By

Ernest Dempsey

Tue January 24, 2023

Loving Healing Press author Nancy Wesson has won the 2022 Moritz Thomsen Peace Corps Experience Award Winner for her book I Miss the Rain in Africa.

Initiated in 1992, the Moritz Thomsen Peace Corps Experience Award has been presented annually to a Peace Corps Volunteer or staff member, past or present, for the best depiction of life in the Peace Corps – be it daily life, project assignment, travel, host country nationals, other Volunteers, or readjustment. Nancy Wesson became the latest winner of the prize for her memoir I Miss the Rain in Africa published in May 2021.

Instead of retiring at the age of 64, Nancy Wesson became a Peace Corps Volunteer in post-war Northern Uganda from 2011 to 2013. When she returned home, she embarked on a new phase of revelations about family wounds, mystical experiences, and personal foibles. I Miss the Rain in Africa commemorates that transformational phase in life from volunteering to serve in Uganda to discovering and absorbing the changes waiting for her back home.

Looking back at the writing process involved, Wesson calls this book special for reliving her adventure that brought everything back in hyperfocus, and begged examination of what she’d learned. Although the experience itself was unique, the transformation it set in motion is available to any reader ready for their own exploration of self. At the same time, it was a challenging experience in more than one way.

“I ended up trimming the manuscript by half and it made it a better book,” Wesson remembers revising her work. “But the greatest challenge began when I reached what I thought would be the end and the muse took over, insisting we do a deep dive into the changes that resulted from returning to a life that no longer fit.”

Nancy Wesson’s experience in Africa still contributes to her life as she relishes spending a lot of time with her grandson.

“But I continue to seek ways to share the PC experience and the gratitude it instilled with a larger audience,” she tells as she looks ahead in the future of her creative journey. She is currently writing her next book using her long metaphysical journey to offer others practical ways to use their own intuition.

Visit 222.NancyWessonAuthor.com to learn more about Nancy’s books.

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By Nancy Wesson Nov. 3, 2021

When I talk about my Peace Corps experience, people are often surprised to learn I entered at the age of 64. When most of my friends were planning for retirement, I was packing water purifiers, solar chargers, and a French press to sustain my coffee habit in Uganda. I’d shuttered a successful consultancy, leased my house that wouldn’t sell, and taken a leap of faith. I trusted my instincts and the toolbox of skills I’d developed over a lifetime, and hoped they’d serve me well in the Peace Corps.

Entering Peace Corps later in life after multiple careers, kids, and husbands was a life-changing experience. It stripped away at the veneer of ego and a lifetime of boundaries accumulated to navigate loss, business life, divorces, single parenting, and other transitions. The resulting vulnerability allowed both fears and strengths to surface and the gift of a rediscovered self to blossom.

I was asked if being divorced influenced my entry into Peace Corps, and the answer required a dual response. No, because by the time I joined Peace Corps, I’d been married a total of 24 years, but divorced for 15. But also, yes, because marriage to each of these brilliant, technically-minded-but-emotionally-stunted men forced me to take responsibility for my life and fulfillment in ways I likely would not have discovered otherwise. I emerged from the post-divorce dark-night-of-the-soul period as a strong, autonomous woman, willing to embrace change. Those traits certainly contributed to my desire to contribute in a more global context.

In my youth — and youth in general — we all collect data and pieces of ourselves that, ultimately, form a cohesive identity-puzzle. By my fantasized retirement age of 64, you might say I’d become a jumbo-puzzle, having amassed quite a few pieces.

The salient border pieces of my identity — the ones that were easily seen and gave me structure, included being a daughter, sister, student, wife, audiologist, administrator, mother, sailor, intuitive, and energy healer—one who works with the bio-field of a person’s body to heal them, weaver, landlord, UFO-experiencer, divorcee, and single parent. (I told you it was a big puzzle.)

Other pieces of me, the interior ones, were shaped by travel to the Middle and Far East, and experiences like the year I spent cruising the Bahamas with my second husband, living aboard a 29-foot sloop. That year, every storm seemed to know our names. Holding all these puzzle pieces together was a large body of professional work that ranged from diagnostic audiologist and mediator to Feng Shui expert, author, and consultant, with much in between.

