I can’t believe it.  Our redeployment day is actually here. Oh no, wait, that’s tomorrow. Or it was when we were on Plan Alpha. We’ve now made our way through the alphabet and I’m writing this post from somewhere over the Midwest as we make our way from Boston having overnighted there to avoid the season’s third Nor’Easter. We’re on our way to Southern California, which is expecting downpours and ensuing mudslides, to reacquaint ourselves with Davista and continue our travels this time from the southwest to the southeast. For starters. You can see our proposed path on Flight’s post here.

So, a summary of Phase Two of our travels (decidedly less nomadic) is probably in order. Until I can catch up with my musings from Phase One, a quick recap…. “No, there is too much, lemme sum up…”

Our house didn’t sell in our absence, so we redeployed to Maryland on December 7^th (notable in that during my squadron days I both deployed and returned from deployment on the “date which will live in infamy…”), two days before the Army-Navy game and the heaviest snowstorm of the season. We had shipped seven boxes back to Maryland, one of which WoodSprite could have comfortably slept in, and spent our first two days unpacking and settling in, picking out and decorating the perfect Christmas tree, dropping off our 4Runner for a deep detail (it had grown a disturbing layer of moldy fuzz in the wildly varying weather extremes during our 4.5-month absence), before popping over to enjoy America’s Game with my Academy roommate’s family and several of our friends. Although I had a hard time packing up to leave Davista, immediately basking in solid friendships softened my heart as soon as we returned.

However, we weren’t in town for too long before we departed again. Nine days later we loaded up the car and drove to the Chicago area to spend the holidays with my family.

Our departure timeline was dictated by the dates of Chicago’s Do It Yourself Messiah. If you haven’t been to one of these events, you need to put it on your list. A volunteer orchestra plays the Messiah, accompanied by four professional soloists, and the audience arrives, scores in hand, to sit by vocal range and serve as the evening’s chorus. A classically-trained violinist, my father has played in the volunteer orchestra for the last twenty years and since my first DIYM 17 years ago, it has remained one of my favorite Christmas events. A bonus was that our extended family was joined my closest friend from childhood and her niece.

The joyful flurry of activity that makes up our family holiday routine zipped by and we returned to Maryland for a fairly quick turn around. We were in the house less than 48 hours to unpack from Christmas and brutal 4^o Chicago cold, do laundry, and repack for a stint in San Diego and Mexico. Flight took off on a trip that had a crazy-long layover in San Diego, so I followed the next day with the kids.

We met up on December 31^st in San Diego and I was able to visit with a friend over coffee before spelling Flight. He went back to his hotel room to sleep for his New Year’s redeye back to Boston and his immediate return as a passenger to San Diego, while the kids and I enjoyed a marvelous taco dinner and watched the ball drop in New York before crashing out. Happy New Year indeed. I couldn’t help but wonder where we might be residing when we ring in 2019.

The next morning we met a very groggy Flight at the airport and caught our flight to Cabo to spend five days celebrating his parents’ 50^th Anniversary with Flight’s sister and her family.

The week in Cabo was magical, save acute Achilles tendonitis experienced by yours truly following yoga and my second surfing lesson (I refuse to be older than 30, but sometimes my body tells me otherwise) and I’ll devote another post to our time in Mexico when I can get to it. We all flew up to the Bay Area to celebrate in our nephew’s coming of age celebration, a wonderful family tradition that also warrants its own post.

Upon our return to Maryland, the mother of one of WoodSprite’s closest friends told me that she had mentioned to their teacher (We learned that WoodSprite was originally assigned the same teacher as her friend, the discovery of which on Meet Your Teacher night was met by her friend bursting into tears knowing that her BFF would have been in her class were we still in town…) that we were back for a few months and their teacher said, “Have her come to school!” You can do that? Originally I had planned to take advantage of all the local things we hadn’t yet seen in the area, but this was a new possibility. WoodSprite wanted to try out Kindergarten and take the bus. Firebolt just wanted to hang out with her friends again in the classroom. The only downside I could see was not keeping up with our homeschool curricula, which moved at a different pace.

After a trip to DC to see Ford’s Theater to learn more about Abraham Lincoln’s presidency at Firebolt’s request (she has been fascinated with his story since studying him the previous year and has since proclaimed that she, too, will be a lawyer before becoming president), we met with the local school’s principal two days later. Upon hearing that we were curious about the options for our girls to return to public school for only a couple of months, not including two trips out of town that we’d already committed to, she said, “We’d be delighted to have them – please send them both.” Okay then. Their first day back was on January 22^nd.

Following her first day of Kindergarten WoodSprite came home thoroughly nonplussed by the experience. She pronounced she would much prefer homeschooling with me and did NOT want to take the bus (it was too loud). Each day was a challenge to get her to go to school and we talked about her observations from each day. On day one she expressed her frustration with her classmates who “Talked all the way through the principal’s daily message. I tried, but I couldn’t hear what she was saying. It was really annoying.” Day two, “Hey, Momma, I don’t know why other kids go to school. They don’t do what they’re supposed to do. They don’t want to do their work.” Noted. Although her teacher told me she integrated beautifully into the classroom, WoodSprite and I fought the “I-Don’t-Want-to-Go-to-School” battle until we went to Bend nine days later.

Firebolt’s reaction to being in her old stomping grounds was 180^o out. She has loved every minute of it and lost no time in accruing behavioral yellow cards in defense of her friends. We opted not to rock the Middle School boat and have continued homeschooling Keeper, which has been a different adventure for his solo pupil status and being back in a non-moving house. By way of compromise for the girls, I mentioned to them I didn’t want them to lose their hard earned math skills and required each of them to do a daily math exercise as well as do some reading. Following a week after our return to Bend, WoodSprite rebelled against this requirement and eloquently stated, “Hey, Momma? I don’t know why you’re having us do math after we go to school all day. I’m not going to lose my skills. Firebolt’s not going to lose her skills.” Apparently my girls have non-perishable mad math skills… Maybe yes, maybe no – I’m hoping to flesh out another homeschooling post before to long to talk about just that.

