The Great Salt Lake is on either side of us as we drive into the island. Our campsite is directly on the water, but the beach is about a half mile wide with chalky, cracked sand. It looks like we’re on the moon. There are no amenities here, and as we step out we are confounded by the lack of noise. Only a few songbirds call here and there, and the occasional bark of coyotes up in the mountains.

We have the place basically to ourselves. We hike out past our site, trying our best to avoid the scratchy, prickly brush surrounding the beach. The Great Salt Lake is seven times saltier than the ocean, and is 75 miles long and 35 miles wide. As I walk I’m disturbed to notice dozens of bird skeletons, only adding to the obscure nature of this place.

This kind of quiet serenity is exactly what we are looking for.

We decided to hike a four mile trail along the water, watching little lizards zip from under our step and hopping over the giant piles of buffalo poo that were scattered about like land mines. Did I mention there are 700 buffalo on the island? I think that’s why they have strict dog leash laws . . .

That night, while making our rounds around the campground, we met a local named Tom. He was excited to hear about our trip, and spread all his maps and books on the picnic table with a headlamp. He outlined where to stay (for cheap) and what to do around Utah. We told him that he was a part of our plan—to chat with locals rather than researching online. He said if he was us, he would trek down to Moab rather than Zion, being that there is Arches National Park, Dead Horse Point, the Colorado River, etc. He drew us a route, complete with step by step instructions. We were elated.

Day 2:

Today we are heading out  to a 133 year old homestead on the other side of the island. Not long after we left camp we saw them—a herd of about a hundred buffalo dotting the beach. Apparently the older bachelors keep to themselves, while the heard is mostly mommas and babies. We saw a loner lounging about on the side of the road. He looked so handsome; reminding me of the movie Beasts of the Southern Wild; perhaps because they share the same sad, intelligent eyes.

We toured the homestead, furnished with the original furniture, tools and clothing, as well as an old covered wagon. Mikey suggested we could, in fact, live in it. “What else do you need?” he said. Ah, Mikey.

 

Tomorrow—Moab.

I had just drifted off at Mikey’s sister’s place in Fargo on Sunday night when I got the call. Our intention was to leave days earlier, but we were getting the runaround from Smart Talk, a cheap Walmart phone company who promised that our phone would arrive on Wednesday. We were still phone-less four days later.

“Mom’s in the hospital. She’s gonna be okay, but she took a pretty bad fall hiking at Spirit Mountain . . . she broke her leg.”

My mind raced. In that split second I pictured her sliding off a cliff and landing with a hard thud on the ground, twisted.

“It broke clean off in the same place she broke it when she was sixteen. They need a specialist to look at it in the morning.”

Clean off. Those words rang in my ears.

We’ve hiked Spirit Mountain many times; the path runs deep in the woods with roots running like veins over boulders and clear, rocky streams. I pictured her staring up at the leaves, the birds flying blithely from the branches, oblivious.

“We’ll be right home.”

We threw everything into the camper, arriving a little past three am. It was like a strange dream to be back (we live in a Tiny House on wheels on my parent’s property—but that’s another blog in itself), pulling into the driveway, dogs running out to see us, everything in the same place we left it.

We spent the better part of three days in the hospital. I wanted to be close to her, so I scooted next to her on her hospital bed, talking about Fargo and Bubba and our plans. I talked a while and, after I realized she was not registering what I was saying, asked, “What’s the matter?” and she replied, politely, “Honey . . .you’re sitting on my tubes.”  ­­­­

We all were surprised and forever changed by what happened next. Mom got a roommate. Her name was Margaret, she had the same surgery, and she was eighty-eight years old.

“You’re 57? Aw, you’re just a kid!”

This is the first thing she said to mom. She also said that to anyone under the age of 87.  She was a volunteer at a nursing home up north in the same town where we bought our scamp. Let me re-iterate: she volunteered. She had the insight and presence of­—I don’t even know—I can’t compare her to someone our age because they are forever on to the next thing, all entertainment addicts. She had the cool composure and easy conversational style of a jazz singer, even though she was a gray-haired great-great grandmother from the Range. In those three days we discussed her childhood, bearing nine children, crank telephones, and how crazy modern times have become. She was especially important to my mom when, late at night, they would cry together through the thin curtain between them.

I felt so inspired by her. She had a twisted arm and a bruised head from her fall, yet she made light of every situation. She would flirt with the nurses and offer insight to our conversations when we thought she wasn’t listening (she had super hearing).  In reality, her light presence even changed the way our family interacted. We would take turns sitting over with her to talk, and I actually learned a lot about my dad from listening to their conversations.

Margaret had adopted her first grandchild when she was five months pregnant. Rearing both at the same time, she would scoff at those who questioned if both the children were, in fact, hers.

