Home is where you park it

  The adventure of Jon and Becky Davis as we move into retirement in a motor-coach and hit the roads across the USA  

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The Excitement of Goodbye

Rosa Luxemburg said: “Those who do not move, do not notice their chains.”

No reason to stay is a good reason to go. And going is the most exciting thing we do. Maps studied, checklist complete, jacks up, and the hissing exhale of air brakes is our recipe for new adventures. Now, completing our seventh year on the road, we still crave the unseen and our adrenaline peaks with each embarkation.

In the end, farewell is not just about saying goodbye. It is about celebrating the past, embracing the present, and looking forward to the future. It is about recognizing the beauty and the joy in the journey and being grateful for the people and places that have made the journey so meaningful.

There is exuberance in the memories that we have created and the stories that have been told. There is joy in the bonds that have been formed and the connections that have been made. The elixir that make farewells such a beautiful and meaningful experience.

So when our goodbyes are said and our hugs exchanged, know that I am not saddened but rather energized by leaving, and I am headed for an uncharted place in my life. Fresh pages, different chapters combined to record volumes of new memories.

T.S. Elliot penned “What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start...”

#retireontheroad #homeonwheels

Jon and Becky Davis are full-time adventurers. We live in a 40-foot motorhome, and our ever-changing backyard extends throughout the United States, Canada, and Mexico. Our passion is to travel, hike, and Jeep on the trails less traveled. We live by the compass and not the clock.

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MOTION:

I am not one to dwell in the past, but often look back through our pictures, flip through former posts, and find myself lost in memories, not of images, but of the things not shown.

Pictures cannot describe the pounding force of a roaring stream pushing against our waders or the feel of a native trout exploding out of the rapids sending our heart to a quickened apogee.

Photos don't depict the graceful motion of wild horses that run along-side of our Jeep or the cowboys on horseback herding cattle from mountain passes. The haunting eyes and weathered faces selling frybread, trinkets or hand-made jewelry spread before them on dusty mats.

Images fail to describe the aroma of Mesquite trees that resemble fresh rain and the occasional yip of cayotes mingled with the crackle of sparks jumping from our campfire into a starry night sky. Those are my images and they all come flooding back.

I marvel at the places we've seen. Places privileged to us and the few who seek their concealed beauty. Vistas reached only by uphill climbs through lava fields or miles of rugged trecking to hidden lakes and waterfalls.

And along the way nature unfolds its wondrous glimpses into history; history etched in ancient rock, tumbled in rushing currents, and strewn across our darkened sky.

We live immersed in nature, under the stars and along the trails. But to me, understanding it is not necessary, as hard as we try. All of this is too good for coincidence and too perfect for an accident.

There is a CREATOR. I have been taught that all my life, now I'm taught that everyday.

Jon and Becky Davis are full time adventurers traveling this amazing country in our 40-foot HOW (Home On Wheels).  Blue highways and backroads are our roads most traveled.   Our passion is Jeeping, hiking and fly fishing in places away from tourists and crowds and to enjoy what God made for us to explore. Please follow us at www.facebook.com/davisual and https://howrv.tumblr.com/

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Photography and History

"How do you take such good pictures?" people often ask. "I have the latest Nikon. What lenses should I buy?" they enquire.

In 2016 I retired. Retired from a life behind the lens. A career that began working in a darkroom after school, working my way up through school to photographer for several magazines. A major Chicago catalog photographer and a Baltimore film and advertising director were also on my resume. Then on to Nashville to produce scores of shows and content for an extensive variety of clients.

My career had taken me around the world. I often say, "I've been to some of the most romantic places on earth... with a dang film crew in tow."

My wife's medical career had only allowed her to be with me on a handful of those trips. So when we retired, it was Becky's turn.

It was her initial idea to travel. A motorcycle trip through the backroads of Tennessee launched our desire to explore the roads less traveled. To scout the unique character of the countryside.

Our curiosities were piqued by what we saw in small towns and along byways. The people who occupied the front porch swings and drove tractors accross the fields. The John Deere hats that gathered in diners for bottomless cups of coffee and endless stories. People who live a life counter intuitive to our "city" paradigm.

There were also those markers... black and silver historical markers that stand, mostly unread along the way. Public history cast in metal, carved on stone, or embedded in resin telling stories of events not published in the history books and most assuredly of little interest to me back in junior high school. Some markers are factual and some boring, while others are cryptic, wierd, funny and downright bazaar. But most, like the John Deere hats, tell stories.

The richness of history is in it's local details, and has little significance on a global scale. Details that are told of massacres or hangings, a beloved stagecoach horse, a prospector who fell to his death with pockets full of gold; or just some­thing in­te­res­ting that happened nearby. History is not just about the high and mighty. It hangs in pictures on the walls of courthouses and in the local Elks lodge; in diners, saloons or local museums. It is etched in rock and caves by ancient prehistoric civilizations, found in the most remote wilderness.

So to the inquirer with the Nikon, the camera bag of lenses and filters, let me say this: It wasn't till I retired from the cameras, studios and production trucks, did I "get it." I started taking pictures of the things I loved. I found a new love.

Retirement for me means freedom. It means hiking, Jeeping and backpacking, in the most remote places in the country. Cameras, lenses and gak became a cumbersome burden.

