I have never seen a well being drilled let alone having it so up close and personal. Monday two huge trucks arrived dwarfing our garage/ living abode and consuming the length of our long country driveway. One of the vehicles, a crane with the drilling apparatus, cost $1,000,000, something I never considered. They arrived about 9:30 and left at 5:00 after drilling to a depth of 205 feet and only getting a sprinkle of water, but were encouraged. All day long the driller hummed a deafening tone. The trucks shook the ground and our nerves. Again on Tuesday it was constant pounding. Actually most of the effort goes into smashing and grinding the rock into a silty mix that can be flushed out with water.

We left for two hours to run 10 miles of the Ely Marathon course. Terry stayed a couple of miles ahead of me in the car. He got enough phone reception to keep himself busy. His duty was to provide support and protect me from bears. It’s pretty desolate. This is a hard running course with lots of grueling uphills. My shin splints have really flared up and now it’s hard to pull my toes up. I feel pathetic .

Dominic is coming to visit tomorrow. We set up a tent for him and bought a couple of cots. We checked out some campsites. On Thursday I’m going to get a rental solo canoe in the version I have on order which should be here the end of August. We’ll take the solo and the tandem to paddle, swim and hike Thursday and Friday.

When we returned the drillers had found water at 305 feet, and they were packing up—peace and quiet.

At 5:00, even though it looked like rain, Terry took off on his bike. I was listening to the radio when the weather alert broke in announcing a storm heading toward Ely with lightning, hail, and wind gusts of 60 MPH. I drove off and found Terry coming home, but still a few miles out. Good thing because I wasn’t sure his bike would fit in my car.

At 6:00 we were eating supper in the dark and watching and listening to the loud, violent storm. It was short and fun, but knocked our power out.

We tell ourselves and others we are here to make progress on building an abode. But the two absolutes toward that goal are just as stalled as they were when we left here mid-June. Our guy, Grandson of the originator of the bar that we inherited, who is going to take it away, can’t find people to help. Everyone is slammed. Same for our well-digger.

Don’t get me wrong we want to be here, but it’s hard. Our electricity comes from one long extension cord. When you turn the hot plate on you need to turn the refrigerator off. Today we forgot to turn the fridge back on. It’s basically days of mistakes and irritation.

Today was hot. Almost 90. I can’t seem to adjust to this time. I get up at 6:00. I want to be ready to run at 6:00. The sun’s up early just to heat up the earth. It’s after 8:00 PM and we’re sitting in our car by the lake to get better service. It’s peaceful.

This is what I discovered running this morning.

All last night and today we’ve been unraveling. Both of us, even out of the car for hours, feel the road beneath us. Feeling cities, mountains, towns, forests and all the miles of flat deserts and prairies. Sun beating hot and bright though the windows for ten or more hours each day. The tedium, the repetitive highway sound and wrist motions and ever so slight body adjustments until I ask, “Do you want drive?” “You’ve only been driving for 12 minutes.”

Luckily, the trip was not without a day and a half stop in South Dakota. We arrived at Debbie and Brad’s house, Terry’s sister and brother-in-law, Saturday afternoon. Also, Terry’s youngest brother was visiting from Idaho. We just happened to arrive on class reunion day. All four of them graduated from high school in Presho SD. The three siblings and I attended dinners with classmates. Terry only had one classmate attending from his class of nineteen. But in a small town you know everyone anyway. Even those who graduated in 1948.

Sunday, I woke at 4:00 AM. I decided to sit in the dark so as not to wake the others. Soon lightening pulsed and faint spate of thunder panicked their little dog, Sammie. Just before we arrived yesterday she peed the carpet over a similar event.

“Please be brave, Sammie.” She had a pathetic look on her face. But she was brave with me by her side.

Only 650 miles remained. We rolled into town at 5:38. The trees, garage, loo-with-the-view looked so familiar. It felt like home. I’d been waiting for the full moon and the craziness that full moons brings to the loons. But the sky shone a blood red and a smoky haze.

The first thing I was going to do when I arrived was buy a solo canoe and take off by myself. It wasn’t the first thing, but Terry joined me at the end of the day to shop at Piragis Northwoods Company. Both of us had fun. It’s a big adventure, so I rented one for Friday. Above is a picture of the solo canoe and below the paddle, both of which I covet.

I went to a Pink Martini Concert with friends Wednesday night, got home too late for me (in bed at 1:00 AM), and I paid for it Thursday. I had to get up at 5:00 AM. For weeks we planned to leave on the 27th, so there was no grace for me.

Last night after arriving at our room in Wendover Utah’s Super 8 and catching a whiff of their toxic air- deodorizer, Evening in Paris, used liberally in lieu of cleaning, I sank into deep exhaustion and despair. Terry tried to assure me the smell would be gone if we opened the windows and went out to eat.

In Wendover, if you’re not going to a Casino your selection for restaurants is nil after 9:00 PM. It was 8:15 when Terry Googled for choices and found The Copper Kettle—a fine local establishment with excellent reviews. We pulled into the last parking space. The windows were filthy. I glanced at the kitchen— bad idea. We had to wait for table. We were seated at 8:45. I ordered a salad. I ate a few bites. It was the end of the evening. I shouldn’t have expected fresh vegetables. Terry was right, on return to the room it was just fine.

We have made this trek many times including last September. Nothing is new except the loss of businesses in the small towns as they fade away. And for us it’s the addition or expansion of our route—we pass by Fridley and continue up north. But that’s our later story, and our purpose.

Right now the hills in the near distance look like so many we’ve passed over the years. I remember best the ones I’ve passed on solo trips. I recall my drive from Skagway to Anchorage Alaska. These hills right now in Wyoming look like the hills in Yukon Territories Canada. On that trip I bought a holder for my harmonica to help keep me awake. The first song I mastered was “Oh Susanna.” That came to me before White Horse only 100 miles away. But that was it. I tried some Dylan, some Neil Young. Ha!

When I stopped at a drive-thru coffee place along the Richardson Highway, the barista asked if I were a musician. I couldn’t think of one female harmonic player. So I asked if she had heard of Peter, Paul and Mary. She said no. I said, “Well you’re young and it was a long ago.” She asked me to repeat the name of my band. “You mean Peter, Paul and Mary?” She said ya that’s it. I flipped my harp up and into position and played “Oh Susanna” as I drove off. I never said it was my band.

I’m replaying the audiobook “Paddling North” by Audrey Sutherland so Terry can enjoy it too. It keeps both of us entertained and alert. She suggests “Go light, Go solo and Go now.” Everything Terry does on his Zero motorcycle is solo. My plan is to do some solo multi-day paddling trips. I’m anxious to try out these beautiful paddles I saw in the Piragis catalog and the gorgeous solo canoe I saw in their shop in Ely. I’ll keep you posted on this venture.

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.