“Of course they’re mine!” she would say, “and then I would just walk away. There is no reason for people to ask such personal questions, and even so, they are indeed MY children. I don’t need to discuss further.”

Her conviction was infectious. It makes me sad to think of how often we dismiss the elderly, thinking that there is nothing there behind those blinking eyes except milky white clouds. We see someone in a wheelchair at 80, 90, whatever, and we often will crouch down and talk to them like a child. How unfair it is to live through so much; wars, depression, cloth diapers and equal rights, only to reach an age where you are dismissed; sitting on the sidelines as we all walk by.

When it was time for her to go she had three hospital staff help her into her wheelchair. They turned her away from us, towards the door, discussing medical charts.

“I need you to turn me around, I need to say goodbye to my friends—” she said in her soft spoken tone. When they failed to notice she said it again, and after the third time Mike and I walked around to say our goodbyes.

Her eyes were red with tears. “Isn’t life crazy? I love you. I love you.” she said as we leaned down to hug her. She pulled me close with her one good arm—a real hug. “I love you” she said again to Mike, and pleaded with the attendants, “I need you to TURN me around so I can say goodbye to my FRIEND.”

They finally did, and mom said, “It’s kind of like we’re kindred spirits . . . we went through so much together—”

She nodded, wiping tears from her eye. “I love you” she said, reaching out with her hand.  And then she was gone.

The clearness in her eyes reminded me of a saying by Virginia Woolf:

“. . . how I dig out beautiful caves behind my characters; I think that gives exactly what I want; humanity, humor, depth.  The idea is that the caves shall connect, & each comes to daylight at the present moment”

I think of the caves we inhabit inside our own heads; and if only we all could claw our way up to the light, what a different world it would be.

 

 

 

 

I got a call from Mikey at 4:45 on my last day of work.  We were done, packed and ready to go as soon as I rolled into the driveway.

“Hey. So. . .we’re not going anywhere.”

A pause.

“Camper is stuck in the mud. Your dads on his way back from McGregor. He’s gunna try to pull us out with his Crawler.”

It had been raining hard all day and as the sun fell it had turned into a snowy muck. Our hope all along was to leave before the snow flies; but here we were, the day of departure, stuck in the yard, snow racing down as if to taunt us.

When I got home there was a train of vehicles slowly making their way through the yard. Camper, truck and crawler, bucking their way back up the driveway. Everything was covered in mud.

We said our goodbyes to the folks, and (carefully) drove off down our dirt road one last time.

I waited for some grand emotion to take over, an end-of-a-chapter feeling like you see in the movies.  I took inventory of my body. I was calm, I was ready. Years ago when we left San Diego for the last time we had the same non-emotion, feeling as though this was the only option, this was right in our core. This is how it felt that day. Mikey and I shared a knowing look and shrugged as if to say, ‘well. . . here goes nothin’.

—

Mom had given us some chicken bacon cheese dish, and, realizing we had forgotten to feed Bubba, I gave her a few chunks.

“Hey, we have a long ride, I wouldn’t give her too much of that. . .”

“Aw, she’s fine.”

I scratched her head, and looked back in the rearview as our little life disappeared around the bend.

About thirty seconds later she emptied her stomach all over the cab.

Picture this: a camper pulled over on the side of the road, a girl pitching barf-soaked paper towels into the woods, a boy stuffing them in a plastic bag, and then a dog barfing AGAIN all over the seat.

With everything cleaned as best we could we were off – not looking back.

We drove into the wind the entire way to Fargo, averaging about 10 miles per gallon, snowing the entire way. Here we would rest up, visit family and pack up some meals for the Real Thing.

It usually starts when you retire. You look at your savings, think about the free time you’ll have and start weighing the pros and cons of various campers, trailers and vehicles for purchase to take off and see the country. You plan out each stop, putting tacks on a map, calling ahead. You thought about this for years, waiting until your pension came in like any respectable, responsible adult.

But for us, our adventure started on Craigslist, and we were far from retirement.

It was my 28^th birthday and we were driving north of Duluth, where the tamarack trees take over and traffic means there’s more than one car on the road. We were on our way to pick up our new camper and truck. Well, it was far from new, but new to us. Its a ten year old 5^th wheel Scamp-deluxe version (meaning there is wood inside rather than plastic), kept in my-grandma-owned-it condition. New hand-made curtains, scrubbed-clean interior, and all the original appliance manuals kept in the original plastic. As you walk in there is a painting with the saying ‘home is where you plug in’. We thought – why not?

Mikey haggled, signed the paperwork and then we drove off like thieves. Step one: get a camper. Check. Step two: quit our jobs. Step three: take off into the Great Unkown.

Here we go!