Before we went West for another 10 days, I attended a conference for my Navy job. I had the privilege about speaking to 150ish of our nearly 200 Reservists who support the Office of Naval Research (ONR) on the two acupuncture research studies I’m heading up, namely evaluating the efficacy of acupuncture to treat Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) and Phantom Limb Pain (PLP). The majority of the ONR Reservists are STEM Professionals who collectively boast more PhDs than I can count (e.g. We have a fellow in our unit who holds 6 patents for the process to transform sea water into JP-5 jet fuel. ??!?! Exactly…) and it was a challenge to find the best way to introduce these complex  conditions, the basic tenets of acupuncture (few of which we understand from a Western medicine perspective), and the potential for its use to address PTSD and PLP. All in 15 minutes. And begin. Despite being unsure of how it might go, the talk was well received and I am eager to see where these studies take me…

Two days after the conference, we went to Oregon for ten days: first, to audition Bend in yet another season and, second, to celebrate 16 years of wedded bliss. Bend did not disappoint, far from it in fact, which means it looks like that’s where we’ll be heading to establish new roots. Until I can get to my summary, you can read about Flight’s perspective here. Take away: Bend continues to tug at my heart and soothe my soul, regardless of the season, and I can’t wait to get back.

Flight and I then flew the kids down to Oakland to spend sometime with Grammy and Papa and celebrate Keeper’s birthday before we jumped on a plane and went right back to Portland to celebrate our marriage milestone. Every year we take turns planning an anniversary trip that is a total surprise to the other person. This lively city had been another one of our next residence possibilities so I thought an anniversary trip seemed the perfect time to explore all that Portland has to offer (it was my year to plan…). While we thoroughly enjoyed our time there, we have since stricken Portland from the potential residence list for reasons I will get to in yet another post.

We returned to Maryland and realized we really had no more fart-around time. In just shy of six weeks’ time (we had set the first day of Spring as our schedule redeployment day) we needed to: hire a new realtor team, do one or two passes of combing through and discarding superfluous belongings, determine which of the eleventy billion house projects were necessary (presumably under the guidance of a newly hired realtor team) and feasible to complete before our departure given Flight’s absence for more than 50% of our remaining time, tackle said overwhelming list, pack for redeployment, ship boxes (fewer this time) back to Long Beach, and leave the house in museum state when we flew out on the spring equinox. There was no longer any time for a second exploratory trip to New England. Our time in Bend had rendered that unnecessary and our mounting TO DO list made it entirely unwise, and, consequently, we cancelled our second ten-day travel plans.

Okay then. It’s go time and we kicked it into high gear.

Miraculously, despite (or maybe owing to?) four days of power outage, all that needed to happen did. Although I wasn’t particularly appreciative of my necessary focus on non-electron-requiring projects (e.g. It’s as good a time as any to defrost the fridge…), especially since I weathered (pun most certainly intended) without Flight in the wake of the season’s second Nor’Easter, the experience was made far more palatable by our time in Davista (“Wait, we’re dry camping in our house, but we at least have water? Sweet!”) and, only after it got really cold, I cried uncle and we went to a hotel for what we hoped would be (and was) the last night sans electricity.

All told, we managed quite a bit after hiring a solid realtor team: Flight power-washed and repaired the fence surrounding our acre stretch; we had a long overdue professional landscaping service clear out the dead remnants leftover from fall; had the carpets replaced (due to a cancellation, they came almost a week ahead of schedule with only 80 minutes heads up – !!!); homeschooled Keeper daily in Reading, Writing, Math, Knitting, U.S. History, Housekeeping, Cooking, Engineering, Chemistry, and Physics; I painted trim throughout the house, a ceiling here and there, and the upstairs office; we packed out more than a dozen boxes and staged our house for showing in our absence, which brings me to about 14 hours ago when we drove away from our house to begin the crazy journey to rejoin Davista in Long Beach. While I was disappointed I was unable to carve out more visits with our local friends, I’m very thankful for the few opportunities that did manifest while we were in Maryland.

Just to give you a picture of the stark difference between our redeployment days, here’s a picture from last July when we had Davista in front of our house to easily load up anything we might need.

 

A bright, sunny, but not obnoxiously hot July day. And look how blissfully unaware we are of all that this lifestyle entails…

Deployment this go around feels vastly different because we now have some idea of what we’re getting into, at least in the general sense, although we’ll be roadschooling in a very different part of the country. Our lessons learned (many of which we’ve shared in this blog) have been added to our collective stash of corporate knowledge and I feel far more comfortable resuming our travels. A few months is just enough time to start losing the details of what exactly we left in Davista and what we needed to come back with us. Fortunately, I’ll be back in the area for Navy work in a few weeks and can collect any straggler items (e.g. my toothbrush charger – !!!).

Equally different are the accompanying meteorological conditions. Originally planning to leave on March 21^st, Flight started tracking the inbound storm that threatened our departure and, as I was painting more white trim, gave me updates throughout the day (March 20^th) and our plans steadily evolved through versions Bravo to Quebec. For those who are unfamiliar with the standby travel privileges afforded airline employees, allow me to share the most prominent positive and negative aspects. If we fly with Flight’s carrier airline, we can do so for free. If we fly with a partnered airline, we can do so at an extremely discounted rate. Huge plus, certainly, but it is always, always, always, as standby passengers. So, what does that mean for us? We need to be flexible in our travel plans, certainly, yet if any flights to our intended destination are cancelled, the others fill up with paying passengers and we are out of luck, meaning we’re stuck until five seats on the same flight free up. !!!

As we were getting the girls off to their last day of public elementary school in Maryland, Flight informed me that all the following day’s flights out of BWI and DCA were cancelled due to the inbound storm. Crapity crap crap CRAP. I had two meetings scheduled that day and cancelled both to get prepared to leave that night. True to my genetic stock (my parents are notorious for pulling all nighters before they travel, even at their current seasoned age…), I was anticipating an additional 12 hours of time to finalize our departure checklist. Nope. With the frantic assistance of the whole family, we pulled the house into perfect order and drove to DCA to catch a very delayed flight to Boston to overnight and catch a flight to LAX. At least the storm shouldn’t be getting to Boston until well after our departure, which thankfully held true.

