Eventually, everything must end. Vacations among them. Work beckons. The need to make money again beckons.
We had to drive back to Portland. Big sigh.
Tonight, I think I will end my story with some of the random photos taken over the course of our trip (that didn’t fit in anywhere else).
Murphy’s “photo-bomb” with “Dad” and the box Dad came in.
I didn’t even know I had this photo. I was reviewing all my photos late last night and thought: “WHAT?!” And then I started laughing. My dad might not appreciate this photo, but my MOM would have loved it.
The view from Hinckey Summit, south toward Paradise Valley. This is the “permanent” view my parents have of the world (summer version – winter is a different story).
There’s a natural arch in the basalt that rises over my parents’ ashes.
Life and Death in the high range: some bird had a feast of fritillary butterflies. Guess they were yummy, indeed.
Living butterflies dotted the mountain. I haven’t even tried to key them out: I know they are fritillaries, but that is it.
And birds like them.
Wildflowers on the arid mountain. I can name some of them and I should try to look them up, but not tonight. Buckwheat, Indian paintbrush. penstemmon, trumpet flower. There were lupins blooming, too. Spring comes very late to the alpine meadows.
Deserted Ranger Station with the Bunk House in back.
Once long ago, we camped there. I don’t remember how old I was. I remember that my parents hauled the mattresses out of the house and shook them to evict the mice and their babies. We children were told to stomp on the baby mice to kill them.
I burst into tears.
I don’t judge my parents: they lived in a different world. Mice are a plague. And I agree with them. I just could not stomp on the baby mice. It’s that sensitive thing.
Even today I would find a different way to kill the mice, one that didn’t involve me. I know: what a whiner! Mice – especially deer mice which these were most likely – carry Hanta Virus. And I hate mice in mattresses. But I was a little girl and my mind didn’t work that way then.
Chocolate Mountain. I’ll let you figure out how it got that name.
We watched this poor hang glider struggle to catch an updraft. We didn’t know where he started from, we only knew he was grounded on the side on the mountain and he had a companion (down in the lower right of the photo). there was a dog up there, too. I never bothered to change up to my 300mm zoom.
He did finally catch some air, but he came down – hard – shortly thereafter.
I don’t know the outcome of his adventure, but I suspect it was painful and not very successful.
AW! Back in Winnemucca. We stopped at a park where the old Navy Air Force Base used to be. And there was this sign. I remember when the Poke-n-Peek was founded. My best friend’s mom was one of the Catholic ladies who spear-headed the thrift store. And it’s still in business. Family friend, Norma, still works there. I don’t know if my best friend’s mom still does or not.
This used to be down at the park by the golf course. I can name the kids who vandalized it in the 1960’s. Back then, you could climb up into the cock pit.
Don and Murphy taking a break in the background.
The old WW2 tank. terry remembers climbing into it and manning the swivel. It was another one of those military displays that kids could climb on back in the 1960’s.
Winnemucca, Nevada. I can point out to you where I grew up. I only lived there for a short time in my life, but it seems like it possesses a part of my soul. Over in those brown mountains on the other side, is Water Canyon. We hiked up to Water Canyon from the house, sometimes. It was a couple of miles and a lot of hot sagebrush trails and watching for rattlesnakes. In my mind, I have a plethora of stories about Water Canyon, some with my friend Trudi and some with Lisa. And some with Terry.
And the mountain we are standing on – Winnemucca Mountain – has stories to tell, too. Trudi lived up there. She watched wild horses out her back window. There was a black stallion who led the little band of horses around those slopes.
We stopped in Winnemucca and visited people I barely remember. One woman turned and said, “Your mother used to sell Avon, didn’t she?”
What a strange memory.
Yes, she did.
And half-way back to Reno, I noticed this Murphy nose-print on the window.
It looks sort of like Heckle or Jeckle.
I started laughing and had to explain to my husband and brother how Murphy had created “art” with his nose on the window.
I consider it a Sign.
My mother sent me a sign after she died: two crow feathers.
Now my dad has joined her and the dog painted a nose-art rendition of Heckle or Jeckle.
It’s a sign.
Either my parents are in Heaven or they are trapped in a bizarre world of old cartoons.
Read into it what you want.
I think my mom was telling me that she was happy that Dad finally learned how to dance in the wind.
🙂
Jaci Dawn 