heard I was researching the history of the area for my book they invited me into their homes, spoke with me, showed me maps, photos and other materials, there was no end to the hospitality. What a wonderful place.

The writing. I most definitely work best in isolation. Attending the Women Writing the West conference and then going to the casita moved my writing to a new level. I was amazed that the characters took over and wrote the stories. It is a great feeling to know that I really can do this, it's not just a fantasy, but an actual dream come true. I wrote the entire first draft of one story and made substantial progress on the second while I was on this trip.

Thanks to my husband, Dan, for his support on my quest, not only for the six week journey, but for all time.

xx Robin Martinez Rice

PS: What comes next on the Blog? I think some short stories, so that the entire tale is told in one post.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Eighteen - Home

Martha had been home a week, surviving the final day of driving. Pushing for home in two days, rather than the planned three, had resulted in the final stretch over Donner Summit happening at night, a snow storm in progress, chains required. She was happy for her 4WD, passing the hundreds of trucks parked along the highway in Truckee, all putting on the heavy chains. She was driven to get home, unwilling to stop, heart beating a little wildly at pushing herself when she wasn't sure it was the best idea, happy when she pulled down the driveway of the house, feeling she had made the right choice.

"Don't come home early, you'll be sorry ten minutes after you get here." Her sister's emailed warning had come too late, she was already on the road, half way home when the message floated through cyber space.

She wasn't sorry. It had felt right. It had been a good six weeks, not everything she had expected or planned, but many things she had not. She couldn't decide if she was changed, if the quest had led her to some vision which was new, enlightening, mind boggling. There were some changes. She had felt the huge leap in her ability to write, her production was ten times what it had been. The words flowed much more freely, she didn't have to focus, to struggle to get them out. If she simply sat in front of the computer and placed her fingers upon the keys the words flowed.

She had also settled into retirement with more ease. Gone was the frantic making of lists and setting time lines. With endless days stretched ahead

she let herself wake up and fall back to sleep, not leaping out of bed, trying to fit so much into each day. It was nice to wait until the house was warm before slipping out from between the sheets. She cleaned, wrote, read, walked, trying to bring back the relaxed feelings she had gained in New Mexico.

Two weeks passed.

Martha was eating sugar again, hiding the chocolate here and there around the house. The headaches were back and she wasn't sleeping well. She felt listless, lethargic. She tried to plan events, things which would inspire her, things she could look forward to, but nothing held her interest. She lost her calendar daily, the sheet printed off of Google ending up stacked with newspapers to be recycled or folded up inside a book, marking the place she had tired of reading. She spread out flannel to make herself a new nightshirt, got out her beads, folded all the linens in the hall closet, designed half of the family Christmas card . She pulled some fuzzy plants that had appeared in the yard, rolled up some hoses, washed the car.

Why couldn't she pretend that this place, this house, her home, held the same magic as New Mexico?

Maybe changes weren't huge. Maybe life wasn't like the movies, the books, the expectations. She knew she didn't want to be alone, yet she didn't want to be with other people. These rules which she lived by, these mental pictures of what things should be, what impact? If she could discard them, live for each minute, quit caring so much, stressing so much, what would she be giving up? Why did she hold onto these things with so much passion, energy, obsession? There must be a payoff. She realized that in her quest she had hoped to simply replace these emotions with something new, something better. But covering them up didn't erase them. They were lurking, hovering, creeping up on her. She needed to get rid of them once and for all.

Pain, I must be hiding from some pain. Or is it gain? I must be gaining something from maintaining this life, this way of being. But what pain, where did the pain come from? Her childhood? Blame it on the mother? That didn't work in her case. She had a great mother, everyone who met her wanted this woman for their own mother. Gain? Was there some sort of recognition, status, image she was after? She always said she didn't care what anyone else thought, and she felt this was basically true.

She recalled a reinforcement inventory, something psychologists and behaviorists use to figure out how they can increase the likelihood of an individual behaving a certain way. Then she realized that just by thinking in this way, thinking of systematically changing herself, she was doing the very thing she hoped to eliminate. By looking so hard for an answer she was driving the answer further from her, to something unreachable, a way of being which she was further from than ever. It was a vortex, a spinning and reaching. Like fighting against a whirlpool.

What was it about New Mexico that had made this different? What had led to the temporary abandonment of those internal drives, ways of being that kept her in this turmoil?

"I do believe in magic." She thought, even as she tried not to have any more thoughts.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Seventeen - Going Back

Martha kept her eyes closed, listening to the flutter of the tiny birds perching on the edge of the flatbed trailer. She had moved the old chaise up onto the trailer after spotting the brown fuzzy tarantula making her way up the driveway, each long furry arm reaching out and finding a place on the round rocks and hoisting forward to the next. Not wanting to have this little creature as a bed mate, she decided to bask from a higher level.

The mornings were chilly, twenty degrees the thermometer on the porch claimed, yet even with frost covering the trailer and the hood of her car, she brought her coffee out, walking down the driveway to watch the brilliant sunrise. By afternoon it was warm enough to nap out here in the sun, although she kept her sweatshirt on and propped a hat over her face to avoid sunburn.

"Are you the same bird I saw standing on the back of that horse?" Talking to animals, the trees, the car, the sky, this appeared to be one side effect of this time alone. She had discovered a natural pattern, three days alone was productive, but the fourth day her legs were restless, her mind wouldn't focus on whatever she had decided to read that day, and her writing was

such that she would have to be heavy on the delete button the next day. She had explored Durango, Taos, Bandelier, driving miles and miles, leaving for hours and hours. She seemed to be poor at planning for these adventures, forgetting to bring a coat, water, her camera, but in the long run it really didn't matter. These details, which would have haunted her in the past, were now easily dismissed, only a fleeting thought as her car flew over the winding roads, past the towering peaks, grazing cattle, winding rivers.

"Whatever." She had taken to saying these words aloud to herself, a smug smile crossing her lips when she spoke. This was good practice.

This morning when she awoke, stretching, rising, peeing, brewing her morning coffee, something had changed. She had driven to Taos and Ojo Caliente yesterday, never really stopping to walk around, just looking, looking, looking. Today she should be settled, ready to work, read, meditate, relax. She wasn't settled. She ruffled through papers, straightened stacks, sorted a few of her photographs on her laptop, walked around outside, washed her few dishes.

"I think it's time for me to go home." She tried these words on for size. She had paid for the casita through Thursday, but a storm was coming this week. If she left now she could take more time on her drive home. Stop in Santa Fe at a museum, shop for fabric in Albuquerque. Yes, the words felt right. Today she would pack, visit her cousins to say good-bye, take one final look around.

She didn't drive leisurely and she didn't take her time. She got up at four am, struggling to fasten the straps of the luggage bag on the icy roof of the car, digging out her fingerless gloves in hopes that her fingers would start working again. Impatient already, things taking too long, wanting to get on with this. She drove out in the dark, whispering goodbye to everything, her river, the cattle, the gate, the coffee house. She pulled off the road for a view of the bluffs where her father's ashes had been scattered, hoping for some cosmic event or emotion, but there was nothing. The bluffs stood as they always had, no bird flying above them, no sunlight highlighting the special spot where the rocks had been piled in a primitive altar, no strong emotions invading her heart.

