Wine Country

Seven days on the road, beginning and ending with the magnificent Oregon coastline. In between are the modest towns, some just settlements, existing off the traffic of highway 101 and logging, fishing, and farming. They are a hard working people who love their land. Their wealth is not measured by their possessions, but rather their pride in their chosen industry.

The winding road leads you deep into impressive redwood forest of California. The towering height and massive trunks of these giant sequoia sempervirens darken the earth below, allowing for mystical glimpses of big foots and gnomes. As quickly as you are swallowed into this fairytale land, it abruptly spits you out onto the golden rolling hills of wine country. Patches of green emerge slowly at first, increasing as you climb and fall over the hills, until you are completely saturated with vineyards, in the land of wine.

My friend Andi and I spend the next four days wandering the backroads of Russian River Valley; River Road, Dry Creek, and Bohemian Highway, discovering a new tasting opportunity around every turn. Names like C. Donatiello, Lambert Bridge, Arista, Porter Creek, Bella, and Zichichi jump out with their luring welcome signs.

Each winery is strikingly different in their landscape expression. Beautiful Japanese gardens, richly dense with manicured flower beds, herb gardens, artistic water pools and falls, olive trees, lemon trees, lime trees, rose bushes. Modern architecture, ancient design. Some grandiose, some simple. All breath taking.

It’s October. The warm air is pleasantly sweet. Leaves are rich with oranges, golds, and reds. The grapevines are exploding with fruit. Farmers are cutting free their precious harvest, preparing for the crush. The wineries are alive with activity and expectation.

By the end of the week, our vocabulary has been transformed to include descriptions of rich, savory, and sweet into our daily activities. We are quickly spoiled as we learn our personal preferences. Andi will exclaim, “It’s too much work,” and empty her glass into the dumping bucket if a sample does not agree with her delicate palate. Appreciation for a good Charles Shaw is a thing of the past.

Our evenings are spent down on the Russian River in the quaint town of Duncans Mills. Sitting around the campfire, sipping a Korbel sherry, we reminisce over the day’s tours. Night brings chilly temperatures and coyotes signing at the bright moon. Harley burrows in the safety and warmth of his sleeping bag.

We’ve only covered one wine region in Sonoma County, but I’ve decided to save the others for another trip. I am ready to head back to Oregon with a storm brewing on my tail wind. I met wonderful people, made new friends, expanded my knowledge of wine and boon-docking.

I travel back the way I came, wanting to become more familiar with the transformation of this land. Wild turkeys and a herd of elk make themselves comfortable in a farmer’s front yard along side Hwy 101. I know this 600 mile drive will be a route I frequent with the seasons, seeing something different every time, and worth every minute behind the wheel of my treasured Westfalia camper van.

Fresh Goodness

I was born in Portland, Oregon. When we lived in Salem, we had acres of corn growing behind our home. Our landlords let us pick as much as we could eat if we kept our eye on the crop.

Our neighbors, the Zelinski’s, had a large apple orchard where they hired pickers and boxed up their fruit right there. We consumed apples in every way; juice, sauce, pie, fresh picked.

Ms. Fernandez, who I really liked, had the most beautiful flower garden. When I was five, I picked all her spring blossoms on May Day and left them on her porch. I rang her door bell and ran away, just like your suppose to. Mom said it made her cry. But when she learned it was done out of love, she laughed. I think we both learned something that day.

Mrs. Utterback grew rhubarb. Her teenage son told me if I ate a stick a day, I’d learn to whistle. Only then could I play hide and seek with the big kids in the forest of corn. After about a week, I learned something then too.

My mom had a garden that she spent hours in. Everyday, she would rake, or pluck, or water, or fertilize, or pick. She could whistle and she’d whistle and hum to her garden. And it grew for her.

Every one grew something.

