Pooks Canyon

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Continental Traverse Achieved

I spent a lot of time on Highway 90 from Fredericksburg to Alpine and eventually to Deming, New Mexico. Highway 90 took on several meanings, 90 miles between gas stations, 90 border patrol trucks, the road kill count, the de facto speed limit. By the time I got to Chandler, Arizona I decided to cancel all my upcoming reservations and drive as directly as possible to the Pacific Ocean. Thus I ended up taking Interstate 8 and found a beach between La Jolla and Del Mar to park myself for the rest of the day yesterday. It was such a lovely day that I actually went swimming, and that is saying something for the Pacific in December. I watched surfers get clapped in giant closeouts (some of the best would launch backwards out the back, just in time). I did not paddle out with a surfboard, above my pay-grade. I attempted boon-docking right there for the night, just a full sized bed with me, two surfboards, cracker crumbs, and sand from two different oceans. Believe it or not, I could...

Rarumpelpunzeldornaschenwittchen

Once upon a time (aka, Sunday) I rode Clementine onto a dirt trail not knowing what to expect. We were on our way to the German-founded town of Fredericksburg, Texas, but still 7 miles away and needed a place to stop for the night. After a while, I came to a widened area in the acorn-strewn forest. I turned Clementine in one of the four empty stalls and proceeded to look around. To the right, there was a small chapel with a disinterested carpenter working inside. To the left was a trail with a carved wooden sign reading “Cottages.” I followed the trail, passing one cottage, and then another and then crossing over a wooden footbridge past a stone well. The trail ended at a third cottage with a sign over the door, “Rumpelstiltskin.” I hesitantly tried the door. It opened and an enchanting melody welcomed me inside. A dim lamp in the back of a high loft lit a large wooden spinning wheel. Two sconces on the ground level cast warm shadows in a sleeping chamber. It seemed th...

Rant

Optimist. It is a word some people would use to describe me. I would use it to describe me. I try to look on the bright side of things. It is easy to do, being born on home plate, other people having already done the hard work to round the bases for me. Despite all the goodness, however, there cannot just be all Sunshine and Rainbows and Cats. You should probably stop reading here unless you want to be bored. Today I am writing for catharsis, and clicking publish to demonstrate that happy internet lives are often fraud. My knee hurts for absolutely no reason except that it comes from the mid 1970s. I dislike driving cars, driving in cars, all things automobile. Thumbs down. People talk about politics too much: politics should clean your house, not handle your domestic disputes. A medication I am taking ruins my memory and I have to take notes all day long just to remember what I wanted to do and say. Also, yesterday was a drag. Peaks and valleys are part of the human experience an...

Tay-haas

Crossing from Louisiana into Texas, two things were immediately noticeable, both the roads and the speed limits got 30% more-generous. As Jon said to me last night, everything is bigger in Texas. I sped, at 75 miles per hour, past countless schools, churches, and that highest ranking American official, The Dollar General. It was nice to go so fast on the back roads, but these rural speed limits come with a gotcha (as in got you but thankfully not me, yet). As one hurtles downhill toward the little towns, put on your brakes; the speed limits drop and police multiply, lurking in well-worn clever little spots. One such town I slowed all the way down for: Newton, Texas. They were setting up a band and selling Christmas cookies in the park. I bought a gingerbread man, took a pic of the cool old courthouse, and, since the band was a while off from starting to play, I continued on to Woodville. Woodville, and this whole area, is aptly named. I did not know Texas had so much forest. From ...

Mamou

I lucked (bon-chanced?) into Mamou using a way of trip planning that combines the old and the new. The old part: studying a map. The new part: it was Google Maps with Street View. My goals were to favor the older highways, find old hotels, and look for little towns with a small grid (or better yet, circle) of streets. Mamou had a sweet looking little grid and as I street-viewed the main drag I saw this: Hotel Cazan (which is for sale, btw) I gave the hotel a call and inquired about rooms, and the owner, Valerie Cahill, was like, "you must come, oh the memories you will make!" After we hung up, she texted me an article about Hotel Cazan from The Acadiana Advocate, detailing its rich history. It was in this article that I learned Anthony Bourdain stayed there over Mardi Gras filming his "Southern Louisiana" episode, and yes, his room was available for December 5th. Better still, I learned that Fred's Lounge, across the street, is the Cajun music capital of the wo...

Westwords

Those of you who know me personally (aka everyone reading this) probably know I have been struggling with mental illness for the last 18 months or so. If we are being real, though, it has been a lifelong struggle that reached a breaking point in May of 2024 and total meltdown in July 2025. Several of my healthcare providers have suggested journaling, which - ironically - I was doing a lot more of in twenty years ago than I am now. Why not hike back into Pooks Canyon? I can overshare in deep, text-rich, posts in a way not seen since Facebook ate everyone's blog. So, what has happened in the Canyon since I last updated? Leah is an agri-tech data whiz bringing the sweetest berries to a produce section near you, Jon and I are traveling about, successfully avoiding sleeping in arachnid-infested outhouses, and Axel is a part-time farmer of cannabis in Nevada County, staying with Grandma Baker. If Jon and I take up gardening, the whole family will be engaged in the plant industry. ...