My metaphorical puzzle was essentially formed by the time I joined the Peace Corps, and the time away from my familiar life felt like a cat batting the pieces off the table. Ego and any pretense of control were the first pieces to take a hit. Thankfully, the next piece to be jettisoned was the need to constantly reinvent myself in a slightly left-of-field business. Much of my consultancy had to do with bringing spiritual practice into the real world — before it was mainstream and marketable. Selling my skills meant selling me. The Peace Corps offered a boots-on-the-ground opportunity to simply live the work instead of trying to sell it.

After my Peace Corps service, when I returned home, I discovered many of those scattered pieces no longer fit anyway. When I tried to put them back, I found that some of the edges had changed shape, while other pieces were lost forever. Voids had appeared, creating the need for new pieces. Things that had been important to me prior to living in Uganda had lost their relevancy, while those I’d taken for granted had become sacred. I was left wondering how to recreate meaningful work without allowing the gravitational pull of the familiar to trap me. Ultimately, I came to know that fulfillment—my desire to be-of-service, offer compassion and joy as a way of living, and to share what I know— is less about what I do professionally, than the intention and energy I bring to everything I do.

In reconfiguring the puzzle of myself, it was initially hard to pin down what had occurred to create such a massive shift. However, I know much had to do with the deep immersion into a culture where my Western concept of time collided head-on with rain, mud, malaria, lack of utilities, and shifting priorities.

Collisions between time and weather showed up every moment of the rainy season in the form of buses and trucks being incapacitated in the middle of an impassable mud trough that was once a road. There were no tow trucks in the bush. My nongovernmental organization (NGO) was fortunate to have a four-wheel-drive truck named The Daughter of Japan, but even she was no match for rising water or potholes the size of Vermont. Villagers understood these factors, and all life stopped when the rain started. The fact that lightning strikes killed hundreds every year, added another layer of precaution. Only Westerners — myself included — were foolish enough to use an umbrella (aka lightning rod) just to get somewhere on time. Locals understood that being on time was not worth risking their lives.

I learned that time had no relevance in a world where life was about relationships. Family needs came first — and family extended to almost anyone, blood-related or not. As a Westerner, it would have been easy to fall into the trap of thinking lateness signaled a lack of interest or respect, but it was almost never the case. Time and its cousin, waiting, precipitated a lot of internal dialog regarding why we — individually and collectively — interpreted lateness as such an offense.

Around the midpoint of my service, I needed to get a document copied, signed, scanned, and emailed so that I could sell a house in the States. The process got caught in the perfect storm of resources, time, and technology. What might have taken five minutes in the States took a full week in Gulu spent mostly waiting until that moment when electricity, computer, printer, ink, and internet all aligned. The ability to be present helped me appreciate these experiences for the gifts they offered: patience, gratitude, and the opportunity to learn a different way of being in the world.

Cultures like ours in America generally do not excel at “being present,” and we spend a lot of time looking outward for the causes of our discontent. Learning to “be,” as opposed to “doing” is a lifelong endeavor for most. In Uganda, it was a coping mechanism for me that had the silver lining of bringing about a greater sense of involvement and awareness.

Living in Uganda also forced a lot of unconventional solutions — fixing a broken toilet valve with dental floss, using the filthiest laundry rinse water to flush that same toilet or to mop the floor. After all, in Uganda — where a quarter of the population lacks access to even a basic water supply — water was a treasure not to be wasted. It could “be finished” the next moment and not return for weeks. Every drop was sacred.

Another factor that contributed to the psychological shift had to do with the relationships I formed, but not in the casual way one might expect. For example, Geoffrey, my counterpart, and I had built a strong relationship founded on deep trust and mutual respect. The relationship was forged by the intense work we did together during our first year. The strength of our friendship’s foundation saved me when I accidentally sent a work-related email attachment that could have easily destroyed our relationship and gotten one or both of us fired, or worse.

When I realized my mistake, I told Geoffrey, though tears, what had happened. I apologized and offered to call the director to explain the circumstances. I even offered to resign. Geoffrey listened quietly and calmly. He had read the attachment and, as far as he was concerned, my document and the manner in which I’d described the events was simply evidence of my fairness and total commitment to improving the program.

I was aghast — had not expected this generosity, this gentleness, and was so filled with gratitude and respect for this man that I could hardly speak. This humble man, so generous in his praise, had recognized it for what it was — a terrible mistake. In that moment, I learned more about forgiveness and gratitude than I had learned during decades of spiritual practice.