Then we moved to Southeast Alaska when I was six. Our basement wasn’t finished yet so we didn’t live downstairs. But it did have a huge picture window. My mom lined up as many pots and buckets on the plywood flooring as she could. She tried to recreate the garden she had to leave behind. Tomatoes, cucumbers, and zucchini grew like a jungle in that big lower window. But the harvest was minimal. The short summer season didn’t bring enough sun and heat to produce fruit. She fought with it for years; adding grow lights, trying different fertilizers, pollenating with her finger, but she could never reap what she once had in Oregon. She was in Alaska now.

Mom tried replacing her desire to grow things with the desire to catch things. She filled our freezer with salmon and halibut. Dad hunted deer and moose. It seemed to suffice but never replaced the longing for fresh from the earth vegetables and fruit that you nurtured from seed.

Now I understand that void in her life. A newbie to gardening, I first seek the shelves for herbs. Then I remember, “Wait, I have fresh rosemary right outside!” It’s a whole new way of thinking. You don’t buy apples and peaches at Safeway, you get them street side, at the plywood shelter, freshly picked, a whole basket for a dollar! And, you meet those who grew them. Onions and corn too! Cucumbers and zucchini! Berries and nectarines! Your dollars aren’t supporting a corporation, but a family. It tastes good and feels good all at once.

Even dairy is fresh. I recently bought a quart of milk with an expiration date six weeks away. That is unheard of in the far away country Alaska.

I can’t get used to the freshness of Oregon. Fresh fruits, fresh veggies, fresh dairies, lots of cattle if you’re into that. Chickens and eggs too. It’s all right here. That may seem a “duh” to many of you who don’t know any different. But, we from Alaska, know to appreciate these treats. Yes, we have fresh wild salmon, halibut, shrimp, crab, and more. But we don’t have garden fresh fruits and vegetables or sun light to keep us healthy. I’ve sure missed this. I am soaking it up like a bullhead at minus tide.

Love and Protect

Two unleashed wanna be dogs with patch work fur on their hind ends and white shadows around their eyes and muzzles leave their owner’s side to interrupt our daily walk on the beach. Harley and I are in ‘walk mode’ and try our best to avoid the collusion.

Walk mode occurs when I am not in a sociable mood or when I feel the approaching dog is not a good match for Harley. Walk mode is quite obvious. Dog is leashed, backs straight, heads forward, a stride that says, “We are on a mission!”

Play mode is unmistakable as well. You scan the beach for dogs chasing sticks or balls, tails wagging, barking like there’s a party going on. I free Harley from his leash and we have instant friendships. We tend to favor the hardy, playful, non-anxious breeds; labs and retrievers are our favorite and the beach is littered with them.

These two weathered creatures and their careless owner apparently don’t know dog language and beach etiquette. The intruders are determined to connect with Harley, sniffing and poking him at all ends. Concerned that it wouldn’t take more than one boxer slap to cause a dismemberment, I am trying my best to hold Harley back, in a sit if I can manage it. The woman that belongs to the death wishes hurries behind them with a big proud smile on her face, “They are over 100 years old!”

“Well, MINE’S NOT!” I rudely blurt out while I’m practically hanging Harley on his leash. I continue walking, dragging Harley behind me, shaking my head.

“Well he’s pretty!” she calls after me.

I’m sure Harley would’ve been fine with them. I’m the one who wasn’t and if Harley was in my mood she would’ve needed a bag to clean up the beach. I wasn’t in a bad mood, necessarily. PMS may have had something to do with it, but really, I was blown away by the woman’s stupidity. She obviously loves those two pathetic dogs yet allows them to run up to a very muscular beast that she knows nothing about.

Idiots! There are so many idiots in this world and the majority have pets and or kids. Having worked in the children’s mental health field for a number of years, I find myself very impatient with the neglectful parents and pet owners. Or those parents and pet owners that find their charge so beautiful and adoring that they believe everyone has the same strong feelings for their loved one. It’s usually those children and pets that you can’t wait to get away from because they are so ill behaved and intrusive.