The famous photographer Chase Jarvis once said “the best camera is the one that's with you.” You can argue that axiom if you see a bald eagle in a tree 300 yards away, and your smartphone is the one that is "with you." But at the age of 65, I sold and gave away more gear than most folks have ever seen. I was no longer a professional. I just took pictures... with only my phone.

But to answer the question, "how do I take good pictures?"

I put things I love in front of my lens.

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The Saddle Saloon

We made camp at a trail head twenty-seven miles down a dirt road that followed the the North Fork of the Salmon River and another five miles over more rock and dirt along Panther Creek. We pulled HOW along a wide spot on the river bank and called it "home." Several rough hewned timber corals and hitching posts were available for horses, but we saw none. There was a covered utility trailer at the end of our small horse camp with a logo stating it belonged to the Showshon-Banook Indian Nation. A native came every other day to monitor, collect data, count roe and inspect a fish monitoring contraption mid stream.

An occasional hunter/tent camper was all we saw in the several weeks we called Panther Creek home. We did, however, meet a bow hunter schlepping fresh bear hide down the mountain when he crossed the river next to our rig. He had back-packed the bear meat out the previous night and returned six miles on foot up the mountain to retrieve the pelt of the 300 pound bear. He eagerly told us his story as we buried our fingers in the soft wooley pelt and admired his trophy.

After a few days of fly-fishing, Becky and I left our HOW and Jeeped another 26 of 48 miles of canyon on dirt road that hugged the North Fork. Our accute curiosity trumps most any reasoning and is the only excuse we need to see what is around the next bend or over the next mountain, or in this case, "down river."

We had seen elaborately equipped Adventure Outfitters snaking down the canyon carrying thrill seekers who pay generously for an experience of a lifetime: to raft, outback camp, hunt for big game and fish in the largest and most foreboding wilderness area in the lower forty-eight. The tumultuous Salmon River was dubbed "the river of no return" by Lewis and Clark when they plodded through the region, undoubtedly distressed that the Pacific Ocean was still not in view.

We knew that the road dead ended forty-eight miles down the canyon, and was the drop point that began a legendary ninty miles of exhausting back country safaris . The dropping off point for weeks-long wild river rampage. So to sate our curiosities, we Jeeped to the roads end.

Along the way we fished and gathered firewood for our camp-site. There were only a handful of cabins in the canyon, some were built on the far side of the river with the only access being zip lines or rafts on tethers to cross the swift currents. Most of the land is NFS but small patches were private land that was probably homesteaded generations ago. The only electricity is either generated by propane or by water wheels churning in the rapids. It is hard to imagine year-round life in this country, but after spending a collective seven weeks in the Idaho outback, we have a healthy respect for the so determined.

For millenia the mighty Salmon River has cut it's way deep into the granite rock on either side of this mighty canyon. At places, it languishes along with deep aqua pools of sparkling clear water. But granite rock does not get carved by placid pools. There is more white water on the Salmon than any other river in the country and that is what attracts the hard-core adventure seekers... and us.

On our downriver drive we noticed a wide place in the canyon that was strewn with broken down campers, mining machinery, old generators and rusted parts. Grasses grew through the floorboards of junk cars and a few rickety buildings were just a strong breeze away from collapse, leaning this way and that.

Catching our eye amid the abandoned and weathered rust was a flickering neon sign...OPEN.

We were greeted by two barking dogs. One, a once white, ugly ankle biter that posed no threat, and the other, a brown sheep dog that had a convincing bark and an even more convincing toothy snarl, but a wagging tail belied his fierce demeanor and I reached my hand toward his head to give his ears a rub.

Behind the hitching post that stretched the length of the MT Saddle Saloon was a rickety porch with an old stuffed couch and a high back wicker chair. Rat eaten pillows were propped strategically to cover the springs, holes and chewed up upholstery. Leather saddles rested over the porch railing where they had obviously been resting for many years. Through muddy, cracked, window panes a Bud Light neon flickered.

Tibbets rose from the pillowed wicker, surprised to see anyone in the middle of the afternoon. His six-foot-six frame barely clearing the sagging porch roof.

Tibb welcomed me in as Becky hesitated in the Jeep a few seconds waiting for the K-9 threat to cool down and to see if I fell through the porch planks. From the sagging door frame I signaled her to come in.

It took a few minutes for our eyes to adjust to the dim flickering light bulb powered by a water wheel somewhere in the river below. It took even more time to take in all the clutter and "stuff" that was hanging everywhere around the seven mismatched stool saloon. There were no bottles of whiskey, gin, bourbon, or spirits of any kind behind the bar. There were no glasses or small-wares waiting to be iced and filled with a refreshing coctail. Just junk. Cobwebs and wasp nests clung to rafters and everything suspended. There were old paintings, photos and even a few tasteful nudes (I didn't ask Becky, but I thought they were tastful.) Nailed to the rafters were baseball caps, saddles, stirrups and spurs, snow shoes and one guitar with duct tape around it's broken neck.

Tibb squeezed through a narrow door to a tiny back room, opened a harvest gold Frigidaire and rattled off his offerings. "What ya havin?" Boomed his voice with his head in the box. "I have Bud Light, Miller Light, Coors Light, Bush Light and Mic Light." My hopes for something a bit more hoppy being defeated, I called for a Miller Light and Becky ordered the same.