And so she drove. And drove. She buzzed through Santa Fe, Albuquerque, Grants, Gallup, pulling over for some food, water, brief naps. In Flagstaff the rain started. The scattered white clouds lit up from the late afternoon sun dropping in the west. When they opened to let out the rain each drop was lit, producing a phosphorescent rain, like driving through some curtain to another world. The sunset was brilliant, the rain stopped, the clouds now pink, the moon appearing just under them. She found she hadn't planned well, darkness creeping up and taking over the sky.

She was tired, her eyes burning, but there was only the long highway, no towns, no campgrounds, so she drove on. She drove over the new bridge at Hoover Dam, the one she had studied on pictures, hoping to cross. Black holes surrounded her on all sides, no view, no real sense of where she was. Remembering a campground at Lake Mead, she pulled in. The self pay required driving around and finding a numbered camp site, then returning to pay, filling in the boxes on the small yellow envelope. She stuffed ten dollars in the envelope, wrote her name in big letters across it and pushed it through the slot of the cast iron tube. If anyone asked her she would say she paid, but she was too tired to follow the directions. In the past the rules would have governed her, no matter the bowel cramps, the need for a toilet and some sleep, she would have filled in each box carefully.

Sleeping in the car was now routine. She used her toes to push out of each shoe, nudging the smelly sneakers to one side with her foot, nearly asleep before her feet were under the edge of the long zippered side of the sleeping bag.

Awake early, unsure of the time because she was now in Nevada, not remembering if she had ever changed the clock in the car, daylight savings time in New Mexico and California, but not Arizona, she used the bathroom once more, brushing her teeth in the cold night air. It was still dark, three am or four am, time to drive again. Pulling on a sweatshirt and gloves she kept her lights off as she drove out through the campground, realizing she didn't really know what it looked like. Las Vegas stayed open all night, she was able to get some coffee with ease, no matter the time. She reached Death Valley as the sun came up, reflecting another type of geology. She thought back on the whole trip, the vast deserts, high mesas, red hoo doos, smooth lava flows, chunky sharp cliffs, white and grey layers. The earth here had a salty texture, mountains which looked soft, changing, like piles of sand, but upon closer inspection were solid hard rocks.

Martha had been to Death Valley before, once as a four year old, traveling with her indulgent Nanna and Grandpa. Her memory included placing her grandfather's favorite BBQ potato chips on the seat of the small canvas camp stool, peeking around the edge of the tent to watch the blue jays swoop down and grab them. She didn't really know if this had occurred in Death Valley, the trip had included Yosemite and other campgrounds, these memories a blur, still in her mind, but blended and changed with the passing of time. The second trip was two years ago, arriving in April when the thought had been it would be cool enough to hike around, only to find that it was hot even then. She had read about a hike, Mosaic Canyon, and when driving past the sign pointing off up a gravel road to the trail head she had been struck with a strong desire to make this hike. The trail had appeared to her in some of her dreams, calling to her, telling her there was something here for her.

Now, with the early morning arrival, the cool November day, no time line so to speak of, the hike was hers.

Driving up the gravel road to the base of the mountain was when Martha first discovered that there was a strange depth issue in this valley. What looked to be a short drive across a field of prickly plants was actually a steep two mile climb. She drove slowly, the gravel uneven in places, the dust pluming up behind her.

The hike was worth it, amazing, fantastic. The marble rocks looked like they had just hardened, oozing around other rocks, pebbled river beds frozen in time. She had hoped to reach the end of the two mile trek, but her knee hurt after forty-five minutes, so she turned back, never reaching the promised dry waterfall at the end of the canyon, everything being just out of reach, farther than it looked.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Sixteen - Raven

Alone, I wanted to be alone. Martha paced the small room. She grabbed her coffee and headed outside, pacing down the driveway, looking at the view. One ear was poised listening for the mountain lion. She wanted to see the big cat again, but not up close and personal. This was the third day of staying in the little house. She had gone for long walks each day, sticking to the road. There was lots to see, the gravel crunching under her feet, walking past the river with the spawning coho, the pastures of the various breeds of cattle, the ponds with ducks and water birds unlike those back home. The writing was going well, but there was only so much time she could spend at the awkward library table, a little too high for comfort, each day, fingers flying over the key board, ideas filling her head like the swirling fog creeping up from the hidden river.

Time for some meditation, something spirital, this is a quest after all. Martha found her ipod, her drum and her folding chair, slinging the black strap over her shoulder and heading up the hill. She didn't change out of her slippers, if she stepped carefully the ground was firm.

Amazing how it could rain torrents and then be dry so soon.

She set up the chair near a stone, this would do for a foot rest. She found the songs she wanted, drumming, but meditative.

"Gar, glack." The raven perched on the branch of a dead tree, tipping his head as he asked his croaking question.

"Hey, you're back." Martha greeted the black shiny bird, his eye like a onyx bead, sparkling in his face. She closed her eyes, listening to the music, consciously relaxing the muscles in her face, those areas around her mouth and eyes which clenched so tightly when she wasn't paying attention. It didn't seem right, that things would be tense when you weren't thinking about it,

that one should have to consciously relax them.

Alone, you wanted to be alone. The next day Martha awoke with the same thoughts in her head. If only the dog were with her, or there was some reception so she could watch the morning news. Martha stared at the laptop, the chapters already written spread out on various surfaces of the room. Not today. I need something different. She picked up the black computer pack, with all it's special pockets for hard drives and discs, stuffed the laptop into the special padded compartment, grabbed her purse and headed for the car. I'll check out that coffee shop in town. She had spotted the small sign when driving through town on her way in. "Three Ravens Coffee House". The sign was mounted on a stick, stuck in the soft earth between two stones near the road. The huge old house was dark, unpainted, sagging wooden porch. It didn't look inhabited, in spite of the "open" sign nailed

beside an ancient wooden door. The sign was up permanently, something she was becoming used to in the small towns she had crept through, Utah, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico. Open had some alternate meaning in these places, a permanent greeting which meant, yes, come try the door, we are here sometimes.

Today she wouldn't be alone, she would seek company. If this coffee house wasn't open she would drive to the next one, twenty, thirty miles up the road.

The Three Ravens was open, and it was extremely pleasant. Once through that wooden door, pulling it closed three times before the latch clicked and held, there was a pleasant coffee

house atmosphere. The barista was a young girl, pleasant smile, chatting with a friend across the tall counter, glass case filled with pasteries. The painted wooden tables and chair were decorated with ravens in various poses, curious, hungry, puzzled. The shelves along the wall held white glazed plates and bowls, decorated with black, small bits of red for emphasis. The

general theme of these dishes seemed to be ravens, chickens and skeletons.

"Do you have wireless?"

"Yes, the password is three ravens, all one word, no capitals."

She was happy in the coffee house, conversations with strangers, she could be whoever she wanted to be for awhile. And she wasn't alone.

Later that afternoon, as she sat on what was now her hill, eyes closed, listening to the call of the birds, her mind was free to wander where it may.

Ravens. They had popped up everywhere.

The first was at Bryce, hopping close and bumping her leg, causing her to jump at the unexpected contact. "Hey, you scared me," she had said to him.

The ravens at Zion had chatted to her along the trail as she hiked the wrong direction. Maybe they were trying to tell her something. "Wrong way, wrong way." She just didn't

translate or listen.

At the Grand Canyon they had circled below, small black specks in the vast canyon.

In Prescott she had picked up an old issue of the Sun, one of her favorite magazines, althoughshe had let her subscription lapse. Interesting article about crows and ravens, how smart they were, made tools, banded together and dropped rocks to scare away unwanted humans, we should have respect for this bird.