When did ‘love’ become confused with ‘the freedom to do whatever the hell you please?’ MY GAWD! If you truly love your pet or child, you will teach them they are not the center of everyone’s world. Through respect for others we teach them to respect themselves.

Okay. Maybe it is PMS, but protecting our children, and many pet owners see their animals as their children, is rule number one. And we protect them not only by keeping them close, but by teaching them manners and opening their eyes to the world.

Parking Places

Please excuse me for my deliberate exuberance. Besides missing my wonderful, beautiful boys and others nearest and dearest to my heart, my life is incredible. My dad always said, “If you live right, you get good parking places.” I tell you, boys and girls, I must be living right. I left a negative and hostile work environment in search for something a little less damaging to the soul. I found it!

First, I met this incredible woman in Gearhart, Oregon who took in this stranger and her dog for a week and a half with promises of more assistance with Harley when I fly into Las Vegas to get my van. I really didn’t even have a plan.

“I’m just waiting for it to cool down a bit before I have to retrieve my van/home,” I shamefully try to explain.

“We’ll just see how it goes with the dogs. You’re welcome to stay as long as you need.” Dolores takes in the homeless and wounded. Usually it’s the four legged desperados she opens her home to, so I think Harley was my ticket in. Whatever the case, I met a beautiful human and four very charming and lucky canines: a homeless and hungry Great Dane , a horny Chihuahua in love with the Great Dane, a Monkey Terrier (I call her Monster) that came to Dolores with two broken hind legs and a sweet little old golden thing pushing three hundred years old. I’m sure it’s Dolores’ love that keeps her alive. It must be pet owners like me that shorten a dog’s life. First sign of anal seepage and it’s time to put the beast down.

So, after settling in Gearhart and working out the kinks from our previous life and the ferry trip, Harley and I jump in the truck and head south to look up my aunt and uncle. Being raised on an island in Alaska with all my distant family in Oregon, I didn’t get to spend as much time with these fine folks as one would expect when you are close. Emotionally close, that is. I drive to their home, but of course, these two are out on an adventure some place so I leave a note on torn paper adhered with duct tape to their door. The next day I get a call and I’m back down to see them. Long lovey dovey visit made short, Aunty tells me they never sold the cabin that I have so many family memories in. They moved out a year ago but because of the real estate market being what it is, they decided to hang on to it and maintain both homes. Wow. She has a home that is peopleless and I am a people that is homeless. Doesn’t get much sweeter than that, especially on the coast of Oregon with seven miles of sandy beach out my back door. Just point me to the tsunami route and I’m in heaven! They are happy as well.

I tell you, only two weeks into my sabbatical adventure and I’m getting pretty good parking places. I must be doing something right. I wish I could explain that philosophy to Harley. He keeps pissing on kids’ sand castles. I tell him, “Dude, that’s going to catch up with you!”

I know people who live like that. They don’t live by an acceptance of right and wrong, but more of a matter of what they can get away with. I feel bad for these people. They may believe they are successful in life all the while looking behind their backs. That’s no way to live. Now, I'm not claiming to be perfect, but the effort to do what is right by yourself and others is a code of ethics I can't sleep without. And the parking gods don’t miss a thing. I'm positive Dolores will have free parking where ever she goes in life.

Stepping Out

I was sitting in my truck, door open, writing a note for the door of my family's beach house in Oregon. There are no connected phone lines so we check in with torn pieces of envelope adhered to the window with duct tape.

The neighbor, an older gentleman working on the dividing fence is being pestered by the woman who lives across the street.

"I really am anti-social," she says, sitting way too close.

"You are, huh?"

"Yes!" she insists, her shoulder now touching his.

"When are you anti-social?"

"At night."

"And when at night does this anti-social behavior begin?"

"At 5:00."

He drops his hammer and grabs his knees before he falls over in disbelief and laughter.