After rolling into our airport hotel room at 2:20 am (“Kids, we’re getting on West Coast time…”) with only one rather civilized meltdown by WoodSprite, all but Flight crashed out. Flight spent another hour awake looking at all the possible ways we might make our way to Davista in the most expeditious manner. Did I mention the inbound front heading for Southern California and forecasting torrential rain for our day to ready Davista for the road? Should be interesting! Fortunately those who will be required to spend time outside (namely the oldest three of our flight) have waterproof pants and exceptional rain shells.

Never a dull moment and we wouldn’t have it any other way…

I can’t believe it – we waited until almost the last night of our first stretch in Davista to experience the coldest night. A balmy 26^oF was made far more tolerable by donning a nightcap before crawling into bed.  Not one of the adult beverage variety, but an actual cap. I didn’t realize that my birthday project would have served me so well, but was very thankful to have it.

So there she is, our home, abandoned and forlornly parked soi-même.

Well, not really all by herself, as she is accompanied by the Subaru.  They should be fine company for each other while we’re away.  I made it a point to write down all everything in our larder (and take a picture of it), to help us easily get settled in again once we return.  It seems so strange that we’ll be back sleeping in our Maryland house in a few nights. And when I say strange, I mean that it feels oddly like we’re moving backwards, as if the return to our empty house that’s not on wheels will undo all the experiences we’ve lived on the road and we’ll resume the lives we carved out in Maryland none the wiser.

No wonder my inner 5-year old is on edge…

We loaded the bikes inside and left Davista for our hotel, which was walking distance from the massive Disney complex and wound down in the pool – or rather the girls did.

Flight and I chatted and tried to strategize our reintegration into life in Maryland, starting with travel options should all of us not get on the flight.

We meandered to the Downtown Disney and scored some dinner, taking in the holiday lights on display before we headed back to the hotel to get rested for our last big day.

Which came early.

To give you an idea, this picture was time-stamped at 0726:

The girls gave the ginormous teddy bear at the hotel a, well, a bear hug and we skipped off (literally – okay maybe that was just the girls…) to Disneyland.  We wasted no time and WoodSprite scored this ride at 0823 while Flight took her brother and sister to ride California Screamin’.

So many distractions to experience!

I am fairly certain I know it wasn’t me or Keeper who suggested the Ferris Wheel down by the pier, but I’m not sure whom to credit.  Although it looks rather innocuous all beautifully lit up at night, this beast of a contraption has cages that not only rock as expected on most Ferris Wheels, but also pivot and slide along rails.  Ultimately, the collective motion is very unkind to anyone who may have motion-sickness issues (guilty).

Flight and his wee girls managed just fine, but Keeper and I had a tough go…

Incredibly, despite ten minutes of pure terror haunting her memories of her 6^th birthday, we were able to convince WoodSprite to ride Splash Mountain again.  The previous evolution is captured on the left and the new memories on the right.  Significant improvement, at least for WoodSprite…

Our kids each earned their driver’s licenses (again), and I paused only momentarily to contemplate how far away that’s really not – at least for Keeper…

We also managed to score seats in the newly overhauled Tower of Terror ride that has a Guardians of the Galaxy theme, which turned out to be my favorite of the day but not for the film reference.  I can’t say I ever tried the Tower of Terror back in the day, mostly because I think I plummeted to my death in a previous life and couldn’t want to experience that “again”.  Regardless of a deep-seated fear of heights that may predate this life, I enjoyed that we tackled this as a family and, despite any preflight jitters, it ended up being a blast.

In addition to thoroughly enjoying being so terrified, I must give props to Disney for their festive holiday flair.  Our last trip to the California mecca was at the height of Halloween and the all was decked out to the nines.  The winter holiday season is at least as festive, thankfully without Space Mountain’s odd décor mashup pairing demonic eyeballs with The Bodies exhibit.  Still trying to understand who might have thought that was a good idea.  Just weird and gross really…

The winter holiday scene is far more appropriate.  It’s a Small World was even more tolerable…

But only just…

In truth, today’s side of distraction was a huge success.  As we departed the Magic Kingdom to execute Operation Return to Maryland, I felt my exhausted five-year old passed out on my shoulders, her hands clasped loosely beneath my chin and gently swaying with my every step.  In my own quiet mental space, I gave thanks that she was soundly asleep and enjoyed the reprieve from her incessant questions,  Yet I couldn’t help but wonder if I was navigating the acceptance part of the grieving process.

I guess we’ll see when she wakes up…

If you are unfamiliar with this particular National Park, that may be because Firebolt renamed it.  And once that child has something in her head a particular way, that’s just the way it is.  Try as we might, we can’t get our daughter to let go of calling it Tentacles…

After getting on the road at the gentlemanly hour of 10 am, we departed Alamo and drove just over two and half hours to arrive at PINNACLES National Park, arriving in the early afternoon.

Pinnacles National Monument became our country’s 59^th National Park in 2013, and number 9 for our flight to visit.  This particular piece of prime real estate was formed 23 million years ago, give or take, when a whole mess of volcanoes erupted and the Earth’s crust shifted around (and bunched up on itself) to create a wholly unique landscape.  Because my pictures didn’t even remotely capture its splendor, I share the following image borrowed from the National Park Service website:

Our intention with this particular stop was to overnight on the way to Seal Beach where we had reserved a spot to park Davista (and the Subaru) through the winter and see what we could see during out short stay.  Upon checking in we made a beeline for the Ranger Station/Visitor’s Center.  With a stop to evaluate what the Subaru was up to…

Stinkin’ clutch (literally, I’m afraid).

The girls collected their Junior Ranger books just in time to head out for a talk given by a Ranger on the condors in the park.

Firebolt and WoodSprite were captivated, but my least favorite part was handling the feathers – so I didn’t – I don’t know why, but feathers just kinda gross me out.  I think it probably has something to do with my hyperactive imagination that I can’t manage to disengage when I see parts of but not the whole animal   It’s way worse in murky water. But I digress…

Through the Ranger’s informative talk where we learned that, slowly but surely, the condor population has grown from a dismal 22 in the 1980’s to now more than 400.  All of these majestic birds have been bred in captivity and Pinnacles National Park is one of the five sites in North America where these enormous creatures have been released. We didn’t see any condors, but, again, another picture from the National Park Service site:

Still, the feathers?  Creepy.