At Canyon de Chelly there had been hundreds of the birds, profiles of black standing out on the smooth red walls. Circling on the drafts of wind, she had been enchanted by two who stayed together, as if they were the Blue Angels, banking and turning in perfect unison.

Then there was the poster, placed on the back of the stall door, so that when she sat on the cold toilet in Chaco she couldn't help but read it. "Help us train our raven." The poster had advised that the campground ravens would rip and destroy tents in an effort to find food, advising that tents be flattened when campers were out hiking.

Today she had found wireless only eight miles away, a business thriving in a town which was dead. Three Ravens.

Is it bad if the raven is my spirit animal? Ill tidings? Black cat? Sign that death is to come?

It didn't feel bad, it felt right. She decided that the raven was a good spirit animal, he could travel great distances and see a long way. He could stand alone or fly with his friends.

He was resourceful and funny.

"Garkle gack." Her friend was back.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Fifteen - Big Cat

Martha carried the last of her things into the casita, piling them on the floor. She was tired, the drive which had started with the crossing of the wash had not been long, but she had used up a lot of energy producing adrenaline. It's strange, some sort of self fullfilling thing. I've made this same drive, over the continental divide and down into Dulce three times in my life. Why am I always just about to run out of gas? This time wouldn't be as close as the coast downhill on fumes the year she had come to New Mexico in the RV, but close enough so that she couldn't keep her eyes from wandering to the gas gage every few minutes. New cars, with all the bells and whistles. This one told you how many miles you had left on this tank of gas, the numbers jumping by thirds when you headed down a hill, winding through long curves with pinon pines and sage growing along the edges. Punch it for the next incline and suddenly you weren't going to travel ninety miles anymore, your gas would run out in fifty. I just need a nap, I'm almost there.

The stop in Chama went quickly. She ordered lunch off the short menu in the cafe which

offered wifi. The burger was overcooked, the bun stale and cold. The fries had been left in a vat of oil just a little too long, all crunch with no flavor. If she came here to use the wifi in the future she would stick to a cup of coffee.

Now she was here, pleasantly surprised by how isolated the casita was. The long gravel road, looping through pastures filled with funny cattle, long red hair and large horns, turning to stare as she made her way past. There had been other cars on the road, brown waves of dust flowing out behind them. It seemed wise to roll up the windows until there was enough distance between her and these unknown neighbors to keep the dust from filling her car. The gravel was thick, the car slid as she rounded a corner, dropping her speed from the slow creep of twenty miles per hour to ten. She stopped to take pictures, focusing on the view, the mountains, the clouds, the cattle, the road itself. My road, she snapped the pic. She pulled over a rise with a view of the bridge, odometer showing that she was approaching the specified two and a half mile mark. This was her house. The smaller of two pink buildings in the distance, green metal roof glinting in the sun, this was it, she was sure.

She had stopped to unlock one gate already, using the key that Barbara, the owner of this little vacation rental, had mailed, the card with the directions for getting into the house sitting on the seat beside her. There was another gate now, looping chain and padlock keeping out danger. She stopped the car and swung open the date, then pulled into the gravel drive. This won't be much fun in the rain. But the gate made her feel secure, safe here in this temporary haven.

I love it, I love it, I love it. My home.

Everything was perfect, better than the pictures. The house was warm and stuffy, she opened windows to let the soft New Mexico breeze blow through. All thoughts of a nap were gone now, the nesting instinct took over instead. Martha placed clothes on hangers in the large closet, unpacked the ice chest, placing food on the various shelves of the refrigerator and set her bag of dirty laundry on top of the washer. She studied the living room, pushing the lone library table to one side, unfolding the card table and

setting up her work space. There were lots of plugs, that was great, all these electronics she had with her. She plugged in the printer, the ipod player, the extra laptop battery. Satisfied, she lay down on the bed, which was particularly comfortable, and fell asleep.

The next morning Martha started her routine. She had opened the front door and stood on the tiny porch, chilly. Walking would come later, after she had worked for awhile. Flute practice, meditation, downloading photos, all those things could be used as breaks from writing.

Martha was busy at the laptop, words flowing when something caused her to look up. Leaping from her chair she whispered "Oh my god, oh my god" repeatedly as she groped for her camera, unwilling to take her eyes off the big cat which sauntered up the driveway and past the window. The cat never looked her way, slipping like a shadow into the trees as she finally laid

hands on her camera. She pressed her nose against the glass of the door, wanting to see more of the cougar, but fearful of stepping outside.

She was truly in the wilderness.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapt Fourteen - Wash

"So you think I can drive out?" Martha had been awake for hours. She watched several cars take the gravel road out of the park, but she wanted to wait for the ranger station to open before she ventured out.

"There is water in the wash, but we drove through it this morning. What kind of car do you have?"

"It's a little Honda CRV, it's 4WD but not very high off the ground."

"No problem, the rule of thumb is water no higher than half way up the tires."

"I've never driven in water before. I'm pretty scared." Martha didn't say I'm terrified, but this is what she felt.

"Just take it slow. Don't panic and go fast, that's when you'll hydroplane."

"Will you drive out there tonight and see if I am still parked there, afraid to go across?" Maybe joking would make her feel better.

As Martha took her fear in hand and headed out she tried to think about how great this visit to Chaco had been, take her mind off the road. For the most part the gravel road was fine, occasional patches of slippery red mud, kind of like driving in mushy snow. A white sedan was coming the other way, toward her. It slowed and a woman poked her head out, waving her arm. Martha rolled down the window.

"You can't get out, the wash is full of water."

"I talked with the ranger, she said I probably could get out."

"I watched a couple trucks go through, there was an RV parked, they were deciding if they should try it. Is there any other way out?"

"No, no other way, the other way is worse. The ranger said usually if you wait the water goes down, but judging by those clouds I think it's still raining up stream. I'm going to try it."

Martha was committed now. Three trucks passed her on the road, they zipped by at double her speed. Hopefully she would get to watch someone cross, maybe this would build up her courage.

It wasn't long before Martha arrived at the wash, passing the three signs which warned of driving through if any amount of water was present, no one patrolled this road and other dire events. There were no other cars or trucks in sight. The RV must have made it.

Martha stopped the car and stared at the water flowing down. How did someone judge how deep it was? How would she know if it was half way up her tires? She looked down stream. If she was washed down she would be stuck in mud, not a giant pool or anything. She unfastened her seatbelt, put her cell phone into her pocket, slung her purse over her shoulder. No, if she was drowning it might strangle her. She took it off and placed it next to her.

Well, I said I wanted adventure, didn't I?

She crept forward, putting the car in low gear, although she had no idea if that made any difference. She kept to the center of the concrete, awaiting any sign of the car floating. The trip across the short passage took hours, her life flashed before her eyes, she prayed, told all her family members she loved them and repented all her sins.

Twenty seconds later Martha was on the other side of the wash.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Thirteen - Lightning

Martha was wiping out her dishes with paper towels examining the rock formation which surrounded her cosy little campsite, when the white government truck pulled up in front a campsite a few doors down. There was no potable water here at Chaco, she would wash the dishes at her next stop. The truck moved forward, stopping in front of her parked car.

“Going to be a storm tonight.

It’s real windy before the storm hits, just want to make sure you have everything tied down.

“Really? A storm, but the sky is so clear.”

