I love having a microwave in a trailer. Sure cuts down on dishes and when the temperatures are high keeps things cooler. We had instant cereal this morning via the microwave. After driving on a roller coaster of a highway for awhile we accessed a greenbelt that we thought was going to take us along a very large reservoir and it did but offered only a couple of views of the lake. We drove and drove and drove. There were pretty views but almost none of the water. I hadn’t realized that Missouri had so much hilly country. We nearly rear-ended a car that suddenly stopped for a left turn. Whew! That was a great test of our trailer brakes.

I got our GPS (Hope) going since we were about to enter Branson and of course Hope failed us again so we relied on calling Tom’s cousin “hoping” she could guide us. That’s not an easy job when you are in your house searching for a map while trying to guide visitors who have no idea where anything is. We did finally get there though. She and her husband live on the outskirts of Branson on 2 ½ acres with plenty of room for us to park.

That evening they took us into Branson for dinner at a Mexican restaurant—Cantina Laredo—that overlooks Taneycoma Lake, although the lake looks like a big river. This part of Branson has a foot-traffic-only mall with the street looking as if it is cobblestoned. A very small train runs up and down the mall to carry those who want or need to ride from one place to another. Below the restaurant, toward the lake, are water fountains that shoot up at intervals. On the hour there’s a light/flame display and we watched a large tour boat that looked like a yacht come up and turn so the passengers could watch. This whole area is a fairly recent development called Branson Landing.

Taneycoma Lake is on the White River. When it was first built it was a warm-water lake but when the Table Rock Dam was built water coming through the generators was colder. Now such coldwater fish as rainbow trout may be caught in Taneycoma Lake. It’s warmer when no power is being generated but when it’s generating the water becomes very cold and has a swift current, like a river.

We had noticed tilted layers of rock along many of the canyons in this part of Missouri. From what I’ve researched, the Ozark area has had repeated episodes of being under oceans and having millions of years of sea creatures’ shells deposited, then being uplifted and eroded. Most of the Ozark mountains were once ocean floor. River channels have cut through the rock and, in addition, limestone caves have formed from subsurface water.

It was warm and humid here just as it had been for most of our trip. The first morning I arose about 5:30 and walked a mile up the road. When I’d mentioned the night before that I might take a walk in the early hours while it was cool I was told to watch out for snakes on the pavement. Hmmmm. OK, I will do that. The sun was just beginning to glow on the hills in the distance when I started. There were no cars at all.  I saw and heard a couple of crows as I walked and a turkey vulture perched on a telephone pole with its wings spread out, looking like the top of a totem pole, but it flew as I got closer.

On my way back I saw a cardinal, a flash of red crossing the road and flitting about in a pine tree, as well as a cottontail rabbit that disappeared into shrubs. Then I saw a small snake, about eight or nine inches long, that had been run over. I took a good look at it, not wanting to get too close until I was reasonably sure it was dead, and snapped a photo that didn’t turn out very well but was enough for identifying. I was sure it was a copperhead, which I was able to confirm back at the house with Department of Agriculture pamphlets. They also have water moccasins, rattlesnakes, fleas, ticks, scorpions, and more. Oh, and armadillos, originally from South America, that have migrated north from Texas. Armadillos can carry leprosy and people can get leprosy from them. Barbara keeps guinea hens to eat the ticks, although she said turkey vultures got a couple of the hens. Needless to say, it’s potentially hazardous to work in your yard here.

The second night we ate an early dinner at the College of the Ozarks, a Presbyterian school, which bears the sub-title of “Hard Work U” on its entry sign. This was an interesting evening. The dining room looked like a lodge with big beams and treetrunk-shaped supports. The view out the windows was of green grass and trees. The meals were delicious and our waiter attentive as well as willing to talk about what he hoped to do with his life. All the full- time students who go to the College of the Ozarks must work 20 hours per week. The college has its own water supply and produces its own electricity, raises cattle, grows gardens, etc. all involving student work. All the cooking is done by students. Most try to work with something they hope to be able to use when they graduate. I had trout with crawfish etoufee, a salad and iced tea. We had homemade ice cream for dessert. No alcohol is served.

The next day we were once again on the road. As we passed the Joplin, Missouri exit the sky grew very, very, dark. A strong wind came in great gusts and the rain poured down. Our trailer was buffeted about a bit and we hoped we weren’t getting into a tornado.

Wrong Turn in Arkansas

Foliage was very dense with more pine trees appearing as we traveled away from Hochatown. We entered the Quachita National Forest, then Winding Starr National Forest and Kiamichi Wilderness.

And then in mid-morning, when we both were getting really hungry, we realized we’d taken a wrong turn. Tom turned around near a small store, an older place that made you wonder whether you should stop at all because how would THEY know what road you should take and besides that, they had one of those plywood cutouts on the porch, the Mr. and Mrs. Farmer that you stick your head into and have someone take your photo. And it was called The Country Store. But it looked neat and tidy on the outside.