When the talk concluded we headed back to the Ranger Station/Visitors Center so the girls could finish my favorite Junior Ranger activity to date.  How often do you get to match replica skat to the right species? What an awesome opportunity!

Who doesn’t like to inspect and handle replica feces?!

Well, our 9 x Junior Rangers were all over it and there may or may not have been some giggling involved.

In writing this, I’m reminded of a Muppet sketch where a sports commentator was covering the illustrious sport of wig racing and asked one of the trainers how he cared for the wigs, “Do you use shampoo?” “Nope, nothing but the real thing…”  But I digress, yet again…

Before the sun set (and we’re nearing the winter solstice with daylight rapidly dwindling), we grabbed a snack and went for a shortish hike.

Although we saw some beautiful colors in the lichen and Keeper was rather blown away by the enormous pinecones, it became apparent that none of our hearts were really in experiencing the Park’s beauty.  Perhaps I was projecting that on everyone as I could feel my overtired inner 5-year old threatening a tantrum.  However, while I think WoodSprite may have picked up on my impending meltdown, she managed this one just fine on her own.

On our way back we distracted WoodSprite by asking her to flex her Junior Ranger savvy:

Any guesses?

How about this one…

Yeah, me neither.  Normally I’d offer up Bengal Tiger, Komodo Dragon, or something equally outlandish, but I simply couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to so “guess.”  I think we’re all processing the upcoming departure from Davista in different ways and I’m trying not to wallow in my brewing emotions.  Here’s hoping a day at Disneyland will similarly serve to distract and soften the abrupt departure from our newly cultivated lifestyle into what exactly (I still don’t know) as we make our way back to Maryland.

It should work, right?

All 5-year olds can’t not get distracted at “The Happiest Place on Earth,” right?

Right??!

I sure hope I’m one of them…

After an incredible Thanksgiving visit in Grass Valley we headed back down to Grammy and Papa’s house in Alamo with zero leftovers.  Although we had only planned to be there for a few days, we had a very large task list to tackle to effectively redeploy our lives to Maryland.  Flight’s folks were kind enough to offer us a corner of their garage to store anything we’d prefer not to keep in Davista for the months we’d be parking her (and the Subaru) while we overwintered in Maryland.

My heart grew heavier as we methodically progressed through our storage compartments and packed numerous boxes to send back to Davidsonville or store in Alamo.  That process was wholly deflating as it felt as though we were deconstructing everything we spent the last few months joyfully building.  My rather dramatic inner 5-year old was back now and keening a full Scottish lament.  As we were out of pie, I was glad to tee up some fun distractions for her in the interim.  And those also kept the kids entertained.

We helped Grammy and Papa decorate their house for Christmas, which made me eager to prepare our own house for the holidays.  Firebolt gladly assisted Grammy in making some candy cane brownies.

And WoodSprite may or may not have enjoyed some hot chocolate…

There was a local skating rink that had just opened and we planned to meet our niece and nephew there to take a few turns on the ice.  My inner 5-year old paused in her woeful lament and gave thanks for Flight’s being on a trip.  One of my most (and least) favorite things about Flight is that he is a gifted athlete, which means he picks up new skills at ludicrous speed.  Far faster really than anyone has the right to and, while waltzing may elude him, skating appears to be one of his innate capabilities.  So not fair.

Nearly two decades before, I had visited Flight in The Netherlands where he was on duty as an exchange pilot with the Dutch Navy.  He mentioned that one of the nearby towns had created a skating area on one of the canals and suggested we check it out.  He admitted, “I’ve never been ice skating before – this should be fun.”  My less-than-gracious inner 5-year old gleefully delighted in the opportunity to see him fall on his caboose.  Really, can he please just suck at something?!

Growing up I spent ample time braving the bitter Chicago winter weather to learn to make my gangly way across the uneven neighborhood outdoor skating rink the Evanston Park District flooded every year and was sure I had the upper hand in our outing.  Did Flight favor me with a fall?  Nope.  Not once.  Not only did he easily make his way around the rink, after observing what skills others were performing, he started doing cross-over skating too.  Seriously?  Yep.

Fast forward to Alamo.  Lacing up my skates brought to mind plenty of childhood bruises to knees, elbows, and ego as I sorted out how to stay upright on ice skates.  I was hoping some of that long-buried and hard-earned knowhow would surface once I stepped out on the ice.

As I did, I couldn’t help but hear one of our family’s common observations echoing in my head…

We got a Wii when Keeper was two years old.  Clearly his father’s son in the coordination department, Keeper was able to easily (and most intuitively) play any of the games we collected and started racking up high scores.  His favorite (and perhaps my most challenging) was Super MarioKart, which involves racing through the most seemingly drug-induced lands.  The subtle control of one’s racing car is an elusive skill for someone like me who tends to manage the temperature in the car by alternating between 84^oF and 62^oF, constantly overshooting and never arriving at the ideal.

Calling it like he saw it, Keeper would observe, “Mom, you’re not very good at this…”  I let him know that, as accurate as his assessment might be, I would appreciate it if he would be a little more encouraging.  From then on out he offered this supportive commentary: “Dad, you’re really great at MarioKart.  Mom’s… Mom’s getting better…”

A far cry from Nancy Kerrigan, but at least I didn’t eat it…

The kids had a blast with their cousins…

Not only did my ice-skating skills leave plenty to be desired, but I was really struggling with hitting pause on our journey this soon into our travels.  My inner 5-year old was approaching a tantrum, and, in gaining steam, offered up plenty of rhetorical questions  in rapid fire succession, all in the same vein.  Why didn’t our house stinkin’ sell?!  Why were we told it would go like hotcakes?! Why was our only reasonable offer from an alleged felon?! Why couldn’t we just continue to travel?! Why do I have to be a grown up and go back to Maryland to tend to the very adult needs associated with selling our house?  How many house projects do I need to tackle for the next owners?  No matter how I tried (and truthfully it wasn’t a particularly earnest effort), I couldn’t want to go back to Maryland.  I couldn’t even muster much enthusiasm for going to our next National Park on the way to park Davista in Seal Beach.

