Dave Menaker at his Great Land Wines, Haines, AK

In Haines, Alaska, we spend a delightful few… oh… I really have no idea how long… hours?… days?… tasting wine at Dave Menaker’s shack cum winery. This ain’t your Napa Valley. Dave greets his guests in a heavy, pullover work shirt, jeans and work boots (he also operates a sawmill out back -- hopefully not running both businesses at the same time). Tim and I were the only ones in the place and the samples ran wild and free -- onion, potato, blueberry, raisin, rose petal and dandelion wines were just a few of the selections, with Triscuits proffered for the obligatory palate cleansing. I was totally blitzed by the time we left (fortunately, he also offers a carry-out service -- not the bottles -- the spouses) as evidenced by my suggestions of possibilities for future vintages, including a cat/dog hair variety, marketed to eccentric little old ladies who’d want to drink a memorial toast to their dearly departed Flopsies. To his credit, Dave was amused. Or, at least the other Dave standing next to him was. Well, maybe one of them was only feigning amusement. But, that was when the room starting spinning, so I can’t really be sure.

Rise and shine!
Our standing joke the entire trip has been “let’s get an early start,” which has usually meant 11 am – if we were lucky. Well... we finally achieved one: After a quick overnight on our way out of British Columbia at a muddy, mosquito infested RV park with only 15 amps of power, you might say we felt no pull to linger. Tim swore he’d have us out of there by 9 am.

“Oh, yee of little faith” he said to my skeptical look. Yup, that’s me: Yee Orion. From the lost tribe of Asian Jews.

Us in front of Mt. McKinley, the biggest draw of Denali National Park. This picture, however, wasn't taken at Denali, since as we found out after our bus ride, the Park is probably the worst place to see the mountain.

In Denali National Park, the only way one is allowed in, is via bus (and no, I don't mean ours). This was not a good thing. It's not that I was afraid… more like constantly horrified. It started with the very first animal sighting, a caribou. An older woman across the isle from us let out a blood curdling scream. I thought perhaps, that the poor animal was being eaten by a bear. Since I had yet to see an Alaskan bear and there would be little I could do to help poor Rudolph anyway, I craned my neck in its direction. But, no. He of the antler bling was languidly grazing in a meadow. Then, I heard the rest of what I suppose is the tourists’ rallying cry: “WALTER! GET THE CAMERA!” Tim and I hadn’t taken organized tours in quite some time, and as we shot each other pained looks, we remembered why. “This is going to be a very long trip,” we said, in unison. What does Walter’s wife do when she needs to get his attention for something really important? Like… say she’s being strangled by a stranger, which nearly occurred several times during the eight hour trip. The rule on the bus was that anyone could yell STOP for anything at any time: animal sightings, picture opportunities, bloody noses (this really happened… they sent the kid off the bus… to be put out of his misery by a bear, I suppose. Or, is that sharks?) Our overly helpful guide/driver even got walkie-talkies for us slobs in the back, so that we could more easily communicate our wishes to him on this hell ride. Unfortunately, “Stop the bus. I’ll catch a cab” was not one of the possibilities. Then, there were the Dall Sheep. Someone would shout, “STOP THE BUS!” and we would… for dots of white, which we were told were frigging sheep on a hill. O.K. He didn’t really say frigging sheep. Being a naturalist named River, he of course referred to them as Dall Sheep. Apparently, no one on that entire bus had ever been to a farm.

“But, they’re mountain sheep,” Tim protested the first time I made this incisive observation. By the sixth, he had come over to the dark side with me and delighted in spotting sheep himself, only to withhold the information from the rest of our wool-crazed herd. At one point, the driver even stopped the bus on his own, saying he was going to scan the mountain ridge with his binoculars for bear. I rolled my eyes at Tim. “If they’re that far away, who gives a sh*t? To which he replied, “let me get the walkie-talkie for you.”

Caribou in Denali National Park. Those antlers -- a bit much. Someone should take the poor animals aside and tell them that there's such a thing as over-accessorizing.