At the opposite end of the continuum is “The Story of the Broken Digit” and the theater-of-the-absurd that erupted when the only way to remove a constricting ring from my broken middle-finger turned out to be an overzealous metal worker wielding a 12-inch rotary saw. (The only ring cutter in Uganda was in Kampala, a three day trip away.) My sons and a girlfriend had come to visit and, on our first day of safari, the girlfriend accidentally slammed the car door on my hand. Ironically, it was the middle finger that was broken and placed in a splint, causing me to unintentionally give an obscene gesture to everyone we passed.

Peace Corps’ medical officials said getting the metal worker to remove my ring under medical supervision should be safe. The reality was a jolly, rotund, Italian man with a 5 o’clock shadow. His button down shirt was stretched to its limit across his belly and held in place by a single button. There was an air about him that indicated a questionable relationship with personal hygiene, but his eyes twinkled and his grin was mischievous. “The Blade Master” — my new name for him — explained that he’d removed rings from “other body parts” with the same rusty, chipped blade. I’m sure I heard several men faint behind me.

He swaggered toward me holding the enormous saw high overhead like the torch on the Statue of Liberty. Cords with bare wires dangled ominously as he approached. In the exam room, a surreal atmosphere unfolded as he grabbed my hand and turned on the saw. He chuckled as he said, “If anything goes wrong, we are in the right place — the hospital.”

As panic escalated, my sons intervened, commanding him to “step away from the saw.” After much cajoling, The Blade Master — crestfallen — agreed to find some diagonal pliers and removed the ring with one strong squeeze. When it was time to attempt to reset the bones, a carnival mood developed as excellent doctors asked, as they injected pain killers, to be friended on Facebook. There were hugs and handshakes, and pictures posted between shots and X-rays. It was “Saturday Night Live” in real time. In the Peace Corps, one finds comic relief and strength in the most bizarre circumstances.

Although my bones could not be rearranged, those experiences did rearrange the puzzle-pieces of my life. They also offered a new context in which to use my skills in ways that I couldn’t have in the U.S. I’d wanted to offer my skills more organically and, as it happened, I used every skill in my toolbox: organizational development, firefighting, grief counseling, writing, marketing — everything.

Who would ever have imagined I would use my brief training as a firefighter to teach my Ugandan compound-mates to use dirt to smother a brush fire in our shared yard. It happened in the middle of the night when I woke up, choking on smoke, to find the backyard ablaze and my Ugandan neighbors standing in their boxer shorts, hemming and hawing. They announced, “water is finished,”— the Ugandan expression for “no water”—as flames tickled the lower tree limbs. After some fairly hysterical language-misunderstandings when I asked if I could borrow their hoe, I finally conveyed that I needed a garden hoe, and used the tool to dig up dirt and smother the flames. We all survived to tell the tale.

Sadly, my experience in grief counseling was needed when one of our group was killed and two others injured by a hit-and-run drunk driver. These stories and others are just part of the larger gestalt that changed the lens through which I view life. That, in turn, resulted in a radically altered view of both my past and my emerging future.

I knew reentry to life in the U.S. would be a challenge, but I did not expect to fall headfirst into the wilderness of my psyche as well, to do battle with the monsters lurking there. Thankfully, the rawness of Peace Corps service prepared me to feel emotions I’d avoided all my life, and I was ready. As it turned out, most of the “monsters” (a fear of impending doom, not being enough, catastrophizing minor events) were imposters. I wouldn’t have known that had I not faced down threats — real and perceived — and learned to thrive in a culture that had encountered real monsters: Ebola; the brutal warlord Joseph Kony, his Lord’s Resistance Army and unfathomable abuses they perpetrated like requiring kidnapped children to identify their parents’ dismembered bodies before they were then forced to become child soldiers or “wives” for Kony’s men. The courage with which these children walked through life continues to astound me and give perspective to my own “monsters.”

Regardless of their stage in life, every returned Peace Corps Volunteer I know has expressed the feeling that they received more from the experience than they gave. Living in a new culture distills life into its most sacred parts and emboldens life upon return. And, while Peace Corps service has a discreet starting point, the experience itself never truly ends. It continues to inform life far into the future — if you let it.