This being an adult business stinks, but at least I’m getting better…

Before we even got underway, our flight was very aware that we have so much for which to be thankful.  With our time on the road, our blessings have become even more apparent and we’ve been living in a season of thanksgiving, making this short stretch with extended family that much more poignant.  We were thrilled to be invited back to Grass Valley to celebrate Thanksgiving this year.  Neema and Teepa are the parents of Flight’s sister’s husband or, as I like to refer to them, they are our in-laws totally removed.  They have adopted our whole flight as an extension of their own family and our kids thoroughly enjoy their bonus set of grandparents.

Perhaps a little peek into my relationship with turkey day would help set the stage for our time in Grass Valley…  Most Americans can’t think of this holiday without evoking delicious eats centered on a roasted turkey, mounds of mashed potatoes, and enough pumpkin pie to choke a horse.  However, Thanksgiving was never really a huge celebratory event while I was growing up.  My father emigrated from The Netherlands when he was 15 and, although he wholeheartedly embraced his new nation’s citizenship, there were many aspects of quintessential Americana that he never really took to.  For example, I didn’t learn how to catch a ball with a mitt until I was a freshman in high school when a good friend (and phenomenal softball player who is now coaching at the college level) showed me how it was done and convinced me to try out for the softball team.  That was a terrible idea for everyone involved as my ball throwing skills weren’t particularly well developed either.  An aside, VW actually made an ad highlighting one of my own personal nightmares centered on the translation of this glaring omission in my physical development to our offspring.  Fortunately, Flight’s hand-eye coordination is exceptional and appears to be a dominant trait eclipsing my less than satisfactory skillset.  But I digress…

Back to our festive fare… There was never a turkey involved in celebrating Thanksgiving at our house growing up.  Rock Cornish Game Hens anyone? Yep, kinda like turkeys but smaller.  We had those a few times, which was far from the norm across the nation, but that particular culinary choice came with the added bonus that everyone got a wish bone… How about pizza? I think we managed that once or twice when my father was on a mission overseas over Thanksgiving.  Because our nearest relatives were my mother’s family who lived at least a 12-hour drive away from our house in Evanston, Illinois, we rarely gathered with extended family and never around the holidays.  Aside from the extra two days off from school, I don’t remember celebrating that day as a major holiday event.

Having already spent last year’s delightful gathering hosted by our in-laws totally removed, I was pretty excited about enjoying a repeat performance.  Last year we had stayed in Neema and Teepa’s 5^th wheel and this year we pulled our own rig onto their 5 acres and plugged right in next to their house.  Our kids were inside and playing games with their cousins as soon as Davista was parked and likely before the engine shut down.

Food preparation had started before we even pulled up.  There was so much food on hand, which is important when you’re feeding 6 kids (two of whom are elite waterpolo players and can easily pack away twice their body weight in mashed potatoes), and everyone pitched in to prepare an incredible spread.

We finally sat down and each shared something for which we are thankful…

After dinner, a round of various games started before the annual poker game got underway.

Since I am well known for having the worst poker face ever, I tend not to play and instead just heckle.

With football games offering an exciting soundtrack to just being together, we reveled in sharing this time (and eating leftovers), which was capped by taking several family photos.  Of the dozens we captured, here are few of my favorites…

Although I thoroughly enjoy visiting with our family, especially in the beautiful Grass Valley setting, my melancholy was deepening as our upcoming departure from our new way of life was growing near.  I couldn’t want to go back to Maryland and was acutely aware of my inner 5-year old stamping her foot and wanting to rebel at the fiscally responsible path we’d chosen, namely storing Davista in Southern California and overwintering in Maryland.  We absolutely need to get back to our house, fire our realtor team, hire a new crew, and do some house projects before we put the house back on the market.  My inner 5-year old couldn’t be bothered with that reasoning, so instead I just pacified her outrage with copious amounts of pumpkin cheesecake.  She quieted almost immediately, but I’m sure I’ll hear from her again once the sugar buzz wears off, hopefully after we reach Maryland.

Took a little walk.  Met a little Trevian.  Had a little talk…  These were the opening lines of one of our high school swimming and diving team’s motivational chants.  I went to Evanston Township High School and our rivals were the New Trier Trevians.  Whenever I hear “Down by the River…” the rest of the words come tumbling free from the deeply buried annals capturing my youth.  When I dug a little deeper into the history of that chant, I learned it’s actually borrowed from one of the Army’s cadence calls and, as with most such morsels of military culture, goes on to suggest best ways of killing the enemy. Whoa! Our family outing today had nothing to do with Trevians, or intentional drownings for that matter, but we did find ourselves down by the Kaweah River.  But I’m getting ahead of myself…  Let me back up…

Our morning started at our spectacular campsite snuggled in beside a stream leading to the Kaweah River.  A capstone of today’s roadschooling adventure was Firebolt finishing her first knitting project, a sweater for her American Girl doll, Samantha.  Samantha is wearing a Shalom Cardigan-style sweater perfect for brisk mornings in the National Parks of Sequoia and King’s Canyon.

Brilliantly constructed by Firebolt, the colors were chosen to highlight Samantha’s coloring.  Okay, so maybe that last bit’s a stretch as that was the only yarn we had on hand.  However, the pattern was adapted from a cardigan I made for Firebolt when she was two and she knit Samantha’s new garment all by herself…

The next academic highlight was returning to the Visitor Center so the girls could be sworn in as Junior Rangers for these two parks.  This was by far the most in depth review of any of their Junior Ranger work.  The girls were asked plenty of questions about what they learned about the Sequoia and the surrounding ecosystems and they both rose to the occasion.  Me, I just stamped my passport and observed the age appropriate inquisition.

With the badges rightfully earned, we made our way to Slick Rock Recreation Area to recreate late in the afternoon.  We parked and sauntered down to the water, WoodSprite “Hey Momma”-ing me on the way…

Similar to the geological wonder we summitted yesterday (Moro Rock), the smooth granite boulders strewn about in the Kaweah River were unlike anything I’d ever seen.

