Almost imperceptibly, the days shorten. Now, in bed, it’s still light with no sun insight. So again the Perseids will shoot past ome as I sleep. When we lived in Hayfork we pumped up an air mattress and lay out in front of our house. If we were the first to spot a meteorite and to yell out “ee auk ee, meteor.” We owned it. Here near the coast, our sightings are robbed by incident light and morning fog. I’m desperate. This shower will be dissolved by time. And then it’s August. The last full summer month.

On Thursday we head back to the Ely Garage home. It’s a quick 2200 miles. Hopefully we’ll spot some meteors from the road. We should be in Ely on or before August 1st which is the full moon. This should prompt the animals to sing and dance all around.

We have so many birds at our feeding stations here, it’s hard to leave. But building a house and paddling a canoe is our waiting adventure.

It’s been 12 days since the last day of work and my transition from a job and our life in California. Heading to meet Terry at MSP and leaving work behind for good, seemed bewildering. Six weeks ago, under enough snow to hide a good look at the six acres on PTT, Pine Tree Trail, just across the way from Shagawa Lake, we ignored our pragmatic tendencies, and put in an offer on this land.

On one corner of our six acres there is a clearing with electricity, a septic system -currently connected to nothing, an outhouse, and a large garage. Near the septic, over boulders and other miscellaneous obstructions are two large sheds. They perch atop concrete pillars that support cross bars and a huge I-beam making a platform for said sheds. It turns out one of these sheds is the former Chainsaw Sisters Saloon which holds fine memories because it was near entry 23, a put in spot to Lake Mundro and the BWCA (Boundary Water Canoe Area). Before or after a wilderness canoe trip, a drink is a fine thing, indeed.

Did I mention the BWCA was the reason we were here?

We weren’t quite starting from scratch. We had a garage. With nothing more than a long extension cord, we had electricity. And we had an outhouse. I pictured us living out of the long cavernous dark garage with some trepidation. I pictured an overhead garage light with the queen-sized pump-up mattress below and boxes of clothes and food and plenty of mice. We could play Alone and trap and skin the mice thanking each dead mouse for giving us sustenance. But realisticly, my vegetarianism would preclude my success in this game.

Still this corner of our new property ads value. It is our avenue for building our simple cabin in the woods. As Ken, a friend in California, replied when I told him my husband’s dream was to build his own cabin, “That’s every husband’s dream.” He said in a roll-your-eyes tone and continued, “Yup, I remember paging through the Whole Earth Catalog dreaming about having rich compost from the composing toilets, and using the super thick ice box instead of a refrigerator. And reading “A Cabin in the Woods.”

Oh my God, I had forgotten about those younger days and that whole movement. Young and foolish is the new old and foolish.

But in his few weeks Terry had spent in Ely without me, he built a cabin in the garage. It was a good-sized room. He then built a frame for the pump-up mattress, a fold up table, a closet, a frame for a counter top. We were ready to add a few things to be in business.

Early the next day, we headed to the town of Babbitt to hit some yard sales. The night before I discovered “What’s up Ely” on Facebook and all the yard sale ads. We got a never-been-used rug, a Hudson Bay Blanket and cupboard on wheels. We continued on to Walmart 53 miles in Virginia. We purchased two chairs, a microwave, and refrigerator. We picked up a counter top remnant and a sink from Mennard’s. What more do we need? Oh ya, we needed to stop at the ball field in Ely and fill up our 4 gallon water container from their spigot.

The outhouse had some charm. It was tucked into a forest of aspens, and reached via a path accented with roots and rocks that could catch your toe and bring you to your knees. It never did. Terry decided to add a picture window for a Loo with a View. And I lined the snaking path with solar lights. So we’re not playing Alone but rather we’re playing House. This phase is newlyweds.

Damn it was good to be with Terry. There is no loneliness like ours.

