Pioneertown

Driving back to Palm Desert, after our wonderful week in Ojai, we took every back road we could find to avoid the freeway.  As the day began to turn to night, we started our search for a place to camp.

Pioneertown showed up on our map with a little tent, so we headed for it.  By the time we finally saw the Pioneertown sign it was quite dark. We couldn’t quite figure out where the campground was located and once we determined its location, we couldn’t find the road to get to it.  The few lights marking the town were mostly blinding or for “mood” only and did a poor job of lighting our way.  Once found, we discovered the campground was a parking lot.  Outhouses and a scattering of picnic tables were the only amenities.  The price, $10.00 per person.    For one person, quite the bargain.  $20 for two not too bad so we stayed.  I’m so glad we didn’t drive in with three kids.  Fifty dollars would have sent us out into the desert for boondocking, pronto.  

The next morning we went out exploring.  Pioneertown is indeed cute and we thoroughly enjoyed wandering around.  Nothing was open, but because the buildings
are also residential, it didn’t feel deserted.  Also, while we were there two commercials were being filmed.  One was a dance group of about 20 dancers.  The other consisted of about half a dozen motorcycle cops.  But, back to Pioneertown.  It consists of one street, called Mane Street.  Roy Rogers cut the town ribbon back in 1946, when it was first opened.  After several years of fame and success, Pioneertown hit some rough spots, turning into a place for the down and out.  These days it is enjoying a bit of a revival, with lots of visitors and care being poured into the buildings, together with serving as a backdrop for commercials and films again.

This first photo is of the Post Office, in operation since 1946, and still serving the community.

Nearby is Pappy and Harriet’s, and on the Sunday night we were there, it was packed.  Inquiring about dinner we were told “no way”.  The restaurant was part of the original Pioneertown, but Pappy and Harriet did not own it until 1982 and continued until Pappy’s death.  The new owners must be carrying on in Pappy’s fine tradition concluded  from the crowd we saw.

And, there’s nothing like horses clomping down the street to make the scene perfect.

~~~

Until we meet again, may the good Lord take a liking to you.

Roy Rogers 

Borders

The strength of travel is in observing new things, with these new things leading to increased knowledge and the expansion of one's world view.  This expansion can be of how other people live, talk and eat or it can be observations about politics, flora and fauna, or geography.  We find it all fascinating and we thrive in newly discovered ideas as well as terrain.

On our recent trip to British Columbia I was particularly observant to how it felt crossing the border into another country, especially after the recent broadening of border security.  We've crossed the border into Canada many, many times over the years, rarely finding it completely stress free.  These days that stressful feeling is ramped up.  Our nation's days of discontent increase and our border crossings feel more threatening.  They are tense.  

Ed was born in Saskatchewan, so he often gets questioned by border patrol in more detail than I, especially by U.S. Customs.  Two years ago, Canadian Customs  pulled us over so they could run a background check on me.  Other times we just breeze through both U.S. and Canadian Customs.   Sometimes we must dispose of food or answer a barrage of seemingly strange questions.  We always try to be prepared with passports and Benton's vaccination documents ready; we carry no liquor; limit food on board; and have receipts for new purchases.  But still, we wonder, "what this time?"  We feel a touch of angst as we wait in the long line approaching the booth.

Coming home, back into the U.S. on this most recent trip, a passenger, about three cars in front of us, was pulled out, cuffed and led off, to who knows where.  It's difficult to completely relax in any situation where the officials have such a high degree of control, and the citizens must comply both physically and in attitude, or risk their escalation of power.

Generally speaking, though, the back and forth between the U.S. and Canada is not too difficult or stress generating, and if you pass through customs at the Peace Arch, it is an inviting and beautifully welcoming park in both directions.  Flags from both countries wave together in camaraderie and peace.

Our southern border with Mexico is quite a different experience, and has been for as far back as I can remember when my family and I visited relatives in the Imperial Valley, close to the Mexican border.  Although we have not crossed into Mexico for a few years, we have passed through check points often in our close-to-the-border travels.  And we are familiar with the past stress of entering and exiting Mexico.  Both Canada and Mexico are our neighbors, but equal treatment is no where in sight and it makes me sad.  This inequality is due to many reasons, but I suspect largely three -- economics, skin color and language.  The differences are staggering.

Along the U.S.-Mexican border, friendship arches and dual-country flags flying to show the camaraderie between our two countries are non-existent.  There are miles of fences and walls, expanses of cement, barbed wire, trash and filth everywhere.   And U.S. southern Border Patrol is tough.

Walking between countries is prison-like…

And then there are the ecological disaster walls impeding wildlife…

Humans are impeded too, by land and by sea…

Ed and I are left wanting to reach out.  To apologize.  We want to show we're friendly.   We want to  honor our neighbors to the south, as well as to the north.  Our encounters with the Spanish people have always been wonderful, both here in the U.S. and in Mexico and other Spanish-speaking nations, like when we spent a month in Ecuador.  Friendly people with easy smiles, who dance and sing and welcome us with delight.  People who love their families above all.  Religious people.   And the food couldn't be better!!  Just try, I dare you, to find a fish taco in the U.S. that tastes as good as a fish taco in Baja.

In Trump's call for wall designs, this one was submitted.   How healing and respectful and loving would this be?  It's still a wall, like at the Peace Arch going into Canada, but it's also a park and a place to join hands and be neighbors…   

Besides, if one is desperate to join loving family or in need of money, there is always a way…

~~~

"Borders are scratched across the hearts of men, by strangers with a calm, judicial pen, and when the

borders bleed we watch with dread the lines of ink along the map turn red."

