P+M Hit The Road

The drumbeat of wooden bridge planks flipping under our tires interrupts the hum of nature surrounding us. Protected by acres and acres of sturdy Iowa corn, we pass a herd of bearded goats grazing a meadow. Our tandem enables an intimate window to the earth if you can abide a sore behind and blazing sunburn. Freedom is rolling down the road along meandering creeks, listening to songbirds harmonize lovely melodies exclusively for us. Screaming down steep grades, crawling up steep grades, dodging potholes and aggressive red winged blackbirds, an obstacle course of sorts, made it through unscathed.   A few weeks back we passed road bikers on the Pacific Coast highway, true warriors burdened with hefty saddlebags draped over wheels stressed under the gruelling load. Pedaling the narrow white line on the edge, battling pelting rain and erratic drivers, climbing mountain passes. Definitely fearless, tempting fate riding on this twisted, congested route. I respect their determination ...

A litter of adorable fluffy kittens found a home in the towering weeds growing in my flower bed during our trip out West. Wrestling, pawing furballs enjoying the sheltered wonderland of my jungle garden. Mama cat lowers her head, staring fierce, ready to pounce if I step one breath closer to her babies. Message received, I back away. After every road trip there's catching up back at the ranch, laundry, cleaning, yard work, endless mindless chores. I mentioned to Paul living in our mobile bungalow was a lot less work, sweep the dust, cram dirty laundry into the closet, feet up, done. Our modest manufactured dream maker is not technically a doublewide but a bonafide Recreational Vehicle. A spacious 250 square foot oasis of faux leather and luxury that continually tests our marriage as we escape the frigid Iowa winters each year. We adapt, nature is our backyard and there are times we need every inch of it. Sometimes the compact nature of our traveling paradise is a...

"The grey roads on the map" a new friend explained her intriguing road trip strategy. She and her husband follow the "greys" scoping out new adventures. Sounds challenging, thought we might give it a spin, I just haven't mentioned it to Paul yet. No GPS signal, armed with illegible directions scribbled on the edge of an old newspaper, I lead Paul down a rustic one lane country road in search of the highly acclaimed "tallest waterfall in the state of Oregon". The road narrows, deteriorates from gravel to dirt then to impassible craters. Finally, grudgingly we decide this cow path leads nowhere. We abandon the lunacy but can't back up on the winding narrow lane. Out of the truck, I direct inch by inch, back and forth, steep drops on either side, ankle deep potholes in the middle, twenty tense minutes later, the truck is turned around back down that lonely old road.  I've reserved numerous campsites that were impossible to manuever a Volkswag...

Pockets of sea life, small creatures squeezed into stone bowls swirling together in pools of salty soup clinging desperately to rock until high tide washes them back out to sea.  Tide pools. The colors are fantastic, purpley, coral, electric green, bold shimmering orange, warted yellow arms swishing side to side.  Soft suede sea lions laze on a boulder island nearby, curious.  Climbing over rocks, my hand sinks into a soft, slimy neon mass that pulls my fingers deeper.  Loud screaming, bones quiver, my entire body shudders, tears shed.  I am traumatized.  The sea lions bark, amused. Our destination today, Cape Lookout, a hazy spit of land stretching far into the Pacific Ocean atop a rigid 800 foot cliff face. Settling around us the fog is relentless, soft pine needles turn to damp dirt then gradually, entirely to muddy sludge, boots sink deep down into the slimy, oozing muck.  Arms flailing, feet sliding, jerking to an embarrassing, uncoord...

Since 1970 Oregon proudly commemorates a weird but honestly true story of an unfortunate, massive wayward whale that beached itself on the pristine shores of Florence, Oregon. Related in vivid detail to us at Homegrown Brew Pub by a sweet bartender too young to be alive during the actual event, I believed every word she said. Elders of the township devised a plan to dispose of that lifeless stinking vagrant by stuffing half a ton of dynamite into the belly of the foul monster to bring harmony back to their fine community. While townspeople gawked and carried on, a carnival of sorts, Walter Umenhofer drove his brand new Oldsmobile 98 directly from the showroom floor to the extravaganza to witness the lighting of the fuse. Expecting festive tiny whale confetti, instead an explosion of huge fatty chunks of syrupy, stinking flesh filled the sky, the screaming crowd ran for their lives, dodging eight tons of blood, guts, whale carcass, a massive blob of blubber crushed Walter's shiny ...