After considering several different possible directions, we decided to focus on the Four Corners area and knock off a state I had never been to and wasn’t on the itinerary for this road trip: Colorado. The Four Corners region includes a shared border between Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona. It’s a remote corner of our country and requires an intentional desire to go there. The Navajo Nation also covers a large portion of this area and I was interested to interact with the Navajo’s on their land. I knew there was no alcohol allowed anywhere on the reservation and that there were laws and regulations specific to the their way of life. I had read about the rules of behavior expected on their land and the level of respect necessary in engaging with the Navajo people. It would be interesting to enter into a space where I was the minority, where the color of my skin recalled a checkered and racist past, where I would need to consciously honor and defer to a different set of rules and parameters.  I was not worried that I would unintentionally insult our hosts, though I was hyper aware of the white mans history of cultural offenses against the Native American people and I was hoping that I would not be looked upon with negative notions.

Our first stop was Monument Valley, the drive here on Hwy 89 skirted the multi-hued Painted Desert, a high desert of badland rocks striated with an artist’s palette of brilliant hues: red, lavender, orange, pink and gray. Once again, the road was empty so we drove slowly with the windows down and the podcasts off, attempting to absorb the radiant landscape rushing by. We wanted to camp in the Cricket that evening even though it was supposed to be a cold night. When we arrived, the first place we saw had tipi’s available to stay in. We looked at each other, neither of us had slept in a tipi before, we decided to check it out. Pulling up the driveway, kicking up a cloud of red dust, we parked on a wide dirt lawn strewn with children’s toys and car parts. A few cars on blocks were scattered about in various stages of  disrepair. The office appeared closed and no one answered the phone number listed on the door. An ancient old pit bull limped over to us, nudging his head forcefully against my knee, happy to be scratched behind the ears. We could see the tipi’s behind a tall fence so we went to check them out. They were in good shape. Stepping inside the first one, I found two neatly made cots covered with Indian blankets. A large rug covered the spacious floor.  A small folding table held a ceramic lamp. A large trunk held extra blankets. Outside, there were fire pits and picnic tables overlooking the red spires of the Monument Valley. There were four tipi’s total and an arbor covered outdoor gathering space.  The entire setting appealed to me.  A young female Navajo girl approached us and we asked to rent a tipi for the night. No problem. We paid and moved our stuff out of the cricket into the tipi and made our way over to the Visitor’s center to tour the valley before the sunset. Little did we know that this overnight would we our most unsettling night on the road.

Monument Valley, like many of the sights we have seen on this trip, was initially hard to grasp. To make it more surreal, this valley had been the background for many a famous film. John Ford had set the majority of his western films against the magnificent backdrop of the intricate rock formations of the Valley. So the mind  at first wants to process the sight before you as a 3-dimensional film set. At any moment you expect a posse of cowboys led by John Wayne to come thundering down the valley in a haze of red dust.  The fact that I had seen some of these films when I was a child compounded my inability to process the panoramic scene as real.  We decided we needed to make the arduous, bumpy 17-mile drive through the valley before the sun went down. It was prime time as the setting sun lights a fire on the face of the rocks making them appear even more brilliant then they already are.  I was hoping a drive up close and personal through the valley would enable me to experience these rocks more intimately. It took us an hour and a half to drive the deeply rutted road, each pullout offering an opportunity to get out of the car and bask in the ethereal glow and the wholly spiritual aura of this sacred place. Hiking was strictly forbidden by the Navajo code and I imagined how frustrating this was for the curious tourist who felt the need to climb everything in sight.

It was getting dark and we wanted to grab a bite to eat before retiring to the tipi for the night. The pickings were few so we drove a short way down the road and dined at Goulding’s Lodge, an old trading post turned museum/restaurant/motel. Here, I had one of the better meals on the trip. Like an classic American diner, there was plenty of typical fare, burgers and tacos. I decided to get something authentic and I ordered homemade Navajo beef stew with Indian Fry Bread. I felt like I was eating a meal my Grandma made, it had that long simmering taste, a stew with age old secret ingredients. I oohed and aahed my way through the meal, making the nice lady who waited on us smile with satisfaction.  We headed back to the tipi where it was pitch black. When we pulled in we saw a fire going in one of the pits, someone else had arrived! I felt a sense of relief, the tipi tent doors close with a series of loose ties, no locks. It felt better to have others around. The new arrivals were a young couple from Australia who were traveling the US in a camper before landing in Toronto for a job. We had a lot to talk about as we shared s’mores over the fire, sharing favorite places and stories. The sky that night was startling in its intensity. The four of us sat with our heads back, listening to dogs bark across the reservation as shooting stars seared like mini fireworks above our heads.