Owners Steve and Suzanne greeted us cheerfully. Steve was a short man, probably 65 plus years old, long white hair beneath a straw hat and shaggy beard. And a talker. The inside of the store was cluttered and the walls festooned with photos and bits of this and that. Steve got on the topic of rattlesnakes when Tom mentioned snakes. He enthusiastically describd a college professor who came to the area having heard the longest rattlesnake found there was four feet. He went up in the rocks across the highway, up on the hill, and they came back with a six-foot snake. “Skinned that one,” said Steve.

Then he launched into a story about someone name Tommy who have been bitten by a water moccasin and refused to go to the doctor. He told us he, himself, has an old stun gun, and he used that to zap the area just above the bite to prevent the venom from moving up Tommy’s arm. He told Tommy’s wife to make him lie down. When he went to Tommy’s to check on him he was up on a table trying to put a rat snake into the attic because he had rats. He wouldn’t lie down because he wanted to put another snake up there. Tommy eventually ended up in the hospital for a few days. Tommy, Steve said, graduated from Cornell and rehabilitated birds and animals. He’d been on the TV program of Wild Kingdom, or was going to be on it.

Steve, who had told us he was a policeman for 20 years, started to tell us which direction we needed to go and where to turn. He spoke rapidly and then interrupted himself and said he’d draw a map. He knew exactly where we needed to go, when to turn, what to look for. But his drawing made it much clearer. He made a mistake on the first attempt and wouldn’t use the back of the paper but insisted we receive a clean sheet with the correct map.

We asked about breakfast, somewhat hesitantly. Steve leaped at the opportunity, took our orders and we were soon eating a delicious bacon, egg and toast breakfast. He asked me exactly how I wanted my eggs cooked, did I want pepper on them while they were cooking, what kind of bread, bacon crisp or not so crisp and it came exactly as I’d ordered. Tom had his scrambled.

Suzanne was much quieter and very knowledgeable about birds. She said she became interested when she was seven years old and had pretty much taught herself and also learned from Audubon publications. The view from the dining area, which held four or five tables, was into a small, green yard with trees and shrubs and several bird feeders. She pointed out the different species that appeared. A little creek ran past the back of the store although it dries up when the rain stops she said. We saw a ruby-throated hummingbird (the only kind they have), indigo bunting, blue jays, cardinals, chickadees, white-breasted nuthatches, titmice, and a red-bellied woodpecker.

When I walked back to use the restroom I thought it might be outside but men’s and women’s restrooms are indoors. The door was, as was the rest of the building, made from unfinished wood that had been around awhile and was a bit fragile. Inside a sign above the chipped, though clean, washbasin said to use the one next to the shower. I went past a small partition and there was another washbasin and a shower. A sign said that showers are one dollar now, no more free showers.

We’d paid for our meal and were about to leave when the door opened and in stepped a tall, slim man with long, dark hair and a large, brightly colored Macaw on his shoulder. He appeared to be in his late 30s or early 40s. “Hi, Tommy,” said Steve. So THIS was Tommy. We were introduced and he left, having given a quick message to Steve. After the door closed Steve suggested we take a tour of Tommy’s zoo. Zoo? We’d seen a sign saying zoo but hadn’t taken it seriously. I assumed it was going to be one of those roadside places with a few cages and some unhappy, pacing animals. Steve asked Tommy whether we could have a quick tour, waiving the small entry fee.

It turned out that Tommy was named the Rex Hancock Wildlife Conservationist of the Year recently by The Nature Conservancy of Arkansas. He has degrees in Ornithology and Wildlife Medicine from Cornell University. He is also a licensed falconer. The Manataka Indian Council has supported Tommy’s Arkansas Native Plant & Wildlife Center for many years.

First we went into the little building, more of a large enclosed shed, at the entrance. There was a TV set there and a stack of CDs. Tommy started playing one of the CDs and it told how he had originally had a place a number of miles away with his “zoo” but vandals had destroyed it. After all his years of hard work and fund-raising. he’d thought that was the end of it but donors came to help him out—doctors, lawyers and others made donations. Some people contributed material for cages or food for the animals. And Tommy started again. Now he has received grants and donations and has been given 78 acres that he will be moving to. He stopped the CD and hurried outside.

The current property is not large, perhaps two-three acres with grass, trees and shrubs sloping gently upward. As he told us about various animals he was also giving directions to several people who volunteer for him. A very intense, active person his eyes were everywhere checking on the well-being of the raptors, skunks, foxes, a mountain lion, an otter, a couple of kestrels and more Macaws.

We watched as Tommy showed one of the men how to feed a fawn that had yet to drink from a bottle. There were three fawns and all had either had their mother’s killed or someone had thought they were abandoned. Tommy caught the fawn and then let the men get a good grip on it and put the bottle in its mouth.

“Snake!” someone shouted and the men dived toward a snake about two feet long and a couple inches in diameter. It was what they called an alligator snake, quite harmless. They dug through some boards and other materials that the snake had crawled into. “Want to see an alligator eat a snake?” Tommy asked us. “Sure,” we said.