He slid our cans in front of us and eased outside to his rusty turquoise vintage truck. He returned with a tumbler with three fingers of bourbon and pulled up a stool next to us. I asked what he was drinking and he said, "ice tea" with a wink, "I'm Catholic." His breath and swagger proved it probably wasn't his first of the afternoon.

In two beers time we learned that Tibb had lived there his entire seventy-two years. He wanted to talk and we wanted to listen. The guitar belonged to Hank Williams Jr. who had gotten drunk and backed over it outside the saloon.

He loved to read and had a free library with over 500 books. It was in a shed that you could get to by wading through his junk yard, stepping over bumper hitches, tall grass, rusty propane tanks and risk falling through the floorboards. I found a Grisham book to enjoy while off grid and Becky left with a few paperbacks. Downloads are out of the question out here.

By the time we left, Tibb was our good friend. And the snarlly brown dog was too.

**************

Jon and Becky Davis are full time adventurers traveling this amazing country in our 40-foot HOW (Home On Wheels).  Blue highways, backroads and hidden places are our roads most traveled.   Our passion is Jeeping, hiking and fly fishing in places away from tourists and crowds, enjoying the conveniences of the earth, places that allow us to enjoy what God made for us to explore. Please follow us at www.facebook.com/davisual and https://howrv.tumblr.com/

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Going For Five

Four years ago we began our journey, our journey to happiness, freedom, amazment and unbounded adventure. It took us about a year to realize that while National Parks, State Parks and tourist stops are full of splendor, they offer the traveler only a minute fraction of what lies on the blue highways, down dirt roads and up winding switchbacks. We discovered treasures lay cradled in narrow canyons cut by rapid waters, and magnificent mountains serve up stunning panoramic vistas of colorful textures. Streams cascade out of hills and form lakes fed by glaciers and crystal springs where native fish spawn and eagles perch on nests above. Microcosms of plants and ants feed foxes and bear, bees and elk.

Americans have developed for themselves less than 5% of this country and not a single person, not one, lives on 47% of US land. So it's no accident that we find solitude and substance in the remaining 53% left to us by inhabitants. 83% of the population live in urban areas, so again, little wonder we can easily avoid contact with all but a few people (a 2020 imperative.)

Nature has beckoned us to don our boots and backpacks and walk deeper and deeper into its magnetic beauty, while keeping us fit and healthy. Our 4-wheel-ability lets us begin those hikes where few have gone, giving us near exclusive access to what God has for us to see and explore.

In some ways we feel like modern day explorers... the Lewis and Clarks of the twenty-first century. We weren't taught this stuff in school, so it is new and fresh and ever so amazing to our eyes. John Lubbock, the father of archaeology said, “Earth and sky, woods and fields, lakes and rivers, the mountain and the sea, are excellent schoolmasters, and teach some of us more that what we could learn from books.”

Even before the pandemic, we found our isolation in nature. After our initial quarantine in the Arizona desert we headed for higher elevation leaving behind dear acquaintences with whom we resorted during the short winter months.

We replaced friendship with exploration. We have traded conversation with communion with nature. We opted to skirt national parks and tourist stops in favor of remote public lands. Isolated spots along rivers and lakes accessed by Forestry Service roads or Burea of Land Management areas. We have replaced hot tubs, margaritas and throw-back bands, with campfires, and the sounds of coyotes, and calls from moose and elk.

Our biggest gift is the freedom of time.  Our clock, for the past four years, has been set to “discretionary” and our compass points in every direction. We can stay a week or day. We can, because as long as our health holds, we have adventure to propel us and a Home on Wheels to rest our head.

Jon and Becky Davis are full time adventurers traveling this magnificent country in a 40-foot Home On Wheels, (HOW.)  Blue highways and back-roads are our roads most traveled.   Our passion is Jeeping and hiking in places away from tourists and crowds and to enjoy what God made for us to explore.

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There are no shortcuts to any place worth going.

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Understanding the Risks

The trail is rated hard. The assent is steep and not well marked. Canyons close in, and our path winds through narrow drops, and over giant boulders. Cell phone coverage and GPS, unavailable. We are miles from the trail-head. We climb on.

With tires aired down we drive through miles of riverbed. We shift to 4-wheel-low and climb a banked grade of loose dirt. Pinned against our seat-backs we see only sky through our windshield before dropping down the other side, revealing a breathtaking Kodachrome valley with hoodoos, arches and table mesas. Another rewarding risk.

Four years back, we packed our clothes, sold our house and started a 450 horse-power diesel that would take us on a risky journey. A journey full of “what ifs” not supported by charts and not calculated by graphs with flattening curves.

There are those who believe that what we do is reckless. Perhaps if our journey could be calculated by a scholarly team of risk assessors, they might agree. These are the same people who tell me I cannot go to church, to a beach or a hair salon. They also tell me I’m in a high-risk group. To that, I say, “Hell yes, I’m high-risk!” For one, I’m old! Just a few short years from the actuaries’ expected lifespan, (another statistic they like to illustrate with a chart or graph.)

Only God has given me limits. He knows how many more beats my triple repaired heart will thump. He knows if I will leave this earth falling from a cliff or choking on a jellybean.

So, what the heck is risk?

Risk is something that charges my batteries. Risk is the adrenalin that pulses in my veins when I plant my trekking poles on a mountain top. Yes, I will wear a mask at home depot and carry my firearm on hikes. But I will not stop living my risky life to flatten anyone’s curve.