Nancy Wesson is a human potential consultant and an award-winning author of two totally unrelated books. Her first, “Moving Your Aging Parents,” was written after moving her own mother and many others. Realizing she was quickly becoming an aging parent herself, she packed up her house and headed for Peace Corps Uganda, where she served from 2011-2013. Her experience there gave rise to her most recent book, “I Miss the Rain in Africa.” She lives in a small town in Oregon and is enjoying a fourth act as a grandmother, while also restarting her consulting business and continuing to write.

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But I have two homes and one of them is Austin,  where I sit now in the family room of a good friend with Cyrus, The Wonder Dog lounging in front of the fire. During Spring Break – I will be the surrogate mom to Cyrus, aka Pig, and his cat, a big, orange tabby named Travis.  Cyrus is a sweetie – but he plays with food – any food – any place – any time.  It will be an interesting week.

The idea for this 6000+ mile trip started with the idea to come back to Texas to teach my 9-hour “Arrange Your Listing for Success,” course as well as a half day class on Elder moves based on my book, Moving Your Aging Parents.  Both are being offered by Austin Board of Realtors and since I’ve missed teaching, I’m really looking forward to it after a three-year hiatus.

However, I have realized upon my return that much of what had been an extensive vocabulary has been left somewhere on the African plains, since it was unusable for the two-and-a-half years in Africa. Perfectly respectable words were lost, having been shoved out by not-so-respectable epithets essential for emotional  survival there, but unfortunately inappropriate for pedagogy.  Other returned PC volunteers have lamented this condition, reduced as we were to speaking Uganglish.  (The Ugandans were no-doubt equally frustrated in trying to communicate with Muzungus.)   Am hoping my mental thesaurus will be resurrected when I start teaching and that it will again supply something interesting and at least moderately appropriate.

Anyway, back to the road trip. The reasonable thing would be to fly – right?   As I remembered the spectacular scenery I would miss by flying across Oregon, Utah and New Mexico, a different idea began to bloom.  It was that idea that caused me to load Hissy-Fit with boxes of memorabilia and the huge-metal-Texas-star-that-has-no-room-in-the-cottage, to take to Travis some 3000 miles away.  Hard to do that even on Southwest Airlines, my favorite. Yes, the trip kept growing. I figured: once I’m in Texas it’s only two days to Florida and then only two more days back to Arkansas and then.. and then…. and then…..   twelve states and fifteen sets of friends (not counting those in Austin) along the way and I’ll be back in Cannon beach.  Well – I’m not in a U-Haul.

That being the plan meant I first had to outrun the winter storm known as Thor, whose ill-mannered trounce across the US coincided with my departure.  Instead of a leisurely drive through the canyon lands of Utah I drove like a bat-out-of-hell just in front of the snow-line (not adequately captured in the picture to the right). It caught up with me soon after Arches National Park and I drove through blizzard conditions until New Mexico, where I stopped to visit with a Peace Corps friend. A nostalgic trip to Santa Fe with its pinon-scented air took me back to road trips with the kids and a trek with friends  when a mysteriously thwarted vision quest in Ghost Canyon/Taos had us scrambling for the car at midnight. Lots of good memories there.  No vision quest this time, but wish there had been time and good weather to make it to Taos!  Another road trip?

Driving 13 hours from Albuquerque through the flat lands of west Texas erased any traces of the romance of  a road trip until a huge orange full-moon graced a clear, cold sky and led me through the hill-country the rest of the way into Austin.

So here I am getting my fill of Mexican food and Texas BBQ until March 31st at which point I’ll re-load the Hissie-Fit and drive through Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama and north Florida. I can’t wait to see Travis in his domain.  There will be no cave-diving…  though a canoe ride along some of those rivers  or a swim swim with the manatees would be fabulous!

After Florida – a trek up Eureka, Arkansas to attend a UFO conference!   Yes… a UFO conference.  The kids and I have shared a sequence of conscious experiences and mine continue.  As was their habit, the kids recorded their experiences in artwork and it  is also making the trip with me.   From Arkansas, I’ll drop down to see “my mother’s people” as they say in Louisiana and head back through Austin on the way west again taking the southern route through Arizona and all the way up the  California coast until I find my way back to Cannon Beach. I have friends to visit every 8 – 10 hours along the way so it’ll be great fun – if you don’t count driving in Los Angeles.

Who was it who said: “Go West old woman ….”?  No?  Oooooh yeah – that was “Go West young man..”  Oh well – one wouldn’t let gender or age get in the way.