Perhaps more aware of the fact that it was late November, our girls were less inclined to swim in the frigid water, but Keeper rallied.  He first waded out to his own island…

And then, not only invited his sisters to join him, but transported them one at a time across the Kaweah where together they owned their new land.

What an awesome big brother!

Firebolt grew brave enough to forge through the water on the return trip, but WoodSprite gave that idea a hearty NOPE and again relied on her brother’s ferry services, which he was gracious enough to offer.

The kids explored a little more and spent time solving the world’s problems.

Then Keeper volunteered to submerge himself in the water, but wanted evidence to document his bravado.  Flight videoed his crazy stunt, but I think this picture captures well the temperature of his surrounding environs.

Um, no.  No, thank you.

Was it cold?  I’ll let you be the judge…

Keeper, however, was warmed by the thrill of his daring adventure, so he did it again.

And again.

Again, um, no, thank you.

While Keeper was braving the water, Firebolt struck up a conversation with a kid whose family we learned was actually staying at this beautiful location as the site’s hosts.  Flight already captured that boondoggle opportunity in his post and I’ll just add that I continue to be amazed by all the unexpected ways that I learn other families make this unconventional lifestyle work.

Sweet sibling time aside, my absolute favorite picture of the day was Flight’s silhouette in the waning daylight.

The late afternoon lighting also provided some lovely portrait shots of our girls.

We trundled back to our car, which was parked near our new friends’ house, and headed back to our own residence.  We paused briefly outside the Kaweah Post Office, long enough really just to take a picture of the tiny building that dates back to another age.

According to the Lonely Planet website’s summary, it was “Founded by the utopian Kaweah Co-operative Colony,” and “is one of the USA’s smallest and oldest still-operating post offices, now staffed by volunteers,” because the U.S. Postal Service rescinded its contract in 2010.  Yikes.  Now I can’t speak to the politics of our nation’s mail service, but I can certainly get behind choosing this location to create a utopian colony.  Although I didn’t meet a single Trevian down by the river, I’d like to think we’d have equitably shared this piece of paradise as graciously modeled by our kids.

Actually there isn’t.  There is no trouble with the trees.  Sequoia National Park suffers from zero maple v. oak issues — the sequoias dominate, unopposed.  The unrest is probably limited to Canadian forests.

While you recover from that severely nerdy / cringey reference, let me describe the drive to Three Rivers, just outside of the park, where we spent the next few days.  As it happens, I was correct to be concerned about the grade in our escape from Death Valley.  Here’s the picture of our route.

It turns out Death Valley really is a valley; quite a deep one in fact.  The section in purple is a long, steep upslope.  It takes you from -200’ to just about 5000’ in about 20 miles.  That was tough, but manageable at 20-30 mph or so and in low gear.  The section in yellow is a very steep downslope.  In about 12 miles you lose a good bit of that elevation again, at a 9% grade.  For some perspective, 6% is the highest grade allowed on interstate highways.  So if you think about infamous stretches of highway with runaway truck ramps and the smell of angry brakes, you’re likely thinking of 6%.  There are small sections of steeper grades on tiny roads in hilly urban or mountainous areas, but this was my first brush with 12 miles straight of 9%.  It was not enjoyable.  Not at all.  You want to stay in the lowest gear you can manage in order to let your engine tackle as much of the slowing down as possible, but with this kind of slope I had no choice but to get on the brakes repeatedly.  Once brakes heat up enough they start to “fade,” i.e. lose effectiveness, until they have no ability to do their job at all.  I don’t know at what temperature this happens, but I was in no mood to perform experiments.  I did learn that Davista will in fact upshift automatically when the RPMs get so high that engine/transmission damage becomes a possibility.  This happens at about 5500 RPM (= a screaming engine), and causes a very abrupt and uncomfortable speed increase.  Sweating profusely about halfway down the hill, the brakes smell hit us strongly.  A few seconds of wondering what it would feel like to push the pedal and NOT SLOW DOWN convinced me to urgently seek and subsequently spot a turnoff on the opposite side of the road, into which I guided us to let the brakes cool.  In an A320 we have brake fans and a brake temperature gauge to help with such things – not so in Davista.  We sat there on the side of the desert road, me with my fancy IR thermometer taking shockingly high temperature readings I wasn’t sure I understood, for a good half hour before I was satisfied that they had cooled enough to take us the last 5 miles or so.  Luckily by that point it was more or less a straight shot – if nothing else I could scream into the valley at 100 mph and let the next uphill section dissipate our energy.  (Not really… I think Davista would shake and shudder herself into oblivion at about 85)

Disaster averted and lesson learned, we pressed on through the desert past some really rough little near-ghost-towns and then over the Tehachapi Pass into California’s fertile Central Valley again.  Though we stopped in Bakersfield for the night, it was a short and non-noteworthy, so I’m considering this just a two day drive to Sequoia.

Sequoia is the southernmost of California’s three national parks in the Sierras, and shares a border (and a Junior Ranger badge) with Kings Canyon national park.  It is, of course, most famous for its trees, but it also contains some of California’s most remote wilderness and extreme terrain, to include Mt. Whitney, the continental US’s highest point.  We stayed at a relatively low elevation just outside the park, along a stream feeding the Kaweah River.  Great call, as not only was it one of the best private campgrounds we’ve visited, but here’s the road up into Sequoia.

Davista would not have liked that at all.  Even our Subaru didn’t like it.  Our campsite, however, was right on the stream and hammock friendly, as well as spacious and populated with enough kids to allow our own to throw together a nerf gun battle or two.

Our original plan was to drive up to Sequoia and do a bit of hiking the first day and then do a second drive on day two past the sequoia groves and into Kings Canyon.  Nixing that plan became very easy after that first day of driving.  Though technically not very far, driving through Sequoia into Kings Canyon would have entailed a solid 4 hours on the road, through torturous (because they’re so tortuous!) (yes, I just learned the difference) switchbacks.  Nah.  Fortunately the girls were able to bag their Junior Ranger badge for both parks while only visiting one.