“You’re going to be one of the lucky ones. In about fifteen minutes you're going to see a full moon, stars and lightening. Enjoy.” Smiling, the ranger pulled forward to the next camp site.

The campground was in a tight little canyon. Martha could see the sun still shining on the tops of the clouds, the moon already bright. She turned around slowly, three hundred and sixty degrees, studying the sky all around. Off to the west, just over the top of the steep canyon wall she could see some dark clouds. As she watched they lit up briefly.

Yes, there was lightning. No crash of thunder followed, so the storm must be far away.

Martha set up her laptop on the picnic table, lantern by her side. She had been inspired by the day and wanted to sort through her pictures. Taking the walk at 3:30 had been a good idea, also picking the trail that was away from roads and people. Seeing the elk was fun, and now that she was back at camp even the brief encounter with the rattlesnake wasn’t so bad anymore. She was

glad she had met up with that couple who told her to visit Chaco. They road hadn’t been that bad, just that one spot where it dipped down into the wash, signs warning not to cross if any water was

present. The wash had been dry and driving across the concrete had been a relief after the washboard of the gravel road.

The sun had disappeared completely now, and Martha shivered as the cold took over. It was amazing how much variation there was in temperature, her face was hot with sunburn from the pleasant day. Once the sun set the temperature dropped rapidly, a sweatshirt wasn’t enough. Martha packed up her things and put them in the car. Might as well get ready for this storm the ranger had predicted.

As Martha walked across the camp ground to the restroom she saw clouds creeping up from all directions, but the sky was still clear just above her. Blasts of lightening flashed in front of her, lighting up the entire cliff and canyon. These were followed by rapid flashes on her right and left. Still no thunder. Martha walked on to the entrance of the campground. From here she could see the vast Chaco mesa, with the huge Fajada Butte rising up. Each flash of lightning lit up the mesa and the butte. She could see the actual streaks now, not just the clouds flashing white. Three,

sometimes four streaks stretched from the sky to the valley floor. Her attempts to photograph and video were unsuccessful, so she sat on a picnic table and just enjoyed the show.

Martha watched for an hour, then she began to hear booms of thunder follow the flashes. The storm was moving closer. She returned to her camp site and packed up the last of her things, tucking herself into the car. The car was parked in the perfect spot to lay and watch as the storm rolled in, thunder moving closer until it shook the car, and then the massive downpour that followed.

Martha awoke in the night to winds which rocked the car, but the lightning, thunder and rain had passed. That storm had been amazing, she was glad she made the choice to come to Chaco.

Suddenly Martha sat up. The road. What about the road?

Martha was trapped in Chaco.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Twelve - Detours

Petrified Forest, next exit. Martha felt she had been driving through the twilight zone for the last two hours, completely straight highway and nothing, nothing at all to see but prairie grass on either side of the road. The sign caught her interest and she needed a pit stop, so she pulled off the highway. There were more signs directing her, turning her and there, but no sign telling her how far this might be. From experience she knew that many parks were miles off the road, even fifty miles. It was then she spotted the sign for the visitor center, yes a good place to stop and surely they had a bathroom.

Physcially relieved and armed with information Martha headed off to the Petrified Forest.

It was eighteen miles off the the highway, but it was a loop road, bringing her back ten miles up the road. Shouldn’t be too much of a variation. The funny thing was, Martha didn’t really care all that much about seeing the Petrified Forest, she just wanted to get another point for using

the eighty dollar unlimited park pass.

Martha was getting sleepy, the drive to Canyon de Chelly was farther than she thought, the detour adding over an hour to her trip. The road was smooth, newly paved and straight. Should she stop for a nap? She was just a little bit worried about finding a camping space, having snatched the last space several times on this trip she should try to arrive early. She opened the window and cranked up the radio, only an hour more to go.

At last Martha reached the town which marked the turn into the park. The speed limit was reduced, buildings appeared by the sides of the highway, four lanes instead of two and a sidewalk. Martha suddenly braked, laughing. A large steer was walking down the sidewalk, up ahead two horses crossed the street, not bothering to look both ways. Apparently here on the Navajo reservation there were a lot of range animals, even in town.

Martha found the perfect campsite, newly blacktopped and near the bathroom. She placed

a few items to mark her spot, there didn’t seem to be a check in system because camping was free here. She set off to see what this place was all about.

Twenty minutes later Martha was amazed. This was one of the most beautiful places she had ever been. The road wound along the upper edge of the canyon, with occasional view points. It was soon apparent that she did need to take on of the canyon tours. As this was Navajo land, you could only enter with a guide. She turned back and drove to the lodge, where she had seen the trips advertised.

While Martha was tucking her wallet into her purse and turning to leave the scowling woman who booked the tours remarked “Don’t forget to come at the right time.”

“Oh. What time is it?” Martha had driven in and out of so many time zones, some states with daylight savings, some not, that she really didn’t know what time it was.

“It’s 4:30. This is the Navajo reservation you know. We do have daylight savings here.”

“Thanks, I did have the wrong time.” Martha smiled as she reset her watch, but the woman continued to ignore her. Sucks to be white, Martha thought to herself. You didn’t seem to unhappy to take my money.

But Martha was wrong in feeling that the Navajo people weren’t friendly. Over the next two days she spoke with many artists and young people selling fry bread and jewelry to the tourists. She met a flute player who was friends with Mary Youngblood, the talented musician from whom Martha had taken a flute lesson herself. One rock carver even discussed local politics, the issue about all the animals running free. There were Navajo animal rights activists who felt that animals should not be caged, but should be allowed freedom, no matter that they would soon be butchered for meat. These animals were causing property destruction and car

accidents, and most people felt they should be fenced. There was also a large feral population of pigs, cattle, horses and sheep which lived in the surrounding areas. Navajo did not build fences, as land ownership was somewhat different here on the nation.

Martha was planning on spending another day here. She was fearful of visiting Chaco Cultural Center, because of the over twenty mile entrance road, gravel and subject to problems in severe weather. But she talked with a couple who had just been there. You must go, it’s wonderful, don’t worry about the road at all, they

insisted.

Packing up her car she set out. She would spend a night in a motel half way there and head there tomorrow.

Roughing it was impressive to her friends, and she was actually really enjoying living out of her car, but a shower, TV and the internet would be nice at this point.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Eleven - Writers

Martha down shifted, creeping down the narrow winding road. Her sinuses had cleared, elevation changes no longer signaled by the pressure in her ears. She drove slowly not out of caution, her head swiveled rapidly from the view of the expansive valley to the strange rock formation which made up the mountain. She felt like an ant in a pile of pea gravel, the many round stones heaped together to make the terrain. But these stones were pea gravel times a million, giant round boulders, through which the narrow winding road had been cut.

Early for the workshop in Wickenburg, Martha took the time to drive through town. It was a typical tourist down town, with old buildings, a rail road, t-shirt shops and Native jewelry. Stores weren’t open yet, but that didn’t matter to Martha, she had no desire to actually enter

the stores, she liked the drive through tour. Viewing town killed about twenty minutes, she headed out to the conference center. Maybe they would let her check in early, a nap would be nice before the conference started after lunch.

This area was desolate, but filled with houses. She had met people who liked desert living but she could never relate to the draw. Just divine through was depressing, she craved mountains, liked the feeling of being on top of everything, having an endless view.