STREET LIFE
Hey, thanks, Serwer! (And, I know the dog is cute, but what am I, chopped liver?)
I've gotten quite a few emails wondering about the bus itself. Check out the Meltdown Cruise entry from June '04 for info on that, as well as our many, many mishaps our very first day out (door flying open at 60 mph with me next to it, nearly getting run over by the bus as Tim backed it up, horrendous hail, cat peeing on bed in terror, wrong turns and not being able to back up... )is it any wonder I developed a bus phobia?

I’ve been dragged on enough death marches by Tim, that I’ve developed…

The 5 Stages of Getting Grief from Hiking with Doreen: Denial (“There's no way in hell I’m going all the way up there!”); Anger (“I can’t believe I let you take me on this f--king hike!”); Bargaining (“If we stop now, I’ll have the energy to do another hike tomorrow. Really, I promise!”); Despair (“Oh, why did I ever let you talk me into anything over 3 miles?”); Acceptance (“This is absolutely, positively, the last hike I will ever go on for the rest of my life!”)

I would add a sixth stage, one which only occurs in extreme circumstances, at a perfect storm of elevation gain, total distance, mud and bugs: Confabulation (“Look at the dog! You’re killing him!”)

Finally, when I’ve nagged enough to make even Tim agree to quit, I clutch the poodle to celebrate, beaming as I attempt to reinforce the wisdom of my husband’s capitulation.

“I’m so glad you didn’t make me continue to the top. That way, I could actually enjoy how beautiful it was. I’d even do it, again.”

“Really? Tim replied. “I wouldn’t.”

Miles and me. Harbor Mountain, Sitka, AK.

Eagles were always thought to mate for life, but Captain Jim told us that while recent DNA analysis indicates that monogomy is dominant (I guess that depends on what your definition of "is" is), they do fool around. Birds with benefits.

On our jet boating trip down the Sitkine River in Wrangell, Ivan Simonek, a naturalist and professional photographer extraordinaire was on board with his lovely wife, Jeannie. (Check out his website for amazing pics: alaskansmugmug.com) He took this one of Tim and me, a few hours before our pilot, Jim did a "Hamilton Manuever." I won't go into the physics of it, but suffice it to say the boat turned end to end in 40-50 feet and the G forces were better than an E ticket ride. After the first try and my scream when the frigid water hit us, Cap'n Jim hollered, "That was only practice!" I yelled back, "Good! "Cause that was just a practice scream!" I wasn't kidding.

Of our first stop in Alaska, Ketchikan, Tim says he's never seen such dense forest. I wouldn't know.

Tim getting the bus on the ferry. He's an animal, I tell you!

Loading the bus on the ferry to Alaska.

Border chic

ALASKA – both of us were a little worried about going, albeit for different reasons: Tim was concerned about the trip up through Canada. He thought, given how Americans are perceived in the world these days, that we’d encounter nothing but hostility. Then again, he had also never had a burning desire to go to Alaska. I was the one who said, even before we ever headed out, “Well, if we’re doing this bus thing, then we should at least go to Alaska.” What an idiot.

At least now I’m not just restricting my fears to the bus. Oh, no. Now, I’m terrified of the roads (are they even paved?) hitting a moose, getting mauled by a bear (I had a dream we both were the night before we left Seattle). And, since my bus phobia had generalized to any moving vehicle, I’m also a little nuts about the ferry rides. I love boats and the water, but I’m actually fixating on the stuff in the bus crashing around, (just like I still do when I’m riding in it) even though we’ll be topside. I’m a wreck from worrying: did we have all the paperwork we needed to take a bus, a Jeep and three pets across the border? How will we navigate (our GPS has no CDs for Canada)? Why didn’t we bring a gun (for bears)? Tim says we just have to make noise in the woods while we walk and that that’s why people carry bells. Well, we don’t have any bells, do we? He says we don’t need them with my mouth.

I was half hoping we’d be turned back at the border, but we weren’t. They didn’t even ask about the pets’ vaccinations, trusted us on the ridiculous amounts of alcohol Tim said we had (a few bottles of wine, less than a 12 pack of beer and 1 bottle of hard liquor. Right. That’ll be my consumption the first night – if I survive). Tim says one look at me and the border guards knew no self respecting smuggler/terrorist could possibly dress this way (see the picture above for my tres bus chick outfit: pink track suit with big pink furry socks).

I guess that’s why they didn’t even bother aboot us.

