An array of motivations converged and led to a delightful road trip. Along with Charlie Hamilton, a long time friend and a perfect road trip companion, we set out with a to-do punch list that would be strung together with whimsy. Yes, we had stops to make—visit old friends, return to stomping grounds from our misspent youth, kick tires at possible relocation communities—but each day’s itinerary was decided over morning coffee. On top of that, we would be traveling the crest of the Rockies while the aspens were in full color. Plenty of reasons to be excited.
Charlie had never been to the Santa Fe area, so we planned to blaze through southern California and Arizona to New Mexico, then downshift and shuffle north in a more relaxed mode. But a place I had visited before leapt off the map and insisted we swing north for a short side trip. Canyon De Chelly, sacred Navajo land in eastern Arizona, is a scenic gem and the cite of some sad history. While the Grand Canyon is immense and incomprehensible, Canyon De Chelly has a mysterious intimacy that is transfixing. Under warm evening light, we peered down into the canyon from the rim, fully enrapt and free of extraneous thoughts, as though we were looking into a campfire.
The next morning, we descended into the canyon at the only location visitors are allowed without a Navajo guide: the White House Ruins. Not rough and tumble, the red rock there appears to have been finely smoothed and finished by a craftsman. The White House Ruins are only one set of cliff dwellings in the canyon left by the Ancient Puebloans centuries ago, but perhaps the most elegant.
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A superficial brush past a place that would take years to learn and fully appreciate, but the road calls.
The wet winter of 2016-2017 was one of those that wildflower lovers long for. In California, when they come, the show is in the desert. Features on the CBS Evening News and NPR from Anza Borrego Desert State Park confirmed that the display was epic. Friends who had gone there in prior wet years returned with enthusiastic reports of jaw-dropping sights. I was not going to miss out this time.
I found an airbnb in Julian, only a one-hour drive from Borrego Springs, but as different as a landscape can be. At an elevation of 4,226 feet, Julian sits at the crest of the Cuyamaca Mountains that drain all the moisture from east bound storm clouds leaving little for Anza Borrego and the desert beyond. 
Here are a few shots from that spot. It was lovely indeed, but such a vast park beckons a visitor to quieter corners. So, I ventured out, but a park this size is a feast that can only be weakly sampled on a three-day visit. In my next few posts, I will share some images of simpler beauty away from the busy loop road. 
Wherever we chose to roll out our bags, each of us was enchanted with Miter Basin. The rim of the basin is surrounded by 13,000′ peaks, and each recess above holds a mountain lake with its own unique charm. Beautiful fall reds colored a ground-hugging mosaic of alpine flora. Daybreak songs of a coyote choir echoed up and down the granite walls, adding to the mystery and magic.
I recently wrote a post about adventure; the notion that the urge for it is a greater motivator than we recognize. I suggested that 49ers came to California as much for the adventure as for the prospect of striking it rich. As evidence, I offered the testimony of many who went to a later gold rush: the Klondike in 1898-9. As with the California Gold Rush, virtually everyone returned empty-handed, but most who were interviewed by author Pierre Berton looked back on that time with fondness and satisfaction.
We often buttress our case to do something new and exciting with “reasons,” but more and more, I think the real reason we want to do it is because it is new and exciting; aka an adventure.
I’m not supposed to say that. It’s not PC. “Digger” is a condescending term that was used by early Eurpoean settlers to characterize some of the Native Americans in the Great Basin and in California who dug in the soil for roots and bulbs. One of our native pines inhereted that moniker as its common name, but the modern day arbiters of politeness say no, it must be changed. So, the digger pine has become the gray pine, or the ghost pine, or the foothill pine. I like digger pine. It is a good reminder of just how mean and insensitive we can be.
I am never quite sure what the exact recipe is for a great spring wildflower display. While I enjoy botanizing in California’s Coast Range and in the Sierra, I know just enough to be dangerous. I’m likely to concoct some groundless theory and assert it as fact. But based on the significant rainfall we have had thus far, I wonder if this spring could be a memorable one.
Naturally, rain is a must, but there have been many so-so spring blooms after a wet winter; other factors certainly play a part. It makes sense that during the recent drought years viable wildflower seeds have not received enough water to sprout. Perhaps through the sparse blooms of recent springs that seeds have been accumulating waiting for a winter like we are having now. With an average amount of rainfall during the rest of the California winter, maybe we will see a spring bloom like 1997.
Do you buy it? I may be way off base, but it sounds good.
If you have ever wondered what California looked like before 38 million of us engineered it to meet our needs, allow William Brewer to take you on a guided tour.
To mark the 150th anniversary of the survey, Tom Hilton has created a blog (http://upanddowncalifornia.wordpress.com/) with posts linking dates 150 years apart. He includes maps, photographs, and links to related historical and natural history resources.
I envy the sensitive souls that truly feel the energy or “vibe” that pulses through our world. What a gift. Apparently, I am cursed with a thick shell because very few channels come through, and when they do reception is sketchy. But fall is different. Whether I am feeling some distant yearning or it is just my imagination, I have a physical response to fall.
that an instinct from my distant primal past is awakened in my DNA urging me to start digging a den and prepare for a long winter nap. Granted, it could be my imagination or some other sensation. I have ruled out old age or lasting effects from the 1960’s. No, I’m pretty sure it’s my DNA talking.
