Dogs in the Sand

Last month, Cowboy and Buena chased each other on the deepest in Lake Havasu City. I'd taken them way out for a hike, to a place where I knew they would be safe off leash. Round and round a creosote bush they played. They finally tired themselves out, dug holes in the sand, and laid their bellies against the cooler sand inside their holes.

My own thoughts have been racing round and round in circles like the pups. One idea chasing another until I wear myself out with my thinking.

I'm not going to lie...winter in Escalante has been hard. First, it was the loneliness leading up to Christmas, and then it was suffering through what I believe was the covid omicron variant after getting back from Arizona. With no appetite, extreme fatigue, and a dry cough, I was thankful guests weren't checking into the hotel so I could sleep on my couch in the apartment. When I got chilled, I'd move to the couch in the lobby as the afternoon sun poured through the windows.

During this time of emptiness and loneliness, I thought about what I should do with my life. Why am I way out here when the people I love are everywhere else? I came here because I love rocks and geology, but I didn't plan to stay. Not this long. And...when you're sick and alone, the rocks don't care. The geology can't love you back or bring you chicken noodle soup.

That was my first big realization this winter. Other humans...the people you love...family... that's what really matters. This spark of life...what we have right now at this point in time...that is all we have, and it's meant to be shared.

Another thought followed close on the heels of this thinking: I have to move. I have to move now. Followed by the thought: Where can you go?

So I ran through my list of possible places as I thought of all the people who mean the most to me. I could move back to Missouri to be closer to my daughters, I could move back to Colorado where I'd be a day's drive from my daughters and close to my friends at Creekside, I could move to Truth or Consequences to be with my church family, or I could move to Lake Havasu City to be with my friends there.

For days, these thoughts chased each other round and round. I liked the idea of going back to Missouri, but where? With one daughter in St. Louis and the other in Kansas City, I'd have to go to the middle of the state--Columbia--to be between the two. I'd be starting all over and would have to meet people there. In addition, there's the Missouri humidity which causes my arthritis to flare up. (Until I moved west in 2016, I didn't realize how the less humid climate lessened the pain.)

I called my daughters...my beautiful, smart daughters...who understood my wanting to be there. They missed me, too. "But, Mom," said the older one, "you need to live your life. We're grown up. Of course, we'd love to see you, but we can always visit." The younger one said something similar before adding, "And then what happens when I'm busy? You'll be crying that you moved back to Missouri but never get to see us." She knows me so well.

I even started calling my friends, putting out feelers for where I could go and what I could do. I just did not want to be at the motel in stupid lonely Escalante any more.

Then, one day, I felt well enough to drive. I had to get out...go away. I put the "Back at 4" sign on the door and took off for the Burr Trail. If I was stuck in this place, then I might as well go see the sights. People spend so much time daydreaming about the Grand Staircase (Escalante) and planning their one- or two- week vacation with this place in mind, so the least I could do is get out and see stuff.

The sun felt good through the car windows, and I kept the heat on low on my feet to keep the chill off, while I opened the car windows enough to let in the cool, fresh air.

On another day, a very slow day with no guests to check out in the morning, I drove to Cedar City and bought a hunk of beef and some produce. I made a crockpot roast the next day to celebrate that I started eating again.

My thinking started to change. I didn't feel the drive to get out of Escalante. I was still lonely, but the desperation had lifted.

New thoughts came in, thoughts about a stable job and a place to organize the various projects in my life.

I took out my blank budget book. We were already well into January, and the book was still blank, so I got busy.

Each day as my strength returned, I took a short drive, slept in the sun, and worked on small projects, things like organizing my spices and giving away the books I'll never read. I started two piles: stuff to sell and clothes I'll never wear.

This has been a hard winter. I always heard that wintering in Alaska was hard because of lack of sunlight and isolation. I used to think I wanted to put myself to the test and try a winter up there. I don't think that way now, not after this winter. (It might be different if I had a husband, so I won't fully rule out the Alaska dream, but there are stipulations attached.)

The days are getting longer and a little warmer. Nights are still cold, but the other night I was able to walk Buena with just a light jacket. I also saw two robins on one of my drives. Spring is coming.

Special thanks to a few people who kept close contact with me during this rough patch:

--Ria

--Laurel

--Bob

--Brenda

--Cheryl

--Captain Lou*

Your calls and texts were the next best thing to having people nearby.

*Honorable mention for driving all the way from New Mexico to help me repair the structural damage to the RV. A friend once said that one day I'll drive over a cattle guard, and the whole rig will fall apart. It came awfully close, but Captain Lou patched it back together, and now it's probably stronger than it ever was.