My (most recent) big move

I assumed the week prior to moving would be hectic. Instead, it progressed fairly smoothly. I assisted with archaeological surveys in the mornings, and in the afternoons I packed. One afternoon I drove to Willcox (the closest big-enough town, 45 minutes away), to ship some boxes of books and clothes to Georgia. By the final night, I was able to relax and play cards with coworkers, a nice send-off from a lovely place.

GRASSLANDS BELOW CHIRICAHUA

I will miss driving to work through a wash-"rugged," right?!

I finished packing in the morning, in complete darkness, wind fiercely blowing. I stopped at Chevron around sunrise, went in for coffee, asked where the air compressor was located. The attendant started a pot of coffee, and he filled my tires with air. I think he was anxious for me, a solitary young woman, driving an overloaded Georgia-licensed car in Arizona.

Hours later, I retrieved my Dad from his hotel in Phoenix. We stopped by the car dealership, where they tightened my windshield wiper and sent us on our way. I was sitting in the passenger seat under some books, a briefcase, and a bag or two, as there was not enough room in the car to pack my Dad's luggage. We located a UPS store and picked out a few boxes to ship to Georgia, making the drive slightly more pleasant.

We were ready to grab lunch and hit the road when traffic stopped. A funeral procession, for a police officer who was killed in the line of duty. An endless line of law enforcement vehicles snaked by. Even in January, heat sank and settled in the car. After boiling in frustration for ten minutes, we pulled into a shopping center and went to a restaurant, to eat, and to wait for the end of the hour-long procession.

The drive itself was uneventful. We drove until midnight, slept at a hotel for five hours, then drove again until midnight, then slept at a hotel for four hours, then drove the remaining five hours to Atlanta. We ate at Cracker Barrel and Wendy's and Steak 'n Shake and McDonald's, and we listened to a lot of podcasts.

In Atlanta, we went to the hospital to see my grandma. I hid tears, startled to see her that way. At my parents' house, I unpacked and repacked my car, and I tried to take a short nap. Within three hours I was back at the hospital  for a goodbye that became final. Four more hours, and I was in south Georgia, eating at IHOP with my sister. Then the fourth and final day of my cross country trek, a nine hour drive through Florida, and I began work at my new job the following morning.

My new street (the waterfront is at the end of the road)

EVERGLADES CITY, FLORIDA

I took a lovely trip home to Georgia, in the brief time gap between my job with CREC in Arizona and my job with Mesa Verde in Colorado. After my Atlanta-to-Phoenix return flight, I had a small "airport dilemma."

This dilemma was fairly minor in the scheme of dilemmas. Nothing like some of my past airport experiences, which include: running to meet a connection on the other side of the airport; arriving for a late layover with a growling stomach, only to find all airport restaurants closed and all vending machines practically empty; and napping at 1 am on the Denver airport floor, resulting in neck and back pains that plagued me for several days.
[So far no cancelled or majorly delayed flights, no missed connections, no emergency landings... knock on wood...]

This dilemma was, in fact, comical. I walked out of a Phoenix Sky Harbor airport terminal. I found the pickup for the economy parking shuttle bus. I assumed I would hop aboard a bus with the same terminal number, bound for that terminal's economy parking lot. Surely that was where I had parked, in aisle D E, a week earlier. A bus arrived. "West Economy Parking." West economy parking? Wait... The driver's look confirmed my idiocy, when I asked how to know if I had parked in the West or the East lot. Because most airport visitors park in the West lot, the driver recommended riding his West Economy shuttle bus. He drove through the entire lot, and nothing looked familiar. Clearly I had parked in the East lot.

The driver probably felt sorry for me. It would take quite a while to get to my car, if I had to ride his bus back to the terminal and wait for the bus to the East parking lot. So when an airport van passed by, the bus driver motioned the van driver to stop. And yes, though slightly anxious, I hopped into a white 15-passenger van with a driver I did not know. Following a somewhat awkward and mostly silent ride, he dropped me off at my car, kindly wished me a good day, and drove away. And so concluded a humorous and educational airport dilemma.

Notes from a week in Flagstaff

• Three grocery store trips in one day
• Dried vomit on the toilet seat at the bowling alley
• Ants! in the bathroom, in my room, in my cabinet (twice), eating my food
• Very first ski attempt (after forcing myself to fall 5 or 6 times, I just walked down the bunny slope...)
• Discovery Hike volunteer assistant, at Wupatki (a pretty neat place, as you can see below...)

WUPATKI PUEBLO

BLACK CINDERS FROM A VOLCANIC ERUPTION

TOP: PAINTED DESERT
MIDDLE: VEGETATION ALONG THE LITTLE COLORADO RIVER
BOTTOM: RED MOENKOPI SANDSTONE TALUS SLOPES

Notes from the Field

MY TENT

First day of work at Petrified Forest National Park (PEFO): Eight mile hike in the badlands. Fence post pounding. Barbed wire tightening. Back at camp, my tent clung to the ground by one staked corner. (The rest of the tent blew upside down in the wind, contents toppled, door hanging open).