We went down to the edge of a murky pond that was about 30 x 20 feet along one side of the zoo. Tommy took the snake and slapped the water with it, calling the alligator at the same time. Then we could see it moving down at one end. Slowly the creature entered the water and swam toward us (we were on a viewing platform, Tommy at the sloping edge of the pond). When the alligator got close Tommy threw the snake in but the alligator ignored it. The giant reptile did inch its way part way up the bank toward Tommy though and he scratched its snout. He said the alligator would get the snake later.

Tommy showed us a smaller alligator with a snout that he had repaired—the snout had been badly damaged. He spoke of operating on some of the animals and had replaced a bone in a deer’s leg. How could he do that here? He took us to another very small building and showed us his operating room, complete with a small padded table, an x-ray machine, and an autoclave for sterilizing instruments.

Oh, and the mountain lion? A friend of his had it as a kitten and gave it to Tommy for safe keeping when he went to Afghanistan. He said if he didn’t come back it was Tommy’s. He didn’t come back.

When we left we made sure to get his address so we can send a contribution. Look him up! http://www.manataka.org/html , http://arkansasnativeplantandwildlifecenter.org/about.php

When we left the parking lot, Steve was greeting more visitors. So much for wrong turns. This one turned out to be right.

After we left the city park in Quitman, Texas we wandered about looking for a particular county road. When we stopped to ask for directions at a ranch we saw another Casita trailer going the opposite direction and thought oh-oh, we should be going where they were going, which the helpful landowner confirmed. That Casita belong to one of the people who was going to help put on the trailer tongue extension. We headed back and soon arrived at a garage tucked away in the woods. The building had a kitchen and an apartment upstairs with bathroom and shower, and I think could be used if a repair job took a longer time than expected.

After introductions, the men began work. I walked back up the road and took a few pictures and struck up a conversation with a couple who lived across the street. They identified some leaves and nuts for me: a hickory nut, sweet gum and post oak, all new to me. One of the next properties up this rural road had, among other vehicles parked in front, a covered truck with the word “Ladies” painted on it in big red letters. The name of the ranch that was posted above the driveway seemed strange too, although I can’t remember the name of it now.

Eventually all the women got in one car and we drove back to Quitman, supposedly to get lunch for the men. During this ride I asked about the truck and learned that the owner used to run a nightclub. And there was a good story that went with this revelation but I’ll skip that for now as I don’t want to get sued. First we went to a quilt shop, which took some time. Then we went to a Chinese restaurant where we enjoyed a delicious lunch. Then, on the way out of town, we stopped at a Dairy Queen and got food and drink for the men. Sounds mean, but that’s what we did.

We left there at almost 5 p.m. with the trailer tracking much better after the extension had been put on. We were heading toward a park that had been recommended to us. We drove past Big Cypress Creek and past Mt. Vernon, crossing the Red River into Oklahoma. There was running water in this wide riverbed but it was shallow. The banks were red earth. Was this the Red River Valley of song? Wikipedia says there is debate about this as there is a “Red River of the North” in Manitoba, Minnesota, and North Dakota, as well as this “Red River of the South” going through Louisiana, Arkansas, Texas and Oklahoma. More signs along the way: Choctaw Nation, Kiamachi Technology Center, Tyson, Broken Bow Gravity System, Steaks and Catfish.

We reached Beaver Bend State Park at 9:45 p.m. and of course it was full—which we discovered after driving down a long, winding, 2-lane road. There were little children all over the place. We had stopped at an Arby’s in Broken Bow to get sandwiches (which we’d eaten), a salad and iced to go. It was dark by now but we finally found the last space, #5, in a crowded RV park, on the main highway, right next to a toolshed-sized restroom/shower combination, the only one for the whole facility. The store/office had tacky souvenirs on the walls and shelves and cowboy/cowgirl signs on its restrooms. But we were off the highway.

The family camped next to us had five children, and I mean they were RIGHT next to us. Nice people though. They had one of those Coleman type tent-trailers. The dad said he had called Beaver Bend at 8 a.m. and they were already full. He and his brother run a pizza place not much bigger than our trailer, he said.

This area used to have a small village that is now under Beaver Bend Reservoir but the history is interesting, including the fact that it was once a thriving moonshine center. http://www.ghosttowns.com/states/ok/hochatown.html

It was overcast and a bit muggy the next morning (Sunday) and there appeared to be no place to eat here in Hochatown so we continued our journey, looking for a place to eat breakfast.

Often, during our travels through the Southwest last month I’d jot down signs I read along the way, thinking these would somehow jog memories when I read my notes later. Well, sometimes yes, sometimes no.

One thing I noticed were frequent signs saying “Bridge May Ice in Cold Weather.” I guess this might be the equivalent of our “Slippery When Wet or Frosty”.

In some places new overpasses had Native American designs on them, sometimes painted, and occasionally as artwork on the railings. One railing that I remember had cutouts of sandhill cranes.

Speed limits were way over the top—in some cases 80 miles per hour for cars and 70 miles per hour for trucks. In reality though I think there was no enforcement for truck speeds as most seemed to be driving as fast as or faster than the cars. Trucks ruled.We passed many large ranches with huge rolls of hay waiting to be hauled away, and endless fields of corn stretching for miles, perhaps being grown for ethanol.

