Stake a Claim on the Cuyahoga River

I awake from a deep sleep to the sound of a creature. It has sharp small teeth. I can tell by the nippy growls it makes. I can just imagine it as I try to match the sound to the animal it's like nothing I've ever heard. Possum? Racoons? Fox? Beneath the fierce noises from the creature, there's another voice, a quieter sound of baby something. (Somethings?)

The little voice cries like a three-week-old puppy. The bigger growling noise also sounds canine, but not quite canine. Something else. Maybe a fox? Foxes prowl in the night and are the most feline-like of the canine world. They're somehow different from the wolf or the domestic dog.

Is the growly thing eating the baby somethings? Or is it nursing the baby somethings? I'm fully awake by this point, and I have no idea what's going on, but it's happening right outside my window in the big bushy pine boughs. The little noises end abruptly, and the growls also stop.

This is a new parking spot. But I'm not sure if I'll return to it. I didn't want to be seen near the cemetery again, so I'd parked here. It might attract suspicion if I park in the same place too often, so I move around. This spot is a dark suburban road with wide lawns. I'm parked next to a giant pine with large low branches that shield my van from the house. It's near my first job of the morning. Parking close to work gets me there sooner.

I've been starting work between five and seven in an attempt to beat the heat from this heat wave gripping most of the country.

The strategy is to start the day at lower elevation. As the day's heat intensifies, I work my way up to higher elevation in Aspen.

So, I clock in at six-thirty, later than I'd like, but after I fell back asleep, I'd slept hard. I start the day moving planters filled with flowers to fill up the empty outdoor shelves. On the ground lay a plant that's been knocked on its side. I pick it up and refill a scoop of dirt that fell out. Then, I remove the brown-tinged wilting flowers from the plants. I'm not even 30 minutes into my shift, so I look for things to do. I need the hours.

Looking closely at the racks of flowers and see a clever way to combine two groupings into one, thereby creating empty shelving space for the expected delivery.

By eight, I finish watering the plants at the first store and go to clock out. Some days, I'm too weary to walk to the back of the behemoth store to sign the vendor log, but not today. It's the last day of the pay period, and I need every minute added to my next check. I'm weary, but I'll make that walk.

I go to the next place, but their delivery isn't in yet, so I tell them I'll return later in the day and head up to Aspen. This gives me an hour of drive time. I turn on talk radio, but I'm tired of listening to it. So what if they found cocaine in the White House? Nothing will get done about it. The untouchables live there. They are the protected class. I flip off the radio and open the windows. The combination of cool wind, the heat blasting on my feet, and the sound of road noise is conducive to thinking good thoughts.

My thoughts turn to a couple of interviews I've had recently. These aren't seasonal-job interviews; these are big career moves that will kinda set my next 10-15 year's life course. I need to make that kind of move. I'm tired of living in vehicles. I'm not sleeping, and my back hurts. The other day, a woman came up to me while I deadheaded flowers. "I see you at all these stores," she said. "Being hunched over like that is going to give you back problems." I told her I already had back problems and that I wasn't sure how to tend to plants without hunching over. Even so, since she spoke with me, I've been very conscious of my posture while I take care of the flowers and plants.

At Aspen, I merchandise the live floral product by condensing like product into attractive groupings...just like at the first store. Then, I deadhead all the dried leaves and flowers. It's the same thing at each store. I enjoy the work and get to know the plants.

While organizing the mint and thyme plants, I listen in to a man's cellphone conversation. "So just set up the wire today. It's okay. I'm just waiting for the money market transfer. We'll have it ready to go on Monday. I'll be out of reach all weekend. And find out if Jose needs another 10k for his project," Mr. Moneybags says before moving away, down the parking lot.

There's not much else to do at this store, so I can't stretch out my time. Until the store gets a new hose--one that doesn't have a hole in it--I refuse to water. On Independence Day, as the water ran beneath the electrical cords and under the ice machine, I got shocked when I had to climb behind the ice machine to turn off the water. It wasn't a big shock, but I could feel the buzz of a gathering electrical charge the longer I held my hand on top of the ice machine for balance.

So, I decide to call it a day. I find a place next to the sidewalk to write my report and send evidence pictures, proving to remote bosses that work is being accomplished.

Sitting on the people wall bench outside the Aspen store, I type the email to my boss. I deadheaded and condensed product. I alerted the store about the hose issue and electric danger. I requested new signage.

Just regular stuff on a regular day.