 Jon and Becky Davis are full time adventurers traveling this magnificent country in a 40-foot Home On Wheels, (HOW.)  Blue highways and back-roads are our roads most traveled.   Our passion is Jeeping and hiking in places away from tourists and crowds and to enjoy what God made for us to explore.

[howrv]

State of The Virus

During this quarantine mandate brought on by the Covid-19 virus I thought I would share what our life looks like and bring our family and friends up to date on our situation,

Through the coldest months we depart from our nomadic explorations and settle into resort living in the Fortuna Foothills, just east of Yuma Arizona. A restorative break from our un-routine of continual motion around the country.  We exchange the chatter of migratory birds, and yelping coyotes, for the cadence of pickleballs and conversations around the pool.

During this time, for the most part, I put social media on hiatus. as we have moved from a rather remarkable blog-worthy lifestyle to one that resembles the average life of active retirees.  We have developed extremely close friendships with like travelers, snowbirds and fellow adventurers, all of whom punctuate our journey with diverse opinions, lifestyles and information that cannot be Googled. I could write volumes on these folks… perhaps for another day.

Throughout southern Arizona there are scores of high-end resorts that cater to snowbirds and full time RV’rs.  In our resort there are around 1200 sites.  Activities abound and the calendar is packed with daily options. There are bands and DJs at the pools and saloons, lessons of every kind from line-dancing to wood turning, dog grooming to quilt making.

As of now, Yuma County is safer than most metropolitan areas. This, of course, can change at any moment.  As the virus has worsened across the country, all CalAm Resorts have initiated a no-entry to new residence policy.  They have suspended all indoor activities, church, dances, parties, bands, and events around the pools, spas, restaurants and bars.  They have NOT issued a ban on Pickleball, Tennis, Golf, Bocce ball or Shuffleboard although we have distanced a bit even from these. Hiking remains our cardio activity of choice and there are beautiful places to hike and fish in the nearby Fortuna and Kofa mountains and dozens of beautiful lakes and dunes.  

Besides the weather, the primary reason we settle in this area for a few months is to establish Primary Care Physicians.  We can update medications, get checked out and have the assurance of medical connections here in the west.  We thought it would be a simple process, however, we did not factor that this town of 94,000 has 300,000 migratory snowbirds descend on its population during the months of December through March.  The average wait time to establish a PCP (new patients) is 3 months. Now that we are near the front of the que, a new caveat has evolved, coronavirus!

For now, we have decided to stay in place through most of April. Then head to higher elevation of Canyon de Chelly, Valley of Fire, and into Nevada if travelling is allowed.

Nothing could have prepared us better for quarantine than the previous three years of fulltime RV life. And I can’t imagine a better way to get through this.  Our HOW (Home on Wheels) affords us extreme flexibility.  If things become worse, we can move counter to statistics.  We can park by a stream in Wyoming, up a holler in West Virginia, in a barnyard in Ohio, in the mountains of Colorado or along the Rio Grande.  

We pray for quick solutions for these hard times and hope our family and friends stay safe.  If you have questions or want to talk to us, message us or pick up the phone and call.  We always stay connected.  God Bless you all and God Bless America.

Jon and Becky Davis are full time adventurers traveling this magnificent country in a 40-foot Home On Wheels, (HOW.)  Blue highways and back-roads are our roads most traveled.   Our passion is Jeeping and hiking in places away from tourists and crowds and to enjoy what God made for us to explore. Please follow us at www.facebook.com/Davisual and https://howrv.tumblr.com/

[howrv]

Blue and Green of Fall

Beginning in September, fall hitchhiked with us from the covered bridges of Vermont and New Hampshire to the southern edge of Texas in December. We watched the migratory birds say farewell to Lake Champlain and imagined the very same birds catching up with us in the Adirondacks, escorting us along the Blue Ridge Parkway to the Tennessee River Valley and down the Mississippi.  A palette of golden hues and reds followed us all the way to San Antonio.

Before Google Maps there were paper highway maps, you know the kind that was folded in a way you could never refold it back and your destination was always hidden in the torn crevice?  On those maps the main roads were indicated in red and the back roads were always blue. Those blue highways, or “black tops,” are our highways of choice.

We avoid the interstate highways but seek out the big green areas indicated on Google maps.  If you look closely, they occupy a massive footprint of our country.  The blue highways, (state and county roads) thread their way through these big green spaces occupied by State and National Parks, National Forests, BLM lands, National Fish and Game Reserves and Native Reservations, all places we call home.

For the last three years we have crisscrossed the country from California to Vermont, and from the Upper Peninsula to the Texas Islands on these strands of blue. The Interstates that we avoid, connect spaghetti bowls of urban traffic and reroute America around the most wonderful gems, leaving once bustling mining towns, mills and merchant rich town-squares with dangling shutters and boarded windows. Even the fabled route 66 has been erased, abandoning iconic neon signs to blink in the dust.