My friend takes me to a wine bar and bistro called Yummy! in Seaside Oregon. She introduces me to the owners and they sit her at her favorite spot on the corner couch where she can watch her friends and the activity in the kitchen. I too am watching. There is a pleasant energy about the place, coworkers and patrons alike. It's clean, open, relaxing and inviting. I am comfortable here. Yummy! attracts a population that I am familiar with, folks I 'know' with out knowing.

"I could work here. This is what I'm looking for," I tell my friend.

When the tall slender woman returns with our wine my friend asks if they are still looking to hire someone.

"On the busy nights, yes. Are you interested?"

"Deb is."

The waitress leaves to get me an application.

"Wow. Just like that," I say, excited about the opportunity of being a part of an establishment like this.

Three days later, that application is still sitting on the table at home. Where is the confidence I was feeling then, after 5:00, in the company of wine and a friend. My anti-social behavior is most evident when I'm alone in my quiet zone. It's hard to step out of it at times. Intimidating, almost. I'll take a walk and discuss this behavior of mine, encourage myself to get out and participate in a climate I was once excited about. But the odds are, as much as I want to be that person who can walk up to new people with a friendly smile and make them feel warmly included, I probably won't be.

Call it introvert, shy, or anti-social, it all means the same thing; difficult, awkward, sometimes painful social interactions. But that is what this adventure of mine is all about. Stepping out of what has been my comfortable norm for the last 30 years and doing something different. Even something that I'm afraid of.

Before I left Southeast Alaska, I bought an inflatable kayak. Inflatable because I want to be able to carry it solo and store it in my van during my travels. I love the ocean the same time I fear it. I saw Jaws way too young and not being able to see that giant sea creature surface at the very spot I am presently occupying terrifies me. Because I know it can happen. No. I know it will happen. So, I practice. I take out my kayak and hugging the shoreline, I tell myself I'm not being rational. I force myself to work on this silly fear of sharing the Pacific with orcas, humpbacks, and sea lions. Every time I go out it gets a little easier. At least that's what I tell myself. It's actually not any easier, I just remind myself I didn't get eaten the last time I went out so go enjoy the beauty of it all.

I should go get that anti-social neighbor lady at 4:45 and tell her we're going out and it's going to be fun. Even if we only stay until 5:30. And then, I will turn in that application and meet new people and learn new skills and have a new job in a new atmosphere. Maybe tomorrow.

Finding Normal

Back home in Ketchikan, I had routine. I knew when to wake up. I knew how to dress, where to go, what to do. I knew when to go home, when to eat, when to go to bed. I didn't even have to think about it. My choices were determined by what day of the week it was. Saturday and Sunday were reserved to cram as much life into 48 hours that you could; time with the kids, time with the pet, time with your partner, time with yourself. Then it's Monday again. And you didn't even get the laundry done.

That's all changed now. I have to think about what it is I am going to do today. "Easy task," you may say, "Just give me the option." As pathetic as it may sound, it can be a chore to keep yourself busy. It's kind of like deciding what to cook for dinner 365 days of the year. I don't mind cooking, I just hated being the one to decide what to cook every day. Some days I wanted to say to my family, "I'm not cooking until someone tells me what to cook." Being creative or trying to please others with food was the difficult part.

Staying busy is important. It gives purpose. Stimulation. Drive. Creativity, exploration, and learning is all part of life. It's up to me now and I need each component for a healthy lifestyle. I'm only one week into my new adventure and I already feel the importance of staying active. I awoke today with a sense of emptiness. This was new to me. I've taken many two or three week road trip vacations. Never felt empty. It's different when you are looking at an open calendar. What is my new normal? What will my new routines be? I now understand why retirees return to work. We are conditioned to follow a set schedule of obligations.

It's time to redefine self. With the absence of family and friends, you only have yourself to rely on. I must call upon what is important to me and not let it go to wayside. Even a sabbatical takes work. Make it count. Do something. I need to feel good about myself, my choices, before lying down to bed each night. I need to discover my new normal.