Her room wouldn’t be ready for hours, no luck there. At 10:00 in the morning it was already sweltering, and this was October. Unseasonable hot, everyone kept repeating. Not usually this hot. Martha was worried about the things in her car, she cracked windows and brought her camera and laptop inside with her, there was no shade, no trees for that matter.

The conference center was beautiful, decorated in a a traditional southwest mode, with big leather couches and navajo print overstuffed chairs, surround a huge stone fireplace. After checking in Martha sat on one of these couches, checking email and Facebook, making sure the automatic bills had all paid. Soon other women joined her, everyone chatting in a friendly way.

It was fun to be at a conference where the first question after the usual “where are you from?” was “what do you write?”

The thing about leather couches is they are slippery. When large and overstuffed are added to the equation, sitting upright for very long becomes work. Martha soon pulled her feet up beside her, knees bent and leaned onto the arm. The warm air and the drone of the women’s voices reminded her of one of her most wonderful memories. She had gone with her grandparents and her great-grandma Thompson to visit relatives in Napa. The ride had done the usual, car sick and headache, she didn’t travel well at that age, although she loved road trips anyway. After a pony ride and playing in the cul-de-sac with newly met distant cousins, the headache had become unbearable. She had gone inside and laid on the couch her head in Grandma Thompson’s lap, the soft wrinkled hand stroking her forehead. There was a ceiling fan she watched go round and round, as the voices of the two old women, Grandma Thompson and some elderly aunt, droned on and on. She had completely relaxed, cooling down, the headache diminishing. When she thought about that moment she always felt completely loved, no strings attached, only comfort and security present.

This moment was enough like that, bringing back the memory, to lull her into a doze, not quite asleep, awake enough to keep herself from snoring, although an occasional snort might be likely to creep out. She found her self stretched out on the couch, not caring that this place was a little snooty, they probably frowned upon guests sleeping in public areas. Maybe they will get my room ready faster.

With that thought she fell asleep.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Ten - Homesick

When the homesick feeling hit it seemed to arrive without warning. Maybe the vertigo had been the warning, the feeling of total panic. Now, after a sleepless night in a noisy hotel, (she hadn’t noticed the train tracks late last night when she pulled in), Martha drove with no spark of happiness. Suddenly the trip seemed too long.

“What have I done?” Martha spoke these words out loud to herself, loudly, as they came in a pause between songs. Why did I think this trip was a good idea? Martha continued the conversation in her head. She tried to convince herself that she was just tired. It had been two long days, with poor sleep. Martha had the overpowering urge to turn the car around. If she drove for thirteen hours she would be home. But that would be giving up, giving in. All the reservations made, all the money spent. So she kept her eyes ahead and drove on.

At least I get to see my son today, my baby.

When Martha arrived at the university she parked and went to the door of Vince’s dorm room. She knocked quietly, she didn’t know if his room mate had class on Monday morning. No answer. The window was open so she placed her mouth against the screen. Vince? Are you there? But there was not answer. Martha returned to her car and used her cell phone to leave him a message. I’m waiting in the parking lot. She was tired, so a nap might be just the thing.

No sooner had Martha settled into the sleeping bed she had created in the car then the maintenance crew showed up with blowers. Glancing at her watch she figured the stores would be open by now. She hadn’t had a chance to stop and do laundry and she was out of clothes for the hot weather and, naturally, underwear. She could stand another pair of shoes too. All the hiking and sweating had really totaled her shoes. No shower and no follow through on her plans to heat water and wash her feet each night in the bucket she had brought along. Last night she had put her shoes outside they smelled so bad.

Martha arrived at the motel she had booked on line, happy to see that it was just as cute in real life as the pictures on the internet had promised. The two proprietors, Jim and Mike, were very welcoming, feeding her strawberries and chatting while final preparations on the room were made. Jim escorted her to the room, it was amazing. Personally decorated in a totally retro style, little kitchenette, plush towels and a very comfortable bed. Martha immediately took a nap.

“Mom, I’m sick again.” Vince coughed and sniffed. “I’ve just had one virus after the other since I came.”

Martha had been shocked to see him all dressed up, not only a shirt and tie, but real shoes. She remembered fighting with him , at age fourteen, before a wedding, he would not buy dress shoes. He had tried them on and looked at her in astonishment.

“Why would anyone ever wear anything that is so uncomfortable?” He had ripped the first shoe off his foot, refusing to even put the second shoe on and walk around a little. They had compromised on new black skateboard shoes, at least these weren’t held together with duct tape.

“Shoes, you have man shoes on.” Martha had pointed at his feet. My baby is truly a man now.

“Pledges have to dress up on Mondays.”

Oh, a fraternity thing. Martha shrugged. She didn’t want to get into that with him, she wasn’t happy about it at all. This parenting thing never got any easier, some how children of a certain age had to find some act that was in contradiction to the values of the parent, Martha knew that. Everyone else thought it was funny. Martha tried to be positive and see the benefits, Vince did have a ready made group of friends and they seemed to like to do the sorts of things he enjoyed, outdoors every weekend.

The four days with little glimpses of her busy son went by quickly. The last night before she was too leave he stayed late, mentioning several times that he still had homework to do. She didn’t want him to leave, but the mother in her knew that he was sick and staying up late wasn’t going to help. When she urged him to leave he laid on the bed beside her.

“I’m just really homesick.”

And so she rubbed his head, trying to smooth out the fever and the sadness, just as she had done when he was tiny. Maybe she could smooth away her own homesick feelings while she was at it.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Nine - Vertigo

Martha quietly pushed the last of her belongings into the back of the car and pushed the hatch shut, trying not to wake the neighbors. It was still dark, but an early start meant she could see the sunrise at the east of Zion, those smooth red mountains which went on forever. Maybe she would see the Big Horn Sheep again. She was now on a different sleep cycle, the time changes and crossing states, the virus which had finally subsided, these had her system all out of whack. While the bed she had created in her car was workable, comfortable was a-whole-nother issue. She started the car up and the radio blasted, volume up from the drive yesterday. She quickly

turned it off, the neighbors were sure to be awake now. Oh well, they kept that darn light, specially hooked up to it's own battery, burning bright half the night. She had to sleep with her airplane blinders, camping was supposed to be dark.

Martha drove slowly out of Zion, through the mile long tunnel, loving that there were no other cars on the road. She stopped right in the middle of the road to take pictures of the landscape, not even bothering to find a turnout. When she came close to the spot where she had seen the bighorns she slowed. Yes, there they were, the whole flock. Martha did find a turn out so that she could leave her car for these pictures, switching to the long lens. She was completely focused on taking pictures, watching the youngsters skip with ease across the sheer walls, when a crashing noise in the bushes, not five feet from her caused her to jump. A sheep, who did indeed have big horns crashed across the road. Glancing behind her she realized she was now in the middle of the flock, sheep on both sides of the road. Backing up quickly, not wanting to turn her back on them, she wondered if they ever chased people. Probably not, animals were shy, she needed to remember that. The sudden running of one sheep set off the whole group, and the young were heading back to be with their elders. One small guy sent a whole sheet of red slate crashing down off the hill into the creek bed below, but no one missed a step. Shivering, Martha decided she had plenty of photos and headed back to her car.