Around 1:00 am the tempest struck. Winds gusting to 45 mph tore at our rain fly, bending the aluminum tent poles until they touched our sleeping bagged bodies. For over two hours gust after gust tried every method of dislodging us from this 3700 ft saddle in the Tonto National Forest.

Then around 3:00 am the winds died and we drifted to sleep. It was a short respite. At 4:30 am the blow resumed and succeeded in pulling one vestibule stake. The rope was beginning to fray. Gina called out that she was frightened and was going to make a run for it. We jammed all of our wet gear and tent into our backpacks and at 7:17 set off in the howling wind. The storm varied in rain and wind intensity depending on slope direction, but continued for hours.

Soaked and tired, Deb struggled with unusable hands. Gina dug out a set of hand warmers and slowly through the pain, function returned. At a quick pace we moved down toward the valley floor on muddy trails. Pods of wide-eyed bovines witnessed our progress and marveled, calling to one another.

Clouds lightened, rain turned to mist, and there was a hint of sun when we reached Picket Post Trailhead at 1:17 after 11.5 miles of misery.

After another series of travails, we were ready to hit the trail when I realized my hiking poles must be in my car 70 miles back. Despite my protestations, we headed back to my car. But first we needed to revise our plan. We stopped at a retro cafe in Superior where the servers were dressed and made up like the 40’s. We spread out Gina’s maps and opened a couple of apps and explored all the possibilities. We considered starting at the lake and hiking in reverse, but the Superstition Mountains rise to 6000 feet and we didn’t want the cold and snow. So we decided not to hike that section.

Gina said she had to be home by the 26th. She figured that would only leave enough time to hike passage 16 and 17. Our hike was cut from 113 miles to 39 miles. So we drove back to Roosevelt Lake to get my car. Gina drove hers to our end point as we followed. She hopped in our car and we headed to the Florence-Kelvin trailhead. We had all our gear on and we were actually hiking by 3:45. We hiked three miles through a saguaro cactus forest with carpets of poppies and lupin. It was 70°, windless and overcast. Perfect hiking. We set up our tents, and ate butternut squash.

Terry and I headed south leaving at 4:00 pm after I finished work. We were hoping to buy time because we were meeting a friend on the 17th at Lake Roosevelt AZ where we planned to finish the hike. Gina lives in Albuquerque so she was a lot closer to our destination. We didn’t drive far before we wanted to stop. We ended up at Grapevine about 300 miles from home.

We headed 190 miles east to Valladolid. The town had charm. So many colors dancing by. A tad hyper. Well in fact totally packed. All the one way streets barely moving. So when Terry accidentally turned toward a wrong way approach, catching himself and swerving right back into his approach, a cop caught up to our car on foot. Terry steeled himself to play the role of indignant tourist. This really is not a role for him, but it was suggested by a a classmate from the language school. To my surprise, Terry mastered the role and the police pair let us off with a warning. This whole unpleasant encounter would have benefited by having fluency in Spanish. That’s next years goal.

Despite having poor directions to our Airbnb, we found it. Most of our trip seemed predicated on luck. Our frequent exclaim was “Wow how did find this?”

According to the host we were lucky to be there at this time because there was a fiesta going on in the park next to us. All we could hear was the testing of a speaker at full volume ripe with distortion and screeching audio feedback. “Nice. Buena Suerte.”

We enter the inner garden of our abode: cool muted noise. We look forward to pool. It did resemble the picture but miniaturized. Quaint feature indeed. The room was calming. All in all a good find. The speaker noise drifted in. But what the hay?

From the cool sanctuary of the inner garden to the street hit us with a blast of heat and noise. We had been desensitized in Merida by the pounding bass of Cross Fit Gym right across the street from our apartment. This assured us that in short order, we would be acclimated.

We found the restaurant the host recommended. It was on the corner of two bustling streets. Nice open windows helping to usher in the rumble of motorcycles and the waft of exhaust. Aside from the need to yell to be heard, it soon became background buzz.