Driving to the Oregon coast from Portland, we pass through Scarpoose and the “peace candle;” really a peace silo, painted red with a giant fabricated flame on top.

I could just feel the world drawing closer together as we whizzed by on Hwy 30.

More bus phobia. I now realize why psychotics engage in “self quieting behavior” such as rocking, repeating words, etc. My new mantra, as we twist over Hwy 199 East from CA to OR is “kill me kill me kill me kill me.” It’s all mindless until I suddenly realize what I’m saying. It’s not that I’m afraid of dying, it’s that I’m afraid of dying like this. So, my new, new mantra; “kill me, but not like this… kill me, but not like this…”

Finally, I can’t wait anymore. I say I’m just going in the back to kill myself. Tim replies, "so, I guess you'll be back there trying to slit your wrists with your electric razor." What an empathetic guy. I guess he gave at the office.

Olive Dell Ranch, the family nudist resort.

In a nudist park, everything is striped down, so to speak. As Tim observed, there’s no macho, no posturing. Your balls (and whether or not you have any) are out there for everyone to see.

On our first night, Tim starts closing all the curtains in the bus. I wonder why -- we’ve been nude, anyway, all day. He explains it’s because he’s going to cook, so wants to put on clothes without offending anybody.

Our favorite nudist has to be the maintenance guy, who walks around with nothing on but a tool belt. Every time he turns around, I nearly exclaim, “Hey! You dropped your…” Oops. Never mind.

Busing in the Buff

So, we pull in. Usually, I head to the office to check in. Do I have to strip beforehand? What if this is some god awful joke and everyone is clothed there but me? I’m wearing earrings. Do I take them off? A valid question, for is the place nudist because the inhabitants eschew all trappings of commerce and society (including earrings) or because they want to get back to nature (my earrings are made of silver, not twigs) or because they just want to be free, free FREE (in which case, I suppose one can wear whatever body jewelry one wants). I could call them on my cell phone and ask, but it seems a mite like the shoes question and I don’t feel like being laughed at again just yet, especially as I’m anticipating that reaction imminently…

This is supposed to be a year of trying new things, expanding horizons. So, in that spirit, I agree (Tim’s idea) to go to a family nudist RV park.

I check around on the internet. One place seems promising, but I’m not quite clear what they’re about. I call and ask if they are clothing optional.
“No,” the lady unequivocally answers.
“Oh. I’m sorry. I must have the wrong information,” I apologize, hoping she doesn't think I'm some weirdo. But, something in her voice makes me query further.
“So, people don’t walk around naked?” I try to confirm.
“Oh, yes, they do.” She answers. Is this place English optional, perhaps?
“Okay… but you’re not clothing optional.” I offer slowly, with impeccable pronunciation.
“No, we’re nudist.” She snaps. Well, excuuuuse, me.
“I’m not sure I know the difference,” I concede. She explains that when inside the park, one is required to be naked. Now I get it. It was the optional, not the clothing, that was the problem in the whole clothing optional thing. Who knew? Fine, I decide to play along and proceed with what I think is a perfectly reasonable question.
“Can I wear shoes?” She laughs and muzzles the phone to call out to some other nuditity requiring linguaphile.
“She wants to know if she can wear shoes.”

For those of you as clueless as me, the answer is yes. Which means, then, that the correct expression should be partially nudist or perhaps shod optional.

Just think if the entire world were nudist, what expressions would we never have had the pleasure of using: butt crack (nothing to crack it with), get your shorts in a wad (nothing to wad up with) and picking lint out of one's navel (nothing to lintify with) and… ????? Anyone????

Death Valley after the "hundred year rains."

I begin the hike in Death Valley in my usual attire: Capri Nike pants, my World Figure Skating cap, Polo Ralph shirt, Ecco slides and Chanel sunglasses. As I arrange myself and dubiously peer at what we're about to do, Tim surveys me and shakes his head.

"It's known as Nail Breaker Canyon," he says. "Are you sure you're up to it?"

Get Your Own Blog!
Tim always complains that this blog makes him look like an idiot. I always reply "Get your own blog." Well, after he gets the bus stuck in the mud (and we need cousin JT to pull us out with his tractor) he agrees that he will, and call it, "I Am An Idiot."