Updates to follow for anyone still reading

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Other oddities: a few days ago, I looked out and saw beautiful blue sky with a few wisps of white clouds and thought: “a good time to take my walk.”  By the time I’d garbed myself in boots, hat, gloves,  smart-wool base-layer, vest, and rain  coat (never leave home without several seasons of clothes on) and got to the beach (a 5-minute trek) a cloud had slipped through like a thief,  stolen the sunshine and replaced it with a fierce pelting of sleet.  Once everyone had cleared the beach (a matter of minutes) – the sun and blue sky were back, the squall having moved on down the beach.  This is what they mean by “a maritime climate.” 

These unpredictable weather patterns produce some breathtaking waves and sunsets and with rare exception there are always people with tripods waiting for the perfect shot.  And of course there are birds – lots and lots of birds.  Where is Hitchcock? Seagulls have never excited me that much, but when you have hundreds of gulls, pelicans and ducks all taking flight from a small estuary it takes on a level of drama all its own. Haystack Rock is home to Puffins in nesting season and I can’t wait to see that.

it reads:  Cloudy with a change of sunbreak.  This is an actual word…  See? I am learning how to speak Oregon-ese, which includes conversations that easily drift toward the ups and downs of growing pot, which varieties produces what effects, etc.  No – I’m not considering this as my next career move.  I think the market may already be saturated.

The unexpected abounds. A few days ago I took a long walk – mulling over a decision having to do with pursuing training in Hypnosis Therapy and Regression.  I’ve had some amazing and mystical experiences with that and it allows peeks into aspects of the self and the psyche typically not accessible in normal waking life.  Some experiences are downright magical and I was asking for a “sign” when what should appear in front of me but a white rabbit…  What could be more of a “sign” of magic than a white rabbit? I looked around for either Alice or Jimmy Stewart, and since neither of them were around to claim ownership, I took this as my sign. Of course, I’m taking the course. 

 The day was finished off by this gorgeous sunset.   Against the backdrop of epic sunsets, white-rabbits and warning-cows the presence of magic and synchronicity are palpable.

Permeating this surreal beauty and a level of serenity that is somewhat new in my life, there remains the connection with Uganda – still trying to help one young man pursue his dream of medical school and getting another to understand that school is not just a way to be “off the streets.”  In the process of making these opportunities available via funds from friends, I underestimated the importance of  having the confidence and skill to be able to grasp the prize when it’s right in front of you. It has again underscored how much of daily life and the way we are reared prepares us for making decisions and grabbing “a chance” when it comes our way.   From infancy we are bathed in a sea of possibilities, immersed in pastimes that build skills we take for granted as every child birthright.  Coming from a culture where a sense of entitlement is more common than one of gratitude or lack, it’s has been a wake-up-call to witness how a lifetime of strife can thwart one into dysfunction.  Sometimes the presence of an opportunity you don’t know how to claim is more frustrating than its absence. It’s heartbreaking for all concerned and has added to my own appreciation of the fact that the offer of opportunity or gift is only the spark. The real gift is in being able to accept it and receive it.   Somehow this seems relevant in this “season of giving.” 

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The first is the view from the street: the three of us: me, the car, the house.  Shake shingle, fun little front yard with lots of Rhododendren and other plants I know yet.  Quiet little residential street a couple of blocks to town in one direction and a block and a half from the beach on the another.

Walking out the front door, turning left and crossing the street that runs through town, then following a path puts one on the beach just in front of Haystack Rock.  A couple of miles through town or down the beach gets you to Ecola State Park.   From that overlook with Brett a couple of months ago before, I had only dreamed of finding a place on this beach.  There’s a lot to be said for “dreaming!”

Left is the attic a.k.a. future meditation room, weaving studio and guest room!   The two beds are included as furnishings.

Now to actually move in a start creating the rest of the scene!

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After three years of being transient and rootless (Peace Corps plus Mexico) the need to put down roots has become almost an obsession, so this part of the waiting has become a challenge. Waiting for Peace Corps to make up its mind was practice for this part.

I finally got a call from the only place that looked promising (a cottage Karla found on craigslist) – having looked at a whole slew of places that were really depressing.   On the 15th I drove the 2.5 hours to the coast and had four places lined up to view.    The first was the little cottage, just what I visualized – with four other people in line after me to see the place.