But when you look beyond the broken signs and peeling paint of the once burgeoning towns you find faces weathered by experience, Fishermen and turners of the earth, live here.  They congregate at lodges, diners and clapboard churches.  They pick guitars and mandolins on porches and quilt in fellowship halls. There are no minorities here, it’s too small for that. Black, brown, red and white sit elbow to elbow on bar stools sharing stories of feed costs, little leagues and times before the plant closed. We find these people willing to include a stranger and invite us to a Christmas parade or a potluck. They tell us where we can get some good farm fresh pinto beans and when the boys are pickin’ across from the train station on Main Street.

These small towns, these folks are the tonic of our curiosity, our hero protagonists along the blue and green.

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Planning

“Some people walk in the rain, others just get wet.”

― Roger Miller

Today, a barely-there misty rain hangs in the air.  We sit with our captain’s chairs facing Lake Champlain watching the gulls patrol the waters, skimming grasses for morsels of aquatic delicacies. Ducks dive, disappear, then surface as geese vee toward the pallid sky.  The sun squints through the clouds sending dabs of filtered light here and there on the water’s surface.  On days when the atmosphere chooses to wet the leaves, a cup of tea, a good book and planning, replace our typical compulsion to explore.  

Planning for us is looking at maps to identify the green areas, the ones that define the national parks, forests, state parks, preserves, and wildlife management areas.  Areas that are sparsely populated. We consult our apps for trails and hikes, the hard ones, but not too hard.  We search for places to park our HOW that put us next to rivers and lakes, covered bridges, and areas with likely sightings of bear, eagles or moose. We decide on off-road trails and places to picnic.  

The weather controls our compass and we weigh the compromise of colorful leaves against cold weather that creates their splendor.  We put pieces together that will situate us in a warm place best suited for air travel to Nashville come Christmas, now only 70 days away.  Will it be the beach or the desert?

But the rain neither dampens nor dismays. Our Jeep has remained topless for more than two years and I just can’t concede to putting on the full top. So, before those bitter winds arrive, we will move south, seeking our comfort zone.  We will have to decide, should it be along the sea or over the mountains?

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Three Years at Home

“Make yourself at home,” we say to our guests when they visit.  We all love the feeling of home. It might be as simple as a comfortable chair, an old T-shirt, a cozy pair of pants, a glass of wine on the deck, or just sleeping in your own bed.  Being at home, is usually a simple equation.  You know what it feels like, and after being away from it, we know how it feels to return to it… ahhhh, HOME!

Three years ago, we thought we were giving up our home for the adventure of travel and exploration. The excitement of seeing new things and meeting new people, we thought, would replace our need for nesting. On that day, three years ago, we left a beautiful house, a pond with some fish, friends, family, a good church, a friendly bar, a garage full of tools, and an attic full of stuff we never used. We sold everything and headed out in our new Home on Wheels only to find… OUR HOME.

We travel the blue highways, roads that wind through small towns, county seats, through mountain ranges and desert towns. We stop at craft fairs, music fests, vegetable stands, and biker bars, striking up conversations with locals who say, “have ya’ been to…?” or “ya really otta go to…”   They always point us to places never found in Fodor’s or Yelp.

We hike and Jeep to places seldom seen by vacationers and tourists.  We park our HOW at the base of mountains, by a brook canopied by aspens and cottonwoods or in the rugged desert surrounded by petrified rocks and cactus. We stay at luxury resorts, or outside of a Moose Lodge on horseshoe night. We find hole-in-the-walls that serve up Texas BBQ, Ethiopian injera, Thai curry, or killer country fried steak. We eat pizza and throw darts. We play pickleball with Canadians and toss back Cerveza with Mexicans. We sit around campfires with folks who only speak French. We meet ranch hands and pot growers, quilt makers and farriers, all with stories to tell.

We stay for one night or maybe a month because our biggest gift is the freedom of time.  Our clock, for the past three years, has been set to “discretionary” and our compass points in every direction.

By now you have figured that I am indeed an evangelist for this nomadic existence, and that I have no trouble touting the glamour and romance of this lifestyle.   I will confirm your findings and tell you that after three years of this… this amazing way of life, we see no end in sight providing the Lord keeps us healthy enough to drive to the next township.

Every real estate person knows “Location, location, location” is the key to selling homes and location, after location, after location is what makes this HOW our amazing home.

 “At the end of the day, it isn’t where I came from. Maybe home is somewhere I’m going and never have been before.”

― Warsan Shire

 Jon and Becky Davis are full time adventurers traveling this magnificent country in a 40-foot HOW (Home On Wheels).  Blue highways and backroads are our roads most traveled.   Our passion is Jeeping and hiking in places away from tourists and crowds and to enjoy what God made for us to explore. Please follow us at www.facebook.com/davisual and https://howrv.tumblr.com/

[howrv]

Woodstock, 50 Years Later

Living in our HOW (Home on Wheels) for the past three years has been our ticket to amazing experiences. From rodeos to The Rose Parade, art museums to boat races, slot canyons to The Grand Canyon, we have done amazing things.  

A year into our journey we planned to attend Woodstock 50, wherever it was to be.  We reserved a spot for HOW at both Watkins Glen and the original location at Bethel Woods, knowing that eventually one would become the clear choice.  As the event approached, everything went wrong for the Watkins Glen event.  Michael Lang, who owned the Woodstock name, experienced withdrawals from promoters and artists, and never got ticket sales off the ground. Somehow, booking Jay Z, Chance the Rapper, Miley Cirus and hip-hop acts did not match our expectations of what a celebration of Woodstock should be.  Rolling Stone quoted David Crosby’s take on Lang, “it had nothing to do with anyone feeling good about each other.  It had to do with certain people making huge amounts of money.”

