Isabella Bird Miscellany

I was beginning to wonder whether it really existed. Maybe it only existed in the distant dreams of mountain men and bats leaving guano against lava walls ; tubes and tunnels and caverns weaving a web underground. It all began innocently enough while exploring cracks and crevices outside of the area surrounding Fort Rock.  We'd gone on a late season camping trip with some friends. You know the type, where nights are cold and stars are visible in the ink above, with days breaking into sunlit skies and moderate temperatures. The initial destination was Crack in the Ground and a roadside diner in Christmas Valley that dishes up darn good Reuben sandwiches. Like most park sites, there's always a map and legend with other scenic spots to check out. And, one such sign told of a cave that was cold and needed reliable illumination. The name, the words, set the marble into motion - the quest which became a crusade to find Derrick Cave. It seemed real enough. There wa...

Just over four years ago, my guy and I traveled to Lakeport, California where I was born. I hadn't been there since I was 12. As we walked and drove around, I had this weird déjà vu, I-remember-this-place thing happening. I tried to find my paternal grandparents home, but where that placed used to be no longer existed. Instead, there was an empty lot with only a block retaining wall still standing. The big cedar tree was there, strong and tall. where that place used to be is now a vacant lot a crumbling retaining wall borders the edge remnants of an old barbecue, a bird bath weeds and a few scraggly shrubs an old rose with scant petals, but many hips when I closed my eyes, it all returned the white two-story house with kitchen at the back wooden screen door that slammed as kids ran in and out potato salad and chicken fried up in a big cast iron skillet laundry hung on the whirly line in the yard at noon the firehouse siren would sound we'd r...

‘cause the desert had turned to sea there were plants and birds and rocks and things there was sand and hills and rings - America, "Horse With No Name" - I’m reentering our long, indirect road trip in May. Not by accident we had “America” as our ‘tripping music when we reached the ocean in SoCal. Following an intentional wander through silent deserts, now it was time for plants and birds and crowded life. Just as the solitude of the desert is good for the soul, so is watching waves that go on forever while earthing your feet in minute grains of sand that can’t be counted. The Northern journey to “ Ventura Highway ,” while actually driving on Ventura Highway was just as known and unknown as the desert trek. The beauty of travelling during the shoulder season is spontaneity; reservations aren't necessary.  I'm gripped by the Missions, which are scattered throughout California, so they were on the agenda. If by chance we stumbled upon a fe...

death valley, california - may 2017 During my journey in the desert, I had the comfort of writing.  I wrote of activities and sites. I wrote descriptive phrases for photos. I wrote pieces of poetry that express more than pages and pages in my journals. These words, I think I’ll keep close as they teach me a way to live in awareness and mindfulness. I hope  you, too will find some inspiration in the silent sounds of the desert. chartreuse desert bloom encircled with thorns I hear the silent sounds of the desert crickets, a few birds, my breath it’s a quiet more quiet than switching off everyday sounds At times I must strain to hear my own heartbeat or eyes blink listening with intention, I begin to hear a beetle in the sand; shuffling like old feet a bee’s wings as it pauses for nectar on a cactus blossom I hear the words of the one who created the zephyr that kicks at the sand; drying my very soul ...

desert road, open spaces, extra large sky I love the freedom of road trips; stopping when you want, turning on a side road or adding an extra day to a particular place just because you can. The freedom of the road is romanticized in novels and movies, but some of those depictions are reality when traveling with your love and best friend. stokes castle, austin nevada We left early afternoon, and after pushing through the Oregon high desert with water levels equally high and wildlife abundant, we stopped for the night in Austin, Nevada. It’s a small, mostly boarded up, for sale town wedged on the side of the Toiyabe Mountains. Austin is mostly dead and abandoned, but not in a cool ghost town sort of way. Its rugged beauty though, includes a castle, stories of colorful silver miners and hiking, biking and other desert exploring stuff.  big smoky valley,  lonely and lovely Leaving, we dropped into the Big Smoky Valley on the Loneliest Highway ...

