Holly Brunelle – Page 7 – Adventures of a Dharma Hobo

Week 4a: Vegas, Baby!

After a late lunch I was back on the road, headed east for a Saturday night in Vegas. Word was the traffic on I-15 was stop and go most of the time on the weekends, so my plan was to RON (remain overnight) near Barstow and drive in Saturday morning. Some friends had seen some great wildflowers along Shell Creek road a few days before, so I modified my route slightly to the north so I could take a look. This area, east of Santa Margarita and just north of the Los Padres National Forest, experiences frequent wildfires. Most of them are small, hundreds of acres, but the terrain is rugged, rolling coastal hills compressed and twisted by shifting tectonic plates which makes fires in the area difficult to fight. The road, one lane each way with occasional ripples from the fault, was closed in 2012 during the Calf Fire, which burned for three days and forced mandatory evacuation of residents, their pets and livestock (The county has designated horse evacuation shelters. Our high schools also have rodeo teams.) and took 35 crews, three helicopters, 73 engines and one bulldozer to contain. Despite the spring grass and foliage, fire damage was still evident along the the way.

I had neglected to check the location of Shell Creek on a map before I left. After about twenty miles, I had resigned myself to the thought that I had missed the tail end of the wildflower season. Then after a series of hills with the bare earth, DSCN1989

blackened tree trunks and charred fenceposts evidence of an earlier fire, I turned the corner to a valley blanketed with white and amber flowers. I stopped at a turnout (there were many, I was clearly not the first) and began to snap photos. As I walked along the barbed wire fence I suddenly realized why I look down on trail: I caught myself checking the ground under my girly shoes for rattlesnakes before each step.

Ten miles later I encountered another pleasant surprise. One of the requirements for an Instrument Flight rating is fifty hours of cross-country time. The FAA defines a cross-country as flight to an airport at least fifty miles from your point of departure. I did my initial flight training at Santa Maria Airport (KSMX), one of six youngsters of similar age at the same flight school. One frequent cross-country location was California Valley. On weekends we would rent every aircraft we could get our hands on and fly out together, a gaggle of single-engine aircraft, land on a rancher’s airstrip and walk down the road to the cafe for a burger and curly fries. (This is referred to as a ‘$100 hamburger’.) Halfway across Carrizo Plain I passed a green sign pointing down a side road: California Valley 1 mile. I could not resist the turn.

The cafe is closed now, and the small motel across the street is now private lodging for men working at the nearby solar farms. The gas station was closed too, at least the pumps, with the gravel lot filled with vintage muscle cars in various stages of reconstruction. The rancher’s hanger was gone, but the runway is still there, now clumpy green grass with a well-maintained windsock (photo). Next door is a new Cal Fire station, with a bay housing two engines attached to offices and living quarters. On the other end of a well-tended picnic area was the new Community Center (new since I had been there in the late 80s) consisting of a meeting hall and a one-room library. I went inside and got to talking with the librarian. She had been the waitress at the cafe and remembered us well.

The drive in to Vegas was smooth. I lived in Vegas on and off for ten years. It was my first duty station, and I stayed on after I got out. The Strip is fine, it is fun to have a place to go play when you feel like it or when friends come to town, but for me the best part was the hiking. Las Vegas was originally a First Nations settlement, at a desert oasis. In the 1800s they were joined by Spanish explorers (Las Vegas translates to ‘the meadows’); later came cattle rustlers, Mormon missionaries, and, as transcontinental rail expanded, railwaymen. Construction of the Boulder Dam (now Hoover Dam) began in 1930, part of the huge publics works initiatives designed to help the nation recover from the Depression. Casinos and showgirl revues soon followed. While Strip and downtown proper have experienced tremendous growth over the years, the surrounding desert is for the most part undeveloped. The trails outside of town are fabulous, with stunning views from the mountains and petroglyphs along the walls of the canyons. I arrived at lunchtime, dropped my bags at the hotel and headed out for a harrier trail.