Boredom is the nine hour drive through barren desert from San Antonio to El Paso. Such boredom, in fact, that I can't wait to see the clock on my cell phone change from from Central to Mountain Time when we cross into New Mexico. We do. It does. I blink... and miss it.

My day is ruined.

Elvis Has Left the Bus

We get various responses from toll booth operators, from "What a beautiful cat! [Shula on the buddy seat]" to "Are you towing a vehicle?" to which Tim delights in replying, "No, that guy's been following me too closely for a hundred miles!"

The only place on earth you can get away with screaming, "Look! It's a dwarf!" Although Tim still felt compelled to correct me: "They're called little people," he said. (We're not wet due to rain, but because we'd just ridden on Splash Mountain six times.)

Armed Robbery: The Post Game

Once we leave the restuarant, Tim wants to go to a convenience store to get some beer.

“Are you crazy?” I exclaimed. “They’re even better targets for robberies than burrito places. No way.”

“But, sweetie,” he patiently explains. “I don’t have any cold ones in the… ”

“No, no, no, no NO!” I cry. I will not relent, so rather than upset me more, he agrees to the compromise that I make him the martini of his choice. No problemo; I was planning to down a few myself. Actually, Tim wasn’t too upset that he couldn’t get a beer. He was in a great mood, as he figured that now, my bus phobia simply had to be cured.

In retrospect, the would-be assailant was none too bright. Why didn’t he wait outside until the woman was near the till rather than toward the back? And, since he was already in the joint, why didn’t he run over and take our money? Frankly, it kind of adds insult to injury to be so frightened by a robber who’s such a moron. I think I might be feeling better by now if he had been just a teensy bit higher up on the food chain.

Wonderful Burritos, But the Floor Show Needs Work

Our first night in Tucson, we head straight for our favorite local fast food Mexican place (you just can’t get good Mexican in Boulder). Strangely, we’re the only customers at Sanchez Burrito Company. We chalk it up to a Monday night. We order our usuals from the last time we ate here, when we were locals 12 years before. In a few minutes, the woman behind the counter tells us our food is ready. We bring it to a table and dig in. Ummmm…. Huh? We hear a man’s voice yelling in front. We figure the cook and the woman are fooling around, until we hear her scream. Tim looks up to see a hooded, bandana’d man pointing a Glock toward the counter and says under his breath, “they’re being robbed. He has a gun. Don’t move.” Good advice; the only way out of the place is past the guy. The woman has run into the back with the cook and slammed a door. We try to make like the furniture. He glances over at us. Tim catches his eye. The would-be robber hesitates, then runs out the door. Tim tells me to get under a table and give him my cell phone. I comply. He sheilds me as he calls 911. We don’t know if the guy ran out back to try to find the woman, or if he’s planning to come back in to find us. Tim wants to go up front to look around, rather than be “cornered like rats.” I beg him not to go... pull at his belt loops. I’m afraid he’ll run into the guy. Within minutes, there are 6 cops surrounding the restaurant. The cook comes out, shaken. The woman comes out, crying. Tim gives the cops a good description, but neither he nor the woman ever saw the guy’s face. I had my back to it all and didn’t see a thing. We return to our meal. Tim eats heartily. I’m no longer hungry, and besides, my hands are shaking too much to handle the silverware. I take a swig from his beer. A big swig. The first of many. I hate beer. I don’t care.

As we leave, Tim tells the woman, “Wonderful burritos, but the floor show needs work.”

She's ready for her close up.

