So much has been written about rivers and though I am surrounded by several–the Klamath, the Rogue, the Smith, the Illinois– I am not a part of river-culture. I am not a kayaker nor a flyfisher, and prefer to take my swims in still bodies of water where I can float on my back eyes-closed and not find myself a mile downstream.

All the same, I love rivers for their great beauty and because they are so candidly metaphoric: Life is a river, Go with the Flow, Water under the Bridge. Writers like Norman Maclean and David James Duncan floated whole books on this metaphor and rivers have meandered through many of the poems of my favorite poets, like What the River Says by the former Oregon poet-laureate William Stafford. And then there are the rivers in the poems by my friend Joe Chermesino, a lesser known but not lesser talented poet.

Last week I accepted a last minute invite for a four-day float trip down the Wild and Scenic section of the Rogue River. The trip was to celebrate the birthday of a wonderful guy named Dan but, in the end, I felt like it was my birthday; by the time I hopped on the trip all the packing and organizing had already been done, and throughout the trip Dan and his girlfriend Lynn insisted on setting up and cooking almost every meal for the rest of us. Each morning I woke to a riverside buffet of coffee, fresh fruit, bagels and omelets. For dinner, fish tacos, tortellini, hearty stews. Wine was poured, martinis were mixed in Nalgene bottles, enormous slices of German chocolate cake were distributed after dinner. We were all feeling grateful in mind and body that Dan was born.

We spent the first night camped on a small sandbar. After staking out our tent settlement, a bald eagle flew low over our heads. Then another one. And then another. Though no longer officially threatened or endangered, to see one bald eagle is still a rare thing, much less three. It was a special moment and we knew it. We cranked our heads skyward in rapt silence as one eagle tried to chase off another, diving and swooping and showing its enormous wing span and cloud-white head. Our senses were wide awake: The sound of the river sharpened, the sky deepened. What luck! A good omen!

Then the eagles reeled toward each other, locked talons, and tumbled near to the ground. We let out a loud collective gasp, as if wowed by the last firework display on Independence Day.

The spooked eagles left. We sadly watched their disappearing tail feathers as they aimed downstream.

But that wouldn’t be our last wildlife sighting. A curious young bear investigated our rafts. A river otter ambled along the shoreline. Fish surfaced. Deer hid in the riparian foliage. Fire newts spooned and mated in bogs. Herons held still. There were plenty of frogs to kiss. And then there were the ubiquitous, but always compelling ravens.

I spent much of my time on lounging at the helm a raft rowed by Jeremey, a competent river guide from Jackson Hole, WY. Jeremey is on his way to Alaska for a season guiding on the Tatshenshini river. Our conversation revolved around the value of unstructured time, of nature, and of travel. The rest of the time I spent fending for myself in an inflatable kayak. I was surprised how scary it was to paddle some of the rapids. After a few runs, this bold pilot climbed ashore quaking like a shitsu.

A great trip in all. A happy group of people varying nicely in age and interest but with the key things in common: a belief that time spent on rivers is never wasted time and that there is always space on the raft for more wine and cheese. And martinis. And chocolate cake.

During those 4 days life, indeed, flowed like a river. Photos from the trip

Today I was blindsided in the Grange Feed and Farm Supply store. I sauntered through the door thinking about sprinkler heads but was hit by a smell: a warm grainy farmy earthy atmosphere made up of soil, cornmeal, of rawhide. It struck me that it was the first time I’d been there since my dog passed last August. For the 13 years of his life, it was our tradition to walk to the Grange for a bag of dog food and bones. That smell set me back 8 months.

It felt ridiculous to fall apart in the store– among the ranch-hardened men, the rows full of gopher traps and hoses–so I stepped back outside. Karen, the Grange clerk, sat at a sunny table surrounded by racks of geranimums and cosmos. Though over the years we’ve only spoke of gardening tools and fertilizer mixes, I couldn’t resist the urge to disclose: She had always been a good friend to him, tossing him biscuits from behind the counter and kindly turning a blind eye when he snatched treats from the bottom shelf. “I am overwhelmed in there. The smell.” I sat down and explained.

Having dogs of her own, she understood exactly. And she knew about smells. She told me that her father had stasis planted outside his front door. Now that he is deceased, she is undone by the faintest scent of the flower.

Back in the car, I called a friend who had loved my dog almost as much as me, who accompanied us on many walks to the Grange. He listened, empathized, cried and then the conversation ended badly and I was left even sadder. Another loss. We broke up exactly one year ago today. One year. And still.

What else can I do about these losses that sometimes seem frozen in place? I’ve cried plenty–even made an alter in the Temple of Forgiveness at Burning Man. When it burned on the last night of the gathering, I felt a huge release as the spectacle of embers floated up into the desert night sky. I moved ahead and filled in the gaps with many great people, places, and things. I’ve spun suffering into stories.

