Traveling to the Desert – Day Two

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January 1, 2016.

400 miles done and 1400 miles to drive. Smack dab in the center of Missouri.

New Year’s Day. There’s a new year’s tradition — or is it superstition? — “what you do on New Year’s Day, you’ll do all year long.” Well, there you have it — a year filled with travel!

Crossing Missouri — began by driving across the Mississippi River and drove until we crossed the Missouri River in Kansas City.

I say “mi-zour-ee.” Do you say “mah-zour-ah?”

Small herds of cattle and farms in eastern Missouri; more horses and small ranches driving further west.

I saw an owl, a brown and white barred owl, standing on the side of the highway, as if he were studying the road that stretched in front of me. Ten in the morning. I can only think the owl was a good journey omen. This was not the only encounter on the drive to the desert I had with birds. They accompanied me west in the most extraordinary ways.

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500 miles done and 1300 miles to go.

Stopped for barbecue southwest of Kansas City, Kansas.

Oh. Yum. Not in Wisconsin any longer, Dorothy.

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600 miles done; 1200 more. A third of the way.

Eastern Kansas. Flint Hills.

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700 miles done; still 1100 more. 7-11s. Lucky numbers. Just as the afternoon was getting long, just when I needed a sign… a  gift from the Universe.

A murmuration of starlings. A pulsating cloud of birds, dipping, dancing. The flock expanded, then contracted. Dipped towards the fields, then swooped high into the sky.

A most serendipitous sight.

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900 miles done, 900 more to go.

Kansas on the diagonal. Northeast to southwest.

From Wichita to Liberal. The road is straight. The land is flat.

Every small town has a grain elevator. Grain elevators are the most interesting subject for photos in Kansas, at least I think so. especially when driving late afternoon into the night. The light catches the metal containers — some quite ordinary,  but many in unexpected, even spectacular ways.

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1000 miles left behind in the rear view mirror. 800 miles still ahead.

Driving into the sunset.

Kansas flat. Horizon orange, deepening into red the color of blood and lingering deep into twilight. A thin red line in the black.

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Since driving and arriving are the priority for this trip, all photos are drive by.

Using my iPhone and Hipstamatic filters set on random (though still available for some post processing when desired) add a sense of photo adventure with a modicum of control.

 

Traveling to the Desert — Day One

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December 31.

Heading west from Wisconsin.

Driving to the desert.

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100 miles done, 1700 to go.

Crossing the Mississippi River at Dubuque, Iowa

River is icy, not frozen.

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200 miles done, 1600 miles to go.

Iowa farm

Minimalist. Lines.

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300 miles done, 1500 miles to go. break in travel for a hometown visit

crossing the Mississippi again, this time into Illinois

river is high on December 31st after unprecedented winter rains

much of Quincy is built high on the bluffs, natural flood protection

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the bridge of my childhood travels

crossing this bridge always meant some version of travel adventure — a visit with family who across the river in Missouri or Iowa, or a weekend trip to St. Louis (the big city)

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Since driving and arriving are the priority for this trip, all photos are drive by. And on the first leg of the journey, all shots are taken through winter-slushed windows.

Hipstamatic filters set on random (but still available for some post processing when desired) and my iPhone add a sense of photo adventure with a modicum of control.

All Winter I Harvest

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HERONS IN WINTER IN THE FROZEN MARSH

by Mary Oliver

All winter
two blue herons
hunkered in the frozen marsh,
like two columns of blue smoke.

What they ate
I can’t imagine,
unless it was the small laces
of snow that settled

in the ruckus of the cattails,
or the glazed windows of ice
under the tired
pitchforks of their feet—

so the answer is
they ate nothing,
and nothing good could come of that.
They were mired in nature, and starving.

Still, every morning
they shrugged the rime from their shoulders,
and all day they
stood to attention

in the stubbled desolation.
I was filled with admiration,
sympathy,
and, of course, empathy.

It called for a miracle.
Finally the marsh softened,
and their wings cranked open
revealing the old blue light,

so that I thought: how could this possibly be
the blunt, dark finish?
First one, then the other, vanished
into the ditches and upheavals.

All spring, I watched the rising blue-green grass,
above its gleaming and substantial shadows,
toss in the breeze,
like wings.

Five lines from Mary Oliver’s poem, Herons in Winter in the Frozen Marsh, and an interpretation of a different sort.

ALL WINTER I HARVEST

ALL WINTER I harvest patience, aware as the darkest dark inches towards light, as seconds of light replace seconds of darkness; from this emerges a daily practice of awareness, of the smallest of movements gathering, of self care, of perseverance, of gratitude.

THEY SHRUGGED THE RIME FROM THEIR SHOULDERS, let me brush the frost from mine, in anticipation of the coming warmth. The sun comes up each morning, visible to me or not, whether I feel its warmth or not. I will not cry out for warmth in this time of darkness and cold, but wrap my grandmother’s shawl about me, gather meanings of old that warm me, hold that warmth in the breast of my body, absorb her energy, matriarchal strength, and rest in the ease she offers.

IT CALLED FOR A MIRACLE but then, let me be honest with myself, each day I call for a miracle and each day I receive a miracle. I awake to yet another day, life continues, life anticipated, deeply desired.

INTO THE DITCHES AND UPHEAVALS, those times in life I’ve pitched forward, dropped to my knees, there where the true meat of living exists, seldom is raw life found in the land of endlessly smooth pathways. Ditches and upheavals are mines for discovery and recovery.

TOSS IN THE BREEZE the worries, toss in kindnesses and the tender swirling of sweet words, add respect, toss once again, gently. Let the refreshment settle on my shoulders, let the winds remind me to inhale and awaken.

Sunrise Illuminating Maui

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Approaching harbor in Kahului, clouds rest on the vibrant green mountain sides. This side of Maui has about 130 inches of rain annually near the shore and over 200 inches of rain in the mountains.

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This side of the Maui is very green, also guaranteed to be wet and rainy much of the time. (The western, dry side of the island gets less than 20 inches of rain per year.)

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Pulling into the harbor just before sunrise. As the sun crests the peak on the opposite side of the harbor, the greens are bathed in sunlight, the mountain’s shape and texture become visible.

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Approaching Maui

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The sea, the skies, the clouds, awaiting sunrise…

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A view to cherish.

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Approaching Maui.

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Haleakala Volcano shrouded in clouds.

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Haleakala National Park is an hour’s drive southwest of Kahului and is home of Haleakala Volcano. Amazing place, sacred place to generations of native Hawaiians.

Haleakala National Park stretches along the southern and eastern coast of Maui. As the tallest peak on the island, Haleakala rises over 10,000 feet and it can be seen from almost anywhere on the island. The Hawaiian legend of Maui the Demigod, one of the greatest cultural gods of Hawaii, tells of him standing on the peak of Haleakala and lassoing the sun as it crossed the sky so that the sun would slow its descent and make the day last longer.

The sunrise did peek through the clouds that shrouded Haleakala as we pulled towards port. That evening, we saw the sunset from the summit of the volcano, the clouds parted just in time to let the light stream through (in a post soon to come…)