We’ve reached the half-way point in our trip and although all of us have been changed in some way, no one more so than Shula. It’s as if she’s been possessed… by a normal cat. At home, she would dive under the bed covers as soon as guests entered the house, not to be seen again until hours after their departure. She continued this paranoid way of looking at the world (or not looking, I suppose) when we began our journey, especially whenever the bus was in motion. It was always Morty who has been our fearless feline, growling and throwing himself against the window whenever a strange animal dared enter his yard. But lately, Shula has acquired balls -- specifically Morty’s. Now, she’s the one who hisses and spits when he gets too close to her. She’s even taken a swipe or two at both her brothers. Tim and I constantly debate about what has brought about this change in her. I believe that a life in motion is making her irritable, (for Shula, is living on the bus akin to being eternally transported in a cat carrier to the vet?). Tim thinks that she’s simply emboldened by the newfound knowledge that if she can survive this, she can survive anything. Predictably, our discussions about the causes of her new behavior get more heated whenever we’re on the road and my bus phobia rears its ugly head. But, I have to concede, he may be right, for the second he starts up the bus, she makes a dive -- not for the bed covers, but for the front seat. She even remains there most of the day, even when strangers enter the bus. And, if they feel compelled to pet our gorgeous Balinese, she… lets them. Now, I’m not saying she’s particularly happy about it, but she does allow it. Even Morty has noted the change in his sister and rather than taking her on, simply walks away from her outbursts. Perhaps he’s mellowing, which unlike his father, never seemed to be one of his goals for our trip. As for Miles, he still believes the entire world exists to lavish praise and affection on him, a notion only reinforced by our travels. Perhaps the poodle will be the only one unaffected by our adventure.

Fire in the Hole

We realized long before we left Boulder that the guy who had installed all our custom electronics -- weeks late -- had serious issues with time management. It was only after we had been living in the bus, however, that we discovered he had even more serious issues with custom electronics. By the time we hit Maryland, we had gone nearly four months without TV, an unimaginable hardship at the start of our journey. Now, we no longer really cared, but still, our bus' honor required that she have all working parts. So, we hired someone else and purged her of all the original guy's work, (the back up cameras, security system, internet, etc that he had installed also weren't working properly). When we finally had TV again, we realized how much it is like crack. We stared at the screen, open-mouthed, as mindless commercials played. I felt my IQ drop a few points, but am powerless to tear myself away.

“Look!” Tim marveled. “They got movin’ images and everything!” I tried to rise, but was rooted to the reclining loveseat. I cursed its plush leather pillows, specifically designed to maximize viewing pleasure. Then, I realized I am still holding the remote. If I can just get my index finger to move.

“Must… stop… picture… machine… ” I manage to press the “off” button. The spell broken, we turn toward each other.

“That was one bad relapse, man,” I lament. Tim agrees. In a direct contradiction to everything our training has taught us about addiction, we vow to severely ration TV and find that it’s not so difficult when we're setting the whirlwind pace of 49 states in 12 months.

As if to help our resolve, the motor on the TV lowering device soon burns out due to the original guy’s poor design. About a week after we had it replaced, I notice a wisp of smoke coming from the ceiling. Tim stood directly under it.

“Did you light a match?” I ask. It’s not as stupid a question of a nonsmoker as one would think, for only a few days before, seeing a tick on Miles, Tim had done just that. Now, though, he just said no and resumed his tinkering with the dashboard. The wisp grew less wispy and more fanned out. I must have had the same perplexed expression on my face as the first caveman who had ever achieved…

“FIRE!” I screamed. Okay, so I’ve been known to exaggerate. I guess that’s why Tim shot me an incredulous look. But, when he followed my gaze, he saw it, too. He sprang into action, pushing the button that would lower the TV. Nothing happened. As the smoke grew, I started opening windows.

“Where’s the fire extinguisher?” I coughed. Although I had never seen it, I rightly assumed Project Nerd would have installed one. Tim ran to the kitchen, grabbed it from a cabinet and as he leapt to the front of the bus, pulled the safety ring. He let ‘er rip… right into his chest. Perhaps, without his usual superhero accoutrement of safety goggles, he couldn’t see where he was aiming the thing. He quickly righted it, just as a flame lapped out overhead.

It was over in a few seconds. (The clean up took hours.) Then, Tim manually lowered the TV, a laborious process involving a flexible extension on his electric drill which he painstakingly explained made it work like a Dremel tool. (I suppose I should say here what a Dremel tool is, but I don’t know because I was really not in the mood to listen.) Miraculously, there was no damage, just the burned wire. I didn’t even care about that. All I could think of was how fortunate we were that this happened while we were home. Strangely, I didn’t even contemplate the potential damage to the bus. Every thing is replaceable, I realized. Except, if we’d been out, our pets would have been toast.

