Outdoor breakfast
Here’s the other good thing about holidays in places with cacti…you get to eat outside. If we tried this at home at this time of year, we’d freeze to death. Well, maybe not quite…And to be fair, it was a bit cooler first thing in the morning, but definitely nice enough to enjoy our scrambled eggs, piles of fresh avocado and corn tortillas in the desert sunshine.
This was taken on our patio at unit 1, our Intrawest home for our week in Palm Springs
Palm Springs Hiking
This was another hike on another gorgeous California Dreamin’ -type day.
The desert is so deceptive. At first, you look out the car window and it’s just dry dusty tumbleweed stuff like a cheap Western flick sans the cowboys.
And then. You start walking up the trail and start noticing the flowers and hear the crunch of dry rock underfoot and and the vistas get bigger, until pretty soon it feels like that world could open up forever.
It’s just so different from the West Coast forest trail that we hike here at home, where the wet mossy green-ness of it fills your retinas and the trees and ferns move in so close and thick and damp.
Instead, this desert leads the eyes into far-off possibilities. And then, when we got down into those palms the temperature dropped and the light softened from crisp shadows to soft golden roundness and we gained the experiential understanding of the meaning of the word ‘oasis’.
Later, we went to the visitor’s centre and walked the trail through McCallum Grove and into McCallum Pond. It boggles the mind to be surrounded by dust and sitting in the shady coolness of palms with fronds that hang to the ground like an African hut. I swear I could have parted those crackling palms and found whole families hidden within their depth. It was quite magic.
California Dreaming
These hikes are in the 13,000-acre Coachella Valley Preserve. Apparently the San Andreas Fault allows the water to seep up to the surface and nourish all these incredible fan palms.
The view from the Pushawalla Palm trail ridge overlooks the city sprawl of Palm Springs and the various other cities that all blend into each other, as well as the San Bernardino Mountains and Indio Hills.
A great help with all of this was the wonderful book I mentioned in my last post, “120 Great Hikes in and near Palm Springs.” Apparently, the later editon is titled 140 Great Hikes. They’re easy-to-follow directions with useful information as well.
Names Carved in Tree in Tahquitz Canyon
It’s our last day in Palm Springs, and though the weather hasn’t been blazing hot, it’s been quite perfect for our purposes.
There are inherent risks in traveling with avid golfers like my husband and our good friends Dave and Vi Nick to a golfing universe like Palm Springs. Did I mention avid? The last time I swung a club was probably three or four years ago. I didn’t think it was appropriate to break that particular fast on a nice course with people who actually like the game. I fully intend to try it again some time, but perhaps at home, where the green fees are more in keeping with my level of aptitude.
But the great news is that in spite of this area’s reputation for golf, golf and golf. There is another way to get into this desert. The real desert, without watered greens and manicured lawns; the desert of spiky thorns and dusty rocks and rough ground.
So. My husband, bless him a thousand times, did the golf thing with the Nicks, but then picked a day to come out with me on a short hike to Tahquitz Canyon. Actually, our original plan had been to do a much longer hike outside of the town of Mecca, but after driving there, we discovered the road to the hiking area closed. I’m guessing the canal was washed out from earlier flooding.
The good news out of that little sojourn was I ate the best burrito of my life in a little strip mall in Mecca. I wish I had written down the name of that hole-in-the-wall cafe, but perhaps it’s best to just remember the taste.
But all that driving meant that we had now used up some of our time before we had to pick up the golfers. Luckily we had our book of hikes (120 Great Hikes In and Near Palm Springs by Philip Ferranti with Hank Koenig).
We took Hwy 111 back from Mecca , driving past the endless strip malls on offer. It’s hard to find a focused center in any of this, though Palm Desert and Palm Springs seem to have more of a there, there.
We finally reached Mesquite Road to the Tahquitz Canyon where the book assured us we’d have a great hike in short order. It was true. We saw this incredible tree with its unfortunate scars of all the people determined to leave their names behind. There was this lovely waterfall before the trail looped back. It was a short, but pretty hike, and left us enough time to sit and have a capuccino before picking up our friends.
What’s not to like?
Trail at Tahquitz Canyon, Palm Springs, California
Jesusonian near Tubac, Arizona
Finally.
My article from my April 2009 press trip to Arizona is almost in print. Next month it will run in the Travel Writers’ Tales syndication. The combined circulation of this group of newspapers is just under 300,000. www.travelwriterstales.com/publishing_partners.htm
Part of my story is based on our visit to Tubac, Arizona.