The hike through the sequoias was predictably spectacular.  Though not quite as tall as the giant redwoods, sequoias are more girthy and therefore massive.

We’ve found that as a family we have some of our best conversations while hiking; this time some of our more interesting conversational meanderings took us to the things that were happening in the world when these trees were young.  One feature I found especially interesting about sequoias is the degree to which they’re scarred.  Every one of the older trees sports heavily blackened areas, from forest fires and/or lightning strikes.  Evidently they are able to survive forest fires quite well, and when you’re around a few thousand years, you’re going to see a few of those.

That idea of extreme longevity spurred me to take Keeper with me on a conversational tangent about this interesting podcast I heard in which they were discussing how, if all diseases were curable and aging effects were stoppable, we would essentially all die of accidents, and what the graph of age vs number of people alive would look like.  He may have found it less interesting than I.  He stuck with me though.

The reverent vibe that we had previously sensed in among the redwoods was definitely present here among the sequoias as well, though there are significant differences between the biomes – redwoods are low in elevation, sequoias are high, and redwood forests felt more lush and dense, whereas the sequoias seem to be more or less the only vegetation within their groves.

It proved an ideal place to sit and answer Junior Ranger questions.

We rounded the General Sherman tree at the last bit of our hike; it’s the largest (by volume) living single stem tree on Earth, and looks it.

Tree hike complete, we braved the curvy road again, but opted to stop at Moro Rock just before sunset.  Moro Rock sits like a sentinel at the top of the Kaweah River canyon and commands stunning 360 degree views.  Great place for a sunset.  Unfortunately that translates to crowds, which don’t mix well with precarious trails that cling to steep rocks.  On top of that, these crowds were speaking very little English and seemed to have different ideas than we did about what constitutes personal space, making the whole endeavor a little dicey.

Keeper was not amused – first Angel’s Landing and then this?  “You do know I’m not kidding about the acrophobia thing right??” Sorry man…

The views though!

Having decided not to make the drive up the mountain again the following day, we spent it relaxing in the campground, followed by a short drive down to Slick Rock Recreation Area, at the eastern/upstream side of Lake Kaweah, where the river empties into the reservoir over a series of smooth rocks.  With the lake level quite low, there were quite a few rocks on which to play, though visiting just before Thanksgiving was a mixed blessing – no crowds, but no crowds because the air and that water is cold!  Fortunately our kids, especially Keeper, don’t mind cold water.  Check him out being the great big brother and carrying his sisters out to the middle of the river…

Later he opted for some full immersion swimming on the condition that I videoed him doing so.  “Pics or it didn’t happen” indeed.

One of the more interesting occurrences on that day was meeting, for the first time this trip, another family doing more or less the same thing as we were.  (!!)  Leave it to Firebolt to make the introduction.  She still sees herself as “shy,” but will find and introduce herself to just about any kid her age and will be playing as if they’ve been friends for years within 15 minutes.  I don’t think she realizes what “shy” means.

The family hailed from North Carolina, and had settled for the winter right there at Slick Rock Recreation Area as “camp hosts.”  This is an amazingly good deal which I wish we had previously researched and considered.  Essentially you stay for free at the nicest spot in the camp (and may even get a small stipend?) in exchange for minimal duties.  For them it was collecting the fee envelopes from the box each day and ensuring things were reasonably clean and that people weren’t doing prohibited things.  Not taxing during the very slow winter season.  What was interesting about this particular gig was that Slick Rock wasn’t even a campground… in fact theirs was the only site, and was well-appointed.  So essentially they had the entire park to themselves, and they told us about how they had dialed themselves in with the Three Rivers community, and had been brought into the town’s fold immediately.

While this was no longer any sort of option for us, I did note it for future reference, and scold myself slightly for not researching such options prior to our trip.  They seemed to be a fun family; I wish we could’ve hung around a bit more, but alas, the sun was setting and we were leaving the following morning, so we said our goodbyes.  The following day would bring a drive up to Grass Valley in the northern Sierra foothills to park in my sister’s in-laws’ driveway in preparation for a full on extended family Thanksgiving, which was something we had been able to do last year (minus the motorhome) and were greatly looking forward to.

We set our park-Davista-and-return-to-Maryland day as December 7^th (a day that will live in infamy).  We’ve got strongly mixed feelings about bringing this period of travel to a close.  The sense of not wanting to stop is deepening.  We still don’t have a destination, but the itinerant lifestyle, or at least this version of it, has become very easy and almost natural.  Breaking that rhythm doesn’t feel like the right thing to do, yet we haven’t come up with a viable alternative.

In the meantime some Big Family time will do us good.

I now celebrate every opportunity to head into the forest and get my tree Zen on, yet this was not always so.  Spending most of my childhood years in the Chicago area, I only had true tastes of nature’s glory while attending Camp Windego, a Girls Scout Camp in Wild Rose, Wisconsin, which I attended for at least a month most summers. As I got older, I traded in these blissful summer weeks learning to horseback ride, canoe, swim, and sail for a solid training regimen in the pool and in the dance studio growing as a diver and a Highland dancer.  During my training at the United States Naval Academy I was reintroduced to sailing and even taught this basic seamanship skill after I graduated while waiting to go to flight school.  Yet in early adulthood, aside from this limited time on the water and a brief foray into the holly-laden bramble of Quantico, Virginia, when I learned decidedly that the Marine Corps was not my best career path, I hadn’t spent much time in nature.

When Uncle Sam moved me to Whidbey Island in Washington State in my early 20s, I surprised myself by discovering that I was far more a country mouse than a city one.  While surrounded by so much natural glory, it is nearly impossible to be otherwise.  Sure, there were plenty of Navy folks who bemoaned the distance to the nearest shopping complex and yearned for easy access to strip malls, but I delighted in having just what was needed and nothing extraneous.  In fact, that suited me just fine.

It was during my JO (junior officer) tour with Patrol Squadron Forty (VP-40) that I was introduced to Washington Park.  Even if it hadn’t been Flight who introduced us, I would have immediately fallen in love with this sacred space.  Stretching out into the Puget Sound on the farthest northwest reaching corner of Fidalgo Island, this spectacular 220 acres is riddled with incredible hiking/mountain biking trails boasting insane views of the Olympic mountains, the San Juan Islands, and the Cascade Mountains around every corner.