And learned to fly.

Back now at Woodrat Mountain, I’m getting my first real sense of “coring” a thermal–turning in 360s and rising into the wild blue and a whole new world has opened up again. So much terrain to explore. And math, which has always been irritating, has become suddenly fascinating, as I attempt to calculate altitude, windspeed, and glide path.

An emotional day in all. Life is fraught with sharp-edges, things to crash into. And the ground is hard. But as pilot Stan Koszelak says: “Anything worth doing…”–and I think this can apply to love as well as flying–“…requires a helmet.”

Back on the farm. How did this happen? Just weeks ago I was happily traveling, flaunting my ultimate untethered freedom by paragliding first in Utah, then Torrey Pines, Yelapa, Santa Barbara, Big Sur, Pacifica. Not even gravity could catch me. Now I’m back in dirty Carharts and rubber boots, digging in the wormy dirt, and catering to the relentless demands of plants. If I slack off at all, they die. There is no playing hookie here. It’s the ultimate in rootedness. The very opposite of flying.

It is my ninth spring at Eagle Mill Farm. That is nine seasons of laying out the irrigation, of tilling rows, digging holes, planting tomatoes. And for the ninth time, I am watching the same pair of Canada Geese arrive and loiter atop the greenhouse, nuzzle each other out in the weeds and make me sick with envy at the longevity of their relationship. But, if the farm were my lover–as a friend once observed–I suppose I have succeeded in a nine year relationship, too.

Fortunately, I’m not completely tied down; there is flying to be had here too. At Woodrat Mountain I have been taking my first real mountain flights. Over the past months, I have grown used to coastal flying, to complacently floating on the thick ocean air and snuggling in close to ridges. At Woodrat, I launch into vast open space, into pure thin air. The huge maws of three valleys lay open before me, the sky feels oceanic, and I am a speck–an agoraphobic seed tossed about in the sharp-edged air. It is a staggering sensation of smallness and vulnerability like I have never felt before. As we went over my P-3 requirements this morning, my instructor Kevin Lee suggested treating the fear like a small child and leaving it on launch to play while I fly.

I have only agreed to a month on the farm this year, just to get things started. But I have to be careful; its such a big beautiful world out there and it’s too easy to get reeled in to this one particular spot, spellbound by the land and all its beautiful vegetables, all the wine, the friends and never make that long summer drive to Alaska…

I am too lazy to find words that express how epic it is to fly Big Sur. Here are some photos that the pilot above me took of my glider along the coastline (thanks Parma Chris!)

http://picasaweb.google.com/flyinghobogirl/BigSur

I often hear friends say that culture shock is not arriving into a foreign country, but coming back to the U.S. I think this is true. In so many ways Americans are the exception to the norm. From the way we shop, drive, and disinfect everything, its clear that the U.S. does not belong to the rest of the world.

Coming back from Yelapa has been a difficult transition. At my mom’s house in San Diego, I wake not to the sunlight streaming across my breezy bed but four dark walls. No frogs jump across the house, as they did in our palapa. No ants clean the counters. No stray dogs wander in. And there is no one beating the juice out of coconut with a machete in the dining room. I keep shaking my clothes for scorpions, throwing TP in the trash, and saying ‘hola’ instead of ‘hi.’ I guess it’ll take a while to fully realize that I’m back.

But, alas, I am. Case in point: yesterday my mom and I went to IKEA to buy stuff for my van. As I looked through storage bins that would slide under the bed in my van, couples my age fingered linens and selected dishware to fill their first home together and it struck me how “off schedule” I am. I guess I should be settling down by now. Strolling through the aisles, I felt a surge of affection for my mom, who is so supportive of my choices, who has never once made me feel bad for not having children yet, or a house. Later that day she even helped me remodel my van. It now dons a leopard print bedspread, red velvet pillows, yellow LED lights, posh rug. Like a Manhattan apartment on wheels.

Today I start up the coast, stopping at flying sites along the way. Santa Barbara, Big Sur, Pacifica. In Oakland I get to spend some time with my travel writing hero: Jeff Greenwald (www.jeffgreenwald.com). Jeff writes articles for lots of magazines and has written some very funny books about traveling the world. He also started the nonprofit, The Ethical Traveler, an organization that encourages people to travel with environmental and cultural awareness. Check out the site: www.ethicaltraveler.org. Oh yeah, and Jeff’s 2008 resolution is to learn to paraglide!

Back in Ashland, I have a job writing sections of the Oregonian’s wine guide and will hopefully find my way to more freelance jobs. I will miss paragliding in margaritaville, but it’ll be great to see friends again and get the last of the spring skiing (and the first of the flying season at Woodrat!).

