Saving Grace

 

It took me a bit to write this because sometimes trauma requires a minute in order to breathe and back off the ledge.

We crossed the border into Mexico at Calexico, CA on December 11th. We weren't sure we'd be able to do so since one of our sons contracted Covid, and we had just been with him. So we waited, tested and crossed with our travel companion, Dawn and her RV, Moxie. All went well at the border, no hitches while driving and then we were ready to stop for the night at a place recommended by iOverlander, an app that shows travelers where to boondock (aka sleep for free.) Off the pavement we went, into the cacti-strewn terrain and took a hard left instead of a soft one. The road looked passable, albeit rocky and sandy at points.  I mentioned to Rachel that we were going further than where the map indicated the spot would have been for the night. There was no place to turn around and before you could say "Aye caramba!" we were stuck in deep sand. 

Luckily Dawn had a shovel and a rake (both on my wish list now!) We dug, shoveled and freed the engine and were able to move 3 feet. Rinse and Repeat. Over the next 3 days, we did everything we could think of to free ourselves, since we are 3 powerful, resourceful women. We dug holes that would make an undertaker proud, we used traction mats, we deflated the front tires (FWD) until they were nearly flat, we hauled  backpacks full of rocks over 1/2 mile to form a hard surface, we spray-painted a huge SOS in red on the sand, we stood on the roof of the van with a billowy white sheet. We tried calling for help via our walkie-talkies. Dawn rode her electric bike to the paved road and stood with a sigh that said "AYUDA POR FAVOR." 

No one stopped. 

We were stuck between starlight, the howling winds and the coyotes in the Mexican outback where apparently no one hiked and no plane flew. My body was sore in places I didn't even know existed. My butt cheeks hurt from so much digging. We were asleep by 7 pm every night. 

By the third afternoon, we focused on getting Dawn in position to drive out and ask for help: she had to drive her van over a soft sand berm and up onto the cactus and sagebrush-strewn hardpacked sand beside the road. She muscled over, and in one last ditch effort, she tried to pull us out. Luckily she was free, but still had to drive the sandy road back out, which felt much more daunting given the stress of last 48+ hours.

The plan was for Dawn to drive like hell through all the gulping gulleys and ravenous rocks and with any luck, make it to the paved road where she would reinflate her tires. Then she would get to a place that had wifi and call our friend Joni who had connections in Mexico and the knowledge of having lived 5 years on the road. We were lucky to have had the walkie-talkies with good range because Dawn was not coming back in her van to this quick sand. We made a plan of what to do if she didn't radio us back within 24 hours.

She left in the afternoon of what would be our third night of entrapment, and we hoped we'd hear from her by the morning. Now, I was started to get scared. I was trying not to go into the bad neighborhoods of my mind and that was a struggle especially at 1 am. Neither Rachel nor I slept well that night.

In the morning, Dawn radioed that she found a tiny restaurant and that I, knowing the most Spanish, should walk the 2 miles back to the highway and hop into her van to go get help. I took my knife ready to attack any cactus, bobcat or rattlesnake.  I got to Dawn's van, sweaty but elated. After trying to follow suggestions that our friend Joni recommended to no avail, I saw a long flatbed tow truck pulling into the lot. 

That was nothing short of a miracle because I was told there is no tow truck service within hundreds of kilometres of our desert "campsite." Blessedly, the three guys who were in the truck agreed to help, although I'm quite sure they did not know what they were getting into. I hopped into their truck and down the road we went.  Their running board, as well as their side mirror were damaged in the treacherous terrain. 

As we crept toward Rachel who was again digging out Ruby Van Dyke, they kept asking "how much longer...?"

Finally, we got to our van. As they approached, they got stuck twice in the deep sand where we first were entrapped, about 25 yards behind our current location. Thankfully, with their persistence they got freed themselves as we explained that they'd have to get over the berm on the side of the road and onto harder packed sand strewn with vegetation in order to pull us to a place we could get solid footing. They tore thru the bushes, the cacti and sand, hooked us up and  pulled us over the berm. Thank goodness we had just had our rear hitch reinforced as it was not meant to be pulled from the rear with so much force, through a deep well of sand that had entombed us days early. We were sweating, as it seemed there was no way they could put us on their truck bed, making them heavier, and make it back to the pavement. Luckily, we were determined to get out, so we got RVD facing in the right direction and followed the path of our friend Dawn. God bless Rachel, who is a driver-extraordinaire. Although she was shaking in her sandals, she drove us all the way back on deflated tires, all of us having escaped any apparent catastrophic damage. I hugged her and the guys who helped us and whooped and hollered at the turkey vultures, who had lost their opportunity to snack on our desiccated gringo carcasses...