No choice but the wait and see who the owners would choose… with so many people looking and so few places available, it’s a landlord’s choice.  The remaining three places were like closets – no room even for my thinned down collection of belongings.  The waiting was excruciating because the cottage was in Cannon Beach, my town of choice, famous for its beaches, Haystack Rock, and Ecola State Park near by (view pictured below.)

My stars must have been in alignment because I got the cottage.   Again – waiting – till October 1st to move in.  It’s a precious shake-shingle one bedroom with converted loft, a block and a half from the beach, a block and a half from the middle of the town of Cannon Beach and partially furnished so I don’t have to run out immediately and buy any big pieces like a mattress set, couch, TV…  

• $500 for driving with a hand-held telephone (your’s truly opting for simplicity doesn’t have hand’s free)
• B-I-G tickets for accidentally drifting into the bike lane or turning across it outside the dotted lines…
• Randomly placed flashing (tiny lights) pedestrian walks: when flashing mean S-T-O-P  
• Against the law to pump you own gas – fines for that too! ($200)
• Fine’s double in “safety corridors,” – never mind school zones!

I don’t know if Cannon beach will be my Marseille, or another stop along the way, but I plan to immerse myself fully, discover what we have to offer each other and enjoy the process of continued discovery.  I do know, that – like a painting – I’ve been mentally painting in the details of ach room as I wait to move in.  And there are certain pieces of personality that endure where ever one goes, and other aspects that emerge only when offered an opportunity that’s new enough to bring out latent talents, the shadow, or pieces of coal that needed pressure and time to become diamonds.  

We’ll see what pops up and what falls away…    What I do know is that I am being very selective about what I add back in to this phase of life, starting essentially with a blank canvas.  Choosing a simpler way of living,  closer to nature and as “off the grid” and still being able to do the consulting I love.   Sometimes that’s more complicated that it should be – in the “first world.”

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Forget the big-girl-panties…..  I went for the jock-strap and channeled my “inner-trucker.”  It seems to have worked.  My good friend Karla from Peace Corps has achieved sainthood status because she flew over to make the trip with me.  Not sure what I did to deserve this generosity, but I picked her up on Saturday and now, here we are in Oregon.  How will I ever thank her!

Driving the truck back on Sunday after loading was a little like it must feel taking your first step on a tight-rope while holding an elephant by the tail.   I was scared to even attempt the steep hill going to Lizzie’s house, but the only other option was to drive half way around Austin to avoid it.  I was relieved to discover it did not in fact stall half way up as I had imagined….

Karla and I with our weapon of choice

And  I’m sure you all will be glad to know we heeded suggestions that we take a weapon for self-defense. Refusing recommendations of a gun, pepper spray or wasp/bear spray we opted for a fierce hand-rake that presented itself during loading.    Soon every car will be equipped with one.

From that inauspiciously fearful beginning, we have now accomplished a 45 hour drive of  roughly 2400 miles,  transiting Texas, New Mexico, a corner of Colorado, Utah, Idaho and Oregon in a truck with a gasoline addiction resulting in the consumption of 350 gallons of gas (8 mpg). We accomplished the entire trip in what seemed to be a state of grace. Karla’s navigating saved the day and made it possible without total madness and the purchase of a female-voiced Garmin navigator we named Garmina has made me fall in love with technology.  Interesting sights along the way kept us totally engaged and entertained.

Driving through the desolate no-man’s-land of West Texas we crested a hill and had to immediately dodge the debris of a blown-out tire. While still wondering what vehicle had survived that blow-out, the other side of the hill offered up a scene right out of a fifties’ movie:  two ancient white school buses snugged up to each other facing opposite directions and surrounded by six grim looking armed guards  policing the transfer of prisoners.   We didn’t think it wise to stop for pictures.

There were bizarre moments of mental lapses so aberrant that – had I been elsewhere – might have resulted in a scene out of One Flew Over the Cookoo’s Nest.   Consumed in an examination of a lever I’d already used for a day, but which boasted a sign for a device  about which I know nothing – I asked in the most earnest of voices “what do you think this lever is for… it looks like it has a purpose”  Karla, looking incredulous and more than a little spooked at the prospect of continuing another 2000 miles with this mad woman, suggested it might be for shifting gears, at which point a deafening silence ensued. The incapacitating laughter that erupted when I came out of the time warp returns unbidden every time we think about it.  Some things are simply inexplicable.   Maybe we were just preparing for Roswell of alien fame.  We hadn’t originally planned that stop, but as the route unfolded,  Jeannie’s directions brought us right through Roswell and its ubiquitous supply of “little green men.” This one was the greeter at the Motel 6.

