1.13.21 :: Death Valley

The mountains are calling and I must go...home.

I've felt unsettled from the moment I hit the valley, and have been chasing my tail all week. (Yes, I know it's only been four days, but solitude magnifies everything.) What am I doing here? Why does this place make me feel so small and terrified between the moments when I'm tucked safely in the car, the silence pummeled into submission by my Spotify? Did I make the right choice? Why is this so hard? 

Can I go the distance?

I think, technically, I can. I'm able-bodied, have read Eat, Pray, Love, have taken the month off from work. But, rationally, I don't think I want to. Not alone. And, as Niamh said today, I need to give myself the permission to create that boundary for myself.

This land is too vast for a Calico Critter like me. Of the three bedrooms in the AirBnB, this Goldilocks chose the coziest, with just enough room for a bed and two nightstands. In my apartment back home, there isn't a wall free from photos and paintings and letters and, hell, even antlers--save the stairwell, and that has handrails on both sides. I'm a nester. A hugger. I like to feel surrounded. In the desert, you can walk for miles without beating up against anything higher than a footstool. And when you do meet a friend, she's course or prickly. Aggressively planted or proudly stalwart, with no easy way to welcome you in, or so massive and ancient you don't even dare look her in the eye.

When I plunge into a pool of water--any pool or ocean or lake or even a slip-n-slide--I feel weightlessly embraced. This is home, I think. Every damn time. It takes polar temperatures to keep me at bay, and I've never slept so soundly as after a good swim.

Yes, I want to float above Sedona in a hot air balloon, the roar of the Soarin' soundtrack in my head. Yes, I want to count the rings of every rock in the canyonlands and Copic my way through the arches and monuments. Yes, I want to lace up my boots and feel breathless and fist pump the sky at the summit of some random easy-to-moderate climb in Zion.

But not today. And not alone. I want to experience this world with my chosen few. I want my mother to scream as that balloon takes its first inhale and lifts us up. I want Liz to poke her head through a hole in the red rocks and laugh so loudly at Chuck that it echoes through the tunnel. I want the bravest of my friends' kiddos to hang on tight as they sled down the sand dunes, making tracks and memories miles from home. 

So, I'm taking this solo trip southeast for the next two weeks. To...you guessed it...Florida! Who still has an annual pass burning a hole in her MyDisneyExperience app? And who's been too intimidated to get actual exercise in the wilderness and just can't wait to run circles around the World Showcase? I'll be in Nevada for a few more adventures, and then it's off to St. Pete sunshine and yoga and vegan paradise, before a few days in the parks. 

You've all been so kind and supportive. You--and Mother Nature. You've inspired me to be brave, and today that means a big gut check. It doesn't mean the end of solo travel for me--not by a long shot. I'll never regret my time here. This just wasn't the right destination. (Upon closer reflection, I went too far on the nature end of the spectrum. Perhaps, Tokyo? Seoul? Epic shopping and manufactured cutie animal-themed objects I can buy in bulk are clearly key.)  

On another note, today I explored the tiny Main Street of Lone Pine and it was a true time capsule. The freeway-stealing-small-town-America montage from Cars come to life. A Wild West museum, with a dress-up photo booth, of course. A stucco-faced hotel born at the turn of the last century. A phone booth offering 20-cent local calls. A merry-go-round restaurant with a red and white striped tent of a roof. All peeling and faded, like they'd been hustled through an Instagram filter. It was sweet and endearing and its endurance impressed me beyond measure.

I also made my way to Manzanar, an internment camp that once imprisoned 10,000 Japanese Americans. One would think a home at the base of snow-capped mountain would be picturesque, but the watch towers still stand. The barbed wire refuses to untangle itself from the brush. A few of the bunk houses have been rebuilt to show just how far down these citizens were pushed. The life and commerce and community they built is astounding considering the conditions. It's something every American needs to see, because we keep making the same mistakes.  

I will be back to the valley, if only to share that story with those who will hear it. That's a promise.    

Meanwhile, thanks for sticking with me on this journey and stay tuned for me chasing the manatees. There's always more nonsense to come. xx