In the little community of Rice, Texas (named for William Marsh Rice for whom Rice University is also named) we picked up the Casita travel trailer we’d ordered. They are manufactured here but the facility appears so small from the highway that we drove right past before realizing it. They need a larger sign. We received instructions on the ins and outs of the trailer and took a quick tour to see how they are put together. I held my shirt over my face to avoid fumes until someone brought me a mask. Casita trailers are compact and made from two pieces of fiberglass. Their shape is a little like the old airstream trailers. It was interesting to see the process—wiring, plumbing, installation of various parts, carpeting placed on walls, floor and ceiling. (For a fascinating tale William Marsh Rice’s life and the mystery of his death en.wikipedia.org/William_Marsh_Rice)

From there we went back to Corsicana and stayed overnight in a trailer park. Corsicana was named after the Mediterranean island of Corsica, according to Wikipedia. It had begun raining. We are so used to west coast rains, particularly the intense rains of Oregon and Washington, that we found it astonishing to learn that some towns in Texas had no gutters along the side of the streets. One evening, while we were eating dinner in a small restaurant, we could see the water accumulating and flooding one side of the highway. These summer monsoons can result in a lot of water. I read in the Dallas Morning News that a “gauge between Sanger and Valley View recorded 10.78 inches of rain before the rain gauge stopped functioning. Might have topped 12 inches.” Hence the occasional signs warning of flash floods.

Our 17-foot trailer, parked next to a monster trailer in the RV park, looked like an albino puppy lying next to its mother. Casita owners often stay at this park for one night so that if they have a problem with their purchase it’s not that far to go back to the “factory” and get it fixed or be shown how to take care of the difficulty. The cheerful owner of the neighboring trailer invited us in for a highball after dinner. His wife was much quieter and I suspect used to his gregarious nature and frequent unknown guests. He let us know that he was very proud of the state of Texas and its growth. During the conversation he drifted into the realm of politics and mentioned that he wanted things to be the way the used to be. He said he knew that President Obama must be a Muslim because of his last name. I kept my mouth shut but wished later I’d tried to convince him it was Irish—O’Bama. One piece of his advice that we probably should have paid more attention to was his telling us that most RVers stop driving for the day around 4:00 or 4:30 and “have one of these”, holding up his glass.

From Corsicana we drove toward Quitman (“named for John Q. Quitman, a governor of Mississippi and a prominent figure in the Mexican War”-Wikipeda) passing some pecan orchards on the way. Some of the fields we passed were growing not corn but cotton. The little town of Kerens has a cotton harvest festival.

Texas has a Trinity County and a Trinity River as does Northern California but the Trinity River in Texas, at least where we crossed, was muddy and slow with vegetation growing down to the waterline. Quite a contrast to California’s clear waters. The populations of both counties are similar.

As we drove the landscape changed and we were driving through rolling green hills with scatterings of oak and pine trees. In Quitman (known for being the birthplace of actress Sissy Spacek) we stopped at Governor Hogg City Park, a small park that had 10 trailer spaces. I’d called and made reservations that morning and when we got there our space was marked with an orange cone. It was a quiet spot, grassy with lots of space between sites. No showers but clean restrooms.

After dinner we took a walk along the park’s Nature Trail, about a half-mile long. The undergrowth was lush and I had no idea what most of the shrubs and trees were. I discovered on this trip that I feel a bit as if I don’t speak the local language when I can’t identify the birds or the foliage. I did talk to an employee there but he didn’t know anything about it either. He said a few years ago the local cub scouts had identified and labeled everything but vandals destroyed their efforts. Too bad.

We found a nice place for breakfast in Quitman the next morning – the Country Kitchen. The tables were covered with red and white checked oilcloth. Old tools and other antiques decorated the walls, papered to look as if they were logs. It was owned and run by women and seemed to be a favorite with the local citizenry many of whom greeted each other when they came in. One man, a mechanic, was very helpful, giving us directions to where we were headed to get the trailer tongue extended.

Notes From Tucson to Waco—BBQ, Boots & Cultural Pursuits

Pecos River really full. Ate breakfast at a little restaurant across from Forest Tires  recommended by another customer at an IHop (where we didn’t want to wait 15 minutes to be seated).

Very flat. Occasional oil pumps (look like a giant praying mantis), gas terminals. Scattered clouds.

Going through a potash mining area—very pale soils.

Just went past something that looked like a big salt-evaporation pond.

In Texas now. Went through Hobbs.

Irrigated pasture on both sides.

Radio talking about cattle prices, crops and weather. Wildlife report on bobwhite and deer. Recent rains have been helpful. Biggest crops are corn, soybeans and wheat.

Ocho Gin Company sign.

Town of Seminole. Population 6,430. Speed limit 75 on this two-lane highway. Ridiculous.

Big Springs Texas at 3:29 p.m.

4:15: Leaving a rest stop. We ate the other half of yesterday’s sub sandwich for lunch and drank iced tea. Nice rest stop–tiled walls. Shelters outside, covered and with curved, brick wind-protection walls. I found two dead baby birds on a sidewalk—looked up and there was a fluffy nest—think the wind might have blown it apart.