I had run with this particular group for about five years in the late 1990s. They are an adventuresome bunch, and the runs had been fantastic. Often they are set in the desert edges of town, but they can also explore unique features of the urban environment. Today would be one of the latter. It was a birthday trail, to honor one gentleman’s 68th. We met at a bar next to a motel on the south side of town. When I lived here, this particular area was relatively isolated, home to a small locals casino away from the bustle of the city. I was amazed to find it was now nestled among other casinos and hotels (but the other side of the highway), and that the Strip now extended several miles further south from here. After ‘how ya beens’ (there were five or so runners I knew from before) a pack of about thirty set off on trail. The birthday boy has a certain claim to fame: in the early 2000s he went down to the City Planners office, purchased the (then printed) GIS maps, and had set a course that wound in and out of the water runoff channels under the Strip. This trail was a tribute, we were in and out of the tunnels adjacent to and under I-15, with the one long stretch of pavement along Las Vegas Boulevard. This seems to have become a tradition; it was clear that during scouting the organizer had coordinated with the citizens living in the tunnels (we were given a safe word, the names of the residents and their dogs, and encouraged to tread lightly). After trail we sang songs and toasted each others’ bravery and foolishness. As before, there were kilts.

This was the last of my scheduled stops. I had three days to fill before I was to arrive in Santa Fe, and the desert southwest before me. Decisions, decisions!

Week 4: California

There is something about being in your hometown after you’ve been away for a while. The bones are the same, but you can tell things have changed. There are shopping centers where ponies used to graze, new businesses in the buildings that you do remember, homes have been renovated, open spaces cultivated as parks. The thing that always gets me is new traffic lights. I cannot tell you how many times I have stopped at an intersection that was previously a stop sign, looked all directions, then driven through the red. This trip the traffic was too heavy for that to happen.

I grew up in a small town on California’s Central Coast. During my childhood it was quiet, a summer tourist town surrounded by grazing cattle. For years, our big claim to fame was that Daffy and Donald Duck took a wrong turn in Albuquerque, ended up on the beach, and found a diamond in a clam. (When I would tell people the name their response was often ‘I didn’t know that was a real place!’) Sometime during the eighties it became a haven for folks escaping LA. While the new food and wine culture is fabulous, sprawl has crowded out the small town feel. Despite this it was nice to be home.

I spent the first couple days with my dad. He spent his career in the math department of the local university. For most of this time, he and his colleagues would meet at lunchtime for walks. It is fun to walk with and listen to them, a group of physics, maths and chemistry PhDs musing about the topic of the day. I can barely keep up, both physically and conversationally. My dad was a bit under the weather during this visit, so our first walk was shorter than normal, to the campus Arboretum, which highlights plants native to Mediterranean climates such as Australia, South Africa and Chile. I was surprised how many plants we had in the yard growing up are native to Australia. I also got a great snap of my dad next to a ‘baby’ redwood.

After walks we have lunch and my dad naps. During one of my dad’s naps, my stepmother told me an amazing story. Her Japanese grandfather was the son of one of the Emperor’s advisors. He came to the United States for the Worlds Fair, and stayed in New York to study at Columbia after it was over. Her grandmother was an acrobat, so talented that she was invited to perform in Will Rogers’ vaudeville tour in the States. Her grandfather was hired to be her translator on the tour. They fell in love, married, and after years on the road, settled in upstate New York. During World War II they and their children evaded the interment camps, but her grandfather worked for a defense contractor and lost his job. He was able to get another, but when they got a contract to support the war effort, he was let go again. This happened several times, until by the end of the war he was washing cars to support his family. My stepmother’s father was the third of their five children.

The next two days I spent with my mom. On the first we want for a walk on the beach, had foot massages and a nice lunch. On the second we drove up to Piedras Blancas, near Hearst Castle. Hearst Castle is a large mansion commissioned by the newspaperman William Randolph Hearst. It is nestled atop a hill in the Santa Lucias, just south of Big Sur, and on clear days is visible from the PCH. It was also the model for the mansion in the movie Citizen Kane. At one time a zoo had been maintained on the property. I had forgotten that after Hearst’s death, some of these animals were left to roam the surrounding hills. Most open space in this area is ranch land, and you get used to seeing cattle and horses grazing in the fields. Imagine my surprise when I came around a corner to see these ‘funny looking cows’ roaming the hillside.

