On a walk through my parents’ old neighborhood in Lexington, where I sniff deeply of the mown grass to see if I can detect the scent of home.
It’s there, I know it is, though I can’t put my finger on exactly what’s different.
Is it the bluegrass, full of calcium from the limestone-rich soil?
Is it the way the light strikes the lawns and releases an aroma?
Or is it knowing that the bones of my ancestors lie in cemeteries just miles away?
The big yellow buses are rolling, and even for me, school has begun. In fact, I’ve just finished hours of homework for a graduate class, once again ignoring my daughters’ recommendation — “Mom, you don’t have to do all the reading.”
I’ll say what I always do: But I want to do all the reading. Or in this case, the reading and the listening/watching, since this first assignment included a lengthy podcast. I’ve taken pages of notes on how emotions are made, and though much of it is over my head, some of it has permeated the old gray matter.
I’ve learned that we have more control over our emotions than we think we do, that we can take an unpleasant feeling and work with it.
This is just the first set of readings, of course. I imagine it will get more complicated. But when I start to feel overwhelmed, I’ll think back to these first readings, and they will help.
Wednesday was to be a day of heat and humidity, record-breaking heat, and it would be just that. But it began with a snake-sighting. Not just any snake, but a copperhead.
This deadly viper is, as I’ve noted before, “Reston’s only venomous snake.” Cold comfort when you reach down into your garden bed and one of them sinks its fangs into you — which happened to a friend who’d recently moved to the area.
That the copperhead I found was most assuredly dead did not totally dispel my discomfort. After all, I traipse through these woods often. What other dangers lurk beneath its calm facade? Does this critter have sisters and brothers, aunts, uncles and cousins? I imagine so.
Having just returned from a place where coyotes call, mountain lions roam and bears break into suburban hot tubs, why shouldn’t I come upon a copperhead?
When I think of the western states we just visited, I imagine the gas giant planets — Saturn, Jupiter, Uranus and Neptune.
Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona (we didn’t stop in the latter, though we were within miles of it) have the same heft and proportions. Their landscapes are bare, alien, even dangerous at times (see yesterday’s post).
Yes, they have an atmosphere, so I won’t take the metaphor too far, but there are similarities. They are near the outer edge of this continent, and are some of the last-explored places in the country. Their terrain can be hostile. Human effort appears puny in their vastness.
Returning from a trip out west, then, is more like falling back to Earth, finding one’s self again on safe, familiar ground.
Back home now, remembering our adventures, one of which was a little too close for comfort.
It was Friday evening and we had just returned from a day of hiking and sightseeing in Canyonlands when our cell phones began to blare with warning messages of flash floods. Scary, yes, but hardly cause for concern, we thought, tucked away in our motel on Main Street in Moab.
What hubris! We had only gone across the street to dinner, but decided to browse in a bookstore on the way home. Not just any bookstore, by the way. Back of Beyond was started by friends of the writer Edward Abby shortly after his death in 1989. Its selection of environmental and place titles was phenomenal, and I was absorbed, as I usually am in the presence of great books.
In retrospect, we should have been alarmed by the sandbags we stepped over to enter the store; we assumed they were just a precaution. But no more than 15 minutes after I snapped the rainbow photo above, I looked out the bookstore window to find that Main Street had vanished — with a river of brown water flowing in its place.
So much precipitation fell so quickly that creeks overflowed their banks and water poured off the mountains that surround the town. We couldn’t exit the front door of the store, but a helpful clerk let us out the back, where we walked several feet before finding that the side street we’d hoped to cross was just as flooded as Main Street.
We searched for other routes back to our hotel, which we could see but couldn’t figure out how to reach. By then it was pouring again, and we had lightning to worry about as well as the swirling stream. It wouldn’t be pleasant to wade across, but we had no other choice.
We took a deep breath and plunged into the water, which came halfway up to my knees. It was murky and brown, cold and deep. The current was brisk. Had the water been a bit higher the cars on the road would have been floating. As it was, I later heard there were people kayaking in downtown Moab.
By the time we reached the hotel our shoes and pants were soaked. But we were overjoyed to be back on dry ground, and I have a new respect for flash floods.
There are two routes from Taos to Albuquerque. The first is via State Road 68, a straightforward approach through the valley. It’s known as the Low Road or River Road because it parallels the Rio Grande.
The second is a patchwork of lanes that weave through forests and hillsides, past small farms, galleries and old churches. Like any “blue highway,” you feel the lay of the land when you drive it. And if you’re prone to motion sickness, as I am, you’d best be behind the wheel.
At first we seemed destined for Route 68. We had a schedule to keep, after all, a flight leaving at 3. But the more I thought about it, the more the High Road called out to me. We wouldn’t have time to stop much, but we’d have time to absorb the scenery as we drove through it.
I’m hoping that those sights, sounds and smells, like all the sensory riches of the last 12 days, will become a part of us.
Our accommodation in Taos, New Mexico, is a shoebox-sized room with thick adobe walls and a dutch door. The ceiling beams are hewn from thick logs and the bathroom is decorated with colorful tiles.
In the lobby are potted plants, a small library, and more of those thick adobe walls.
I think about the lives lived in these snug places, the coziness they promise, the insulation and warmth. In the garden, hollyhocks climb and a small stream ripples. Hammocks promise rest on warm days.
It’s a slower, older way of life here. I think I could get used to it.
Utah has five national parks. There is Bryce with its hoodoos, Zion with its waterfalls, Arches with its, well, arches, and Capitol Reef with its domes. And then there is Canyonlands, the park we visited yesterday.
I expected fewer people and a longer drive from Moab. What I wasn’t expecting was grandeur to rival the Grand Canyon. There were mesas and buttes and the Colorado River. There were rim walks and steep drops. There were vistas beyond vistas, and a view called Grand. Maybe not the Grand Canyon, but pretty darn close.
But the index finger gets peckish in the presence of great natural beauty,. It wants to preserve the vistas. It hovers and snaps, almost without my permission.
I’m telling myself that every photo was justified. Yesterday’s weather was more dramatic. Dark thunderheads, lightning, and a driving rain (conveniently timed for our drive out of the park). But I took sunny shots, too.
We arrived yesterday in red rock country, Utah, USA, Moab to be exact.
The drive from Pagosa Springs took us through passes and canyons, mountains on the horizon.When we arrived I could almost hear the collective sighs escaping from visitors to this magical place.
It’s grandeur on a galactic scale. It reminds me of what our youngest daughter used to ask us on her first trip out west. “What country are we in?”
Can it possibly be the same one that includes Virginia? Doesn’t seem possible.