Wednesday Morning

I really hate flying. Everything about it.

I'd rather drive the 1600 miles and camp in my car along the way. But it's cheaper to fly, and I don't have 2 weeks off work.

I have an actual 5 days off work at the resort and only 20 eight-page papers to grade over those five days. (If I grade 4 a day, 2-hours maximum, this will feel like a somewhat-vacation.)

In reality, I'm going to St. Louis to visit my older daughter, Ria. We have plans, such as learning to make a good coleslaw and (maybe) that Cowboy-Beand recipe. We had talked about hiking, but with the cold and melting conditions, the Ozark hills and bluffs might be muddy. I don't know, we'll see. I really need to get into a Midwest forest and smell that woody-decay and rich soil, so pervasive of the Mississippi and Missouri River Delta region.

Ahhhh....but air travel stands in the way. It's the bridge I have to cross: Las Vegas to St. Louis.

I find joy in the journey.

Around noon on Tuesday, BossMan said I could leave early since I had a plane to catch early the next morning. I wrapped up some work projects and took off. He didn't have to tell me twice.

Back home at the Godspeed, I pulled out the computer, buzzed through some grading, took a shower, packed, and hit the road.

I like going through Searchlight to get to Vegas. I like those hills and canyons by Laughlin. (Trip Tip: If you're ever in this area, check out Grapevine Canyon.)

After a quick dinner at Texas Roadhouse, I headed toward the airport parking lot. Finding a space on the edge of the lot, I crawled into the back and organized my carry-on bag. Measuring exactly the maximum limit allowed as a free carry-on, I packed and repacked, eventually settling on the look of one who just-got-off-the-boat for tomorrow. This look is reminiscent of an early 1900s European immigrant, layered clothing and all that I own in my arms.

I started with a base of hiking boots and warm socks. Wearing washed denim jeans cinched with a yellow-brown belt would save space in the bag as the skirt-leggins combo I'd planned took less carry-on space. A collared denim shirt beneath a marigold sweater and topped withy rather bulky faux-fur vest. Classic immigrant circa 1904 Ellis Island.

After putting tomorrow's clothes in a neat little pile, I pulled the pillow out from beneath the blue blanket I had it wrapped in. Gotta protect the pillow. I don't want stray dog hairs or dust--allergens--getting on it. As I pulled away the blanket, another strand pulled away from the weave. Another strand, another year of my life. A thread pulled away from the whole cloth.

The blue Navajo blanket came into my life around my 18th birthday. My dad gave me a Greyhound bus trip: Cleveland, Ohio, to Flagstaff, Arizona. In Flagstaff, a car rental guy, Bart, met me at the bus terminal with the rental.

I drove northward toward my cabin on the North Rim of the Grand Canyon. It was an awesome birthday gift, one that's inspired my dreams and my life. Somewhere along the way, I'd obtained this blanket. The strands have pulled away over the years. Nothing is permanent.

I reached for my sleeping bag next, a bag good down to 20-degrees fahrenheit. It would be 33 tonight, or so the WeatherBug predicted. (Or guesscasted, as Maid Marianne of Escalante calls it.)

The sleeping bag was missing!

In my haste to get on the road, I must have missed packing it.

I'd have to use my cape and the Navajo blanket against the cold tonight. Reaching for the ignition, I turned off the engine. I'd have a little while to snuggle into sleep before the air grew chilly. I pulled my fleece lined cap down over my ears. It could be a long night.

And so it did. Every 60-90 minutes an icy chill would wrap around my body. When my meager covers couldn't fight it back any longer, I'd hop to the front seat, engage the clutch, step on the gas, and hit the ignition. Then, I'd jump in the back and hunker down with the blanket tight around my body until I'd wake from the heat and have to turn off the engine. This went on all night, from 10 until about 4:35 when my alarm clock alerted me to get inside to TSA.

I turned on the vehicle and found a closer parking space. Once parked, I got dressed in my migrant clothing, slung the carry-on over my shoulder, and took the short route over the median rocks and airport roadways toward the terminal. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line.

As I carried my bag filled with clothes, the computer, and gifts for my daughter, my arm started hurting. Just outside the airport, the Lord blessed me with a free luggage carrier sitting by the door and ready to claim.

This would be a good trip.