So, on the weekend marking the 50th anniversary of the greatest love-in music festival in history, we arrived at what seemed to be hallowed ground. The spot that was once Max Yasgur’s alfalfa field is now a beautiful venue for the arts and music, set in the pristine rolling meadows called Bethel Woods. Much has changed but the vibe was still there as an anticipated crowd of 100,000 passed through the gates in this four-day celebration, (far less than the 500,000 of ‘69.)  Arriving early, we tail-gated for a while, had some wine and cheese and talked to folks who were adorned with tie-dye, beaded headbands, bell bottoms and peace-sign jewelry. Some arrived in their original restored VW buses. We met old hippies who were there a half century ago, as well as first timers.  We were surprised how many young people there were. A blended mix of peace and love seekers of all ages. (pictures below)

The first night we rented lawn chairs and sat on the hillside right behind the covered amphitheater on immaculately manicured grass.  As the sun was sinking over the fields behind us, the stage lights illuminated Earth, Wind, and Fire as they took to the the stage playing: “You Made Me So Very Happy, Spinnin Wheel , And When I Die, and God Bless The Child. The band spanned all genres of pop, rock, featuring a new kid from American Idol, Bo Bice as frontman.  

Next to perform was the biggest surprise of the night. Edgar Winter Band rocked the planet (or at least Bethel Woods) playing Tobacco Road, Frankenstein, Free Ride, Rock-and-Roll Hoochie Koo, and Dying to Live. Winter is a multi-instrumentalist but is acclaimed as the first person ever to put a neck strap on a keyboard and dance the stage with a Moog Synthesizer.  The most remarkable performance was his vocal ability.  He mimicked complex riffs and was answered by the lead guitar, bass player, keyboards and drums to the amazement of everyone in attendance.

The stage fog increased, pounding bass notes vibrated and pulsed with intensity. Strobing, motion ellipsiodals, pars and dichroics traced through the sweet smelling, pot laced air, ushering in the headliner… Ringo Star and his All Star Band.  

An extremely fit and young-looking Ringo Star danced to downstage center and the crowd responded in thunderous unison.  Gobos painted peace symbols on the upstage scrims and familiar tunes echoed through the hills.  The setlist was epic: It Don’t Come Easy, Boys, Hold The Line , Act Naturally, Matchbox, Down Under, The Weight, Anthem, You’re Sixteen You’re Beautiful and You’re Mine , Pick Up The Pieces, Work to Do, The No No Song, Photograph,  and I Wanna Be Your Man.

Leaner and livelier than Ringo’s 79 years should allow, his message was peace and love, but his anthem was FUN.  He did jumping jacks to Yellow Submarine that frenzied the crowd who responded by singing every word.  

Ringo has surrounded himself with luminaries of Rock-and-Roll fame and his band reflects amazing talent.  Colin Hay, the Australian singer-songwriter, guitarist and actor was lead singer for Men at Work.  He displayed his talents on the keyboards, percussion, bass and lap steel.

Hamish Stuart of Average White Band has played with John Lennon, Chaka Khan, David Sanborn, Smokey Robinson and the list goes on.  He led The All Star band with his signature hit Pickin’ Up The Pieces.

Vocalist, drummer Gregg Bisonnette who hailed from Van Halen, Santana and later Toto, joined Ringo to duet on the drums.

Guitar legend Steve Lukather was the original guitarist and vocalist for Toto and served in that capacity for the band’s entire existence. Steve demonstrated unbelievable licks throughout the entire set.

The Hammond organ has always given that unmistakable “goin-to-church” feel to R&B, rock and jazz.  Keyboardist Gregg Rolie who sang for Santana and Journey made me want to yell hallelujah!

Warren Ham came to the All Star Band from the Maranatha Praise Band and toured with Promise Keepers.  He also toured with Kansas, Donna Summer, and Olivia Newton-John.

Ringo’s encore finale electrified the audience with A Little Help from My Friends. People held hands and waved their lit phones above their heads.  We left that night feeling a little more peace and love and ready for the next day’s events.

The next day was special as we were able to share it with our daughter, Kirby and Phillip. We had incredible preferred seating.  We arrived early and were able to enjoy the venders, people watch, and stand in line to buy Woodstock tee-shirts.

I had mild expectations for Santana’s opening band. The Doobie Brothers, surprised us with their tight, amazing sounds and vocals.  The band’s ability to evolve and remain connected to multi generations of audiences is a testament to their craft.  Only two originals remain, Patrick Simmons and Tom Johnston, but they have added young progressive talent to their roster to deliver their unmistakable style of pushing the beat. 

Dancing erupted and continued throughout the whole set as the Doobs belted What a Fool Believes, Listen to the Music, Takin’ It To the Street, China Grove, Black Water, Jesus is Just Alright, and possibly the most recognizable opening guitar riffs of all times, Long Train Runnin’.

