Treehouse, California

“I’ve missed you, Dead Man’s Curve!” Honk, Honk, HOOOOOOOOONK. “YEEAAAHHHH Sundown Falls,” we shout as we whip around sharp curves along the Kern Canyon. I’m sure all other drivers think we’re smoking crack, which makes us yell louder and honk longer. We drive to the guide house first, a flop house where most guides hang their hats (and kayaks) for the summer. Finding only empty PBR cans and random pieces of clothing strewn about, we peel out to look for friends at a notorious hangout, our boathouse. We pull up as two friends sand brand new, wooden boxes for our overnight camp while several others stand around in board shorts, drinking Busch Light. “Welcome home,” I say to myself, face beaming. We knock back a few stouts at the Kern River Brewing Company, my summertime home away from tree-home and I’m thrilled because tomorrow I get to move in!


A staircase leads to a room 12 feet above the ground, with skylights, tree branches shooting through the floor and ceiling, a balcony with a sliding glass door, wi-fi, electricity and many, many spider webs. My immediate reaction to having spiders as roommates is unnerving, but realizing that it’s bad karma and downright rude to destroy every home they’ve built over the years, I spend a good fifteen minutes deliberating which webs to leave intact. One that’s stretched perfectly in the crux of branches near the ceiling, two cozily tucked between rafters and The Plaza of spider webs are the chosen few. “Time to shack-up, dudes,” I whisper.




I hang lamps from the backpack suspended between tree limbs, arrange my books and clothes, makeshift a desk from a sawhorse and sweep my balcony, all the while singing along to Patty Griffin and Imogen Heap. My landlords, Emma, age 12 and Megan, age 10, have already done some sweeping and de-cluttering to make my transition from convertible to treehouse flawless. They continue to help throughout the day by fetching extension cords, sweeping small piles of dirt but most importantly, keeping me company in my new home. At the end of the day I say goodnight to the girls, pour a glass of wine from a glorious $6 bottle, lay back on my air mattress and admire my cozy home, spiders and all.

National Park-ing Day

Our day, beginning with the Arches argument, is packed with multiple National Parks spanning from Utah to Colorado to Arizona and back to Utah. A banquette of canyon blanketed with cacti and sagebrush ushers us to Mesa Verde National Park where we commune with ruins the Anasazi left behind in their mysterious disappearance 700 years ago. We lunch on our staple wrap of avocado, cilantro, spinach, hummus, and cucumber as the wind whips our faces on a cliff overlooking the four surrounding states, though we can’t decipher where one begins and another ends.

It’s just a short drive to Four Corners National Monument where we find a “closed” sign. Since there’s controversy over whether the monument is actually on the four corners, we figure our presence counts. Just for good measure we perform headstands for the other disappointed travelers and flip off the gated institution for wasting our gas. We peel out, meeting more high winds that attempt to rob us of valuables from the backseat as offerings to the desert gods. I unbuckle to adjust the load in perfect time for a state trooper, from which state I couldn’t tell you, to witness my heroic efforts. Anxiety ensues as his lights flash behind us, but thankfully the sweet officer takes pity on two organizationally challenged east coasters and offers us a warning.

We drive over Glen Canyon Dam, watching sand being swept into wave-patterns along the highway as we weave toward Bryce Canyon National Park. Around nine pm and 8,000 feet, we embark on a steep, winding road anticipating a campground twelve miles and 1500 vertical feet away…
Still Anticipating…
STILL ANTICIPATING…
Where is that damn campground?!
It seems that the scale on Rand McNally’s Atlas is slightly off; or maybe we are just exhausted. After an hour and a half search for the fabled campground at Bryce, we bag the idea for a 30-degree-night in the convertible.

Layover Trivia

1. What is the greatest number of parks and monuments visited in one day?
a. 2
b. 4
c. 3
d. 1
e. none of the above
2. Which animal(s) did we almost hit at 60 mph in Utah?
a. deer
b. prairie dog
c. rabbit
d. a and b
e. b and c
3. In which states did we NOT get pulled over?
a. Alabama
b. Louisiana
c. Arizona
d. all of the above
e. none of the above



4. What is the correct number of consecutive drinking hours in Nashville?
a. 3
b. 7
c. 11
d. 14
e. 16
5. What is the greatest stretch of days without a shower?
a. 4
b. 6
c. 2
d. 8
e. 7
6. What is our favorite stretch of road?
a. Alternate 89 Scenic Byway through Arizona
b. I-70 through western Colorado
c. Scenic Byway 128 to Moab, Utah
d. Highway 68 between Santa Fe and Taos, New Mexico
e. all of the above



7. Which rivers did we almost raft? (Had gear on and ready to go…)
a. Nolichucky and Colorado
b. Rio Grande and Arkansas
c. Chattahoochee and Colorado
d. Nolichucky and Arkansas
e. all of the above