Another traveler at the rest stop, a Texan, said we were headed toward God’s Country. I looked on the map and could see lakes and trees ahead rather than the long miles of dryness. Sign for Abilene: BBQ, Boots and Cultural Pursuits.

Halfway to Coleman on Hwy 84. Much greener. More trees. Some creeks with water. Can tell it rained here today from dampness along road.

Milkshakes at a DQ in the small town of Santa Anna, population a little over 1,000. Nice old houses. Brick buildings downtown. The girl at the DQ said, “sir” to Tom.

Next Day: Just had breakfast at an IHop in Waco. Got to the motel last night, about 11 p.m. and a staff member had rented our room to a different traveler. Much consternation at front desk. Gave us a nice room. The IHop was the first place I’ve eaten where we were a racial minority. Cute kids at the table near us.Waco was built on the site of “an ancient agricultural village of Waco Indians” who were later driven out by Cherokees.

We visited Baylor University since it was close by. Pretty campus. It’s a Baptist campus established in 1845. Many of the older buildings are red brick with white trim. A domed campanile. A new stadium being built. Very hot here though and muggy. A little creek runs through the campus and doves and great-tailed grackles were enjoying it. The grackles, once found only in S. America and S. Texas, are noisy and congregate in parking lots (like English Sparrows) and, according to an article in a 2013 USA Today, are considered pests. Brazos River runs through campus. The original name of the river, Rio do los Brazos de Dios, translated as “River of the Arms of God”, and was named by early Spanish explorers, according to Wikipedia. 

The Desert

I’d traveled across part of Arizona and as far as El Paso, Texas many years ago, without stopping, but my familiarity with the desert world has been mostly from magazine photos and the writings of various authors. This trip impressed me with the vast amount of desert land we have in the United States. Although the weather was hot and humid the presence of the “monsoons” at this time of year provided momentary relief with frequent, brief storms, usually in the afternoon and accompanied by lightning and thunder. Miles and miles of flat, dry lands covered with sagebrush, or in some places, cactus, were framed by sheer walls of layered rock and above these often colorful walls were clouds, puffy and white, although sometimes taking on a menacing darkness as a storm progressed. In one place we might be exposed to intense rainfall while, a few miles farther along, the pavement was dry and the only clouds those perched above the rock rims.

Heading into the desert of Arizona, we drove into hard rain accompanied by lightning and thunder. The rain felt good, a downpour that reminded me of Oregon. Our GPS was working fine at that time and took us right to our motel in Tucson. Palm trees along the parking lot, mountains in the distance. This is where we discovered Cracker Barrel restaurants and found their meals some of the best on our trip.

The next morning we went to find an acquaintance, Saralaine, with whom I’d communicated by phone and email but had never met. She belongs to an organization I recently joined (Great Old Broads for Wilderness) and had asked us to stop by if we had the chance. We programmed the GPS and off we went. I am totally inexperienced with desert living and, as well as being a chance to meet her in person, it was an opportunity to get off the main highway and have closer contact with a new environment.

First we traveled on a paved road, with helpful signs like “Don’t continue if flooded” and then a graveled one. The contrasts in desert areas, I learned as we traveled, include very hot, dry weather, windstorms, dust storms (and signs warning of their possibility) and flash floods. In the winter there may be ice. There were enough people living scattered throughout this area to support a high school, which surprised us. And not far away was Saguaro National Monument.

Saralaine greeted us cheerfully and showed us around her property suggesting we proceed quickly before the sun got any hotter—we’d been later arriving than our original estimate. Mule deer live nearby as well as wood rats. Bleached antlers rest on her fireplace hearth. I’m used to wood rats being near trees and large shrubs and building small towers of sticks for a nest. Saralaine said they find enough twigs here for nests and then often put cholla burrs all over the nest as added protection. Once she found a hollow statue of a woman being used as part of a wood rat nest with twigs covering all but three fingers. She rescued the statue which now resides in her house, sans wood rats, and which she has named “Our Lady of Three Fingers”.

We saw a cottontail rabbit and she said there are jackrabbits. I’m assuming with rabbits and wood rats there are probably foxes and coyotes as well. And we were assured that she frequently sees rattlesnakes. Her bird feeder provided me with a new bird sighting of a canyon towhee and several Gila woodpeckers. She told us that Gambel’s quail come in to feed but they didn’t put in an appearance while we were there. Nor did we see a roadrunner that is in the area. A mourning dove was nesting in the sconce by her front door. Water is essential for life and she had a little pond and other water for the desert creatures.

A number of cacti were blooming along the roadway but I could identify only those I photographed and looked up after I got home. One has to be careful though. If you kneel down to take a picture you have to move cautiously in order to not get stabbed by thorns. It was somehow reassuring to see that our new friend was so comfortable with living in such a harsh environment and content with a natural, desert landscape.