We learned much about slowing down, about limits, and about asking for help. For all the drama and fear we had experienced, we were deeply grateful that we had water, food, shelter and heat, unlike the migrants crossing the surrounding massive mountains with none of these resources, many carrying children and facing unfathomable violence.

I wanted to tell you about this event, not to scare you or discourage you from having adventures, but because after almost 5 years in our Ruby, we had a mishap, a misstep that rattled us.

Several days later, on a stunningly emerald-aqua-teal ribboned beach, where I kayaked with dolphins, where at night, a bio-luminescence appeared when we threw rocks in the water, where the stars radiated red, orange, yellow and white, where I met folks from all over the world, I realized that being on the road with all its offerings, made me feel more alive and that I still preferred that to the safety of home.

Cracking the Exterior

   

 

We are following a grain train into the West, a boho-colored sunset, ribbons of orange, pink and purple flutter before us, enticing. It’s 55 degrees at 5PM on the way from Las Cruces, NM, to Willcox, AZ, a familiar boondocking spot, where we first encountered forty thousand raucous, dancing Sandhill cranes. When we woke this morning, we thought we’d go for a hike on Elephant Butte and then soak in  a nearby hot spring. The Universe had other plans.

We had landed the night before at Prehistoric Trackways National Monument in New Mexico. We slept with coyotes and rattlesnakes as our neighbors. In the morning, Kobi, our infamous traveling cat, sang his usual opera, begging dramatically to be let out. It had been 26 degrees during the wee hours and I was reluctant to leave our cozy bed. Kobi always wins, eventually. I donned my hat, gloves and winter coat, put on his vest and leash, yes, he walks on a leash, and out we went. After a few minutes an enormous, black and white spotted Great Dane appeared around the corner. Kobi nearly had a heart attack and flew back into the RV. I gazed at the Great Dane, whose name I later found out was Hela, after the Nordic Goddess, and at her parents and her furry, short, black brother.

I initially saw their car when we had parked the previous night and had wondered where they slept. They peaked my curiosity. The guy had neck and face tattoos, an enormous, sheathed knife, a red bandanna and an army coat with a Military Police patch. The young woman with him was also tattooed, had ripped jeans with sunflowers all over, a rainbow belt, Pokemon strap around her neck that held a slew of keys and a plethora of colors in her hair. I asked them where they were from and they said here and everywhere. Johnny had a great, friendly smile, a deep baritone, raspy voice and a pipe. Yes, he sang. He looked like a country Western star. I liked him immediately and was drawn in horror and curiosity to what I thought was a tattoo on his finger of the SS symbol. I was so thrown by the contradiction, but felt I needed to know more before delving into all that.

I learned that Johnny had bean beaten for being a "Nazi Kraut" and a Mexican. He was German and a Mexican, his grandfather had been in the SS officer, his dad part of the Hitler youth. He was wearing his ring which was engraved with a skull, the words Himmler and Wolff (Hitler's nickname) and a swastika. The date October 19, 1933 or 1939 was engraved on the inside. Johnny was a Buddhist who served in the Iraq war.

He left home at age 11 after being raped by his Southern Baptist Pastor. His parents were alcoholics. His dad broke young Johnny's nose several times. Johnny was selling his guns from the trunk of their car in order to have some money. I told him about myself, an Israeli Jew with a German Grandmother who converted  to Judaism, oh yes, and here is my wife, Rachel. He was so happy to meet us. He congratulated us on our recent nuptials. 

Huh?

I had to photograph him in all of his complicated contradictions. Hearing about his current homeless state, I wanted to give him whatever he needed. He was so grateful. We got to hear about his 25 year old girlfriend, Charley. Johnny was 44. They had escaped their brutal respective families in Georgia and were living in a tent.She had been raped by her mother’s boyfriends since she was 3 years old. She couldn’t have children. Charley’s family told the police that Johnny had kidnapped her. She was driving her own car. She said they only had each other in the world. Yes, she was with him by her own volition. Nonetheless, they had been stopped by the police often. 

We gave them some tangerines, goat’s milk, bananas, avocados, tuna cans and made them grilled cheese sandwiches. We gave them some money. We would have given them anything they would have wanted.
When I meet people who survived violence and abuse, I just want to give them respite, love and show them that not all humans are assholes.  They gave us a mounted Jackalope head. We hung Jackie in Ruby, our RV. I feel like I took a step towards red-neckery. Or towards my father who was a taxidermist.

They introduced us to Jimmy, a veteran who lives around the corner on the hill. He had a beat up truck, PTSD, was a recovering alcoholic who had tried to hang himself because his platoon brother got killed when Johnny stepped on a double landmine and his brother/friend/soldier pushed him off and sacrificed himself. Yikes. Johnny was trying to forgive himself for what he believed was his fault: his brother’s death. He was the Godfather of the guy’s daughter. Johnny felt  he didn’t deserve to see her. He didn’t deserve anything good. 