Leaving Normal

36 hours on a ferry. I'm relaxing. Sitting in the sun on the windless side of the the ship, almost too warm. The orcas and humpbacks ease out of the water just enough to cause chaos amongst the camera clickers. In the far distance they see a tail wave at them and the long nosed zoom lenses jump in front of the pocket shots. I may have to retreat to the cooler side of the boat just to see the water.

I read. Then knit. Then work a sudoku puzzle. Then read some more. And I have it pretty easy. Harley is down below. The back seat of the truck is his second home, but that is where familiarity ends. I have to roll down the windows to give him some air flow in the heat of the hull. There's the constant roar of the engines, slamming car doors, echos of amplified bangs and clangs and voices. Every six hours I am able to release him from his small quarters for a hug of reassurance and a walk through the narrow isles between the rows of vehicles. I encourage him to do his business. We only have 15 minutes. I try to keep him moving in hopes of getting the process moving, but Harley wants to meet the howlers and whiners and barkers he has been listening to. Everyone is friendly in this place that nobody can claim as their own. Socialization is important, so we stop for the meet and greet sniffs, then continue walking. Other owners are mopping up doggy elimination off the steel floor. I take Harley over to smell the potty place. He still refuses. It's just wrong to pee inside on the floor.

The announcement tells me our time is up. I plead with Harley, "Go pee, go pee!" He keeps looking for the grassy place. I coax him with food and water. Nothing. No eat, no drink, no pee. The car deck is still very warm so I crack open the rear sliding window as well. It is going to be a long night for Harley.

I'm in the cabin deck lounge, curled up on a four foot long table bench with my blanket over my head and ear plugs in my ears to drown out the conversations of others. I'm trying my best to zone out the world and get some rest. The week prior was emotionally challenging so the quite rest is welcoming.

About two hours into this bliss I hear my name over the loud speaker. "Debora Carney, please come to the purser's counter." I knew sleeping fully dressed was a good idea. I find my glasses, run my fingers through my hair and stumble down the stairs, following the instructions of the booming voice. A man I recognize from the car deck is standing there with no expression. "Your dog escaped and is running around the car deck." I laugh. He does not. I couldn't get Harley to jump through that window all summer. I tried to coax him to climb through so he could have access to water and food in the bed of the truck while I was working. The plain faced man escorts me down below so that I may apprehend my criminal. Harley peaks around a car, sees me and wiggles his way over, so happy to see me I dare not scold him. He went looking for me and he found me. I lead him back to his truck, close the window and tell him I'll see him in the morning. I hope he at least got a pee out of his adventure.

The next morning, before the car deck call, I order a cheese and sausage omlet. I don't care for sausage much but I can mix it with Harley's kibble to get him to eat. I enjoy the egg and cheese, put all the meat stuff in a napkin and smuggle it out of the cafe.

The sausage was eaten, but that was about it. He followed it with a few laps of water and we began our routine. Still nothing. At least he ate and drank so I know he won't collapse from hunger or dehydration before me meet land, but he may explode in my truck. I keep my fingers crossed that he took advantage of his freedoms the night before.

The rest of the day went along uneventfully; reading, knitting, puzzling, walking, sniffing, greeting. The next morning we pulled into Bellingham. I drove across the street from the terminal to the nearest patch of grassy earth that thankfully also provided a trail, and we walked and walked and did our business and walked some more. Harley smiled, relieved in several different ways, until I opened the back seat door again. He just starred at me. "I'm going in too. One long drive and we're done, I promise! Next stop, Oregon Coast!"

The Wait

The work is done. I am packed up and out of my home, bumming off my very dear friend. I am officially unemployed and homeless. Waiting. Waiting for the date on the calendar to match the date on my Alaska Marine Highway ticket.