~ Marya Mannes 

Malcolm Island

On our way to Malcolm Island…

Bere Point Campground on Malcolm Island becomes our home for two nights. The only town on the island, Sointula, sports the oldest coop in BC plus lots of art, funk, characters and charm. The dogs and cats have right-of-way on the streets. The island's setting, off the Queen Charlotte Strait, is stunning, and only a 20 minute ferry ride from Port McNeill.

Hiking the Beautiful Bay Trail we stop at the whale viewing platform, but no whales this day. The hike is a pleasant woodland path, often with salal way over our heads, giving way to beautiful peekaboo water views from time-to-time. We cross over rickety little bridges that wave and bend and sag in most interesting ways.

no whales today

                                     
.

great snags

4 feet help on these rickety old bridges

salal well over our heads

Later in the day, we walk the streets of Sointula, along with other walkers and bikers and dogs, and even at one point a free-roaming cow happily munching in a patch of daisies. We discover the library, complete with the sit-outside-when-they-are-closed Internet. In the marina parking lot we cooked dinner in Thistle as we watched the fishing fleet rushing home just ahead of the bank of fog rolling in. We shopped the coop and sampled two cafes -- Upper Crust Bakery for lunch and Coho Joe Cafe.

creative pea patch trellis

beautiful, but sad, old skeleton boat house still housing
boats

We pretty much sampled the whole island, with the exception of driving the full length of the only east-west road. After driving to the light house at the west end we simply didn't have the stamina to go in the other direction. Our tolerance for dusty washboard roads had come to an end so further explorations ended with the pavement.

Goodbye Malcolm Island. We enjoyed our stay!

~~~

"The longer the island of knowledge, the longer the shoreline of wonder."

~ Ralph Washington Sockman

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My Dad and Shenanigan Outrage

My dad was a gentle man.  He showed no malice toward man or beast.  On one occasion, when he was young, he was invited to go deer hunting.  Borrowing a gun, off he went with his buddies.  Soon he found himself alone and tired from tramping through the forest so he sat down to rest.  Leaning his gun up against a tree and lighting a smoke he sat quietly, deep in though.  It didn't take long before a deer approached, looked him in the eye, and then slowly wandered on.  My dad did not lift his gun.   At the end of the day he returned the gun to its owner and never again picked one up.

George Abel

Throughout my childhood my dad modeled kindness.  He was a man with a huge heart for family and friends as well as strangers.  He exuded patience but had no time for the  swindler.  Despite his Republic Party affiliation, I know, if he were still alive, he would be outraged with present day Republican shenanigans.   

  

This election has not been the typical back-and-forth push of one set of principles against another.     Most of us acknowledge that differing opinions are healthy, deepening  political  discourse.    Instead, in this election cycle, we have watched fear mongering, hate and anger, walking in lock-step with mean.   The vehicle, the man, chosen to make America great again is vile and uncouth.

My father would be outraged that his Party has stooped to this level of low.    We have a mean bully as our president-elect.  A man who, while demeaning others, has filled his pockets with wealth, dishonestly earned.

"Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled
masses yearning to breathe free, the wretched
refuse of your teeming shore.  Send these, the
homeless, tempest-tossed to me, I lift my lamp
beside the golden door!"

America has advanced a man to the highest office of our land who holds none of the values I admire and all of the traits I abhor.  He has none of the fine qualities we have had with President Obama or my dear father.  Who could have imagined the populous would turn a blind eye to his heinous attacks against people of color, women, veterans and the disabled.

"A nation ringed by walls will only imprison itself."

~Barack Obama

Our nation's White House is the official residence and principal work place
of the President of the United States.
It has been the residence of every U.S. president
 since John Adams in 1800.

It is a sad day in America!  To those of us who prayed for a kinder nation, we are feeling a deep, deep loss and great fear.   For those who thought making America great again could be accomplished by a man with malice in his heart, there will be disillusionment.    

~~~

"The sacrifice 'of' self for the greater good is the greatest calling
imaginable, and it is the bedrock of the greatest nations.  The sacrifice 'for' self
is the most pathetic calling imaginable, and it is the quicksand within
which nations perish."