But the headliner of all headliners was about to emerge from the green room.  Santana began his set with dramatic video of Woodstock ’69, a documentary set to music that took you back to the chaotic days of Vietnam, Martin Luther King, Bobby and John Kennedy and the emerging peace movement.  Santana, dressed in a black original Woodstock t-shirt and played his signature red guitar. Evil Ways, Black Magic Woman, Gypsy Queen,  Maria Maria, Oye Como Va, and of course, Smooth had the crowd memorized and dancing in the isles. Carlos paid tribute to Lennon, Caltrain and Hendrix. The stage production, set design, lighting and sound were masterful. The energy level peaked and stayed there for three-and-a-half hours resulting in sensory fatigue for most of us, but a high we will never forget.  

We left with the message of peace and love, sharing and caring which, I believe, has diminished in the past 50 years, when the sounds of Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Grateful Dead, Joe Cocker, and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young echoed across the soggy fields known as Bethel Woods,  the real Woodstock.

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The Beach

Only a few days of travel but an immense topographical difference from the rugged arrid mountains to this island sea shore where our HOW sits tucked in grassy dunes just yards from the churning surf. There are waves and ocean on all sides and the air is pregnant with a salty spray. Pelicans glide over the foam and choose their aquatic lunch in the surf while I sit below a rainbow colored beach-brella reading western historical fiction.

The beach feels, tastes and smells like vacation. It jogs memories of our two girls maturing from sand pails and shovels, to toe rings and boy friends. It marks a place where we invited close friends and closer family to enjoy our Grayton Beach house together.

Those "vacation days" were precious times. We savoured every second because they were limited by the "must returns" and the "gotta dos" back at our schools and jobs.

So here we are, on a different beach and a very different time. There are no "gotta dos" or "hafta-bes." The waves still pile up ready to crash ashore just like my memories of another time.

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Hueco Tanks: Lessons of Lore

Some places where we travel are protected areas due to their fragile historical and geological environment. Hueco Tanks in South West Texas is one such place. People visit this state park from all over the world as we did, to enjoy what bouldering enthusiasts refer to as "The Mount Everest of rock bouldering." But there are areas within this park where you are only permitted to hike with a guide. Today we enjoyed a four hour guided treck into the Mescalero Box Canyon and further into Comanche Cave high in the canyon wall.

We were told people have been visiting these Huecos (meaning hollows) for over 10,000 years. It is an oasis of water holding rocks in the hot dry desert. After the Pleistocene ice age, anthropologist say hunter-gatherers traveled across this landscape in pursuit of game. They also gathered plants for food and medicine. They left their story on rock walls and in the caves in the form of pictographs and petroglyphs. We climbed, crawled, laid on our backs, and scooted on our backsides to view these amazing artworks.

Later in 1150 the Jordana Mogollon settled in the area leaving shards of broken pottery and tool fragments that we saw along the paths we traveled. These people also told their story on the walls with pictures of their large eyed deities and other cryptic communication. Our trail guides showed us the masks, or god's, painted by these anchient people.

But even after the arrival of the Spanish, Hueco Tanks remained a gathering spot for indigenous people. Within these rocky enclosures many came to satisfy their thirsts and find sanctuary. Others came and lost their lives. The Kiowa, Mescalero Apache and Tiguan are among the Native Americans who came and still consider Hueco a part of their sacred heritage past. Their pictographs and petroglyphs of hand prints, dancing figures, horses, weapons and human figures tell stories of Indian lore. Large white snakes were chiseled into the stone with the head always pointing the way to water. The tribe would paint red eyes on the snakes indicating the water was tainted and yellow eyes if the water was safe. We crawled back into the slippery cave to see the water the snake art was pointing to.

Later between1850's to 1860's the Butterfield mail stage coaches used this place as a stop. And once again these people would write on the walls and rocks.

After decades of graphiti vandelism by travelers and vacationers, the state of Texas closed this land and began to restore and preserve.

History lessons like today's were never covered in any classroom I attended. We learned of Kiowa Indians who were chased into this canyon by the Mexicans and how they manovered their way out. We learned about ancient ceremonies for the native girl's "coming of age." Oral history told by generations of indigenous people were passed along to us as we stood spellbound by the lore.

There was much learned which only feeds my inquisitive mind to learn more about real history. The history of our own continent and the people who passed here way before our motorhome arrived a few days ago.

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Fargo Chapter 7: The Farewell Fetish

Three days at the Museum Ranch. A walk through history. I am still scratching my head why Becky and I were singled out to spend three days with Fargo and his ranch hands Quattro and Barton. Was it, perhaps, that he felt badly for calling me a "goddamn, long hair, short pant wearing hippie?" Or was it that he sensed that this former film producer from Tennessee needed a few lessons about how real films were made? What ever it was, this is and always will be a high mark on our full-time adventure.

As we walked through the ranch there was one predominant item that hung on every door. They dangled from his truck mirror and his golf cart. They were on saddles and carriages and blowing in the breeze on fence posts. There was one hanging in sight no matter were we were. I had seen these feathers before in movies, around the necks of Indians and at gift stores that sold curios and moccasins in Cherokee, North Carolina. But I had no idea of their signicance. Fargo said they meant different things to different people but in general they were kind of like a good luck rabbits foot.

When telling a story, Fargo would refer to a person or practice as being either "good medicine" or " bad medicine." These feathers were "good medicine."

The last day of our visit, Fargo went to one of his two brown painted vintage refrigerators. Only one still worked and was stocked with cold beer. The other sat by his chair with his coffee pot on top. This one contained things he didn't want the pack rats to pilfer. He brought out a wooden box and several jars of bird feathers. In the box was twine, Elmer's Glue, scissors, some suede and red and blue yarn.