life in a crack We left the city yesterday, wet leaves covered sidewalks; brown and at the end of their season. It had been nice to walk neighborhoods, dart into cafes for coffee or a drink. It was grey in a melancholy sort of way, with a fresh breeze. Being reminded of traffic, activity, and people. The places we gravitate filled with the not-mainstream people. I’m intrigued with their stories and thoughts, often different from mine. Bridges and highways, buildings old and new, some dilapidated, others restored. The rush and crush continues, all covered with leaves set in grey. Written in Seaside, about Portland while in our hip, urban loft-esque industrial hotel. Missy If you have been mildly amused, challenged or inspired by what you have read, please pass on my blog to a friend, colleague, family member or even random acquaintance

we took a stinkin' lot of dirt roads, but i wouldn't have it any other way The drive wasn’t long by west coast standards, a mere few of hours; which meant there was plenty of leisure (interpreted coffee time) before leaving on another road trip escapade.  I can’t begin to tell you how much fun it is to pack a bag, gas up the car and set out to see what can be seen. An interesting thing I’ve discovered on these exploits, is that having lived in Oregon for the majority of my life, I’ve missed “seeing” a lot of things. You know, I think we all get into the habit of going to the same places, which is a good thing, but we forget about the “other” places that are right in our own backyards. Case in point, yesterday afternoon, when my darling man and I went to Tumalo Falls. I’ve been to Skyliner Snow Park, but never gone the few more dirt road miles to see the falls. Holy cow! Is that lame, or what? a sweet little place, no frills, but plenty of yesteryear ...

Shaniko, a place where life still exists How do you get from point A to point B? Bus, plane, train, scooter, even our feet are a mode of transportation. What about when it comes to vacation time? Is it a matter of hurry up, rush, so you can get there all exhausted and really not ready to hit every major attraction? Me? I’m a road tripping kind of girl. When the kids were little, our family vacations always involved piling them, their stuffed animals, travel-sized games and tons of snacks into the car. We would carefully map out our stops to include restaurants with playgrounds, aka, McDonalds and our must-have on motels was a pool. be a law abiding citizen, or face the paddy wagon. i wonder if that would have worked with fighting kids? I have mixed memories of these road trips.  Mostly, I smile as I think about them, and then suddenly I'm jolted back into the reality of the “are we there yet?” question mingled with the “don’t breath on me” and I need to g...

Do you ever have those moments when you see, hear or smell something and you are instantly transported to another place and time?  It’s almost like time travel in your emotional head.  I do this quite frequently and the places I travel allow me to relive experiences. Our senses are powerful.  They are how we encounter life.  I taste a strawberry and know that early summer has arrived.  Smelling salt air tells me I’m near the beach.  Listening to a 60’s mix and I’m recalling junior high dances, hoping that whoever my “crush” was at the time would ask me to dance. On my way to work I take a roundabout which circles up and past some homes that have a desert-scape loaded with blazing wildflowers.  To me, California poppies are wild since they are scattered along roadsides and creep into neighborhood gardens.  Blue flax and orange-red Oriental poppies were in the blend. Seeing the flax and poppies was one of thos...

It was a gorgeous day to fly.   The skies were clear, the mountains in crisp attire thanks to a fresh coat of snow.   Funny how even a dust of white defines the terrain, etching every crevice with detail.   I revel in the perspective stock-piled from flying above.   Above the city.   Above the rivers and forests and fields.   Above the mountains; peeking down at life below. The seat I had blocked my view.  Instead, I concentrated on the intricacies of the wing with its flaps, ailerons and other things that go up and down, controlling functions.  Peering over the wing, a craggy mountain sat like a big fat vanilla ice cream cone with a bite taken out of the top.  You half expect the frozen concoction to start dribbling down your hand, only to be caught by a paper napkin.  But, it’s a mountain full of magnificence, rather than a childhood treat. Rivers, muddy from spring rains snaked  their way through wet fields, s...