Angels don't sing all the time

    A few days after we returned from Florida, Shirley and I went to dinner with our friends Pat and Bob. When Pat asked about our trip, I said that we have never taken a bad one. Really. We have traveled more than a half million miles together and all of the trips have been wonderful. Not all the miles necessarily. Nor every single day. But pretty close.

   Still, there have been what Shirley calls “little bumps in the road.” Sometimes there have been vehicular issues and weather issues or health issues. We have had tires with tread separation and a leak in the valve of our RV propane tank. Broken windshields when trucks threw up stones or their tires blew out so it seemed like we were caught in a meteorite shower. The RV refrigerator died. Also the on-board electric power generator. 

   There have been numerous opportunities for highway accidents. We were in the middle lane of I-75 in Covington, KY, for example, when a black sedan entered at warp speed heading directly across to the far left lane. But another car had dibs so he cut back sharply right in front of us, fishtailing wildly, tires squealing, barely avoiding a spin out. But he was undaunted. Tried again to force his way into the left lane. When that still didn’t work, he cut across two lanes to the right and then back left for yet another go at it. We watched him weaving through the traffic ahead on the Cincinnati bridge. It could have been one of those multi-car pileups with scores of victims littering the roadside and filling every ER within 20 miles. 

   A little smarter than this jackass are mules. The actual equine variety. We took one of those rides down into the Grand Canyon. They use mules because they are sure footed. Uh-huh. Our wrangler gave us an orientation for the trip and concluded with one simple, easy to remember rule: Whatever you do, don’t get off your mule--that first step down is a doozy. 

Shirley and Dagwood seemed to have gotten off on the right foot.

   

   So we headed into the canyon with Shirley on Dagwood with me bringing up the rear. I don't remember my mule's name because I have no reason to remember. Shirley, however, will never forget Dagwood. 

   We paused frequently to appreciate the grandeur unfolding before us. Then Dagwood stumbled. He apparently didn’t read the part in his contract that required him to be surefooted. Four legs splayed to the four corners of the compass. Went stumbling down the narrow trail, trying desperately to recover his balance, gathering momentum as he went. Shirley was pitched forward so that her chin came to rest between his ears. Her arms gripped so tightly around his neck that Dagwood‘s eyes bulged out. “Help me! Help me!” she gasped, barely audible. I could almost hear Dagwood wheezing, “Me too! Me too!”     So, what was I to do? Be a hero or just collect the life insurance? A little devil was giving advice on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The devil was making a pretty good case. Even so, I called out lustily for some help back here. The wrangler stopped the mule train, violated Rule Number One, and came running back to grab Dagwood’s bridle and get him under control just like they do in the movies. Shirley swore that next time we headed into the Grand Canyon, the only beast she would ride was shank’s mare. And she kept that vow. Next time we walked.

The next time we visited Grand Canyon we stopped at the corral to ask if Dagwood had been turned into dog food yet. "Nope. He's right over there." Shirley refused to climb aboard.

   Timing is another issue for travelers. Frankly, my biggest problem with winter travel is that we always come back a month too soon. Sure, it might be spring in Florida or Arizona. It definitely is not spring in Toledo even though the weather persons here are bragging that highs will be way up in the mid-40s. Woohoo! 

   Some years even the Deep South experiences cooler weather. One such year we spent the middle of March in Savannah on our way north from the Everglades. The azaleas and rhododendrons should have been in bloom with temperatures in the 70s to low 80s. They weren’t. One of the advantages of RVing is that if you don’t like the weather you can go somewhere else. But we had promised friends that we would meet them in nearby Hilton Head--where it was also cool, rainy, and windy. Walks on the beach were not nearly as pleasant as they promised. Still, at least it was Hilton Head and we had friends to share the misery.

  Similar experience at Mt. Rainier in Washington--aptly named because it is rainy-er than any place you have ever been. We waited three days for it to clear. Finally, Shirley said, “Why don’t we go around to the other side of the mountain?” Much as it pains me to admit it, she was right. Even there, the ranger claimed he hadn’t seen the mountain in a week.

We spent three days at Mt. Rainier enjoying stunning views like this.

Shirley finally convinced me to go to the other side of the mountain where we had to put up with this.

After we passed Frozen Lake we had the trail to ourselves.

   We went to fly fish the blue ribbon trout streams of Colorado. Made the mistake of going during the “monsoon season.” (I thought monsoons were for the Indian Subcontinent.) Colorado streams were swollen and muddy. So, we went to Yellowstone, where the fishing was fantastic. 

   At Capt. Cook State Park, about 25 miles north of Kenai, Alaska the scenery was spectacular. We had a lovely campsite with the volcanic mountains of the Ring of Fire rising across Cook Inlet, named for the famous explorer who visited the area in 1778. Shirley said she would have spent a week there. Except for the mosquitoes. We had quality head nets but it is harder than you might think to eat your dinner through a head net--even if you have practiced with a Covid mask. So we headed off to where the mosquito population was somewhat less dense. Capt. Cook had the good sense to continue all the way to Hawaii. Good choice. Except for the inconvenience of being killed by the mostly friendly islanders.

   Whenever we travel, friends and family back home are sure to express concerns about wildfires, floods, mud slides, grizzly bears, alligators, rattlesnakes, Burmese pythons, drug cartels, and rednecks playing dueling banjos.  