This is a picture of Kamon. He is a Vicegerent Elder Jesusonian living near that funky little artist town. He is a member of an intentional community that bases their concepts of how to live on The URANTIA Book. I’m guessing that, like me, you’ve never heard of it either. Here’s a link to some of their site and more information about Kamon. http://gccalliance.org/profiles/members/8
Granted, that website looks pretty wild. And you can imagine what we were thinking at 6:30 a.m. when we were crawling into a little red car to go to some strange farm with two people we’d never met. Luckily I wasn’t alone. Actually, it was Thomas Spanhel from Germany who was the one that started the whole idea. But after everyone else in our group got cold feet, it was just Thomas and I that ended up getting into that little car with two people sporting Cheshire smiles.
We met Kamon, CipPriAnkhA and Gabriel of Sedona, along with other members of their community, at their big farmhouse and organic garden. My about-to-be published article is limited by word count and doesn’t do the visit justice. They treated us with kindness and light-hearted humour and seemed very open about their views and even took my joke about purple Kool-aid with grace and a quick comeback.
Not to mention the great 7:00 a.m breakfast they served us. It seemed like a comfortable place, though it certainly wasn’t sanctioned by Tourism Arizona. But I think they should know that it only makes their state that much more interesting. Not everything worth seeing should be safe and sanitized.
So, if you’re ever in Tubac, look for the pedicab drivers. They’ll invite you for a visit. Don’t worry. There was no evidence of matching running shoes and they delivered us back to reunite with the official part of the tour… exactly when they said they would.
Last night I dragged out my well-worn copy of Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott. What is it about that woman that just cracks me up immediately? Maybe it’s the too-familiar recognition of all those neurotic tics around the writing process. Whatever it is, it’s a great way to end the day…with some laugh-outloud guffaws at how weird this whole processof writing is. When her students in her writing classes ask how, how do you actually do it? Her reply on page six is,
“You sit down, I say. You try to sit down at approximately the same time every day. This is how you train your unconscious to kick in for you creatively. So you sit down at, say, nine every morning, or ten every night. You put a piece of paper in the typewriter, or you turn on your computer and bring up the right file, and then you stare at it for an hour or so. You begin rocking, just a little at first, and then like a huge autistic child. You look at the ceiling, and over at the clock, yawn, and stare at the paper again. Then, with your fingers poised on the keyboard, you squint at an image that is forming in your mind-a scene, a local, a character, whatever–and you try to quiet your mind so you can hear what that landscape or character has to say above the other voices in your mind. The other voices are banshees and drunken monkeys. They are the voices of anxiety, judgment, doom, guilt. Also, severe hypochondria….”
You see what I’m talking about here? This woman nails the whole experience of writing like it’s making a bad child sit on a chair until something good comes of it. It’s so strange.
I’ve read writing books that call all of this bunk. One author in particular said that writing was a wonderful, unadulterated joy every single time she did it and if you found it difficult you should go do something else and quit whining about it.
This is obviously her experience, and I think, an exception. Because I have certainly read many more writers that sound like Ms. Lamott and for that I am truly thankful. Amen. Because there is great comfort in knowing that others have to work at it too. That it doesn’t come easy but that because of that very fact, it is so wonderfully rewarding.
Why else do we hike up forest trails or cycle long mountain passes except for the joy and intrinsic reward of struggle and accomplishment? It’s pretty natural in other areas of our life so why would writing be any different?
Of course, this is really just a personal pep talk, though public, as I’m trying to psyche myself into some sort of action and to dispel my own crazy drunken monkeys.
I read Mennonite in a Little Black Dress by Rhoda Janzen on Saturday. Great read. Quite a few out-loud snorks of Mennonite recognition. Oh man. I take it most of this Menno stuff is pretty standard issue. I’m sure Ms. Janzen and I would have plenty to laugh about. There is that instant-connection of having grown up with bad haircuts and homemade outfits. I’d love to meet her sister too. Hannah sounds very wise. Here’s a little piece out of the book that I thought demonstrated Hannah’s rather amazing insight. She is speaking to Rhoda about her almost-ex-husband…
“I don’t think middle age is about learning to live with ambiguity; it’s just the opposite. It’s about finally developing the resolve to reject ambiguity and embrace simplicity. What could be simpler than saying, ‘No matter how I feel about him, I will not expose myself to his damage’? I’m not saying it isn’t painful. But it is simple.”