Back to our park. The wild speakers were replaced by a religious ceremony. And at the main square we were treated to the local folkloric dancing. Between sets all the dancers ran to the side of their stage. One of the female dancers couldn’t button her skirt and three male dancers were pulling her sash in opposite directions. Suck it in. Hold your breath and dance. Amazing!

People we out on the streets throughout the town. We headed back. The religious ceremony had ended and the speaker distortion return. The windows rattled in our room. We fell asleep immediately after exclaiming, how will we ever sleep?

About an hour later, we woke to a resounding boom. And then the tat, tat, tat of an automatic weapon. What the? It was fireworks. OK let’s sleep.

We left behind the structure of our school, Habla, the center for language and culture. This tightly wound educational immersion structure that surrounded us unwound like shedding the city highway by highway from Parque Central to the outer periferico.

My Siri, a cultured sounding Irishman, patiently called out directions. “In one mile stay in the second lane from the right and merge onto the Anillo Periferico Licenciado Manuel Berzunza.” He kindly redirected us a few times, when his directions seemed dubious, until we headed out of Merida and straight away.

All we knew was that we were heading for the small coastal town of Celestun, leaving our familiar apartment and neighborhood behind. We will miss the crazy traffic flow around and through the glorietas (roundabouts) under the care of our personal stream of Uber drivers. All fast and sure despite such low fares it seemed impossible to make a profit. In the morning we could practice Spanish with them. But on the way home we were too stymied to talk, with visions of verb conjugations flattening our brains.

Car by car the traffic dropped away. The last few miles, the two-lane road was smooth. Terry relaxed into the drivers seat with mask off, and symptoms in the rear view. And then a hint of the approaching ocean air found us. Terry enthusiastically deemed this road as one he must bike even though there were none. It did promise a salubrious affect of coasting to the sea without a care.

We didn’t have reservations, and we didn’t concern ourselves with viewing images or knowing a damn thing about this place except we had heard there were Flamingos. So Terry had called the flamingo guy who said, “Segaro que tenemos flamencos. Encuéntranos a las 8:00 en la playa.”

Terry announced, “I think it’s set. We’re meeting a guy at the beach at 8:00. I think I heard him say mañana. We’ll get up early and just go and see.”

We drove into the town. The promise of flamingos kept us buoyant despite the main square presenting a bleak looking affair. The road down the beach front only had an occasional car. Dogs ruled. They walked right down the middle of the Main Street giving way to nothing and no body. They were well-nourished and self-assured. They didn’t hang near garbage or people. They swaggered slowly and occasionally looked at other dogs while giving one another berth and a nod and a smirk. You could find a dog on a balcony looking down on you. Or on the crisply ironed table cloth in a restaurant. Some ascended to the rooftops. The more experienced climbers jumped to a neighboring roof. In groups they would hit the water to surf. In groups they would torment a lone cat.

Our hotel room was colorful but uncomfortable. Plastic sheets, one lone hanging light bulb, paper-thin walls, we’ve all been there. The one open restaurant in town, informed us as soon as we got our food, that we had 10 minutes before closing.

Somehow, Saturday was charmed. By 8:40 a.m. we were in a good sized boat with two other couples and a captain heading out to open waters. We were the only English speakers, so we translated for each other. It was a lot of, “I think he said” and “Ya I think that probably is it.” The Flamingos we’re standouts in a sea of pelicans and the boat was speedy. We crossed over the Celestun river from the Caribbean to the Gulf of Mexico and into the mangroves. Quite the morning trip!

I want to add more verbs and tenses to my reflexive self, but instead they are shedding like one sheds virus. Like yourself sheds a direct object indirectly.

The third day we were here I had food poisoning. I had no idea from what. I tackled the problem at the source. And quit eating vegetables and started drinking bottled water. Cristal is the most available bottle water so we stocked up. I’d had no further problems. One day we ran by a Japay water tower and saw a Cristal water truck pumping water directly from it.

This is a bustling, busy city. It seems on every block they are simultaneously demolishing and building. Glamorized high rise condos offer “ The Art of Living.”