~ Craig D. Lounsbrough

Today was Good

My Dad died from lung cancer shortly after his 60th birthday.  My mom died of a palsy condition at 76, my age today.  My sister died at 63 of breast cancer.  My mom's mother lived to be 100.  Her father died in his late 90's.  My dad's parents were both deceased before I was born.   None of my many cousins are still alive.  Family longevity is all over the place.  I can't say,  "This is the way it is in my family."   I see old age and I see early death.    

Life and death, health and wellbeing become topics to chew on.  No, not just chew on,  to take charge of.  How will I do this thing called aging?  Will I leap or whimper into my dotage?  Whimpering, never  a favorite of mine, leaves only leaping.  Well, not literally leaping, fused ankles don't leap so well, but they do pedal.    

                                                            

So, with  this in mind, I set my birthday goal -- my goal would be to ride 1 mile for each of my 76 years.  That's this year's goal but will it be the next year's goal too?  How far will my goal setting of miles to years reach, 78, 79, 80?  Will I ride 100 miles on my 100th birthday?

Ed, my always willing riding buddy.  Thanks Mr. Ed

A couple of years ago I had multiple surgeries from which  I'd never  achieved complete biking strength recovery.  Last  year I tried for 75 miles but fell short.  So this year's ride was an important one.  It required me to train, to focus and to put in sufficient effort to put my ripped apart abdomen back together again.  

On my birthday we set out at 7:30.  By noon we had finished 46 miles…

The next 30 miles were accompanied, supported and cheered by Brad and Yessi.  They made each intersection  festive and fun as they blew horns and shouted support…

and smiled…

And provided a loving push…

And then we celebrated!    Rhododendron Island County Park was filled with such cheer it still makes my heart dance…

The next morning we were still celebrating…

Sore muscles, yep!  Happy, yep!  Next year, yep!

~~~

"Today was good.

Today was fun.

Tomorrow is another one."

~ Dr. Seuss

Leave. No. Trace.

"Nooooo! Benton! What did you find?"

We had walked about a mile up a steep logging road out the backside of our Gales Creek Campground. The trail followed the creek for the first half mile or so and then headed up to the top of a ridge. This beautiful wooded land, situated in the Tillamook Forest in Oregon, was nicely recovering second or third growth fir with beautiful vistas off to distant mountains. Logging debris marred the road's edges, along with a few cans and cigarette butts, but otherwise the forest was healthy and peaceful and quiet.

Walking over to the edge, where Benton had been rummaging, I was affronted with piles of toilet paper and human waste. And, despite the no camping signs, there were also several fire rings scattered about. Clearly this area had been used for camping by the worst kind of outdoorsmen, those who have no respect for the land.

As we trudged down the hill and back to camp, the bad behavior of a few disturbingly clouded our thoughts.

This morning, hanging out in camp, and reading The Hour of Land: A Personal Topography of America's National Parks by Terry Tempest Williams, I found Williams' prose describing the splendor of our public lands enlightening. The passion of many preservationists -- John Muir, Teddy Roosevelt, Edward Abbey, Ansel Adams, Bob Marshall, Aldo Leopold, and so many others -- and a political system that put these glorious places in public ownership, filled my heart.

Sadly, other words flowing from Williams' book were not so satisfying. She described disastrous political decisions leading to the damage of wildlife corridors, barriers blocking rivers and fish migration, leases to mining, timber and grazing interests causing degradation of the land, destroyed artifacts, unwise road building, and both agency interference and budget cuts designed to strangle the work of the governmental bodies' responsible for maintenance and oversight. The list of misdeeds is long and torturous to those of us who believe our public lands are this country's most prized assets.

Then I read this: "How could he (John Muir) have imagined that the work of a backcountry ranger now includes picking up five pounds of toilet paper in a two-foot radius on the trail to Half Dome in Yosemite National Park". Sadly, I realized the political neglect and deliberate contempt for our land is only part of the story. Where is the public's responsibility? We cannot point our finger at politicians' misdeeds without correcting our own misdeeds.

That's when I put my book down and said, " Ed, we have work to do."

Grabbing rubber gloves, bags and a shovel, Ed and I set off to correct a wrong. We again hiked to the top of the ridge, picking up trash along the way and then picked up human waste at the top.

We also destroyed the fire rings in a pathetically small effort to discourage irresponsible campers from camping in this spot again.

Too little, we know, but loving the land as we do, it was a gesture, however small, to correct a wrong. We were doing for others what they should have done for themselves. We removed their trace.

Leave no trace! This is a simple concept. It means exactly what the words say: Leave. No. Trace. No cigarette butts, beer cans, bottle caps, body waste, dog poop, foot prints, fire rings or toilet paper.   Not even your chewed gum or apple core. Outdoor ethics, plain and simple, Leave No Trace.

~~~

“What we are doing to the forests of the world is but a mirror reflection of what we are doing to ourselves and to one another.”

~ Gandhi

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