After a night in a dank and smoke infested Roswell Motel 6 (the alien was of no help) we managed to  arrive in Albuquerque to meet up with another Peace Corp friend, Jeannie and had a great visit.  Wish we had a friend like Jeannie at every stop along the way as she really made us feel so welcome and well cared for.  Professional truckers that we are and each of us taking care of different things, not always checking in with the other – we drove out of Albuquerque on Day 2 to the sound of a small horn beeping behind us only to discover that Jeannie was not just giving us a a grand send- off, but warning us that we’d left the back of the truck open!  How the mighty truckers had fallen and been reduced once again to the realm of mere mortals.   So grateful were we that our stupidity was discovered before we got on the highway, that we almost forgot to be embarrassed.  Thanks to Jeannie we were spared the abject humiliation of it happening it 8 o’clock Albuquerque traffic.

Shortly after that fiasco – laughing all the way – Jeannie’s improved routing took us past a resort where eight hot-air balloons were readying for lift off against the morning sky.  Spectacular.  The scenery that took us up to Colorado gave truth to New Mexico’s title as the Land of Enchantment.

Colorado was surprising in that we went across the southwest corner that looks like a moonscape with desolate buff-gray rounded land forms that gave way to Utah and its jaw-dropping surreal landscapes of red rock sculptures, arches and canyons.  Just as we thought it couldn’t get any more spectacular,  dramatic dark cloud formations dumping swaths of rain danced across the horizon occasionally gracing us with a shower to clean off the dust collected along the way.

Road signs and place markers did their part to keep us entertained and wondering about the fate they suggested: Dismal Nitch, Dead Horse Canyon, Starvation Road, Poverty Lane, Hells Bend and Humbug Cove.

And Guadalupe never met a gas pump she didn’t love.  We spent a lot of time nurturing her addiction. Gas prices got worse as we went west and we spent about $1200 feeding our trusty transport.  But otherwise, she treated us well and was surprisingly comfortable, if you don’t count needing back support for the driver. At the last minute, Liz donated a bath mat that served that purpose.  Improvisation turned out to be a valuable skill on this trip.

Coming into Oregon from the south east was shocking as we saw a part of the state that echoed the moon-scape feel of parts of Colorado, Texas and Utah, punctuated by hundreds of towering white wind turbines turning against the back drop of a bluebird sky.

Driving under the Welcome to Oregon arch gave me chill-bumps as I realized how long I have planned for and thought about this move.  When the Columbia River and Mount Hood came into view it was nothing short of a spiritual experience.

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                                                                 The first week I arrived in Oregon, Brett had mountains to climb – real ones, not figurative ones.   Climbing season is short and if you climb too late it’s really unsafe – so I used that time to walk wonderful, bucolic trails that are so magical you can practically see the fairies playing.  It was regenerative, especially after the intense heat of the Yucatan!  Vine ripened fruit was everywhere: berries along the path, fruit stands overflowing with cherries, blueberries, apricots, blackberries!

 A drive along the coast north of Newport Beach (no not the one of California fame) gave me a glimpse of the diversity of communities there – some are heavy-duty ports with no actual beach, others are covered with river rock and dramatic boat eating boulders, while others are soft and sandy. Bathed in sunshine walking along one beach you can see the next one down shrouded in fog.   I’m aiming for the Cannon Beach area, but where I’ll actually land will depend on what I can find to rent.  Yes – I’m one of those crazy people who show up with a U-Haul full of furniture and assume something will show up. 

 Then to Austin, where I have been so incredible fortunate.  Goods friends have embraced me and provided gorgeous places to stay, good food, cars to drive and caught me up on their lives.  My goodness there’s been a lot happening:  twins were born, divorces were had, houses burned,  kids were married, left for college, businesses were started, and Austin grew into an almost unrecognizable city.  But that’s the sort of thing that happens when 150 per day move to town.  Congress Avenue and downtown have been transformed from a lazy place to spend a weekend into the hip-and-high-priced-happening-place-to-be.  