With the sound of spinning bike wheels a voice of authority proclaims, "Stake a claim on the Cuyahoga River." The two other riders laugh, and I look over at the bikers.

This is Aspen.

(Then I wonder what's going on along the Cuyahoga River. That's near where I grew up in northeastern Ohio.)

Now, it's back to the next store down the valley...El Jebel.

At a little past noon, I can feel the sun baking my skin while I water the hanging baskets. I put my finger over the end of the hose, point the hose skyward, and wiggle it until the cool water droplets hit my skin like rain.

"Eeek!" a shrill, young voice sounds behind me.

I turn around. It's a young woman in sun glasses. I apologize for the unexpected rain shower.

"It's fine, it's fine," she says and hurries away.

I return to watering the hanging baskets.

It's Friday. I don't have to work tomorrow. But...maybe I should since the floral delivery didn't arrive today. On the other hand, BossMan says I don't have to work weekends, and I'm awfully tired. It would be nice to have some rest and maybe organize the van.

Suddenly, I get an idea and a craving. Buena needs her ears cleaned, and I'm craving Olive Garden. (Actually, I've been craving pasta for two weeks, but they took out the Fazoli's at Glenwood Springs, and I refuse to pay an hour's worth of work for pricey pasta.) I quickly talk myself into a jaunt over to the PetSmart in Grand Junction. I've been cleaning Buena's ears with a Q-Tip and peroxide, but that's not cutting it. She needs a deep, professional cleaning. In addition, there's an Olive Garden close by. I can eat while she's groomed. Then, I can beat the heat by going up Grand Mesa. The air will be cooler there. Picturing myself working on my book atop Grand Mesa with the van doors wide open and Buena running free entices me to call the PetSmart.

"We only have a 2:30 appointment available," the lady informs me. It's a little after twelve and about two hours away. I tell her I'll be there and hurry with the watering. I gave these plants a really deep drink yesterday, so today I can give them a light water. They'll be fine. The geraniums told me that by the yellowing of their low leaves. A light water will do them some good.

I finish and rush to the car. "We're going somewhere, Buena," I announce. She tilts her head at me. "You're not going to like it, but your ears will feel better, and it will get you out of this car for a while."

Setting the GPS to PetSmart in Junction, I see that it shows an ETA of 2:28. For the entire trip, I play the game of gaining a few minutes. While driving, I wonder whether I should return to my roots "along the Cuyahoga River" (or the confluence of the Mississippi and Missouri Rivers, the place that really calls me home to family because that's where I raised my girls) or whether I should simply age out west. I could be like another Doc Holiday, dying of tuberculous far from his family back east and planted in a grave in Glenwood Springs. But I'm not Doc Holiday, and I still have options. I just have to work my way through a series of interviews. I'm careful with my driving, and I still manage to get there seven minutes early.

Buena has her bath, and I have a plate of toasted ravioli and a bowl of salad. I order a water with lemon, recognizing the need to stay hydrated. I tell myself this is good for Buena and for me. She's out of the van for a bit, having her own adventure, and I'm at rest in air conditioning.

When I pick up Buena at four, her fur feels incredibly soft. But it's difficult to pet her because she has the wiggles and works to pull me out of PetSmart. She must not have been happy. The lady said, "She doesn't like getting her nails done. She nipped." That's the first I heard of her nipping. But, then, she's been on edge. Her instinct to protect is on overdrive as there's not much that's familiar or settled right now in our shared journey.

I make a quick stop for ice and seltzer water. Then, I point the van toward Land's End Observatory at the top of the western edge of Grand Mesa. The last time I was here was in 2020. My buddy Stan and I visited the mesa, and he drove the dirt road along the edge down because we'd approached from the Interstate 70 side. While he handled the Land Cruiser, I stared toward the distant Dominguez -Escalante Canyon area. I didn't pay attention to the narrow, steep dirt roadway hugging the edge of the mesa. I am now as the Quest engine struggles against the incline, while the two front wheels work to pull us upward.

I have two apps open on the cellphone: the altimeter and a map. As we gain elevation--6000, 7000, 8000, 9000 feet--I look to the vehicle's outdoor temperature monitor. It was 102 when we left Grand Junction. The temperature steadily decreased as we gained altitude, making it's way through the 90s, into the 80s, the 70s, and settling on 68-degrees Fahrenheit by the time we reach Land's End. Perfect temps! I'd be able to spend ample time up here during the day with the windows and doors open and Buena frolicking about.