When I was growing up Piedras Blancas was considered to have some of the best surfing around. The one drawback was that in the spring (when the waves are best) it was a Great White Shark nesting area. With the decline in shark populations it is now a popular rookery for Elephant Seals. This time of year they visit to molt. It was early in the season; within a month or so there will be thousands. Recently there have even been a few cases when a seal has gotten on the PCH and been hit by a car. (Apparently they can do a good deal of damage.) DSCN1982

It was an impressive sight (my previous experience was the one or two who would surf the waves down at Point Conception) but let me warn you, nothing makes you want to take a nap like watching a beach full of seals bask in the sun.

After five days at the beach it was time to change direction and head east towards New Mexico. Next stop, Vegas!

Week 3a: Mojave

I rolled in to California in late afternoon. The earth just east of the Colorado was dark brown, and stony. Earlier in the day I had seen poppies and lupines at the edge of the road and had been wondering where I was seasonally in relation to the cactus bloom. Just right, it turns out. The hills that bordered the highway were covered (as best as stony ground can be covered) with prickly pear sporting large magenta flowers. I also encountered an unusual phenomena as I drove – this was an area I had flown over many times (as Pilot in Command in the mighty Piper) but this was my first time driving. The miles, as gorgeous as they were seemed to go on and on; what had previously taken less than an hour to cover now took over two.

I reached Barstow at sunset. After a quick stop for petrol I headed west on towards Mojave. It was a thin, two-lane highway that crosses the desert, linking Barstow and the lower Sierras with the coast. This stretch of road passes between Edwards AFB and China Lake NAS, two major test facilities. Above is a ten-mile path of airspace between the ranges, one of the few available aviation routes through the test ranges to the LA Basin and California coast. I had driven over 700 miles at this point, and was starting to droop. The sun set, and NPR switched to classical, then was gone. I fished around the center console for something to listen to and discovered the only CD I had with me was Rage Against the Machine. Perfect! Or so I thought, until I came around a turn after the crossroads with CA395. My brain was numb, and it was dark, the kind of night you can only get in the moonless desert. Suddenly, an array of red lights sprung before me, then went dark. A few seconds later this repeated, and again, and again. In the back of my mind I suspected it was position lights from the wind farms but, to be honest, with all the experimental aircraft ops in the area my first thought was ‘It’s the landing lights for the mother ship!’ I will leave you to your own conclusions.

In the morning I set out from Tehachapi. My first stop of the day was the Tehachapi Loop. For those of you who are not train aficionados, the main east-west rail line out of Los Angeles passes through this area. The elevation change is so steep, the track curves and loops to maintain a two percent grade. I was not the only one who made the trek, there DSCN1903

were six of us, a couple from Germany on a motorcycle, another couple who had driven up from San Diego, a local in a week-kept ranch truck and me. After about five minutes we heard the train whistle, and a minute or so later an engine appeared from around a corner from the east (up-grade side). It was just long enough that then engine passed the last cars on the loop.

Once back on the road, I turned on to a shortcut that would bypass Bakersfield. This is another of my favorite drives. The road winds along the foothills of the Sierras, and, after one turn, the lower Central Valley is laid out before you. Today I had another fortunate surprise – the wildflowers were in bloom! And when I say in bloom, entire swaths of the hills were gold, white or lavender. I stopped at the new Bakersfield National Cemetery to take a few snaps; the German couple from Tehachapi, a Japanese couple in a white Mercedes and I all had the same idea and leapfrogged through the cemetery and down the road, stopping every mile or so for more photos.

