One last look around the totally empty house, a click of the front door key and we're off. All the preparations completed, eyes looking eastward we begin our summer's 7,000 mile journey. We rolled up the entrance ramp to Rt. 13 - our first highway and slammed to a crawl as the traffic was barely moving. It is not a good omen when your GPS entones "Would you like to switch to pedestrian mode" in it's singsong synthetic voice at the beginning of such a long undertaking. However, we soldiered on, and as we shrugged off the deep marine layer of soggy air blocking out the sun, so did we shrug off the crowded highway and by the time we reached Concord we were zipping along close to the limit.
Closing up a home of 20 years involved a lot more than simply packing and storing boxes. With each item we stripped from the walls or the shelves, it's associated memories seemed to hang in the balance. Turning an item over in my hands memories washed over me, and once again the house was full of children's toys underfoot, or the balmy sea breeze was blowing through my hair on a Caribbean beach. Each collected item and some point carefully selected or masterfully crafted by it's creator had somehow grown dull and pale, dissolving into the unremarkable fabric that had become my life. But now, upon reconsideration as we sorted into categories, of bring in camper, bring to Tahoe, store under house, and give away each item seemed to take on a new glow and luster. Those items with no remaining glow seemed destined for the give away pile, but then, sometimes later as I moved things around in a box to more efficiently fill the package it's siren would go off, and I would recall the significance of the moment during which I collected that specimen. Sometimes that led to reclassification, and other times, just a warm melancholy feeling. At times like this I remind myself that I am off on a big adventure and am sure to experience many such special moments in my future.
Looking around the bare walls and empty shelves last night, Diane and I recalled the first day we arrived in this house long long ago, at the beginning our lives together, wondering what lay before us. As time went on, we seemed to collect a vast array of shells, rocks, sticks, and photographs, along with dizzying array of what now seems like disposable technology and toys which at the time were so magic and dear. The moving out process was like a cleansing, a revival as we pulled up anchor from one spot and set sail for a distant horizon.
Driving together hour after hour, we are really the same people as we were before we starting this packing process, but something is different in our perspective and I relish the excitement of it all. So tonight, after a day's drive with just one brief stop at Royal Gorge to drop off a few house plants that they agreed to foster for the summer, we are camped just below the dam in a small, quaint campground right on the shores of the Rye Patch River. We watch the almost full moon rise out of the pink dry hills of central Nevada just as the sun is setting behind us. The swallows skim low and fast along the river's surface to catch the bugs, and a fly fisherman tries his luck from the bank. Occasionally the smoke from a nearby camp fire wafts by, and I strum chords on the mandolin as Diane quietly whistles accompaniment and reviews maps for tomorrows objectives.
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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| From 2011 Summer Trip |
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