8. Which tree did we not see on our trip?
a. Spruce Pine
b. Dogwood
c. Birch
d. Willow
e. Oak
9. What was the most unique instrument we saw being played?
a. washtub
b. hand saw
c. washboard
d. accordion
e. all of the above
10. How many states (by the end) will we have gone through?
a. 14
b. 20
c. 19
d. 17
e. 15

N'awlins: Beyond Just Hurricanes

“It’s back. It’s totally back.” Like Katrina never happened, the French Quarter hops with hurricane hubs and Cajun cuisine while beads are tossed by women in lace from balconies. We meet Chad, the crawfish boiler at Yo’ Mama, who drives us to Cooter Brown’s, a local beer joint away from the debauchery of the French Quarter. He reveals his account of Katrina: the 14-hour evacuation to Mississippi, returning to rubble, gratitude for the kindness of compassionates and rebuilding in the aftermath.

We frolic amidst neon signs, eat our way across the Quarter, tap the ever-flowing booze and take full advantage of that legal-to-drink-on-the-street law. It’s time to check out after a night of piano renditions of Robert Earl’s “Gringo Honeymoon” and Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby Got Back” at Pat O’Brien’s. On our way out, we bump into gregarious Karla, immediately suggesting we visit the Ninth Ward before heading out of town.
“We were going to head over there but have been repeatedly warned that it’s too dangerous,” Bridget informs.
Karla chuckles, “Just by folks that are afraid of black people.”

Past the Quarter, shabbiness creeps in on the faces of pink, blue, green houses; crossing over the bridge our trepidation is palpable. We drive a street where houses used to be crammed so close together you could’ve heard Chad making dinner next door. They’re now expanses of overgrown grass sprinkled with empty foundations. Intermittent structures resembling homes are missing roofs, walls of brick are caved in and trees protrude from bedrooms. The air is thick with shrieks of the past’s horror and a montage of Karla’s recollections flash through my mind. “No trash pick up for a year... A nightfall curfew enforced by soldiers brought back from Iraq still programmed to shoot at will... And imagine being escorted to your home, ordered not to touch anything and the next time you return it more closely resembles piles of wood on cement than a home.”

Even five years after the storm, the booms of devastation render us silent. A man rolls down the window next to us seeing my pensive look and gleams a smile, “Life ain’t that bad!”
I blink back tears I have been fighting all day so not to scare the poor man and embrace the gratitude that electrocutes me . Hopeful, I reply, “It sure ain’t.”

Gettin’ Juked in Clarksdale, Mississippi

I drive while Bridget keeps me supplied with coffee and Frou Frou serenades beneath a night freckled with stars toward Robert Johnson’s Crossroads. Upon arrival we discover that if by “campground” the map meant “unused train track and parking lot,” then we would be at our destination. Being hobos at ten p.m. in a foreign town with creepsters lurking doesn’t instill confidence in safety. Despite the lack of vacancy at our contingency, the Shack Up Inn, we drive to the property to attempt negotiations to pitch a tent. The Inn was once a cotton plantation, complete with a gin and slave homes which have been converted to cozy cabins. On the porch of one, we meet bearded heroes Grandpa Goose and Crazy Deano, who throw down two couches, showers and Chivas Reserve… in essence, save our lives.

A welcome surprise for the weekend is the Juke Joint Festival- a blues blowout that draws 90-year-old musicians from next door as well as up-and-comers from Australia. During a breakfast of sweet tea, grits and smoke billowing under fluorescent lights at Delta Amusement, we meet Puddin’; he performs dice and card magic with hands weathered by struggle in the South. Afterward, we are mesmerized by Stan Street’s inhales and exhales combined with melodic mouth movement; I never knew the harmonica could be sexy! And by noon we have a corps of Mississippi friends with whom we exchange stories, drink Southern Pecan beer, listen to passionate blues tunes and watch monkeys riding dogs while herding sheep. (Real monkeys, real dogs, real sheep…. Seriously.)

In small-town Mississippi, visitors are old friends they’ve never met welcomed by a wave on the highway, a bed to sleep in or life stories.
I’ll miss you, Mississippi.

Sweet Home Georgia

Visiting Bridget’s family in Georgia is a respite from the uncertainties that create excitement while traveling but also make me long for comfort and stability. I’m struggling to find a balance between accurately capturing the heaps of kindness we encounter without rambling for pages about how I’m falling in love with each member of the fam. (Or maybe it’s the bomber margaritas that JP is feeding me through an IV!)