July Road Trip

Part I- In Which Hope Fades

I’ve used my GPS a few times and found it quite useful, almost magical. I was raised in rural areas and have always relied upon landmarks—turn right at the red barn, go five miles up a winding road until you see a wooden sign that a bear has chewed on, look for a big fire-scarred ponderosa pine–and I tend to be geographically confused in urban settings. My GPS, the few times I’ve used it, has taken me to where I needed to go and has been polite about repeating “Recalculating”. It has also been quite satisfactory in urging me to “Turn left, turn left”. My husband’s GPS leaves a little more to the imagination and when it’s time to turn left, having notified you relatively recently that you will be expected to do so, simply pings. If you don’t turn at the ping then you are redirected.

On our recent trip through California from our home in Oregon (the plan being to pick up a new travel trailer in Texas and continue on our way), we started using his GPS when we got to Los Angeles. (I knew I should have taken mine, just knew it.) Right in the middle of a complicated, spaghetti-like freeway system, surrounded by a multitude of drivers who either knew exactly where they were going at a high speed or were really good at faking it, the GPS went dark. Aaaaagh! My spouse was able to head us more or less in the right direction while I tried to make sense out of a map and occasionally pointed out an intersection we should have taken just after we’d passed it. We finally reached the coast highway, at which point the GPS came on briefly and then died again. But we were close to Huntington Beach and our friend guided us by cell phone to his home. We decided that we should name our GPS and I suggested the name of Hope.

A few days later we were driving through El Paso, Texas at night. No need for Hope, we knew which highway we needed to take. But the well-lit signage I expected wasn’t there and, as chief navigator (ha!), I missed the sign. We drove on, thinking surely the sign would appear. El Paso seemed to be built in layers, like descending plateaus, each one covered with lights, endless. We had reservations in Carlsbad, Arizona that night. I finally inserted Carlsbad into the GPS and began to relax as Hope guided us in a large circle past a hospital and heading back the way we had come. No sign. Then we saw the sign on a street overhead. “That’s where we’re supposed to be”, said my frustrated spouse.

I glanced down at Hope and realized she was showing Carlsbad, California. Oooops. I reprogrammed. Finally we got onto the correct freeway and headed toward Carlsbad, Arizona. After being stopped once, when we were close to the Mexican border, by a Border Patrol check station we neared our destination. This highway was the best we’d been on so far—newly paved, newly painted lines, bright reflectors. I suggested it might have something to do with Homeland Security along the border.

One of the intriguing signs I jotted down as we sped through the dark and went over a pass was Guadalupe Mountains National Park. There was probably a great view and I’ve since learned that this desert mountain park is “the world’s premier example of a fossil reef from the Permian Era.” It also has great hiking and bird watching. Well, another time.

Suddenly Hope told us to turn left. We looked left but there were no lights, no signs of a motel. “At the first opportunity, do a U turn and then turn right in ½ mile, “ she said. We turned her off. We couldn’t believe she was telling the truth. Then we saw a sign that said Carlsbad Caverns Highway so, wanting to believe that was the right road, we turned. Rationally we knew the motel couldn’t be up that way, in a national park, but gave it a try. Understand that it was late and we were exhausted and desperately wished her to be correct. Up the winding road we went through what might have been a narrow canyon—who knows, it was pitch dark except for our car lights. To the end of the road. To the empty parking lot of Carlsbad Caverns National Park. Seven miles. And out again. Seven miles.

Back at the main highway I reentered the street numbers. I knew Hope had originally not accepted all four numbers of the street address, for some reason, but thought at the time that at least three numbers would get us to the town of Carlsbad and then I could try reprogramming. Wrong. It must have been the numbers for a house near Carlsbad Caverns Highway. Soon we were heading toward town but within the first mile Hope went blank again. We were able to find the motel without her, checking in at 1 a.m.—we’d lost an hour due to crossing a time zone. Did I say we were exhausted? Sometimes in life you just have to put Hope back in her box and function on the reality of old-fashioned maps and intuition.

Suddenly I heard someone, not a bird, singing softly. What? This was a bird tour and I’d been invited to help two who were more expert than I in guiding a group of people to search for birds on this overcast morning.

I glanced toward the sound and saw a man about my age singing a portion of a song to another person, a song about a bird. “Hey, I know that song, “ I said. Then I joined him in singing “Tra la la tweedle dee dee dee it gives me a thrill, to wake up in the morning to the mockingbird’s trill……” bringing smiles from some of the rest of the group. That song, written by Vaughn Horton, was popular during the 1950s and I’ve heard it sung by Patti Page, Les Paul/Mary Ford, and Burl Ives among others. Dates me for sure! http://www.lyricsmania.com/mockingbird_hill_lyrics_burl_ives.html.  And I must admit that’s the first time I’ve ever taken part in a bit of songfest on a birding trip.

Today was The McKenzie River Trust’s http://mckenzieriver.org/protected-lands/owned-properties/green-island/  annual Living River Celebration on Green Island, an event to recognize the importance of the on-going restoration process on 1100 acres of property at the confluence of the Willamette and McKenzie Rivers. The area is not open to the public except during this day of celebration.