Pretty clear stuff. And I’ve been busy priding myself on my ability to embrace ambiguity and to see nothing but shades of grey in all things. Maybe it is a little more black and white than I thought?
Heavenly Heviz, Hungary
My excuses are thus; I have been, and continue to be, kind of sick. Nothing exceptional. It’s the same stupid cold that everyone’s getting, the sore throat, the coughing, the aching and now some sort of infected left eye.
All this to say, that I dicked around more than usual today. I started on the piece about Northern Vancouver Island. Saying I ’started’ might be a generous term. I think I managed to paste down around six sentences? Maybe eight. That’s probably right. The sad thing is that those few sentences that sound light and trite and breezy, very nearly killed me in their execution.
Which is why my memoir is sitting somewhere in Word.docs with cyber-dust piling on its pages. And which is why I haven’t started my Hungary story for Adventure Cyclist or the other two articles for the newspaper syndication. Nada. A big fat donut today.
And that’s okay. Check it out! I must be getting old and wise, because it really is okay. Normally this would be about the time that I berate myself for ‘failing’. Instead, I gave myself nice cups of tea and hit up my chocolate stash for treats.
I know I’ll be a bit better tomorrow.That is, after all, the nature of these things. Besides, I’ve got the drops for my eye and I’ve got the right cold medicine kicking in to knock the headache out of my head once and for all.
Most of these articles have long deadlines anyway.
Really. I have tons of time.
Well, except for the Vancouver Island thing, but that’ll be the plan for tomorrow.
Self-Portrait in Chicago
I was looking over some photos of the past year or so and found this one from that weekend in Chicago. What is it about going anywhere and everywhere that is so cool? I just love the unexpected finds, the new food, the need to be navigating and continually thinking of what to do next. There is nothing to be taken for granted. There is nothing that resembles a routine. All you are expected to do is to show up, be curious and pay attention.
Hmmmm…I think that’s what I love best about travel. It reminds you how to approach life.
Kind of like the line I just read in The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery.
“Oh my gosh, I thought, does this mean that this is how we must live our lives? Constantly poised between beauty and death, between movement and its disappearance? Maybe that’s what being alive is all about: so we can track down those moments that are dying.”
Fish Flies into the Sunset
This is a photo from one of last week’s sunsets, when things were a little more peaceful around here.
I raked up some of the tide line left from yesterday’s storm. I followed its thick track under our front deck, right up to the basement windows and then where it broke around the side of the house to the east and down the driveway to the west. One half of the driveway now looks like a dry stream bed, with sandy rivulets tracked around round cobbly stones where the ocean rushed out onto the street.
Under the rosemary and lavender bushes I found up to six inches of needles, sand, bits of wood and other debris. I haven’t even begun to rake up the fat rocks and stones that were flung up like tiny marbles in those big watery mitts. But those rocks are an entirely different category of cleanup.
It is interesting to listen to people’s reactions about this. Some, like Kevin & I, are thrilled to be witnesses to such raw power. But some view it as a huge burden and inconvenience and a subject not to be lightly trifled with. I could understand that if there was real damage…perhaps a flooded house, a drowned cat, a backstroking fish, or even a twisted foot. But no one died or came remotely close to being injured. It was just a storm. Just sand, rocks, flotsam and plenty of salty water.
Just a storm people. And now we clean up.
Jan 18, 2010 Storm
The winds blew all night…gusting to around 120 km/h. When the dawn finally let enough light seep through the grey, we could see the water surging and rushing the rock wall in front of our house. Impressive doesn’t even begin to describe it. Humbling? That might be a slightly better description.
Every once in a while Mother Nature just reminds you how insignificant you really are. The power of wind and waves is something to behold. Not a bad reminder to clear the decks now and again.
Just knock all the crap off the top of the desk (or fill in the blank here with your choice…dresser, coffee table, countertop, etc) and then only put back what is necessary, useful and/or beautiful. If it’s beautiful and necessary all at the same time, well that’s a keeper for sure. But if you want to hold on to it only because you love it and it has aesthetic merit? Well actually that counts too. In fact, I’m thinking that might even count more than the useful items…
Anyways, the storm was a beauty. It was marvelous walking around and checking out all the massive rearranging that went on. This photo is just up from our house on the seawall in Davis Bay. Nobody was sitting on any of these benches for some reason.