I meet Matriarch Sally, a hospitality hummingbird making an array of dips with representation from at least five different countries while also baking cookies for a household of ravenous college boys. Matriarch Julie is a steel magnolia who slices strawberries while rattling off kid’s schedules between suggesting activities for us. Uncle Pete and Uncle Tom regale us with stories about Bridget’s Dad, Sean, as a 20-something and the “remember-when’s” of family vacations. Morgan keeps us healthy with laughter with his well-timed sarcasm and one-liners. Ryan impresses with his La Crosse skills blowing out the opposing team 19 to 1! Camryn and Aislin perform Slinky-like back handsprings and ensure that we are never deficient with hugs. Shea kept earnest presence with us and may have convinced Aunt Julie to let her move to California with Bridget. Kayla and Bryn drive hours between meetings and activities just to be able to see us for a few. Sean whisks us off to Tennessee for a day in a log cabin by Lake Cherokee. JP and Nick introduce us to Athens nightlife at a bar where we paint each other with neon crayons, fashion necklaces from pipe cleaners and dance until they kick us out. JP wakes us the next morning with orange juice in bed while Nick is busy in the kitchen making custom omelets.

Although they offered us everything but their first born children, the best part of the trip was catching a small glimpse of the lives of a few people who enrich the world with their spirits. (If you’re reading this, I hope to see you on the Kern in June!)

Almost... Kentucky

WE...
• Almost have bourbon in Bourbon County- apparently it’s DRY on Sundays!
• Almost have a Mint Julep, Kentucky’s signature cocktail, after failed attempts at several bars
• Almost have fried chicken (instead Bridget is spat on by our waiter)
• Almost make the exit for just ONE of the bourbon distilleries; the signs are well disguised.
• Almost finding a market along the highway that sells vegetables (canned soup doesn’t count)
• Almost go on the GOOD tour of the Mammoth Cave, but settle for the second-rate one with the entire population of Louisville’s unruly children
• Almost have bourbon at a Kentucky honky-tonk… instead, we settle for the local Mexican bar where we make-shift our own Mint Juleps with grapefruit soda next to bikers acting like they’ve never, ever, ever seen attractive women
• Almost score free camping in Mammoth National Park
• Almost sleep for more than a couple hours a night… but awake to ticks crawling on the netting across the entire circumference of the tent.

Moral of the story: don’t visit Kentucky unless you hate alcohol, fried chicken and like to ogle unattractive people. But if you find yourself in Kentucky, be sure to check out your local Mexican bar (always a good time) and Mammoth Cave National Park; despite the ticks, it was stunning!

First Leg

Road trips never start to feel real until 100 miles away from the starting point; there’s something about being far away that makes the miles tick by without effort. Into Pennsylvania, we detour at exit 23 off of Interstate 78- Shartlesville. No sh*t… Shartlesville. We can’t resist checking it out, just to find that it’s one of those where I fight against the verbal puke that would assault a local with, “Why do you live here?”

After our appalling detour, we pass the renowned World of Pigeons silhouetted by fields spackled with abandoned wagons and farm houses. We roll along steep hills draped with pines and leafless oaks. I gaze at a hawk gliding over blue-hued mountains in the distance, Incubus pumping through the speakers and glance at Brij, allowing gratitude for this experience to wash over me.

The upper tip of Maryland is a flurry of steep grades and water dripping down maroon rocks along the interstate. Merely driving through Cumberland gave me the desire to build a home alongside all the others stacked neatly into the hillsides. As the passenger, I am responsible for taking photos of state welcome signs as proof that we actually did drive through these states. Apparently I really suck at photo shoots from a moving vehicle. I either zoom too much or not enough or cut off half the sign. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

“Welcome to Wild and Wonderful West Virginia!” the next welcome sign reads. Gogol Bordello’s strange ballads serenade us as we ramble by the reddest red barn, sun glinting off its unused silo and a truck with remnants of blue paint between patches of rust. Trailers covered with dime-store banners or spray painted sheets of plywood perched on two-by-fours are substitutes for billboards, usually campaigning for old, white, Republican, male politicians. I never thought grass could be astounding. The greenest green grass that lines every stretch of highway in West Virginia is proving me completely wrong.

Millwood, home of Casey and Johnny Ray, is our stopping place for the evening. I’m learning that directions can be confusing. “Take a right,” could, for example, mean “Take a right at the next light,” or it could mean “Take an immediate right.” VERY open to interpretation. We end up on a dirt road flanked with inoperable washing machines and children’s abandoned playthings. Bridget picks up her phone almost completely out of battery and phone range to clarify directions, “Hey Casey, are we supposed to be on a dirt road?”
The convertible crawls past trailers with lurking, curious characters. “Wrong turn,” he replies ominously. Bridget flips the car around as fast as possible in a five-point-turn and a half hour later we are safe from the nocturnal humans, hugging our greetings and relaxing after our first day on the road.