He sharpened our knives. They needed that badly.  He wasn’t hungry so we couldn't feed him. He created 2 wire heart pendants for us. He cried when we hugged him and gave him some money, made him a cup of coffee and offered a banana. 

We learned  from Jimmy that eating Kangaroo rats tasted like coal because you can’t get rid of their hair except by burning the crap out of them, but they provide protein. Rattlesnakes are good but currently it’s too cold outside so they aren’t around. Too cold for snakes, yet our new friends slept outside. No heaters. My privilege crimsoned my face. Jimmy advised us not to eat the rabbits because they have wolf disease. You will see scabs if you skin them, he added. There’s always cacti to eat. If you are going to sleep outdoors in that area, dig down 18 inches. Don’t build a shelter. It’s warmer below.

I asked why he wasn’t teaching survival skills. He answered that the county required that you had teach the first class on safety. It had to be indoors. You needed money to make money. That’s the way to keep the middle class scared and productive. Make sure you have a poor and working class in place.

I asked J, J and C if they can explain why the local Walmart sells hog heads. We had seen huge crates full of them. They said that people use the meat for tamales. I wonder if all the white shoppers at Trader Joe’s know what part of the pork in tamales comes from.

We told them about the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous and Home on Wheels Alliance, the organization that helps folks thrive in their vehicles. We invited them to join us at the big gathering in Quartzsite, AZ later in January. We exchanged info and hope to see them in the near future. I realized when you don’t have food, you probably don’t have the gas money to drive 16 hours. Charley’s work at Dunkin' Donuts and Johnny’s military pension didn’t allow for housing, food, gas and a phone. 

Three new friends, three brutal lives. This is what can happen when you live in a tin can. I just had to learn how to quiet my mind at night as it was processing the Mexican Nazi whom I called brother and hugged close, holding his swastika-ed hand.

Waking Wanders

 Have you ever been awakened by the songs of Sand Hill cranes on a cold February morning and watched the sun climb rung by rung to the sky? Today was such a morning. It was 630AM, not my usual rising time, but my inner 4 year old was very curious about the racket and when I removed the blind from the van’s window, the intricate lace of frost welcomed both me and Kobi, my cat. 
 

We had arrived late last night to a boondocking spot recommended by our app and as per usual, as with our frequent, late arrival, had no idea what to anticipate when sunrise came flooding. It’s peaceful here among other van-lifers scattered around the lagoon in Willcox, AZ. This is the reason I love my life. I never know what I will encounter, whom I will meet, what I may experience. Rachel and I have been debating whether these memories and experiences can be created while living in a house. I believe that only a fraction of it may be possible. 

There’s no planning for the richness of the road. In our sticks n’ bricks, I may be able to plan to go fishing in a couple of weeks with my friend, if she can take off from work or chores, and then there’s the hour drive. On the road my view is new each morning. I am engulfed by it, it’s not just a peephole through a window. I walk out to forage, hunt, gather, climb or row. There’s no calendar, there’s engagement right outside the sliding door.

On the road, I have learned to fish for razorblade clams, brought back bagfuls of boletes, practiced hitting bullseyes with my friend’s slingshot, rode various electric bikes like a 16 year old boy on a wild mustang, actually rode a beautiful horse before shooting clay pigeons, kayaked the Colorado river while watching wild horses and burros on its banks, sat in hot springs surrounded by mountain sheep and wild sunflowers, met artists and marveled at their murals, climbed trees, boulders and mountains and descended into vast valleys and dry beds, emerged from slot canyons and turned purple with wild berry juice on my fingers. This is only a partial list. These are just the physical encounters that made me realize how strong, capable and happy I feel, like I did as an unabashed 4 year old in the woods in Israel.

Then there are the emotional arenas that unfold: being offered kindness and generosity from strangers, listening to new to me folks inviting me into their hearts and homes, experiencing different cultures like the  Republican, Mormom Cattle Ranchers who hugged, kissed and welcomed us, their new same-sex couple friends or the desert-dwelling, Nomadic lesbians who offered coal filled pie-pans from their fire to put under our travel chairs, so our butts would warm. I don’t have access to these when I sit in my house.

And then there’s God, the benevolent, magnificent, unparalleled Universe, the artist, the transformer, the awe-inspiring Creator that blows my mind, expands my heart and lungs, makes me weep and howl when I am so touched by its beauty and decay, its diversity and complexity, its hues both muted and vibrant, by its heft and lightness- this is my house of worship, this is where I feel grounded and connected, this is where I want to learn and create, this is where I am a particle, a minuscule grain, no more or less important than all the other atoms surrounding me and I’m grateful.