Morning is a good time to travel. No traffic on the road, take your time but make good progress. It wasn't long before Martha was at the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. Campground was full, but the ranger at the entry point said she should check in at the actual campground. Martha waited for a few minutes, a small hand printed sign said "back at 10:00". She looked at her watch, but didn't have any idea what time it really was. Was she still in Utah? Now in Arizona? The time changed every time she drove anywhere, some states followed Daylight Saving time, but others did not. Martha bent her knees up and down a little, stomping her feet, trying to keep warm. Very cold here compared to Zion. No one returned to Martha decided to drive to the visitor center and see the canyon.

Following the map she had picked up at the small visitor center, Martha made her way around the lodge looking for Bright Angel Trail. She should read those books again, Marguerite Henry. How she loved those tales. Martha stepped out on an overlook, staring down into the canyon. She snapped a few photos, then headed off down the trail. It was fairly steep, but paved over the gravel. The earth fell away on both sides, and Martha gazed here and there. Suddenly she was out of breath, her heart was pounding and she felt light headed. There was a boulder near the edge of the trail and Martha sat down. Her breathing was rapid, as if awakening from a frightening dream. She sat for several minutes and then felt better. Standing she set off down the trail. The sign had said .25 miles, just a short trip to the overlook.

Martha made it to the overlook, but the feeling of breathlessness returned. She quickly snapped a couple of pictures then stepped away, sitting on a rock bench which did not provide a look down. She faced away from the edge, fidgeting with her camera, hiding her fear from the other hikers and tourists. After a minute she felt the overwhelming need to be out of this place. She started back up the trail. It was steep and she was immediately out of breath. Hikers coming down expected her to move to the right, the trail was wide enough for two to pass easily, but the edge was on the right. When Martha saw others coming she would quickly step off to the left, inspecting a tree or a rock, shooting a close up picture of nothing. After several minutes of this Martha could see she was near the top. The trail was wider and there was land on either side, not the steep drop offs. In spite of this the vertigo became overwhelming. Martha quickly sat on a bench, next to a woman already sitting there, her breath now coming in ragged gasps. She put her head down between her knees. Her breath didn't slow and her heart seemed to pound even harder, her head spinning.

Martha didn't care what anyone thought, panic filling every pour of her body she flung herself to the ground, stretching out flat, pressing her stomach on the pavement covered path. She stretched her arms out to the sides, as if to hold herself to the earth, keep the awful power surrounding her from sucking her over the edge, pulling her down into oblivion.

The woman seated on the bench didn't say a word.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Eight - Maps

Martha noticed the road sign two seconds after driving by. She pulled over with a splatter of gravel and looked over her left shoulder, trying to read the sign behind her, posted for cars going the other direction. There was a tiny sign, and squinting, she thought it was the name of the turn off. Since she didn't have a map with her she wasn't sure, but the name seemed right so she turned the car around and turned up the narrow road. It was paved, anyway.

Winding up the steep grade Martha had to pull over often to let trucks with trailers pass. This was somewhat puzzling, as she had passed a sign which read "Not recommended for trailers". To see over ten different trucks with empty trailers zipping up the narrow grade at high speed made her wonder what was on up this road.

The terrain was amazing and Martha pulled over often to take pictures. In the back of her mind she knew that these pictures would just be added to the thousands of pictures she had stored on discs and hard drives. What did one actually do with landscape pictures later in life? Back home, before leaving on this adventure, she had been in the process of scanning and storing all the old pictures Glen and she had collected over the years. She skipped the many landscape pictures from vacations. In archiving the photos she was trying to preserve something of her life, something her children might one day be interested in. She thought they would like the silly fish pictures, with Glen and her holding up tiny fish or making funny fish faces, they would surely treasure the wedding photos, her face young and pale, Glen looking nervous as he held her hand. But what generation to come would care about a picture of Yosemite Falls or Half Dome? A river which was beautiful snapped in some unknown location at some unknown time? Still, Martha took the pictures, the red landscape and layered rock was too stunning to pass by. Maybe if she looked upon the act of taking the photo as the benefit of the exercise, not the the actual having of the photo.

Martha recalled a quote she had heard somewhere. "I was just standing back and observing my life, I wasn't living my life." Perhaps this is what the woman meant. This over thinking, judgment mode that Martha was always boiling in. To have all this concern about taking the pictures, instead of just not taking the pictures or taking the pictures, which ever she felt like at the moment.

Wildcat Canyon. Martha seemed to remember the woman in the campground mentioning that this might be a nice flat hike. It had sounded a little bit long for what Martha liked to hike, four miles round trip, but she could just walk as far as she wanted and turn around. Martha parked the car, opening the doors and fussing around gathering hat, snack, water. She sat in the open driver's door to change her shoes.

A truck pulled into the trailhead. While the parking area was crowded, it wasn't full. The driver hesitated then pulled in close to Martha's little SUV. The woman in the passenger seat, glared out at Martha, waiting for her to finish changing her shoes and close her door, so that this angry woman could get out of her truck. Martha had the urge to dally, after all they had made the decision to park so close. But naturally she rushed instead, tying the knot and jumping out of the way.

Martha studies the map posted on a trail marker at the start of the hike. There were many trails in this area, it might have been a good idea to have a map to carry with her. Oh well, she didn't really care where she went, just wanted to be outdoors, so she set off on the trail.

Two hours later Martha felt that she had made a wrong turn. She had been hiking through the forest, with no views, no canyons, and no other people. She tried to read the landscape, surely just ahead there would be a view. When the trail twisted and turned up a steep rocky hill Martha knew it was time to turn back. The weather was nice and the trail had not been steep, but there was only so much hike in her. Just as she started back she saw a young man with a backpack coming up the trail.

"Hi! Do you have a map?"

He was well prepared for his trip, the map hanging from his shoulder strap in a slick waterproof cover. "Where were you trying to go?" he asked.

"Just out for the day, looking for a view of the canyon."

It was apparent from studying the map that she had picked the one trail without a view. As she walked the two hours back she bounced back and forth between feeling it was no big deal and cursing her bad luck.

Martha spent the rest of the day exploring the upper levels of Zion. She did find many spectacular views, and parked the car near red cliffs to sit and enjoy the day. On her drive back the trucks who had been her companions on the drive up zipped passed her, trailers now filled with firewood. She remembered something about certain times of year that folks could collect firewood in National Forests, must be this time of year.

Martha pulled back into the campsite on the canyon floor, just moments before her camp neighbors came back.

"Did you like the hike? Weren't the views amazing?" The couple had obviously made it to Wildcat Canyon, taking the right trail.

"Well, I had a nice hike, but without a map I picked the wrong trail."

Once again her actions had reflected her life.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Seven - Rain gear

Martha raced to the car as huge drops splatted atop her head and shoulders. Where had those dark clouds come from? Just moments before she had slowly walked on the packed red dirt trail, examining rocks and avoiding the needle adorned plants. She had felt the sun on her shoulders, and had even stopped for a drink of water, the warmth of the desert bringing on thirst. There hadn't been wind or any other warning that the storm was about to hit. Just like my life. The signs were probably there, but I didn't pay any attention to them. She took time to stop and beat the red clay off the bottom of her shoes, quickly pulling her feet inside the car and leaning out the door slapping her shoes together and sending clumps of red mud everywhere, including into the car and all over her lap. She leaned out a little farther for the next clap, poking her hands and shoes out into the rain. Probably should have brought a second pair of shoes with her today, but as usual, her planning seemed to be lacking.