I sleep in a Greatland Outdoors tent. Something my dad bought years ago, I think from Target. After six months of intense use, the poles are still functional and the material remains more or less waterproof. 

All is well except for the entrance zipper. It started sticking near the bottom, and since then I have had some fun times trying to escape from inside the tent. Annoying, I'll admit, but the zipper was functional. Until this week. High winds ripped at my tent, and the entire zipper split.  It wasn't terribly cold, and there weren't coyotes or skunks to wander in, but I did end up living with a layer of fine red sand...

BADLAND SAND HILLS

Sand is really the best word to describe the week. Everything covered in sand. Eyes full of sand. Winds at least 40 mph throwing sand. Hiking up and skiing down badland hills of sand. Sweeping accumulated sand from the PEFO maintenance yard and park road. Six days later, I'm still cleaning sand from my ears and sweeping sand from my floor.

Highlights from the fencing project at PEFO: driving on and off bumpy roads, avoiding bovine park intruders, Knife City (actually not that exciting), snow (rough week for weather...), and holding a winter-lulled collared lizard. 

COLLARED LIZARD

NEAT MUSHROOM ROCKS

Getting Ready

Tomorrow I head East to Petrified Forest National Park, for 8 days of fence repair work. Forecast: a patchwork of sunny, cloudy, windy, rainy. Last week's winds shattered someone's tent poles. So far I've been too cheap to buy rain pants. Tonight I'm just too lazy. Sorry, legs.

Almost ready to crawl into "bed." I've spent the last few hours packing. Tossing bags and boxes of food into a plastic bin. Shoving laundromat-clean clothes into my backpack. Eating Irish Soda Bread (I'll be at work on St. Patty's day...). Marathon watching "3rd Rock From the Sun" (Oh my God-I'm GORgeous!). With headphones. So as not to annoy my roommate.

"Bed" is a pile of folded blankets on the hardwood floor. And tonight it's sure to be less comfortable. I packed up my soft, cozy, expansive Mountain Hardware -15 degree sleeping bag. (That's the bag I take with me to work). Tonight, I sleep beneath my short-length 25 degree REI Polar Pod. I sleep atop small glass slivers. Remnants of the mirror I broke earlier today. It slipped from my hand. Landed right on top of my laptop, sitting on top of my blankets. Oops.

Sunday Fun Day

It's Sunday. Not 'Sunday.' (I don't work until Wednesday). But it still feels like Sunday.

This is my Sunday Morning:

COFFEE in a Ouray, Colorado mug. (The Switzerland of America). 

I own three not-for-travel mugs. One is small. One is broken. One is pictured here.

*Dunkin' Donuts blend coffee. I like their logo. Check out their not-so-interesting blog: Behind the Beans. 

Garrison Keillor and PRAIRIE HOME COMPANION. 

'I hear that old piano, from down the avenue.' 

I plugged in my radio/alarm clock just for the occasion. The clock is flashing red numbers at me.

GLASSES. I hate my glasses. They hurt my ears. They separate me from the real world. 

My glasses are OK when worn with my sweatpants and my slippers.

BREAKFAST, and here's where things get interesting. My pantry is poorly stocked. My milk expired two weeks ago. I have two eggs left in the fridge. Eggs over-easy, sounds delicious... but wait. I have Bisquick. Can I make pancakes with Bisquick and an egg? Nope: milk required. Hmm... 

I opened the milk. I smelled the milk. I tasted the milk. I took a bigger sip. Seems okay??

BREAKFAST: pancakes with butter, and a single egg cooked over-easy. 

*Note: hot chocolate mix on pancakes is a poor substitute for maple syrup...

Apples and snow

Blue skies after the morning flurries. So far, a disappointing snowstorm. It was late to arrive. It brought lower-than-predicted amounts of precipitation. There continue to be changes in the forecast. And discrepancies. Big ones. Question: Will it snow this afternoon? Answer(s): Weather.gov predicts a 30% chance. Weather Underground? It's 100% certain. If I check Weather.com, there won't be any afternoon snow.

I am making applesauce. An experiment for spike (a.k.a. something I can bring along to eat while spike camping during my next work project). Potentially cheaper (and tastier) than buying sauce in containers... though if I'm going for cheap I shouldn't have bought apples at the natural food store. Whoops.

I am reading Barbara Kingsolver's Animal, Vegetable, Miracle [website includes recipes]. I suppose the book contributed slightly to the apple chunk experiment currently simmering/steaming in a pot on my stove. As it turns out, after peeling/cutting/coring (which, by the way, takes forever) and cooking 6 apples, I ended with but a small bowl's worth of steaming apple mash.

If inspiration and motivation don't abandon me, my spring and summer should be full of farmer's market trips and locally-grown culinary concoctions... do apples grow in Southwest Colorado?