California is well below normal for rain and snowfall. Once down in the valley, it was easy to see the effects of the drought. Most farmers had signs (at the edge of their almond and citrus orchards) lamenting the high cost of water and the effects rationing was having on their operations. I wasn’t quite sure how to take this. Most people think that California is a desert. In many areas this is true, but the San Joaquin Valley is not one of them. Two hundred years ago, the area I was driving through had been the largest freshwater lake west of the Great Lakes. During the late 1800s, it was the main source of freshwater fish and western pond turtles (used in terrapin soup) to the San Fransisco Bay area. It was a lake as recently as World War II, when it was used as an alternate airport for Naval seaplanes when conditions on San Fransisco Bay did not permit safe landing. But after a flood in the mid fifties the headwaters were dammed, canals built to channel the water for agricultural use and the aquifer slowly drained as farmers planted based on the market and not what the area could support. The irony is the anglo families that settled and took up farming here moved west to flee the Dust Bowl in Oklahoma.

Another two hours driving, across the San Andreas Fault and through the Cuyama and Guadalupe valleys there it was, the Pacific Ocean and my hometown. More on that next post.

If you like train stories, here is one you may enjoy: http://howweroll.trimet.org/2014/03/17/my-quest-to-ride-every-single-max-car/.

Week 3: Westward Ho!

After a fabulous week in Florida, it was time to head west. If it has not come up before, I love driving. There is something about being on the open road, watching the landscape go by that clears my mind in a way few things can. I am amazed by the diversity of these Untied States, both the landscape and the people, and long drives are an excellent opportunity to explore. During most road trips there comes a time when I think I should just get my CDL so I can have someone pay me to do this, and this was no exception. And on this leg I was starting from the Florida panhandle (instead of along the east coast as I did during grad school) and would be able to see landscapes during daylight that I had previously passed through after dark.

The first day turned out to be the most recent day I’ve seen precip – driving into a cold front I encountered bands of fierce rain every hundred miles or so. The first was along the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge (18 continuous miles over bayou), just before I encountered near stop and go traffic. After several miles (and twenty minutes) a tow truck passed on the eastbound lanes, ferrying a semi cab that was nearly folded top to bottom. The doors had not been cut open, a good sign that (along with the fact it was being towed) suggested the driver was OK. Once traffic got moving again it was green fields peppered with horse and cattle until the oil refineries along the border with Texas. The last rain was just after Beaumont.

It is amazing what a few hundred feet of elevation will do. Once in Texas, the land opened up in to low rolling hills, mostly dry, and the towns became further apart. As the sun began to set I was in cattle country west of Houston, and stopped at a lone gas station along the highway. I shared the lot and pumps with ranch trucks of varying vintages, and the south Asian woman behind the counter slipped easily between English and Spanish. As the sun drifted below the horizon, a warm, dry breeze kicked up dust from the gravel and earth parking lot.

One of the most touching things I’ve encountered during this journey is the deep love Kevin’s friends still have for him. This night’s stay was in San Antonio, with a friend Kevin was stationed with at Maelstrom AFB (before he cross-trained to Flight Engineer). Barstow* and Kevin had both been truck enthusiasts, the sort that lowered and tricked out theirs with custom paint, interiors, and rims, and drove hours (and in at least one case days) to display them at shows. Despite intermittent contact over the years, there would be no hotel for me this night, I was staying at his place, no arguments, I was family. And it was nice – Barstow has done well for himself and his family, his oldest in college and he and his youngest living in a large well-appointed home in the ‘booshe’ (short for bourgeois?) part of town. And his vehicle did not disappoint, an Infiniti SUV with immaculate paint and interior, at normal height but with ’street’ rims and thinner tires. It was great to catch up and also provide moral support while he and his son changed the water heater.

The next morning (late morning) I was on the road again, through the white hills, steep arroyos, and open scrub of west Texas. Here I encountered one of my favorite road signs: Speed Limit 80. (Woo Hoo!) If you have never driven in this area, despite the quicker passing of the miles it can be a bit lonely. The towns are seventy or so miles apart, and you consistently see blue placards at the bottom of exit signs advising the distance to next services. For most of the drive up and down hills to Fort Stockton it was a few semis, an SUV from Ontario, the occasional local, and me. Beginning about thirty miles south of El Paso, the highway parallels the border, and in many cases you can see across the Rio Grande (or over the wall) to foreign soil. Here the only reported traffic congestion was at the bridges.