Despite the winds, we got out and made our way around the old observatory. In 2020, the door latch had been undone, and Stan and I poked around inside, marvelling at the old desk and chair that looked to be from the 40s. Stan had spent a lot of time at the maps, while I went outside to feed the chipmunks. Today, the door is boarded shut.

I call to Buena, and we walk along the edge of the mesa. She looks for chipmunks and sticks her nose in all the cracks and crevices, trying to sniff one out. We're far from the van. It's still within view, but I'd left the keys in it since I didn't plan on going too far. For a bit, we are the only ones up here, but soon a car pulls up. As we return to the van, three heavyset middle-agers get out of the small sedan and hurry to the observatory.

"Load up," I tell Buena. We set off looking for a place to camp. Somewhere with wifi and cell service. I don't feel too good up here. At a little over 10,000 feet at the top, the air is thinner. Even Buena works to catch her breath.

We find a quaint little spot. The grasses are well worn from previous campers. Tall pines flank the eastern side, and a wide wildflower-filled field allows an ample view of the stars that will come out soon. "This is it," I proclaim to Buena. We both hop from the van and start exploring the camp's layout. Buena runs around sniffing things, and I consider how best to angle the van. If my bed is on the south side, I can watch the progression of stars along the elipsis should I wake in the night. But I don't plan to wake. I need sleep.

Like a small army rising out of thin air, a sudden swarm of mosquitoes swirls around my head, arm, and legs. I lunge for the open door and reach for my super-strong essential oil blend of spray. I have two bottles that I keep at the ready. This stuff worked against swarming mosquitoes at the Parachute party, at Blue Mesa when I hiked with Randy and his sons, and for Dale in backwoods Illinois. I pray it works now.

While spraying, I call for Buena. She must hear the panic in my voice because she comes running and pounces to a stop before me, her head tilted at attention. "Get inside! No! Wait! Let me spray you," I exclaim while spraying anti-insect essential oils at her back and rubbing field debris from her fur. "Okay...go, go, go! Get in!" She actually listens, and I make a mental note to reward her when we're safe.

Only....as I hop into the van, I find a few mosquitoes swarming inside. A few have found a home on the interior roof. I spray madly, screaming at them while I do. "Get out, mosquitoes! Not you Buena. You stay." She blinks at the spray, and I usher her to the front seat while I extract every visible mosquito from the vehicle.

Now what?

I drive to another spot on the mesa. This one is closer to the pine trees, and I realize that as night falls, I won't be able to see far. I think about the bear sign at the observatory and hope neither Buena nor I needs to go outside in the middle of the night.

When I open the door at this new spot, the mosquitoes start to swarm immediately. I hop inside, short of breath and unsure what to do. With the sun almost at the horizon, it's too dark to take this low 2wd van over the rocky dirt path. There are some places where the rocks might scrape the bottom, and I don't want to drive off the mesa in the dark.

"We'll have to stay here," I announce to Buena and then lay out the game plan. "Okay. Here's the deal...I'm going to put that mosquito netting over the windows so we can have air."

She tilts her head at me.

"That's my job. I'm going to do it fast. And while I do that I need you to hurry up and finish your business. You have to go quick. No sniffing. No exploring. Just go out there and do your thing. Ready?"

She moves toward me at full attention. "Ready" means something is happening. She knows that word and is ready to act.

With the essential oil spray bottle in one hand and the burgundy tulle in the other, I jump from the van spraying in every direction. I'm surrounded by an air of eucalyptus, clove, geranium, and other scents insects hate. It seems to be working because they're not attacking me. They start to swarm as I stop spraying and hurry to put the netting on the windows. I use binder clips to secure it. When I finish, I start spraying and call to Buena.

She doesn't want to come.

I call her again from the cloud of essential oils.

She pauses and looks at me. Then, she moves further away, sniffing the ground.

I stop spraying and move toward heThe mosquitoes start to swarm me, and I frantically spray and call again with urgency in my voice. She finally finds a spot, does her business, and races back to the van. I spray her and run my hands over her legs and fur, checking for ticks and mosquitoes, before letting her inside.

Once inside, I watch the sun set through the burgundy tulle and think about how I don't want to live in this van anymore. From the RV refrigerator breaking to not having summer classes to teach to having mosquitoes swarm us... nothing has gone as planned this summer. So, I give it to the Lord. I can't do this anymore. He knows what I need.