Is that a rattlesnake?

No matter. I have a woman to walk ahead of me and kick them out of the way.

    There are wildfires in the West every summer. Typically, they are two hundred miles or more from where we happen to be when our friends see it on the TV news. Not always. We were at Chisos Basin in Big Bend NP. High winds snapped a utility pole, bringing down power lines. Within seconds, the creosote bushes were on fire. Rangers came to keep an eye on the fire. No worries. The wind seemed to be carrying the fire away from us, up over a nearby ridge. Then a ranger wondered, what would happen if the wind shifted. There is only one road into Chisos Basin. Which means there is only one road out of Chisos Basin. "Get out right now!" he said. "And don't stop for anybody on the road." (The drug cartels had been active in the area.) 

Note the utility pole in lower left. Downed lines started the wildfire in Chisos Basin.

   At the Tioga Pass entrance to Yosemite NP, a ranger asked where we were going and if we had campground reservations. (Lots of vehicles were turning around and going back.) I replied that we had reservations at Tuolumne Meadows for a week and then at Crane Flats for another week so we could visit the Valley. The ranger said we could continue as far as Tuolumne but the road beyond was closed by wildfire. Well, not “wild” exactly. It had been set deliberately by the park staff as a “controlled burn” to clear out undesirable dead undergrowth. (It’s “undesirable” because it might contribute to wildfires, you know.) They had not planned for it to go all uncontrolled on them. Even so, they expected the road to be open in a week.

   Which turned out to be literally true but of no practical value to us. The road opened. Crane Flats Campground, however, was toast. Go ahead and ask about the availability of campsites in Yosemite in August. Once the park staff stops laughing, they’ll advise you to try one of the commercial campgrounds outside the park. Not to worry, though, your camping fee has already been cheerfully refunded to your Visa account.

   We did not even bother making reservations when we traveled the 362 miles of Hwy 101 on the stunning Oregon coast. As a veteran trip planner, I had looked at the map. Along the coast there are 44 state parks with 3,993 campsites. That works out to one state park campground every 8.2 miles. What I had not considered is that Oregonians love their parks and there are 2.5 million campers who want to squeeze into those 3,993 sites. 

   

Lots of marine mammals all along the Oregon coast.

Shirley insisted on playing with the residents of yucky tide pools.

There are at least two sea stacks called Haystack Rock. 

Haystack II

   The good news is that there are national forest campgrounds with plenty of open sites just a few miles back in the mountains on the east side of Hwy 101. The fact that we spent some nights in the woods instead of on the sand was not a major disappointment. Driving the coast road, we still visited more lighthouses than one of us really cared to. And there was an astonishing number of sea stacks, sea lions, harbor seals, pelicans, shorebirds, and all those yucky things that live in tidal pools.

When we couldn't get a place on the beach, we settled for Blackberry Campground back in the woods. Freshest possible berries right at our site for Shirley's French toast.

When the tide is out you can walk to the island occupied by Battery Point Lighthouse.

   Now, I have heard that even in heaven the angels don’t sing all the time. When we were in Bryce Canyon National Park, I had an opportunity to visit them to find out if that is true. Shirley and I enjoyed a wonderful hike down into the canyon, along Wall Street, through the Fat Lady Squeeze, and out to see Queen Victoria. These rock formations, called hoodoos, are intricately carved by the wind and what little water they get in Southern Utah.

The trail into Bryce Canyon was quite easy.

Passed through the narrow cleft in rock called Wall Street.

Shirley objected to posing in Fat Lady Squeeze but I convinced her that, in her case, it was not much of a squeeze. 

Really looks like Queen Victoria, does it not?

  

   When it was time to climb back out of the canyon, I found that I was short of breath and needed to rest every hundred feet or so. No symptoms like pain in the chest or the left arm but there was a ferocious knot right between my shoulder blades. If we had newly arrived in the mountains, I would have attributed this to altitude sickness. There is less oxygen in air at higher elevations than at sea level. But we had been in the mountains for about two months and had acclimated long since.

   Shirley massaged that lump between my shoulder blades which brought dramatic relief. As editor of Healthy Living News, I learned a great deal by interviewing physicians. But most of my medical expertise is still based on “Doctor, Doctor, it hurts when I do this.” And the reply, “Then don’t do it!” As long as I didn’t do it, I felt just fine. 

   Back in Toledo, my physician looked at the EKG and raised his eyebrows. He said that if I had not been so healthy I would be dead. Just the kind of encouraging word everyone wants from their doctor. Fortunately, I was a candidate for minimally invasive robotic surgery by R2D2. OK, that’s not his real name. He insists on anonymity because he is still embarrassed to be associated with anyone stupid enough to drive all the way from Utah after a heart attack. But the robotic surgery required only a couple small incisions. It’s amazing how happy you can be when they promise to cut only a few little holes in you instead of ripping your chest wide open to tinker around in there for a couple hours. After robotic surgery, recovery and rehab were relatively easy. Especially if your physician says you might as well do it in Florida.

   One reason our guardian angels don’t sing all the time is they are fully occupied taking really good care of us--even if I have behaved foolishly and don’t deserve it. The angels are probably attentive for Shirley’s sake. When I’m behind the wheel, she spends a lot of time saying novenas. So, even on rare occasions when our travels are not practically perfect in every way, they remain just a walk in the park.