I left Las Cruces early, before the sun rose. After a few miles, I encountered a Border Inspection point. My SUV was filled to window height with books, yarn and clothes, all covered with blankets, but a quick show of my military ID had me waved through without any questions. (As one of my friends later put it when I expressed my surprise, I could have had fifty Oaxacans back there.) This section is one of my favorite highway drives, wide open desert (the Sonora), big skies, DSCN1882 DSCN1887 distant ranges, ground cover, low cactus, and Russian Sage (future tumbleweeds), all a deep green from the winter rains. A rail line parallels the highway, with

long trains at fifteen-minute intervals,
the yellow red and black engines and blue, orange, kelly green and white container cars adding color to the landscape. Each rest area seems to showcase an aspect of the region, one in the middle of a long valley (poppies and cactus blooming orange and magenta), one near a pass cut through sedimentary rock, another in an area of large round red rocks similar to those on the Flintstones, each with a sign reminding you to watch for rattlesnakes. (With water and food scarce in the desert, small animals are drawn to picnic areas and their predators with them.) I turned north at Quartzite to follow a road that wound along the brick, rust and black hills that frame the Colorado and Lake Havasu, the clear blue an odd sight in the arid desert. After ten miles on I-40 I crossed the river in to California and the Pacific Time Zone. Home.

*Names changed because, well, my friends have real lives and are entitled to their privacy.

Week 2: Florida

The trip continues to go well. I woke in Norfolk to snow on the ground. As I drove south along Route 17, through the plains, marshes, and small towns of coastal North and South Carolina, it began to thin, with the last little bit in Williamston. Most towns had a picnic table along the road for passing drivers along the road provided by a church or farmer, something I have not seen in other parts of the country. In Myrtle Beach I was able to visit with a former Sikorsky colleague, a great opportunity to talk politics and catch up; and in Charleston a classmate from grad school, pursuing her RN to enhance her work as a victim (survivor) advocate, who introduced me to the local foodie culture.

In Daytona, my friend Nebraska* opened her arms and home to me. An I/O Psychologist who has done interesting research on coordination within expert teams, she is the amazing woman who got me through my thesis. During this process, we laughed during most of our coaching sessions, and due to our thorough preparation I truly enjoyed my defense. On this trip, I was able to check in with my professors, both Human Factors and Safety, and learn how our paths have evolved. They are all doing fabulous work – studying the effects of weather radar in general aviation aircraft, developing on-line and virtual reality environments for training (gameification), and advancing safety research. In the evenings I was able to catch up with Nebraska, and meet and spend time with her great family.

On Saturday she and I headed to a park in northwest Orlando, where we met up with my friend Crabtree* to run with a local group. Trail started with a river crossing, thankfully in a canoe (my first time but Nebraska is a pro!) then an hour winding through the low scrub. The terrain was a change for me – in Connecticut we run through hilly rock forests; this day it was sand, low pine, palm and oak, and brambles. Trail was followed by merriment (including men in kilts) during which we were awarded the lofty title of ‘Dead Last’ (not a surprise for anyone who has been on trail with me). Nebraska seemed to have a good time, or at least was not unduly offended. On Sunday I was able to sit with my first sangha (meditation group) before heading west to the panhandle.

Marigold* is my sister by another mother that I often describe as ‘the woman my husband would flirt with when they were deployed’. We met when she was the scheduler at the 66th Rescue Squadron, and our lives are forever entwined as a result of the events there (I lost one, she lost twelve). She retired last year and now lives in Florida with her handsome German fireman husband and their three children. I have really enjoyed the opportunity to spend time with my friends’ children as part of their daily routines, for me the path not taken. This stop included a ‘read with parents’ activity at the twins’ primary school (do any of you remember what a homophone is?) and lunch in the cafeteria (just think of the low roar as background jet noise). We also went to the beach, twice with her youngest who got braver with the waves as we went along (I am such a bad influence, good thing Marigold brought three changes of clothes), and once on our own. During our last walk, the sound of the C-130s searching for wreckage droned through the fog.

