the By and By

Cowboy Central, Elko, NV

It’s true I drove across the country (solo) this past summer leaving my beloved lifestyle and home in northern California to the more restrained wilds of upstate New York. The move has been a long time coming and for like so many of we fire and climate refugees, it was the fires that pushed me to the brink of trauma and stress. Having evacuated four years in a row, the last one being the worst- you may have heard of the LNU Lightning Complex, Wallbridge Fire, whereby dry lighting touched down on our already scorched earth and quietly began to smolder deep into the redwood forest, just down the street from my home. During the height of COVID in 2020, I was evacuated for five weeks. Life became a series of manically checking CalFire apps, air quality apps, wind apps, weather apps, local officials FB pages and local news apps. The fullness of time is never more apparent than when one is waiting for a disaster to pass, huddled inside somewhere hopefully with friends, around an air purifier and if one is lucky, a pet. And although leaving the Golden State is never easy, the stress of experiencing red flag days, high winds, drought, and friends who lost absolutely everything, me being the more fortunate one returning to a home, I was done tempting fate. In the summer of 2021, I packed it up and out of respect for my time in California I decided to say my good-byes by driving, praying I would make it out of Cali before another fire season commenced.

“What? You are driving alone?” concerned friends would blankly stare at me and ask. “Uh-huh, it will be a great experience for me,” was always my reply. 

And it was, but not without a fair share of challenges. I outdrove the fire that was brewing on the border of Tahoe and Reno in 100 plus degree heat, which was frightening AF. Friends on the phone tracked it for me and when I thankfully made it to somewhere in Nevada my first night on the road, I remember thinking, I won’t be free from fire until I reach Kansas City. 

If driving out of California with its drought-soaked terrain looked like Mars, the next day of driving through Nevada was like driving on the moon. I, of course, decided I loved it. Wide open highways seeing no one for miles and no one to care if you were driving 95mph. The truckers in these parts appeared courteous slowing down for you to pass them and not tailing you when it was their turn to pass you. I was in no way prepared for the oncoming exit sign, that most likely would have been blocked from my view if the truckers would not have kindly allowed me to pass them at this exact moment -- I would have missed the exit. Fate has its own way of directing travelers and without hesitation, I exited the highway in search of where the exit sign was directing me too, the Ruby Mountains. 

Within in minutes I was in the old cowboy town Elko, Nevada and to the left of Elko were the impressive (11.000 plus feet high) Ruby Mountains. And wouldn’t you know it as I was pulling into the Ruby Mountain Museum, Chris Stapleton’s Broken Halo turned up on my playlist. So, this is how this journey is going to be I thought as I sat in my car listening, tears streaming down the side of my face.  Of course, I could not leave California without paying homage to my lost daughter Ruby, named for this resplendent mountain range. Being female, Ruby changed her mind and decided not to come into this life during my eight month of pregnancy. I was weeks away from my due date, but she wasn’t having it. I delivered her stillbirth in what was the most disturbing event of my life. Her father loved taking road trips to Nevada, exploring the wide-open, wild territory and mountain ranges. One morning camping (yes, I went camping with him, I know) at the base of the Ruby Mountains I woke up just before sunrise to take a pee and the mountains were a wondrous site, drenched in the flesh tone colors of ruby and pink. I knew then if I ever had a daughter, her name would be Ruby. Come to find out after all these years of believing the Ruby Mountains were named for the color the sunrise shined upon them, I discovered as I toured the museum that day, I was wrong. They were named the Ruby Mountains, for settlers believed the garnets they mined were sought after rubies . . .  my wedding gift from my former husband was an antique garnet necklace with matching earrings. I left Elko some part of me feeling more at ease -- complete about leaving California and my daughter’s ashes with her dad.

From there the vistas in Nevada were just the beginning of what I was about to experience in the realm of breathtaking. There was one in particular, where it looked as if the whole state of Nevada was spilled on a plate in front of me. For whatever reason I didn’t pull over and take a photo I guess I only wanted this one for me. Marked in my memory, like the Ruby Mountains, as an all-time stunner, and I’ve seen my share of stunners. 