It was time to retire. The temperature dropped and the wind picked up. I was crazy cold inside our tipi, more so then I’d felt on much colder nights in the Cricket. I was shivering and my teeth were chattering but Mark and I could not even snuggle for body warmth because we were in twin cots. I tried to fall asleep but at some point I noticed a faraway light shining in the tent, the door to the tipi was wide open!! How did it become untied?? This freaked me out. I was concerned coyotes, dogs or some bad humans were messing with us and I crept over, heart pounding and re-tied the flimsy ties. Now I lay there, one eye fixed on the door flap. I thought all kinds of horrible thoughts. WHAT were we thinking? Sleeping in a tipi with no locks or security? The dogs howled from somewhere outside and I shivered and shrunk further down into my sleeping bag.  Sleep would not come. I got up and rummaged in my bag for the emergency pill, the thing I had not needed to use even once on this trip. Xanax. This would do the trick. I was desperate. Within minutes, I fell into a hazy pseudo-slumber. I remember occasionally waking to eyeball the door flap, noticing it was undone again and flopping back down, not caring (or unable to get up). Sometime before dawn, I heard Mark loud whispering my name. I was aware that I was whimpering and moaning in a high pitched voice, Help Me. Help ME. I kid you not. I was awake dreaming. I felt someone in the tent and they had wrapped their arms around me and were attempting to pick me up and remove me from my cot. I remember the feeling of being tugged from my covers and I was trying so hard to speak, yell for help. Apparently, I had. I scared the shit out of Mark. It’s pitch black in the tipi and he’s whispering, What the hell? Are you ok? I grabbed my phone and turned on the flashlight, scanning the room. Nothing. No One.  It was like something out of  Paranormal Activity. There was no sleep for either of us the rest of the night. Dawn couldn’t come soon enough. At first light we packed up quickly. When we emerged from the tent, our friends from the night before were outside. They pointed to their picnic table and said, Is that yours? One of Mark’s shoes was perched there, all by itself. A strange sight, as he had left them at the entrance to our tipi. Something had entered our abode that night.

Later, driving out of the valley with the bright light of day cleansing the cobwebs from our eyes, we laughed about the sleepless night and my harrowing nightmare. But I’ve thought a lot about it since.  I believe that my discomfort of being a guest in a culture that was and continues to be marginalized and persecuted by our society embedded a deep anxiety in my psyche that manifested itself in a waking dream. We were on the cusp of Thanksgiving, a holiday neither celebrated nor revered in the Indian culture. My sensitivities to the atrocities of the past was obviously making me feel complicit and guilty. I feel like there is a deeper meaning then just the surface interpretation that my anxieties of otherness entail. Maybe those phantom arms were not trying to snatch me away, maybe they were enveloping me in some kind of understanding and my fear was preventing me from opening my heart. Either way, my mood has shifted and I’m settling into uncertainty. Being uncomfortable is ok, I’m ready to accept that tension and see what comes next.  That could be a mantra for the rest of my life. 

“Ventura Highway, in the sunshine. Where the days are longer, the nights are stronger than moonshine, You’re gonna go, I kn0w. Cause the free wind is blowin through your hair, and the days surround your daylight there, Seasons crying no despair, alligator lizards in the air”

I have always loved America. I listened to them in college, there was something about the melodies and the lyrics that swept me up into daydreams and carefree reveries. I began to sing this song miles out from Ventura and continued throughout our time there. It drove Mark crazy. I’m still singing it. Weeks later. California sunshine. It’s addictive.

Back to the California Coast. From the beginning, I knew I wanted to visit my friend Samantha in her new home, Ventura. Sam and I worked together at Local First and became fast friends, we had a lot in common. We both loved to read and travel. We were both strong, independent females who held strong opinions on a variety of subjects.  I recognized in Sam an old soul. She had an incredible work ethic and I admired that. But more so was Sam’s commitment to live her best life. She was intelligent and driven, she also desired change. Grand Rapids wasn’t providing her with the things she needed, to be outside, to live a healthy lifestyle. So she summoned the courage to make a major life change. I fully supported her decision, even though I knew it was a scary thing to do. Leave friends and family and all you know to start over. I had done the same thing when I was 26 years old. I knew it was possible and could be empowering, recreating a life in a new city builds resilience, adaptability and character.  I was full of admiration for her determination and we had kept in touch since she left. It seemed California was the best thing for her, she was now an avid hiker & biker, cooked her own healthy food for herself, found a job and was supporting herself in a very expensive place. I couldn’t wait to see my friend and the life she had worked hard to create.