This is my home. My only trepidation, common to those who have lost their homes, can it last? Can goodness really come and stay? Will my resources suffice? Will my stationary friends understand my desires? Will they stay in my life? Will they join? As the cranes land in much cacophony and swirls, their legs outstretched towards the reclaimed water, I see that beauty is temporary and everlasting. Rest is a cycle of life before take off and return is inevitable.

Purpose-full

 

Across a sea of Cholla, the fuzzy, teddy-bear looking cactus that will bite you in the ass just for looking at it, a hummingbird lands. This is the Sonoran desert, home to coyotes, quail and bobcats and more recently, to our Nomadic friends, who bought this patch. It may be a bit unusual for nomads to buy land, but not if it’s for benevolent use, like creating a space for women to come and build out their vehicles. There’s power in sharing the abundance of the land, knowledge and know-how of this tribe and their power tools. Skill sharing among women to create livable, mobile domiciles, how can we not come and contribute?

The sun is wrapping the dancing, comical Saguaros with its last rays. I am keenly aware of the phase of the moon and reassured every night by the return of the swirling stars. I notice that I am often trying to convey what’s it like to live in the natural, physical world of outside. My language may not be sufficient. Maybe nomads speak differently altogether. Maybe it’s like a Hong Kong mouse trying to speak with an Arcadian barn mouse: one doesn’t know the sound of scurrying on concrete, the other doesn’t know the scent of hay. Maybe that’s my trepidation, that like other nomads, my language with the sticks n’ bricks folk will diminish, dissipate, disappear.  Then again, maybe I could switch between speaking city and country…

Out here in the vastness and being a part of the baby boomer collective, I often think to myself what’s my purpose, how can I be useful, what does the Universe want me to do? Is it to inspire others to dream and live big but consume little? Is it to fall in love with this planet and fight passionately for its/our survival? Is it to learn about the many cultures, tribes, ways of being in order to connect with others, consider our/US impact on others while perhaps having others impact our own ways of life?

It seems there’s an insatiable drive and desire to explore, to see, to engage and not just in the US, but abroad as well. I’m starting the process of getting German citizenship, the one that was revoked from my Jewish-German grandparents in the 1930’s is now available to their descendants. This would allow me to live in any EU country, like France or Spain, and learn those languages, so that I may learn to trust and communicate and realize that not everyone is anti-Semitic and educate those descendants of the Inquisition that we really are in this together or simply share a meal as we tear down any “otherness” that separates us.

As John Lennon said: “You may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us. And the world will live as one.” 

I am curious, what would you like to read? Musings from the mists? RV ramblings from the road? How do 2 women and 2 cats share a 21 foot van and survive to tell the tale? How to use your own resources and retire sooner? How to have courage to dream outside the expectations, obligations and capitalist confines? Tell me, would ya?

Father, where art thou?

The lack of internet reception will be the bane of me. I haven't forgotten you, but we are challenged by the lack of technology that we have. I have not been able to write, even offline on my chromebook, so I believe it's time to invest in an extender and maybe a laptop that isn't from before 2000... Anyway, I'll write and eventually, when I can, I will add the photos. 

Don't worry, I got you. You got me. 

We are outside Palm springs, CA in yet another desert. This one, a city of RVs clawing a gusty, rutted terrain, gazes at snow capped mountains. I have to tell you...I don't know how this happens, but there is a direct link between nature and an insistent, direct communication with the Divine. No wonder Moses got the 10 commandments in a place like this.  I've seen a burning bush, a cactus, to be exact, burning with the sun's rays, glowing from within, from the abyss of a slot canyon that brought me to my knees with its awesome beauty and sheer massiveness. 

Sitting in one of the holes in a cliff, made by erosion, water and wind, aka, God, meditating, like Buddha, feeling momentarily at peace. Maybe the news of my father, from whom I've been alienated, having Covid and my son, who has chosen to cut all contact with me, has brought a slight opening, like a slot canyon in my heart.                      

Do I want to be right or do I want connection through love and peace? 

I am in the middle, a pin prick in the Universe, yet the chasm between me and these men is so deep, so profound.  I had chosen this separation, this distance, this uprooting between my father and me. Years of complicated, toxic masculinity and rejection, downright abuse and my inability to move beyond these in a different direction, landed me in that decision. Stepping into California a second time within a year, feeling my son's presence on this land and his absence as well, created a link of feeling in the middle of rejection and longing towards both him and my father.

A tug of war pulling at my heart strings, yearning for these men, 

these children really. 

I think my own commandments have been given in this vastness, pulling my insides to expand, 

to accept all of this landscape, its beauty and ugliness, 

its breathtaking valleys and mountains, ups and downs, 

wonders and heartbreaking trash, fracked and lusciousness. 

 I've seen green shoots spring after an annihilating fire. I've seen fish corpses floating on a now warm, algae-filled lake downsized by 200 feet due to climate change. I am trying to learn how to hold these extreme climate changes in my heart, the fractured and the healing despite of it all.