I did have a group of 8 or 9 friends and family that I continually shared my location with. Girlfriends insisted I text them when I was safe at the days’ end destination. The shared location group made the journey all that much worth the while. The two weeks I took to drive we became like a little family. My son claiming not to be worried about MomZ called me everyday (heaven). In other words, I had quite a bit of attention, not that there were times when sadness and the nerve-racking uncertainty hit me hard, but for the most part everyone made me feel like a bad ass. Driving across country was something none of them would ever do . . . alone. 

Which I began to understand when I entered the salt flats of Utah. I would not suggest anyone drive through the salt flats on their own. It was dizzying, driving through blinding white landscapes that did not feel as if they belonged on the planet that I knew. A good part of the drive was through a very intense thunderstorm. If I wasn’t so enamored with smelling and seeing the glory of rain, I’m not sure what would have happened. I do remember this was the point on the trip where I decided, I could always have my car shipped and fly if need be. No pressure, and with this thought, I was soon free of the flats and looking at green mountains.

There was a near miss as I weaved my way through 5:00PM traffic in Salt Lake City. If any of you have read my blogs from years ago you know how familiar I am with Utah, so maybe I relaxed a little too much. A driver came out of nowhere and by the hair of my chinny chin chin missed me changing lanes. They must have been driving well over the speed of rush hour traffic. Stop and go with Silver Alerts every other mile. What in the world is a Silver Alert? Never had I ever seen one in California, but then again Californians don’t discuss age much.

Making my way to Provo for a relaxing reprieve after packing, movers, and the emotion of saying good-byes I was rolling on a busy four lane highway through big mountains, when GPS said turn left in 350 feet. Damn, if I was going to miss that turn. And damn did I miss my BMW, but by the grace of the SUV gods, I made the turn and as the sun was setting wandered my way up the mountain to green landscapes, creeks filled with water to my cabin at Sundance. Woo-Hoo! There I stayed, slept, drank rose by the creek listening to the celebrated sound of water, read books, and wrote in my journal to my heart’s content for three nights. 

I could have stayed in that cozy cabin for weeks, but the drive and friendship ahead of me was edging me on. By the end of this day’s ride, I would be ecstatic and exhausted in the same breath, I was driving through the Rockies and the road into my destination was for the most part was closed. Detours for solo drivers are not the most welcomed and even though I had my trusty road map atlas in the back seat, I didn’t care for it much when there was no cell coverage, and the GPS was iffy. As a mantra true to my heart says, the only way through is through, I agreed, grabbed a chai latte at the last Starbucks I would see in a while, and spoke with my host who said, ‘it will be fine, it’s the route people take from Aspen…”.

I cranked my music, chanted bon courage, and followed the directions to Kebler Pass, a 31 mile, some paved, mostly gravel road climbing 10,000 feet plus high to the top then descending down into the charming town of Crested Butte, Colorado. This is one of the most beautiful, as well as, one of the most potentially dangerous drives . . .  do not be fooled by the 31-mile distance as I believe it took me about 2 hours to get to over the pass. There are no guard rails so if alone I would say it’s probably best not to look down. I don’t think I went over 24mph. It seems like I’d driven at least 10 miles, only to find when I glanced at my mileage it was more like 2, yes really. Gritty, switch back mountain turns on a dirt road and I was the only one out there. It was when what I imagine was the summit or I felt I was at my halfway point that I began to see campers and outdoorsy types. Spectacular it was, the aspens, the vistas, the mountains reaching for God, all staring back at you while you meandered and sang along to your amusing playlists. Junior Brown’s Surf Melody came on as I drove through a flat area of aspens, so naturally I hung out my car window videotaping as the music propelled me along through the grove.