Sam had suggested we stay in Ojai, a sweet town set in the mountains with a distinctive hippy vibe. It was a long 8 hour drive from Yosemite and we arrived at the Ojai Resort & Spa late in the afternoon. Picture this: we pull up to the entrance in our mud mobile trailing the Cricket, also covered in large splotches of various shades of brown and we realize it’s valet parking. To the right of us is a line of bright shiny sports cars, groups of beautiful people milling about admiring them. I began to notice others standing at the entrance staring at our approch, everyone dressed in the most recent fashions, hair coiffed, everyone seeming to be attached to leashes at the end of which yapped little trophy dogs with bejeweled collars . Oh boy. No way was I getting out of the car in my stained hiking pants, dirt-caked boots, and greasy baseball cap. Go left, go left, I commanded through gritted teeth to Mark. He veered left in to the valet parking lot and realizing we were too big to fit in a space, went back to the entrance of the compound a mile down the road and unhooked the trailer. We left it looking forlorn and lonely.

The Ojai Spa & Resort was a trip. The first thing I did was take a shower and try to find acceptable, clean clothing to venture out to explore the grounds. Manicured and pleasing to the eye, the resort is apparently a haven for the LA crowd to escape, golf, and enjoy various treatments at the spa. The place was huge with several onsite restaurants and a pub. We sat on the patio overlooking the golf course and the distant mountains, ordered some wine at outrageous prices and proceeded to ogle and eavesdrop on the interesting clientele. I felt like an anthropologist discovering a new tribe and culture. To say I felt out of place is an understatement, Don’t get me wrong, I was not uncomfortable and I did not feel inferior, I’d felt like I’d landed in foreign place and I didn’t speak the language. The vibe was in serious conflict with the state of mind I had cultivated over the past weeks on the road. It became quite clear to me that my comfort level lay with the hikers, the campers and the poets of the outdoors. Nevertheless, we were here now and the landscape was something to behold. In fact, as the sunset behind us, we were treated to something called the Ojai Pink Moment, a cutesy term to describe the lilac glow on the mountains as the sun dropped past the horizon. Not bad at all.

We met Samantha in Ventura the next morning. Ventura is a sleepy beach town on the Pacific and I immediately took a liking to it. Sam lives a few blocks from the beach where she can walk and ride her bike. When she opened the door to her  apartment, I could see in a moment what an impact the climate and change of lifestyle had on her. My friend was fairly glowing.  Sam had picked out a great six mile hike in the Santa Monica Mountains near Malibu. It was a gorgeous day and the trail was challenging and ran through some pretty cool rock formations.  It eventually led to a great lookout over the distant Pacific and the surrounding towns. We spent most of the hike chatting non-stop, catching up on life, work, current events, and the challenges of being a female in today’s world. There is something about walking and having a conversation. There is a natural ebb and flow that happens, thoughts and feelings arise more easily and matters of substance and truth seem to play out naturally.  I have some of my deepest and most connected conversations with others while tramping up mountains and through woods.  Mark was a great sport, I had been craving the companionship of the feminine persuasion for a time now and he let us yap away, interjecting every now and again. On our return to Ventura, Sam took us to a famous seafood shack off the highway directly across from a surf break. It was affirming to see the mix of customers; leather-clad bikers, impeccably dressed LA ladies, fishermen, construction workers, hikers, surfers. This is one of the things Sam mentioned that she loved about living here. The mix of ethnicities in coffee shops, on the street, in restaurants. Coming from Holland, a largely caucasian town, it’s refreshing to see a sea of faces that look different from my own.

The town of Ventura has several blocks of thriving small businesses and ethnic restaurants, tiki bars and brew pubs.  Sam and I actually went shopping, I almost forgot the joy of hanging with a friend and trying on clothes and giving each other opinions on what looks good and what doesn’t. We spent a great Saturday night going eating Thai food and going to see live music at the old Ventura Theatre, built in the 1920’s in the style of the great movie palaces. The band. Devil Makes Three, was  favorite of Sam’s. I had never heard of them but I’m always open to new music. An Americana band from Santa Cruz, they blend bluegrass, country, folk and blues into a rollicking and energetic performance. The venue’s acoustics were not great but we found a perfect place to stand with great sight lines. My ears were ringing for days after, totally worth it.

Time spent in Ventura with my friend was a renewal of sorts. Traveling on the road for a long period of time has immense rewards but there are times where I have felt disconnected to things that matter to me. Immersion in nature and the outdoors fills me up in ways that are deeply satisfying but occasionally, a longing pops up for a different connection, to home, to friendship, to community. It’s the conundrum and the reward of travel, I suppose. I have a new appreciation for the gifts of rootedness while holding myself wide open to the experiences of the road that still lies before me.