Martha drove slowly down the gravel road, pulling to the side, letting cars pass, as the other hikers took protection from the storm in their cars, rushing to leave the park. She followed the road around the short loop, looking up at the red canyon walls through the moon roof of the car. A loud boom of thunder shook the car, dark sky lighting up just seconds before the kaboom. She felt so exposed out here on the desert. Pulling into the trail head parking lot, she swung the car around so that she had a full view of the storm. Am I supposed to stay in the car during the lightning? Martha couldn't remember the safety warnings. As the clouds exploded with rain just after this thought, the deluge immediately filling the parking lot with six inches of water, the decision NOT to get out was easily made. Martha pulled out her camera and tried to take pictures of the incredible lightning. Problem was she really needed to open the window to do this and now the rain and wind made that impossible. As the rain turned to hail she lay the camera to one side and decided to just enjoy the storm. It was over in a matter of minutes. She watched the black sky and brilliant streaks of lightning move around her to the left, now covering the area she had thought to hike next. It seemed like only seconds after the clouds had moved that the sky was blue once more.

Martha got out of the car to look at the trail. Maybe she could hike it now. She walked to the edge of the parking lot, to the break in the fence which marked the start of the trail. Water three inches deep flowed down the trail. No hiking here. She looked at the picnic area which was paved with round white stones, and seemed to be free of water. Walking across the area she approached the stream bed, which moments before had held a six inch trickle of water. Three feet of water rushed down the mini canyon, the edges crumbling into the fast moving stream. I wonder how the people on the other side are going to get back? Martha could see where the trail cut down into the gully for a crossing, now filled to the banks with water. She watched for a while and then returned to her car. She could see sun shining over Bryce Canyon now, perhaps it was time to return and see the park. As she drove out of the parking lot, she took one last look into the stream bed. Amazing! It was near empty again, now a ten inch river, just snaking down the center of the bed. This was what a flash flood was all about. At least the hikers could get back to the parking lot again.

Martha drove slowly back down the gravel road, turning on to the pavement, but maintaining a crawl. There were no other cars and she wanted to study each gully and stream bed she passed. She looked for signs of destruction from the storm that had passed so quickly. She saw a field which was completly filled with water, the range cattle standing up on tiny bumps, chomping away at what grass they could reach. As she came around a curve in the road she heard the bawling of a cow. The red cow stood, blocking the road, staring down into the creek bed. The other cows all had calves with them. Had this one lost her baby in the storm? Martha pulled

her car to the side of the road and peered down. She couldn't see over the bank. The red cow stood in the road, looking from Martha to the spot down the embankment. Moo, moo. She continued to call and began to pace up and down the edge of the road. Martha pulled the car forward and off to the side, out of the line of traffic as much as possible. As she opened her door to get out of the car she considered what she knew about cattle. They were defensive of their young, like bears and things. How could she help even if the calf was over the bank? The temptation to drive on was great. There had been no cars, no rangers, no houses for miles. What if Martha was hurt in the process of trying to help? Just as Martha made the decision to slip out of the car and check out the situation, a group of three cows and two calves scrambled up over the edge of the bank and onto the road. Big Red seemed satisfied now, and the cows sauntered off up the road, following her as she led the group on up the hill.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Six - Park Pass

Martha finished washing her dishes in the tiny motel sink. At least there was hot water. She could smell the odor left from frying eggs and ham in the room. She couldn't camp because of the pouring rain, but that didn't mean she had to eat in the tourist food spots. Her choices here at Ruby's Camp were the cowboy show or the coffee shop. Her appetite had just returned following the two days of high fever and stuffed head, when nibbling on fruit and yogurt had been all that appealed to her. Drying her hands on the rough white towel she peered out the window. There was a bank of fog stretching across the parking lot, white and cold, just as there had been yesterday. Glancing at her watch, she realized the fog wasn't going to burn off by 11:00, as the weather report had promised. Time to change my plans. No problem, right? Martha pulled out the map and "The Hoodoo", a newspaper reporting on Bryce Canyon Park. Wouldn't do to ride the shuttle and hike, nothing to see. Yesterday she had suspected that if she drove further down the road there would be a different way to access the park. As she had watched hikers slip and slide down steep muddy trails into the canyon, she had known that she could not make it back up if she ventured down. The tall red hoodoos called for her to wander between them, she wanted to explore the narrow canyons. Last night her good knee had ached as much as her bad knee. No, a different adventure was called for today. Packing up a lunch of fruit and protein bars, she checked that she had rain gear and her camera equipment. Map in hand she drove off to explore a new area.

Five miles east on Highway 12 Martha pulled off the road. Amazed she gazed over the canyon at the strange red formations which poked up through the pinon pine trees. Two miles, thirty minutes and fifty pictures further down the road, she stopped at a marked trail. Mossy Cave 1.0m. She pulled out "The Hoodoo" to look up the trail information. It was listed as moderate, with some elevation change. Seemed perfect for her. She stood for a minute beside the car letting her skin judge the air temperature. Moderate, a few fluffy clouds here and there, so she left her sweatshirt and water bottle in the car.

The trail proved to be a popular one, with many photographers and hikers. Martha walked with her head on a swivel, stumbling once as her attention wandered from her feet. The hoodoos towered above her on the sides of the canyon, different then what she had observed yesterday from above. This hike did not take her into narrow canyons formed by the hoodoos. Martha realized if she wanted that view she would have no choice but to hike the steep trails leading from the top of the canyon.

Returning to her car after the hour hike, Martha felt good about her choice. No pain in either knee. Fifteen minutes later, when she drove around a curve on the mountain road and a huge expanse opened out before her Martha knew that this was what she had been meant to see. Pulling her car into a tiny shoulder area, she rolled down the window and grabbed her camera. The first layer was a brilliant green meadow, farmland. This was edged by a steep wall of rock, parfait like in appearance with layers of white, red, and striped patterns building into a crusty sage covered layer. Behind this mountain stood another, a tall looming pile of round red rocks. Beyond that even another, more grand than all the rest with huge red cliffs, topped with the voluptuous clouds, white and fluffy, darkened underlinings threatening more thunder showers.

Martha drove the gravel road to the first park listed. The road sign had boldly announced that there were three National Monuments and two state parks ahead, luring travelers further into the vast expanse of mountains. The sign said 8 miles, but that fact didn't help much when she hadn't noted the mileage on her odometer or the time. Sheep Gulch 9.3m. She passed many redwood signs with tiny arrows pointing right or left, muddy roads with culverts snaking down them toward the valley. The gravel road had several areas of thick red mud across it, highlighting the points where the river had washed over the road during yesterdays storms. As the road became a skinny snake winding over small mounds of rock, although still smooth gravel and not mud like the side roads, the terrain changed once again, no longer flat sage, but rolling red rock hills. The range cattle she spotted along the way had wide spreading horns, not as big as Texas long horns, but larger than the stubs of those happy California cattle she was used to.

After driving what seemed like more than 8 miles, Martha pulled over to the side of the road. No shoulders here, she picked a spot with good visibility, on the off chance that another car should come along. The map indicated that this road went all the way back to Hwy 89. She had passed a large RV going the other way, it must be a loop. Maybe she would drive the whole loop today, taking in the surrounding areas. Just over the next hump, Martha came to a change in the road. The gravel road took a sharp left, the sign read "Kodachrome State Park". Straight ahead was a washed out mud road, the familiar green numbered highway sign posted on the right. This was the main road? Beyond the sign was another - small faded white sign on a post leaning to the center of the road, impossible to read. Martha drove closer, venturing onto the mud, keeping her car in the middle in hopes she wouldn't get stuck.