Tomorrow I will not worry. Four years ago, God left a wad of paper on the floor in St. Michael’s Cathedral (Sitka, Alaska). On it in God’s handwriting God wrote: This is god and just for today you are not to worry, I will worry for you. It smacked of AA, but I decided not worry about that and I didn’t. Tomorrow on my last day of flirting with the Spanish language, I think that God will just worry for me. And I can relax and enjoy this beautiful language.

I only have two days left of my Spanish class here in Merida Mexico. I say I because last Wednesday before class, Terry tested positive for COVID. He hadn’t been feeling well. Just to be safe, he took the test. Wow! It immediately turned a pissed-off purple-ish brown. What a nasty surprise. He’s getting better and I’m just plane negative.

So I go it alone to class. Students come and go. Now I’m the weakest student in class. Today we had the presente perfecto. It’s the title of something perfect. All our present living should be perfect. It could be a first line in a poem or spoken in a movie. The present perfect begins today . . . by being the death of me. I’m not an indirect object and I’m not known to be direct.

I will miss these discussions , but never remember the content.

The only chairs in this house are torturous. There is a standard rolling chair at the desk. But no light. In the afternoon we could capture light from the sun, but the shades are closed and tucked in owing to the 90 degree heat that heats to 105 once filtered through the window. The two remaining sitting devices are high chairs. They were trending recently but there is a reason they didn’t remain popular. One reason lives in our far away subconscious memory of the freedom we enjoyed when our parents released us from the prison of the high chair. And truth be found when mounting the adult high chair, there is no way to propel your lap under the table. There you stay too far out to keep food off your lap, or to write your letter to Maria. The uncomfortability rating for these chairs is high.

On this Wednesday, our class visited Museo Fernando Garcia Ponce. Terry met us there. He was fresh from the Zoo so it was a jammed packed day for him. He’s crushing it. We were viewing the art to get impressions of the cruelty of the oppressors, our theme of the week. Terry and I were sharing a handout, sitting on the floor viewing a picture and madly filling in the answers, when the Policía asked us questions about what we we’re doing. We directed them to our instructor, who was quickly led away. We were so relieved when she wasn’t under arrest. She was calmly informed to cease and desist. We did not have permission to continue. We shared our answers in a circle, and left without further molestation.

I was out the door of our Merida apartment at 5:30 AM. Under the sky dark with few peeks of stars, estrellas. I begin my pdaily run here. I love leaving from my door. Something I could do in Alaska. Something I miss dearly. Our home in CA has steep hills in both directions from my house. And after the first mile, the traffic could kill me.

Here I start running, a few steps from our apartment. I’m off the curb leaning to the right and down the dark street. I’m dark. I leave my headlight behind since Terry suggested it. Who wants a dead headlamp? I don’t. But Terry changed his mind last week after he saw the picture of the coral snake I came face to face with. But now this gives me something to prove. Really I don’t need a headlamp. I’m not afraid of a snake. At least not that one. It was dead.

This is my 17th day running this route. just before dawn, I run this town. The streets are crappy, but so much better that the streets of Santa Cruz County. In Corralitos, there are no street lights. Here there are the yellowish lights that we once had in the US, now replaced by the favored halogen and LEDs. They have robbed us of our stars.

Most of the houses are large and walled-in. The walls come up to the streets. Garage doors are huge, most are slated, so you can peek into the interior. During the day, you can glimpse someone hosing down the garage floor or lifting heavy weights in their home gym. You hear the exaggerated grunts of the Cross Fit régimen. Power and money are right here on these lackluster roads, for six miles and beyond. With ever thicker layers of walls, gates and security. Something there is about a wall. What are they walling in? And what are they walling out?

This early you hear a relay of dogs barking. It starts with one that sounds like a squeaky toy passed on to serious guard dog. “Stand back.”

Soon I see my first figure. The dark outline of the runner’s bob. “Buenas Dias.”

“Buen Día” and a clear thumbs up under the street light.