What is happening to me? “Everything is replaceable” is hardly a thought becoming a Princess, but it was my only thought. While I adore my pets, after a lifetime of rampant and yes, even resplendent consumerism, I would have expected to have given some of my belongings -- certainly at least my shoes -- a second thought. But, I really didn’t care. Everything is replaceable. Well, at least I hadn’t gone so completely insane as to think the occasion didn’t call for a commemorative martini. And, a lovely shade of orangey-red it was. I called this newest nectar, Fire in the Hole. It was a toss up between naming it that or Dumb Luck, which I realized is what we, two Yuppies with no experience with busing, epitomized. Stay tuned for our latest disaster...

Nick Arrojo. You know he's a celebrity hair stylist when he has someone else hold my hair back for him.

Nick and Me

While in New York City, in a nod to my former life, I get a last minute, hot-off-the-five-month-wait-list-because-I-pull-rank-so-well (Did I mention I’m the travel writer for Bus Conversions Magazine?) appointment with a hairdresser from my favorite makeover show, leaving me with short hair for the first time since I was in single digits. And, no, I did not have anything sucked, tucked or implanted while I was at it. He wasn't from Extreme Makeover, he was from What Not To Wear. And, after recently shopping in an Arkansas Wal-mart and feeling overdressed in my pink velour track suit, I already know what not to wear very well, thank you.

C.U. Later

We visit my alma mater, Cornell University in Upstate New York. During my four years there, I had never appreciated the Bell Tower, visible throughout much of the campus. It had seemed like just another measure of how overwhelmed I was in my pre-med studies, chiming in hourly to tell me how hopelessly late I was for class. Even though I had passed it every day, I had never taken time to make it to the top. So, now, I climbed the 161 steps to the chimes masters’ room, where, since 1868, this unique instrument (which at 21 bells is one of the largest and most frequently played chimes in the world) is given voice by students who compete annually for the honor of grabbing and stomping on a console of wooden levers with their hands and feet. The effect cannot help but bring to mind the title for a would-be B movie: Attack of the Mensa Ninja Warriors. After finally making it to the top, I could understand why, between the climbing and the chiming, one chimes master received physical education credit for her efforts.

She should try it sometime in Chanel, quilted, pebble grain loafers.

Mooseless in Maine

Just as we gain more confidence, (after all, it’s been several weeks without a disaster), our bus battery dies and we are stuck for days without hope of a 24 volt jump. Under cover of darkness, we consider illegally draining our gray water into the New England countryside before it overflows our tanks. Would we stoop so low? The Midnight Dump of Tim’s bus rear does have a certain ring...

Maine is so exquisite, even I am enticed by the out of doors and the promise of seeing a moose, although it seems we are the only tourists there who never do. We have a view of the ocean from our campsite and while the development of my bus phobia had surprised us both, we were even more shocked when Maine seemed to bring on a touch of agorophilia, first manifested when I suggest a (small) hike through Acadia National Park. Still, I am a bit put off by just how darn nice people are in this state. When someone smiles at you in New York, it could be benign, it could be evil or it could be just plain crazy, with about an equal likelihood of any of the three. We New Yorkers have therefore mastered the art of looking through people, as if the entire City consists of urban ghosts. To do this looks a bit creepy here, so I force myself to smile back. It’s actually not that bad. But, these Mainers are not only genuinely friendly, they also like to do things: After my computer crashes, the tech offers to deliver it to me (over an hour drive) after his repairs take longer than expected, the AAA mechanic comes back on his own after being unable to supply us with enough voltage, just to see if the spare battery Tim bought at Sears is doing the trick. I'm losing my mind in a state full of Tims.

Lobster Pounding

While in Maine, Tim decides that after years of shellfish drought (although no longer kosher, I still can’t bring myself to eat the stuff) he was going to take me to lobster pounds for all of our evening meals. (He even samples lobster ice cream at a local confectionary. The verdict: “Tastes like vanilla,” which, I guess, is the chicken of the dessert world.) I can’t even bring myself to try a bite of the hideous crustacean. It’s no longer so much a religious thing; I just can’t understand the appeal of having my dinner stare at me while I dismember it. With all that pounding, no wonder I always have a haddock. Oy.

Happy New Year, everyone from Key West! Yes, that's Miles in the foreground. We managed to find a bar that serves his kind.