For the less adventurous, there is a loop trail open to cars that will take you to some beautiful sites with perhaps the most photographed tree in the San Juan Islands (see the pic I snapped of Firebolt in our mother-daughter trip back to Anacortes last June), but so much is lost by not journeying on foot (or bike).

Perhaps my favorite piece of town history is that a fair chunk of Washington Park was paid for by the women of this community who raised money by selling $1000 worth of lemon pies in 1922.  As all Anacortes women were called upon to bake pies, all Anacortes men were encouraged to purchase a pie at $1, $2, or $3 each, depending on what one could afford with all proceeds going towards this $1000 goal.  This article from the local paper shares the big push for pie sales as well as providing two recipes for lemon pie.

When Washington Park and I were first getting to know each other, I began to understand that there is something magical about a gathering of trees, and, the taller the trees, the more seemingly majestic their congregation.  Commanding all and yet expecting nothing, such collections of trees have inspired me to wonder what they must have seen in their lifetimes beyond lemon pie sales.  Fast forward to our visit with the Redwoods earlier this fall where I was blown away by their awe-inspiring height and calming energy of these soaring cathedral-like beings.

Meeting the Redwoods reminded me of something out of Inner Bridges written by Dr. Fritz Smith.  A little background… Fritz is an osteopath who is also licensed as an MD and studied with both Ida Rolf (founder of Rolfing Structural Integration) and J.R. Worsley who brought 5-Element Acupuncture to the West.  A profound healer who immersed himself in studying many avenues to tap into the body’s resources to self-heal, his book focuses on the integration of these traditions and the extrapolation of which evolved into Zero Balancing, his own style of bodywork that systemically reorganizes. I had the good fortune to attend initial Zero Balancing training with Fritz in 2015, who, then at the at of 86, easily lectured all four days and performed manipulations and treatments.  Just being in his Zen presence was incredibly calming, not unlike the energetically soothing effects of trees that he describes in Inner Bridges.

Trees, because of their tall vertical structure, serve to streamline and regulate energetic fields.  So, when maybe you feel like this… (I refer to this as the swirling vortex of ick and found the below image online to illustrate it…)

… it’s incredibly helpful to bask in the mollifying majesty of these giants.  I wholeheartedly felt such reverence and calming amidst the Redwoods, yet was less so pacified by the Sequoias.  Perhaps I am in a more melancholy space recognizing that we were nearing an undefined pause in our journey with plans to return to Maryland to overwinter, yet I was less inspired by these behemoths than their cousins to the north.  The Sequoias were impressive, don’t get me wrong – how could they not be as the girthiest of the bunch, the General Sherman Tree, wears the crown for the largest living being on our planet (that we know of, I’m sure there are some larger ocean-dwellers that I’m fairly certain I don’t want to meet…) – yet, I just wasn’t as moved.  Regardless of my psycho-emotional response, this particular panorama captures the enormity of these beings…

It also happens to be where our children may or may not have been frolicking off the path and chasing each other clumsily weaving in between the sleeping giants along the Congress Trail.  Always a speedster, Keeper was tearing after his sisters when he caught a root and brutally rolled his ankle.  So brutally, in fact, that he had dirt on the top of his foot where the cuboid and lateral cuniform bones meet.  If you haven’t studied foot anatomy, basically the top of his foot was kissing the ground.  He stood up to assess the battle damage and discovered he wasn’t able to put weight on that foot.  After momentarily considering (and dismissing) aborting our hike, I encouraged Keeper to sit down and, with his permission, went to work on his ankle.  Fortunately, I had heard my angel whisper that today’s “go bag” should include some of my sprain and bruise liniment, which works wonders in healing soft tissue damage.  Between the application of the liniment and doing some sinew channel acupressure work, Keeper was able to walk, gingerly at first and then painlessly, and even climb about on some downed soldiers.

Meanwhile, his sisters worked to find the most interesting (sometimes precarious) places to work on their Junior Ranger badges.

While watching Keeper cautiously take his ankle for a test drive, I surprised myself by tearing up, overwhelmed by the simple joy of catalyzing healing in another.  I turned to Flight and choked out, “I really miss being a healer…”

Making a note to dig into missing that aspect of my essence when I might carve out appropriate time to do so, I took a deep breath and redirected my thoughts to savoring the park’s highlights.  My favorite collection of sequoia was the Senate Cluster where I could only imagine the debates that have spanned millennia.

The runner up was the grove I captured in Flight’s sunglasses…

As we made our way back to the car, we saw several downed trees that looked as though their skirts had been unceremoniously flipped over their heads as they tumbled and their altogether was on display.

Our crew managed one last proper photo before we made for Moro Rock.

Encouraged by Keeper’s ease with regaining his stride, we opted to explore another of the park’s famous treks, overlooking his (and my) dislike of heights.  Although it is only a ¼ mile amble from the parking lot to summit this granite dome, much of the path is flanked by steep drop offs, reminiscent of our incomplete visit to Angels Landing.  Here’s a picture I found on the National Park Service site to illustrate the summit.

What is not pictured here, and also why I didn’t try to capture this perspective, were the eleventy billion foreign tourists who had no qualms about pushing by others and crowding into personal space.  Keeper and I both need to work to battle our respective bouts of acrophobia in such places and the pressing throng of enthusiastic sight-seekers made that more challenging.  I became distracted mesmerized by the landscape’s shifting colors as the sun set, yet Keeper remained thoroughly nonplussed.

After getting some great shots of the family at the summit, I remained at the top snapping pictures as the sun dropped lower.   Looking West it just got more beautiful by the moment…

And the view to the East wasn’t so bad either…

Flight, ever clued into our flight’s (dis)comfort level, ushered Keeper and his sisters back down to the car while I remained transfixed by the sunset.  After one last shot, I too descended, my thoughts again relishing today’s opportunity to flex my healing skills and giving thanks for the resiliency of Keeper’s youthful joints…