From the jars and coffee cans Fargo dug with intent, sorting through each feather till he found the perfect ones. "It has to be a left feather" he told Becky, "because the left feathers cover the heart."

The first feather was small brown with distinct white polka dots. It was a Guinea Hen feather. He said he would use this one because Becky liked it and thought it was beautiful and Becky had a beautiful spirit. Next he pulled a pure white Dove feather once again from the left wing of the bird. He chose a Dove because he thought Becky was a quiet peacemaker and it fit her personality and the bird's. Next was still a larger feather of an Owl. He said I had the characteristics of this bird because I was wise and was a good bus driver. He said Owls glide along and are choosy and careful as they fool and attack their prey. They snatch them up quickly and devour only live animals. The last and final feather was a long and sleek black feather from his pet Raven of 21 years. He said Ravens were the cleverest and funniest of birds and were opportunist. He said we were like the Raven because we siezed every opportunity for adventure.

As he told the story of these birds he began to put together our fetish, gluing, tieing and wrapping each one with a piece of rawhide. Carefully making sure that it hung just right. He cut a piece of fence wire and twisted it just so into a hook then spray painted it gold, letting it dry in the wind. He presented us our fetish to hang in the windshield of our bus along with an invitation to return anytime.

There are many more stories, but my memory expires faster than I can enter my thoughts on my tablet. I'm sure after I close-out this final chapter I will think of more stories told by my friend Fargo Graham. But for now this chronicle is what I have to remember a man and his friends who lives 12 miles and a hundred years from town at The Museum Ranch.

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Chapter 6: Fargo the Cattle Thief

For centuries cowboys have moved livestock through the plains, up and down the Continental Devide, from the mighty Mississippi to California and from the Brazos to the Rio Grand. Library shelves are lined with novels and historical fiction depicting cowboys and gun slingers, train robbers and horse thieves, bordellos, Comanches, Apaches and Crow.

A few days with Fargo was akin to speed reading volumes of Zane Gray, Larry McMurtry, Louis L'Amour with a smattering of Laura Ingles Wilder thrown in. When I was growing up cowboys were legends and here I was with my boyhood hero.

As a young cowboy Fargo went where there was work. He was in Montana when he and his buddy were offered fifty cents a head to drive cattle over to the Canada side. Fargo said no. The ante was upped to three dollars, but Fargo smelled a skunk. Something about these guys he didn't like. When the offer reached a lucrative five dollars a head, Fargo's partner weakened and made the deal.

Crossing over the border they were run down by the border patrol and charged with taking stolen cattle into Canada. After a night in jail and pleading mea culpa, the judge gave Fargo the choice of doing time or joining the Cavalry in Korea as a civil servant. He made the choice and took his first air flight to the other side of the world.

Fargo performed well in Korea shoeing mules and horses for the U.S. Cavalry. At night he would shoe the villager's mules for a little extra cash which he attributes to saving his life. He was particular about his farrier work making sure hoves were cleaned, trimmed and polished with brown shoe polish that he always carried in his supplies.

One time, he recalls, he and 2 soldiers were riding along a waterfront. They were ambushed and his two friends were shot off their mules and were killed. "The damn Gooks didn't kill me because they recognized me as the 'good shoer' from the village."

Later, he remembers, he was being transported with other troops and three crated mules in a C57 when the plane caught fire. He, being a civilian, had no parachute traning but was quickly harnessed and pushed out of the burning plane along with three crated mules. He found himself behind enemy lines with only two mules that survived the jump. The surviving mules began braying for the third mule who had met it's fate in the jump. Afraid the "Gooks" would hear the mules, Fargo rubbed shoe polish on their noses to quiet them. I assumed they were busied trying to lick it off. But it shut them up.

Crouching by a roadside, he finally heard English being spoken and saw a Jeep with US military personnel approaching. Boy were they supprised when an American kid with two mules came out of the bushes.

When he got back from the war he worked for the circus awhile. He respected the animal trainers and learned alot from them, but he had no use for the people who performed high wire acts.

At one point in his life, Fargo joined the Texas Rangers and while he did not know Pancho Villa, he had respect for how Ole Poncho and General Pershing handled the Comanches and the "wet backs." Fargo showed us his Texas Ranger badge which was struck from a Mexican peso. He had several pictures of Poncho and his friend Edgar May, from his horse breaking days.

Becky and I sat and listened to Fargo as he told stories. If he couldn't recall he would look puzzled and tell you, "I don't remember," or "I can't recall." But if you asked a question that he had already covered, he would snap, " I already told you that dummy!" He did not hesitate to give you his opinion. He liked Paul Newman but thought Robert Redford was a brat. He liked John Ford, but told the story about when his Raven bit John's ear. He did not like Michael Landon of "Little House" but liked Hoss (Ben Cartwright) of "Bonanza.

He was not impressed with or did he care for Mike Wolf or Frank Fritz who visited The Ranch early in their career as American Pickers. He said that the two and their crew were not respectful.

Fargo is a man of strong prejudice and kind passions. There were questions we wanted to ask but felt there were times in his life he would rather not talk about.

Never have I felt like I struck a chord with anyone like I did with Fargo. He was the childhood hero that took me 60 years to meet.

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