My gear is spread all over her exercise room. I do what I can while I wait. I'm really good at the dishes. Not bad at keeping the floors clean. I even threw some laundry in the washer. Harley and I walk or hike every day. I made soup and muffins. My friend smiles when she comes home from work. We are playing house and she is grateful for the company and contributions I offer for my stay. Yet, every day I stay, waiting, we are putting off the good bye. It started out as an 11 day wait. It is now day six, five to go. It's slowly becoming more intense. Nobody wants to say good bye. It's an uncomfortable, emotional, sad and happy thing to do. It seems almost cruel to have a departure date so far away. I thought I would need more time to tie up loose ends.

While running errands through town I inevitably run into folks I know. "Are you still here?" "Yes," I say, with an understandable nod. There has been lots of talk about this woman who quit her job and sold everything to voluntarily live in her car when our beloved country is in an economical crisis. Yet she is still here, is this a hoax? No. It's not a hoax. Be patient. I am leaving. But leaving is a process:

First, down size; sell, donate, throw away, or store it. Check.

All that is left is what you are taking with you. Pack. Check.

Turn all bank and summary statements from paper to e-statements. Check.

Open a bank account that is more accessible in the lower 48. Check.

Cancel Netflix, Full Circle Farms, phone and electric. Check.

Cancel Post Office delivery. Leave forwarding address. Check.

Pay any and all over due library fees. Check.

Clean your home for the next inhabitants. Check.

Leave your home. Check.

Spend quality time with friends and family. Tell them you love them. Check.

Allow them to throw you a party, or two, or three.

Only then is it safe to go. Leaving is a process. One does not want any regrets on the road.

Letting Go

I've looked at every picture.  I revisited each child's elementary school treasure. Every album, journal, class photo, birth announcement, first hair cut, first tooth,  baby shoe, favorite blanket, obituary, momentous news paper clipping, misshaped pottery dish, painted hand print, and glittery Christmas ornament.  I threw away as much as I could.  The cedar chest cannot hold one more good thought.  But it's all there.  Forty five years of memorable events in one 46"x 18"x 14" wood box.  

I'm storing it at my oldest son's home.  I tell him it is still mine, unless something happens to me on the road.  In that case, it's contents belong to both boys.  It is their life, going way back to before either were born.  It is their history.   In a box.  

I've thumbed through every beloved book, scanned each favorite recipe,  burned old love letters and journals.  I've forgiven and released every relationship that didn't end favorably.  I've donated loads of clothes, books, gadgets, and all the excessive matter we collect over the years. The hardest to release are gifts that were given as an act of love.  I've learned to keep the "act" and release the material item, unless it has a functional purpose.  I must minimize my property and expand my memories.  

I think I'm almost ready.  I am tired and several hundred pounds lighter.  I am organized.   I know exactly what I own and where it will be placed in my van.  I have researched and collected the gear and supplies I will need to stay safe in the elements I want to enjoy.  I have contact information with all my friends and family.  They have this blog.   We will stay in touch. 

I am ready. 

The Jump

"Sounds like a mid-life to me."

"With who?"

"You are so brave."

"I'm so jealous!"

These are the comments I hear when I tell folks I'm moving after 30 years on this island. 

"I'm selling everything but the truck and the white boxer and living in my van to have the freedom to hike and write and breathe."

Their silence and contorted face say I can't be of sane mind to give up what is secure.  I can't possibly do it alone.  I am going where others are afraid to step.  But seriously, who wouldn't want to? And why can't I?  

Whether I am down the street or across the nation, I am only as far away as my keyboard or Blackberry.  I can lock it all up and be home within a matter of hours if I need be.  Yet, I can be removed as I want to be.  For the first time in a long time (ever?), I will be as connected or disconnected with/from  society as I feel necessary.  I can put myself in a silent retreat in southern Utah or in the liveliness of a spirited brewpub in Colorado.  

There are physical risks in adventure.  There are mental risks in leading a stagnant life.  I'll take my chances with fulfilling an active life of possibilities and new exploration.  *Cheers!*

Good bye 9 to 5.  Hello possibilities!

Good bye rent.  Hello gas and Park fees!

Good bye electric bill.  Hello solar panels!