Morning in the town of Lo de Marcos. The streets are still quiet and clean. Just a few stray dogs and shopkeepers unlocking their tiendas. In an hour or so, people will start throwing plastic bags and aluminum cans in the gutters and the ranchera music will fire up and torment me with relentless tuba bass lines. One thing I have realized since I arrived in Mexico is that I hate hate hate the tuba. But it is inescapable. It reverberates in your chest, in your brain. It follows you to bed at night.

For the past few weeks back in Yelapa, I have avoided the internet (too slow) and the phone (only one working payphone in town near a fly-infested fruit stand). It’s been nice. I never know what time it is, or what day. I live in an outdoor palapa and notice the moon. We have coconut trees in our house, and frogs, and ants that haul the dinner leftovers away each night. There is not much nightlife here, so we have spent entire evenings marveling at them and filming them while they carry away whole pecans and green onions. One time they diassembled and carried away a pomegrante. Amazing. Someone said they are the strongest force on earth.

There are no cars in Yelapa and I don’t miss them. The soundscape is beautiful without horns, without the rev of engines, or the squeal of breaks. Every morning it’s just the clop-clop of horse hooves, early waking roosters, happy dogs barks, the breathing sea, and children singing songs full of corazon. Yellow birds birch in our palapa trees and make the nicest calls. My bed hangs near the ocean so I can wake and look at the ocean and watch fishing boats bob up and down, watch frigate birds circle the bay. Sometimes there are dolphins, occasionally a whale. My mind is clear as morning sun. Delightfully blank.

I’ve been paragliding in the afternoons, hiking up the 600 foot drainage up to launch. I’ve flown nearly everyday since I arrived am getting comfortable in the air. Vultures and frigates teach the pilots how to thermal. Sometimes we are joined by macaws, in pairs.

The pilots land on the beach and drink margaritas and beers everyday and I have adopted this habit. For the first couple weeks it was novel, but now I am beginning to wonder how much is too much. It’s all too easy to sink into a beach chair, sun overhead, cocktail in hand, and just stare at the ocean. Some people do it their whole lives. It’s a sort of Mexican-motif, isn’t it? People bailing out of marriages, failed businesses, and other hardluck scenarios to spend the rest of their lives beachside. A little deterioration is okay, I think. Sometimes you have to let parts of yourself go to wake up other parts. But I wouldn’t want to loose track and end up listless, overtanned, and cast into a permanant angle of repose. I plan to return home before that happens–before I drink too much, or write too much bad poetry.

My time here recedes and so I enjoy the last ocean flights, the dwindling margaritas, and my temporary bonds with stray dogs, who are always open to love or a good game of fetch, retreiving tossed coconut husks from the bay.

Here is a link to photos: http://picasaweb.google.com/flyinghobogirl/Yelapa2

Traveling down the east side of the Sierra Nevada, along California Hwy 395, I am struck by how the landscape and people don’t conform to the stereotypes assigned to this maligned state—the pollution, cars, and superficiality. I love what I find–sun-etched wrinkles, old trucks, open-space–and what I don’t find: high heeled shoes, traffic jams, fastfood. To be fair, in this land of little water, you also don’t find fresh vegetables.

Each time I drive this route, I fall slightly more in love with the sagebrush, the hotsprings, and the “range of light” that glints off the eastside granite. Oddities tucked here and there in the desert delight: the ancient Bristlecones of the White Mountains, “The Still Life Café” in the town of Independence where a French chef makes bouef bourguignon for travelers, the crepe maker in Shoshone, and China Ranch–a surprise oasis full of date trees. I love browsing the bookstore at Mono Lake and lingering at the Galen Rowell photo gallery in Bishop. And there is the view of Whitney the Alabama Hills.

Let Los Angeles take the water; at the very least it keeps away the sprawl—an ironic form of preservation.

I love the people who have loved the desert—Georgia O’Keffee picking her way thru dry rock in a black dress, Mary Austin who had an eye for things that scrabble, dart and scurry, Edward Abbey who relished the lack of people, photographer Galen Rowell who captured the particular clean-lined light of the eastside. I love some of the characters I meet: Anna-the-musician whose boyfriend ran off with her best friend. “Let the dead bury the dead,” she laughs. Now, for insurance, she keeps two men—a roadie and a horse whisperer from Tennessee.

And so I drive. Mountains jut up from the desert floor. Bighorn sheep hide. Raven caws break silence.

I drive and feel, not the urban desolation of a crowded street, but a sort pleasurable loneliness that feels affirmed here on the east side.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about houses–what they represent about our deepest hopes, longings, and fantasies. Normally I don’t think about houses. Talking about real estate annoys me. It was hard for me in my late-twenties when some of my more interesting and quirky friends developed a mono-focus on buying houses. Instead of talking about wolf-sitings, or the mating habits of spiny dog fish, party conversations entered the flatland topics of mortgages, refinancing, and countertop tile.