"Not recommended for through travel. High clearance 4WD only."

Martha stared at the road. Once a thought was in her mind it was so hard for her to change. Another must, she realized. What would it take for her to stop these ultimatums which flooded her brain? The road didn't look too bad. Martha knew she was lying to herself. The road looked terrible, and the storms and flash floods of the past few days were not over.

Turning the car left, Martha headed toward Kodachrome State Park.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapter Five - Journal

Slamming the back hatch of the car, Martha felt a slight tickle in her throat. No, not a virus, not today, that wouldn't be fair. She thought her legs ached from all the walking she had done over the weekend, enjoying the trails through the giant fresh smelling eucalyptus on the college campus. Maybe that wasn't the reason her calves pinched and throbbed. She rolled her head around in circle, stretching her neck in all directions. There, on the right, the tight spasm she generally had before a bug hit her. Sore throat, aches in arms and legs, a crick in the neck - probably a virus. She walked back into the house, flopping down onto the left side of the dual recliner couch. Grabbing a hold of the quilt she kept there, tucking it around her legs and pulling it up under her chin, she closed her eyes for a moment, thinking a power nap might help. Her mind raced. Should she delay leaving if she was sick? What would that do to her schedule? She had bumped up her departure date twice, once to add a trip to Bryce Canyon and once to give herself more time in Prescott. If she delayed she would have to skip those things. Or maybe she should just change her itinerary all together? Shivering, she pulled the quilt up closer to her chin. It sure was cold today. What kind of weather would this mean for the drive over the high mountain passes? It was really cold. Oh, no. Not cold, chills. Great. She really was sick. Time to be an adult and realize that a woman with a fever and chills could not jump in the car and take off on a trip, no matter how eager she was to leave.

"I think I'm sick."

"Oh, I think I'm sick too." Glen did sound congested, his voice deep and gravelly.

"I guess if I'm really sick I can't leave tomorrow." Maybe somehow Glen would think of something she hadn't thought of yet.

"Guess not."

That wasn't the answer she had hoped for.

Martha decided a hot shower, laying with some hydrogen peroxide in each ear and a dose of airborne was all she could do. She went to bed early, shivering under three quilts.

The next morning Martha awoke and lay still. Was she sick? She had slept well and felt rested. Her throat burned as if she had swallowed some toxic substance mixed up in Dr. Frankenstein's laboratory. I think I'll get up and have breakfast and then make a decision. She did just that, taking it slow, finishing the last minute packing. As she checked off the last item on the list, she glanced at the stack of journals she had set out to take, then put back inside when it became apparent she would not have room for them in the overloaded car. Picking up her favorite, plain black cover, decorated with collaged magazine pictures, some lined pages, some plain, she carried it out to the car with her, placing it atop the stack of pillows on the back seat. As she sat in the driver's seat, ticking off things in her mind one more time, she felt the dull ache of fever once again. Her head felt heavy, as if the top half was filled with thick yogurt, while her sinuses dripped with thin water. She didn't feel excited about leaving, yet she could not make herself stay. As she backed the car out of the drive she didn't hear the muffled clunk of the journal sliding off the pillows and slipping through a thin crack between the seats, settling into the dark space under the seat.

Quest to the Southwest - Chapt 4 - Yearbook

Ting, ting, ting. The blond woman in the white linen jacket tapped on her water glass with her fork. The twittering voices of the twenty six women in the room slowly diminished, heads turning toward the sound as they gave her their attention.

"This might take a long time, but let's go around the table and find out a little about everyone. You know, what you're doing now, how many kids you have, how many times you've been married." She craned her head out over the table so she could address the women seated on her side, as well as opposite her. "Not your life story or your memoirs, just a summary."

Martha listened as each of the women took a turn describing adventures, careers and marriages. They were from all over the country, having traveled to come tonight. Her right leg began to vibrate a little and her shoulders tightened as tension filled them. What should she talk about? What parts of her life would be interesting to others? What should she say to show herself in a light that she wanted? After the manic lunch time monologue, everyone knew everything about her already.

When she had arrived at the restaurant she had shared her yearbook with Barbara, an alum who was great at remembering names and events. As the women crowded around, laughing at various pictures in the yearbook, Martha had felt a sense of remorse. Not only had she not had friends on campus, she had missed out on all the fun. When asked about "what house" she was in, what clubs she had joined, Martha had replied "Oh, I worked forty hours a week when I went here. I didn't live on campus. I worked midnight until eight in the morning, drove to class, then went home to study or sleep." Looking at the pictures and hearing the memories filled Martha with a great sense of longing. Why had she been so "grown up" at age nineteen? She had started her life of "must" and "should" young.

The alum with the red shining ponytail went on. "Then I went back to school and got another degree in nursing, because I wanted to be a midwife and not a physicist." The stories were amazing. So accomplished. "I spend my extra time chairing a mentoring group for homeless children." "I started an organization that travels to Africa and give vaccinations to people living in isolated villages." "Remember when we all went to that party at Berkeley?"

The salads were served. Martha looked down the table, three more stories until her turn. Should she eat quickly or wait? The salad looked great, so Martha chomped the walnuts and blue cheese quickly. She ran her tongue over her teeth to remove any stray bits. The stories were getting longer and there was one more to go, the sweet woman sitting next to her. But Annie told her story quickly and suddenly it was Martha's turn.

"I was kind of a flake in college. If it wasn't for Dr. Kidd, I wouldn't have even gone to graduate school, but she steered me in that direction." Martha rambled on a bit. As she verbally flitted from fact to fact about her college days a sudden wave of heat swept up through the soles of her feet and took over her body, as if the floor had suddenly become a furnace. Her hands started shaking. Why had she been so serious? Why did she still live her life with thousands of "shoulds?" Always planning so hard for the next minute that she couldn't enjoy the moment she was in. If not planning, then she was caught up reviewing. Why did she say that, do that, not do that? Going over every moment of her day each night as she lay sleepless in bed. Even now, thinking about what time she should leave so that she would arrive home at a specific time, because she needed to get up a certain time. Why was her life this chain of events, so closely linked that if one thing was off a little she felt as if a major disaster had taken place. "Then I quit my job." The words came out in a whisper. Martha felt her voice sticking in her throat, it closed tight as if she had been stung by an insect, air flow constricted. "I was tired of being liberated, tired of being a Mills woman, tired of thinking I had to do it all." Martha struggled to draw in more air. "I am tired of it." A sob broke loose and Martha was appalled to feel tears coursing down her cheeks. She covered her face with her hands, unable to go on. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." she sobbed into her hands. "I should have had fun then, back when you were all having fun."

Annie reached over and placed a hand on Martha's back. She slid her palm over to Martha's shoulder and turned Martha's body to her, reaching up her other arm and enclosing Martha in a hug.

"It's okay." she murmured in Martha's ear. Martha continued to sob. The rest of the women piped up.

"It's good to realize it now, to make changes."

"It seems you are doing something about it, that's great."

"It's never to late to make up for lost time."

A nudge on her shoulder brought Martha out of her cloud of thoughts.

"You're turn" Annie had finished and Martha was up.

Martha's shoulder was bare and lonely as she felt the imagined conversation, the imagined comfort and support slip away as she recited the standard facts of her life.

Comments: Have you ever thought about how you would like something to go, only to back out at the last minute? What are your personal habits of organization? I would love to have your comments (stimulation for new writing ideas!)