According to the MRT, the island supports some of the “least altered habitat for fish and wildlife protection and restoration within the Willamette Valley” and their vision “is to restore a robust ecosystem comprised of a rich mosaic of historic habitat types.”

The MRT website states that the property was purchased in 2003 from the Green family, who owned and farmed the land for over 70 years and wanted to see it protected and restored for the benefit of wildlife and the communities of the southern Willamette Valley. During the winter high waters make this an island. During the summer a small bridge gives access.

One good thing about any group of birders is that they range in ability from beginning to quite expert so that multiple eyes are scanning for avian sightings. There were about 15 in our group including a boy who appeared to be seven or eight years old who was very interested and very intent. He carried his father’s camera around his neck and took photos, whether the bird was close or far away.The boy remained involved for the entire 2-hour walk. When he was some distance from us, exploring, his father and I agreed it was good that this was a digital camera, rather than one with film!

We had good views of a bald eagle on its nest next to the river, an osprey tilting above the water, a multitude of tree swallows (some occupying nesting boxes), rough-winged swallows along the riverbank, an osprey nest, lazuli buntings, downy woodpeckers, cedar waxwings acting like flycatchers, a goldfinch, a red-tailed hawk calling and soaring above us, great-blue herons, and more. We also heard orioles, a black-headed grosbeak (and saw a female), a brown creeper, Swainson’s thrush, and the weird sound of one of those great-blue herons.

On the way back to our starting point another hiker and I left the group and walked the half-mile nature trail, which this year has a log across where a tree fell during the winter. It was here that I realized this was the place I’d seen baby spotted skunks playing last year. The trail is diverted slightly away from the den because of the fallen tree but I walked over to look at it closely. There were no spider webs across the opening and the hole looked free of any fallen dirt or debris. I think the skunks may be using the same den again. This year it was impossible to make the entire loop because during the winter the river had cut  another channel and water blocked our passage.

One of the goals of the MRT is to let the rivers do what rivers want to do and then have humans adapt to those natural changes. Some changes are encouraged. For instance the farmland is slowly being converted back to the kinds of riparian or floodplain forests that are common along riverbanks. Over 80,000 native shrubs and trees have been planted on 245 acres since 2006. Levees have been removed so that when a river is high it can flow through portions of the property.

Many other activities were offered besides bird-watching. A kayaking company offered advice and free paddling in a quiet pool area, tree climbing was offered to people of all ages in a couple of cedars, booths were set up to provide information about various environmental topics in the Willamette Valley, and there were food and drink booths. And of course there was music.

It was not a bad way to spend a few hours on a misty morning—sharing stories and interests, searching for birds, learning about habitat restoration, walking among big-leaf maples and cottonwoods, being grateful for an island located at the confluence of one river that flows north to the Columbia and one that flows from east to west to join it. And all this is a confluence of knowledge and support by everyone from the farmers who originally made a living from the island’s rich soils to the organization whose volunteers believe in the importance of rebuilding its integrity. And, yes, the delight of a bit of singing ”tra la la tweedle dee dee dee….”

The last time I stood on the footbridge that goes across this pond a little girl, maybe three years old, was calling “I see a tadpole! There’s one over there! I see another tadpole!” in a high-pitched and piercing voice, trying to get the attention of an adult. And I was mentally saying “please dad acknowledge her so she’ll stop hurting my ears.” I’m always happy to see children out enjoying nature. And seeing those tadpoles may have been the most exciting thing that had happened to her in the outdoors up to this point. I realized I needed to go elsewhere for peace and quiet.

But yesterday I was at that pond ALONE! It’s part of a very popular, visitor friendly arboretum (www.mountpisgaharboretum.com) and for solitude one usually has to arrive at any special place early in the morning. It was about 2:30 in the afternoon and I had just finished my 2-hour, volunteer parking-lot-guard stint and was taking a short walk before driving home.

This pond is called the Water Garden and has undergone some changes in the time that I have lived in the area. The original bridge finally became unsafe. It took several years to raise enough money to be able to afford its sturdy replacement and then time to rebuild with the help of staff and volunteers. Many branches fell into the pond during the icy rainstorms of this last winter and they appear to be destined to remain where they’ve fallen. The trees in this area are mostly big- leaf maple, ash and Douglas fir, with a dense undergrowth of ferns, ocean spray, creek dogwood, Douglas spiraea and other shade-loving plants. The yellow flowers of the water lilies are scattered throughout the dark pond like dots of sunshine on a cloudy day.

I used to bring my grandchildren over here to look at the western pond turtles and an occasional frog or duck. Turtles would bask in the sun on a log or one of the large lily pads. Sometimes we would just see a head poking up and moving along like a periscope. The pond appears smaller than it used to be, probably because of the fallen branches, and the lily pads grow in dense profusion. Beyond a barrier of branches about 20 feet from the bridge lies an area where the water, at least from the bridge, appears to be less murky and the lily pads relegated just to areas along the edges.

Yesterday there were no turtles that I could see but an abundance of bullfrogs (parents to the previous tadpoles or perhaps the tadpoles themselves as adults). Now and then one would make a sound similar to a wet rubber shoe skidding across a floor as it jumped into the murk. A few called with the typical bullfrog sound, a low croak.