When the sun began to set, thankfully I was coming down from the summit. I saw a paved road; I was almost there!  My dearest friend met me on the other side of town and guided me to her cabin back up to 10,000ft. Minutes after arriving, I took two hits of O2 and 2 shots of Casa Amigos Blanco (our fav tequila) to calm my shaky body. This was one helluva long days drive, but well worth it for the splendor of the mountains laid before me in one of the most welcoming cabins I could ever dream up. My next few days were complete bliss. The beauty and deep enduring friendship that surrounded me was mind blowing, plus, there were thunderstorms. We both took naps on the porch listening to the rain and waiting for thunder. Back in Cali, it’d been a long time since I could linger and listen to rain like that.

I followed the Cottonwood Pass out of Colorado, more dirt road, but not as long or through steep mountains as the Kebler Pass. Lucky me, I was halted by cattle crossing surrounded by eye candy cowboys, if I had one regret, it’s that I didn’t pull over when one began talking to me and ask if I could ride around with him for a bit. Dreams live big in the west. 

I stayed somewhere between Crested Butte and Kansas City, Missouri. Pinch me, I thought I am heading east, nearly out from the danger of fire. Mountains became hills and every now and again between the endless fields of corn and wheat there were signs for antique shopping malls. When I do have a home again, I’ll be looking forward to going back to Kansas for some antique shopping one day, but at the moment, I had no room in my car, let alone any forwarding address. 

I rolled into a grand hotel in KC, nearly empty due to COVID, but most of us were doubled vaxxed by now which offered a bit of hope, but not freedom to abandon our precautions. Another dear friend picked me up and off we went to a fabulous dinner. Who knew KC was jam-packed with marvelous art, everywhere and fabulous restaurants? I didn’t. If I have overused the word fabulous here, that is because it’s what me and my KC friend do, we say fabulous all time to each other. Yes gurl, it was fabulous!

The next day was a cultural wonder, complete with a standing room only BBQ restaurant that upped the ante for Memphis BBQ. Memories made. I was off rolling through Missouri. I listened to Christian radio pastors threatening Hollywood, liberals and I believe they even said something about coffee. I heard a lot of lies on these radio stations. Coming from California, sure there are right wing Christian zealots, but doubtful they hung out in wine country, let alone deceive and fabricate the airwaves like this. The more I listened the faster I drove. I didn’t want to stop and even pee in Missouri (no Starbucks there). I waited until I crossed the line to Indiana. Not much better, but I thought it would be. 

I didn’t want to pee in the gas station where I filled up my California licensed plated hybrid, No thank you. I found a grocery store and peed there. I tried to find something to eat from the deli, but there was more mayo in the tuna or potato salad than tuna or potato.

Tired and hungry I found a Hampton Inn outside of Indianapolis and took out a packet of GF oatmeal for my dinner. I will say the Holiday Inn Express hotels were my choice for overnight stays when I was not in a big city or with friends. Starbucks was my go-to for bathrooms, chai lattes and praise the lord they usually had some prepacked hummus with carrots. That’s always been my challenge having lived in northern Cali for 3o years is the food. Farm or fork to table I could be eating in a Michelin starred restaurant in NYC and the flavors and the vibe of the food doesn’t compare to what we eat in California. One reason why I choose to perhaps relocate in upstate New York, is that they have a healthy respect for small, local farms and artisan foods. 

The next day I drove until I reached my sister’s home in Canfield, Ohio. I was tired. By my calculations I had driven 2, 641 miles. I rested there for two weeks waiting for the moving truck to put what I salvaged from my California life in storage. Since I was not sure where I would land, I figured having a storage near my sister’s was a good idea. Summertime in Midwest, homemade ice cream, custard, and swimming pools. Free from fire each night I would send prayers to my friends who were not. 

As promised the moving truck arrived pretty much to the day, they predicted which was no easy feat during COVID and the fire refugee exodus from California. August became September and I drove to the Hudson River Valley. Many a dear friend from California was now nearby. Like me they are considering moving to these parts and although this isn’t Cali we are hopeful we can make a new life here and contribute to new communities in all the ways we know we can, but we agreed --  let’s get through a winter first.

Stay True,

M