“Those who dwell among the beauties and mysteries of the earth are never alone or weary of life. “ –Rachel Carson

I was excited about the Redwoods of California. Several travelers had shared that their favorite National Park was the Redwoods, hands down. That surprised me considering the crazy beauty of the Olympic or the plethora of wildlife in Yellowstone. People would just nod and say, ‘It’s something about those trees.’’

We arrived in Northern California via Hwy 199. One moment we were driving a winding switchback road adjacent to the Smith River, the next we were plunged into a dark forest of giant trees that blotted out all light, creating a shadowy verdant landscape of soft silence. We had arrived in Jedediah Smith Redwoods Forest, the first of three tracts of Giant Redwoods on the California Coast. The two lane blacktop wound its way through the Redwoods, some of the gargantuan trunks encroaching on the road and marked with bright reflector signs so as not to plow right into them. We both got very quiet. Time and again during our stay here, we would find ourselves falling silent in reverence for the space and the giant trees that dwarfed us. The cool thing here, as opposed to the champion trees scattered throughout the Olympics, were the massiveness of the groves.

The Coastal Redwood or California Redwood is the common name for the Sequoia Sempervirens, sole living species of the genus Sequoia in the cypress family. They are considered endangered and can range in height from 100 to 367 feet. The Redwood National Park is home to the tallest trees on earth. Think about that.   Some live up to 2000 years old. These ancient and towering redwood groves have the feeling of a holy temple. One walks in the presence of something greater. It’s always startling when you find yourself in the presence of something unfathomable, especially when it’s a natural phenomenon. We humans tend to think we are the center of the universe and when we experience a moment of insignificance, the realization that we are such a small part in the unfolding history of our world unsettles us, but it does something else too. Surprisingly, the knowledge that there are greater things then our human concerns illuminates larger truths about humanity, our responsibility to care for the earth and our place in the continuum of time.

We stayed that night and the next few in the Crescent City KOA, scoring a great site in the back portion of the campground under some towering redwoods.   We were the only one back there so it was eerie and hushed, just what we imagined and hoped for. The only problem was we hadn’t had time to resupply our dinner makings so we had to go out to Crescent City in search of a meal. Just ten minutes down the road, the city is a very strange place. Ideally situated on the coast right on the Pacific with a working fishing pier, the town seems desolate and struggling. We managed to find a place serving fresh fish but it was empty and the vibe was depressing.

The next morning, we woke early, we wanted to catch the sunrise in what we heard was a beautiful trail through the adjacent forest. How do I describe this?  The drive through this dense forest, the rays of sunlight casting blinding beams of white rays through the dissipating fog created a sanctuary of transcendent beauty.  A Vertical Eden, as Richard Preston calls this part of the world in his book Wild Trees. It stopped me in my tracks. I was so grateful and speechless, it was all I could do to take photos and thenI just stood there with my mouth open. I watched the light shift and change,, illuminating dripping moss, shafts of brilliant light producing gradations of light and shadow. It wasn’t overwhelming or heart-pounding. It was incredibly peaceful. I’ll never forget the feelings I had that day of being outside my body, my life, and experiencing a deeper, richer reality.

We took a long hike that day on the Boy Scout Trail and immersed ourselves in a day among the big trees. Emerging into the bright California sunshine after a day in the dark woods was like a rebirth. We took some time to explore the coast. It was surprising accessible, and the homes fronting the shore were modest and had been here for many years. I was taken aback at the small bungalows with such impressive frontage on the Pacific, coming from Michigan where property on the water is unaffordable for most folks, small cottages being replaced by gargantuan structures. A pit stop in the Prairie Creek Redwoods afforded us a close encounter with a herd of elk numbering at least 30. They were grazing in a field next to the parking lot for the trailhead we were angling for. After waiting awhile for them to disperse, we took our chances and tiptoed gingerly past them into the dark and welcoming corridors of the redwood forest.

The next few days were spent meandering down the coast with quick stops in Arcata(a college/hippy town) where we had lunch at a terrific vegan café, and Eureka, with its vintage Victorian architecture and historic downtown. We stayed at a campground in Benbow, off the coast a bit. What a find! The historic BenBow Inn was a short walk under HWY 101. We set up camp and took a 5 min stroll over in the dark to a splendid haven of light and conviviality. We took seats at the bar and passed a social evening chatting up the bartender and the few locals hanging out. A little sanctum of civility, we both agreed that campgrounds adjacent to cool historic inns serving great cocktails and food were pretty much perfect.

We ended our time in this magnificent place with  a long drive down the Avenue of Trees, stopping here and there to drink in the last of the magic and mystery. It’s clear why so many had named the Redwoods as their favorite National Park. It’s something about the trees.