Suddenly I realized something else was swimming about—a muskrat! First one I’ve seen in real life. It had a rounded head, little round ears, fur smoothed back tightly against its body and a very long tail. The creature appeared to be nibbling at something near the surface of the water. I’ve since read they like to eat yellow water lilies. Occasionally the muskrat would dive under a lily pad, bumping up under it, and an indignant frog would voice its displeasure as it leaped into the water. No sooner had the muskrat disappeared than a great blue heron took flight from the far side of the pond, where it had been concealed by brush and fallen trees, and winged straight toward the bridge, just clearing the overhead supports and disappearing toward the river. As I turned back to the pond a movement caught my eye—a large raccoon, making its way rapidly along the pond’s edge was coming my direction, hands working the shallows. My guess is that it had disturbed the heron. I waited for the raccoon to reappear but it didn’t. After a short time the muskrat swam across the cleared space between water lilies and I could see the whole body as well as the tail moving swiftly through the water. I could track its progress as it reached lilies again and worked its way toward the far end of the pond by both ripples and the splashing of frogs.

The great blue heron returned, wings spread, long legs dangling, and lit at the upper part of the pond again. I stayed a few minutes longer and then walked the short distance down the trail. When I got to the trailhead a mother, two small youngsters and a boy about 10 stopped me to ask about a lake. I told them there was no lake.

But then said, “ There is a pond with lots of bullfrogs” at about the same time as his mother spotted the Water Garden sign. Eagerly the boy headed up the trail. His mother said, “You’ve made his day!” And followed.

I thought later maybe I should have told them about what I’d seen but decided it’s best to not overpromise. With any luck the great blue heron flew again while they were there.

Over the last few months I’ve been reading, copying and, in some cases, typing material that my mother wrote as a young wife and mother.

At one point she was writing about life as a State Park family, with the assistance of a family friend, but as she also wrote, this resulted in two different styles of writing. I didn’t care what the styles were. It was her story, even though unfinished, and a fascinating read. I retyped the story and added pictures from her photo album. The resulting self-published book I sent to my brothers as gifts and a niece and nephew have purchased their own copies. I imagine my children will want a copy at some point. It was exciting for me to see the cover, with her name as author…the story published after all these years.

More recently I’ve been copying, and in some cases typing, letters that she wrote to her mother when she was pregnant with me. This going back to my parents’ younger years is a strange experience, a bit like going back to an old growth forest whose paths I skipped along as a child but this time going slowly and observing all the understory—the mosses and ferns, the way the vine-maple leaves are green in spring turning to yellow, orange and red in autumn, the surprise of discovering a bird’s nest; hearing the rapid trill of a wren from the shadows and the ripple of the stream that I had simply splashed through in those early years—seeing the way the water curls over one rock and bubbles around another. Sometimes the trail reaches outside of the forest and winds up over rocky bluffs where twisted pines frame views of a distant lake.

My parents had lived next to her parents in Riverside, where my two older brothers were born, but later moved to Healdsburg to live with my father’s parents, an arrangement that lasted only three months before they found their own place. She was pregnant with me. Both they and my brothers missed her parents a great deal and she wrote long letters to them several times a week. My grandmother saved those letters and I am the lucky recipient. Typing all of them seemed too big a chore and after typing a number of them I switched to scanning, finally figuring out a way to do this as a pdf rather than as a jpeg. Treated as a photo the pages are much more clear but take up too much space. Pdfs are a much more reasonable size. How strange it is to be dealing with modern communication hassles while immersed in history. In one recent page my mother was excited about getting a phone in their new home, which they are renting, of course. Their ring is one long and three shorts—a party line. She’s cooking on a wood stove but they’ve splurged and bought a two-burner electric stove (she called it plate) so that breakfasts can be prepared more quickly.

My father, in this most recent reading, has been working 10-14 hour days, six days a week, and taking one college class at Davis on the 7th day. The income and outgo financially tell a lot about the difficulties of work at that time. He is doing most of the building, wiring, etc. on a winery start-up, getting paid 60 cents an hour and happy to have it. Rent for the house is $25 a month. It will cost $40 for the doctor for my delivery and $6 per day for staying in the hospital. She bought a pair of cords for each of my brothers for $1 each from Penney’s. For furniture they are going to buy two lawn chairs and my mother will make cushions for them.

I feel a bit voyeuristic looking into all the personal family dynamics going on during this stressful time of their lives. My father worked very hard to support his little family and my mother did as well. She also loved flowers and struck up a friendship with one of the neighbors near their original house who gave her seeds and cuttings for a flower garden. And in that Napa Valley yard there were figs and cherries and grapes for the eating. Of course my mother wrote a lot about the two little boys as well.

Going back and forth between that time and the present sometimes puts me in a mood, but that’s ok. I only wish I had known, and been receptive to, about all this while they were still alive. My mother wrote very detailed letters and I am grateful that she did so. Grateful also to my grandmother for saving them. I’m using great self-restraint and not reading a letter until just before I copy it. My appreciation for my parents continues to grow.