I continue to investigate the radiant orb in the sky. Out of respect for my CT peeps (who I hear are enduring yet another cold snap) I will hold off on details. I will mention that my skin has taken on a rosy glow not associated with wind.

*Names changed to protect the innocent

Week 1: Arlington National Cemetery

I hope this reaches you and yours happy and healthy. Sorry for the delayed first installment of my adventure – it has been a bit of a whirlwind on this end.

So, after a week (and one 25-hour day) of frantic packing, I am on my way. My first stop was Washington DC, and Arlington National Cemetery, where I ‘visited some friends’. The timing had me there on Sunday the first, the day of the big ice storm. The parking lot at Arlington was surprisingly sparse (despite beginning the day heating and chipping ice off the truck the ice storm part had not yet registered). I had used the online gravesite locator the night before, and had my hand-drawn map in my glove, but I stopped in the Visitors Center on my way in. There was a surprise – an admission schedule on the wall. Adult? Student? Veteran? I stepped up to the window and explained my situation. The lady at the counter was very kind, gave me a graveside visitor pass and directed me to the information desk where the docent added the marker numbers and suggested route to a park service map. They also informed me there are escorts available to drive families and friends to and from the markers, but I had planned to walk and it still felt like the right thing. So off I went, in my pink Asics, clutching my camera under my grey hooded riding cloak. The rain was cold, wet, steady, and I was the only one out, save for the occasional tour bus. The going was treacherous, there was a hard shell of ice on the sidewalks, so I walked in the street, in the salt and slush along Eisenhower to the fourth lane on the left (Section 60), then down the hill to the first marker, for Steve Plumhoff. I met Steve in Korea, he was one of Chewie’s people (she was a Special Ops Squadron Mascot when I met her), an Air Force Academy grad, hard as nails -53 pilot, killed with four others when he lost an engine on departure coming out of Tikrit. It is strange to look for a headstone, in a sea of headstones, in a section with many larger ones honoring groups lost together. And I had not considered the snow, now crusted over with ice. In this area it was undisturbed, with only a pair of footsteps in the snow between the graves and the road. I found a thin spot, gingerly tested the ice (which crumpled under my weight) and I walked along the edge of the rows, looking for a large stone, five stones in, I didn’t see it where I expected to and my heart raced, then there it was. It felt odd, leaving my footsteps in the unbroken blanket of snow as I walked towards it, but sad as well, as it was clear I was the only recent visitor. I felt unprepared, as if I should have brought flowers, or at least a rock to leave on the gravestone. The rain stopped, and I was able to take a photo before moving on.

The rain began again as soon as I was back on the road, walking up the hill, to the second lane, then left. This was in the southern section of Arlington, among rolling hills, in sight of the Air Force Memorial. Most of the graves here are singles, so it was easier to find the larger marker honoring the six men who were killed in the other helicopter on the worst night of my life. The ice in this section was different, most of the snow had melted from under and the ice hovered above the grass, a crust that crunched as I walked diagonal between the graves towards the guys. Here it hit me, looking up the hill at the rows and rows of markers, that each one represented someone who served, and in many cases died for our nation. As I turned and gazed around, the rows went on and on. Such unrecognized treasure, men and women willing to make this commitment, so easy to send to battle but each leaving a family and loved ones behind. I remembered stories of the OEF/OIF families, mothers, parents, children, who would picnic by their loved ones grave during the 2000s, dozens every weekend, and also the one widow who ‘slept with her husband’ for over 120 days in a row (and the honor guard servicemen who volunteered to bring her meals and watch over her at night). So many stories in this hallowed ground. At the marker, photos, again, then I began the mile-ish walk back to my car. Adrenalin spent, my cloth gloves soaked and wool cloak wet, the raw cold added to the visceral feeling of the day. I remembered the number I could call for a ride, but it seemed important to walk, to be fully present and in touch with the earth during this visit. By the time I reached the Visitors Center my hands were numb.

I have since made it to Florida. There is a strange orb in the sky here that radiates warmth. I won’t go in to details quite yet, but be assured this will require further investigation.

All the best!