Yesterday I made 2 cups of hot chocolate and went to visit my friend, G., who is a local contractor. He has been hired to take a reasonably sized house and turn it into something bordering excess. He toured me around big empty spaces–the master bedroom, the massive walk-in closets, and the identical bedrooms for kids one, two, and three. While we talked through the airy rooms that smelled of drywall, he outlined some of the projects: $18,000 for wall texturing, $10,000 for a window. I silently computed how far I could stretch that same amount of money ; that one window could easily translate into a year of hotsprings, decent wine, and the lesiure to write.

Dealing in numbers and blue prints, G.’s job seems deceptively mechanistic, but he often finds himself privy to some of the more intense of human dramas. Building a house can put a strain on a marriage–not just over wallpaper preferences, or money, but over deep issues of commitment. Even as he adds expensive details to this house, the couple contemplates divorce.

It seems heartbreaking to me. To put all of ones energies, hopes, and love into a project and have it fall apart before it is barely realized. To find oneself living alone in a monument to things lost.

Whether or not the couple’s relationships pan out, G. does beautiful work. His talent shines most when let loose on his own projects. This year he built the Moonshine Luv Shack and drove it all the way to the Black Rock Desert for Burning Man. I spent a week on the shack–eating, sleeping, socializing– and fell in love with its small spaces, its odd details. Comfortable, mobile, quirky, full of love and friends, it was the best space I have ever lived in. It was a style of living that combined a sense of both mobility and settling– and felt more in harmony with real life and all its surprises.

Since I got back to Ashland, friends keep asking me if I’m okay—if I’ve been lonely on the road. When I answer “yes, its-been-lonely-at-times-but-really-has-been-mostly-great” they look at me askance, as though there was ricotta on my chin and they want to subtly let me know, while preserving my dignity. “You’re not depressed, are you?” Jeanine asked, setting a bowl of soup in front of me. I looked around and behind me, as if she saw something I didn’t see.
Truthfully, becoming a professional hobo has had its challenges. I seem to feel the loneliest in Nevada, where space is big and empty and my cell phone never works. There were nights parked out in the sagebrush when, after a glass of wine, after reading, after watching paragliding videos, that I’d run out of distractions and feel so lonely that it almost knocked the wind out of me. Midway through such nights I’d wake up digesting deep level truths: that I’d just lost my 14-year-old dog, ended a relationship, and that my grandma was lying far away in a nursing home bed with a broken pelvis. At night, in the middle of nowhere under the stars, held by no one at all, it’s hard to blunt these truths. They cut through my defenses with their sharp contours. Being this alone, I explain, is like taking a vitamin for the soul, the silence a cleanser.
But the curios of the road never end. I stayed one night at a hotspring 15-miles outside of Wells, Nevada. In trying to find the spring, I took a wrong turn and ended up outside Donna’s Ranch—the first real live brothel I’d ever seen. It was a run-down building with a sign that read “Cold Beer, Hot Babes” and I had a strange compulsion to go inside, just to see, but couldn’t bring myself to do it. Instead I sat outside in my car for 10 minutes, waiting to see what kind of person might walk out. No one did, but one thing I noted were the nice cars parked out in front—nothing fancy or anything, but not the broken down Montecarlos and sagging yellow Plymoths that I would have expected. Just regular cars.
After this wrong turn, I found the hotspring and was happy to see it was a beauty—nestled streamside, surrounded by granite spires, and long enough to swim laps in. A frosty wind howled up the canyon, but the three kids splashing about in the steam of the spring were undeterred. I walked to the edge, frost-coated grass melting under my feet and the kids guided me to the easiest place to get in. From nearby Elko, they entertained me with singing pop songs from their favorite popstar, Taylor Swift. The wind blasted our faces with glitter-sized bits of frost, the kids spashed and took turns with the snorkel mask. “Our parents are wusses!” one of them said, jumping up and down and pointing to a truck parked near my van where a couple was sensibly waiting for the wind to die down.
“Are you here alone?” they asked. “You really sleep in your van?” “Where are you going next?” Then, as kids tend to do, they honed in on the heart of the matter: “Don’t you get lonely?”

“Sometimes,” I said. “Sometimes.”
The next morning I would wake with the spring to all to myself, the frosted grasses, the granite formations. The wind will have died down and morning pink would color the sky, and I’d hold a book and a silence. Then I’d follow my track back to Wells and stop by the only espresso shop in town– run by Donna’s ranch and pick up a coffee with lots of cream and some sugar and then get back on the road. While I’d drive I’ll savor how after the kids asked slew of questions about life-on-the-road, one of the little girls nodded her head, and affirmed me in a small but important way: “That’s cool.”