I got the opportunity to spend a week in  a really posh high-rise condo overlooking the LadyBird Lake and the expanding city of Austin all lit up at night and I finally – after almost 40 cumulative years in Austin got to see the bats fly out at dusk from the Congress Avenue Bridge.  1.5 million Mexican free-tail bats call the bridge home in the summer and every night about 8:30 they take flight to rid Austin of mosquitoes and of course entertain the tourists.  They winter-over in a cave in the hill-country outside of town.

 Today is D-Day minus two: tomorrow I pick up a 20 foot truck, which started as a commitment to a 10-foot truck and grew.  Too much stuff for the baby truck, then they said a 14″ would work, but if not loaded right, might not work, so safer with a 17foot.  Just about the time I’d resigned myself to that one, I got a call saying my reservation for a TWENTY foot truck was confirmed!  “No 17-footer available ma’am, the 20 footer is only a foot longer (whaaaat? 20 minus 17 still 3 isn’t it??? ) and drives better because it’s newer and gets better gas mileage ma’am.”  Hmmmm.  So here we go. My Peace Corps friend Karla has arrived from Tennessee via Nawlins to make the trip with me and we’ll stop in Albuquerque to visit another Peace Corps friend. We are going to make this an adventure no matter what!   Stayed tuned! 

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Had a fine visit with my PC friend, Betty, whom I’ve not seen since Uganda.   Scottsdale is lovely and has a new Museum of the West called Western Spirit and it was really amazing, tracing – through art – the quest of Lewis and Clark and housed enough spurs and chaps to outfit several rodeos.  One interesting piece was an art wall with a painting of a horse standing in the desert.  The upper half of the painting was on the wall, while the lower half was perpendicular to it on the floor.  Standing in the just the right spot, it looks three dimensional.     The horse, un-bothered by our presence, never missed a nibble, much like his two human friends.

 But I’m getting ahead of myself… first, I had to get there.  Once again, wind – the worst of the trip.  This time Hissy Fit was bouncing.  And I was exhausted fighting lift-off when out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a huge dust cloud and – what?  Yes, this huge Chinook helicopter was landing in the middle of nowhere, which turned out to be Indio, CA.   Pulling over to investigate, my next discovery was the General Patton Museum, a yard full of military tanks and an enormous Gem Warehouse.   It called my name and several pounds of rocks later, I was back on the road.   As much as I have gotten rid of on this trip, I have also collected – lovely gifts from friends:  a painting of me reading to the Ugandan village kids, a 125-year old rice sifting basket, snacks for the road, a flat screen TV,  and then of course I’ve purchased a year’s supply of dried Hibiscus flowers for Jamaica tea, Mexican Chocolate, soap from Spain….  It’s time to go home.  Hissy Fit and I have both gained weight.

I can see why people fall in love with Arizona.  The desert was beautiful and the assortment of cacti was mind-boggling.  Coming into Phoenix there were Octilo Cacti and sunshine-yellow Palo Verde trees in full bloom. 

Flowers were everywhere; fledgling mockingbirds noisily begged for food on the side walk as we had morning coffee and cotton-tail bunnies darted out of bushes and across lawns to entertain us with what must have been a mating-ritual I’d not seen before.  Me-thinks jackrabbit rituals may not have been as sweetly endearing.   Next, Los Angeles to visit dear friends I’ve known since before Travis was born.  What was supposed to be a 6 hour trip took 8-plus because of LA rush-hour traffic.  There’s a reason they made a movie with that title…  It makes people crazy. 

Thank god for a Garmin which announces in a sweet, never frustrated voice: “Be in one of the four right lanes,” then “take the exit to the left  then stay right….”   She never says: “You missed the exit, stupid.”  because she thinks ahead – even offers pictures for the directionally challenged among us – and that would be me.  What a love.

Visited my old street in Redondo Beach and saw the changes made to the little 900 sq. foot house we bought for $86,000 in 1979.  It is now “worth” close to $1,000,000.   Hmmmmm…   Somehow appropriately, Pat and Charlie took me to Trump’s resort where we had coffee and looked over the fabulous coastline before heading to the Glass Church Having eaten my way through LA, it’s time to backtrack to La Quinta for other Peace Corps friends, where there will be more eating. 

Good thing I bought the trucker’s version of a US Atlas at the used book store.  It has weight and height restrictions for every state.  I think I don’t have to worry about height, but may be reaching the weight limit.   There will be lots of walking and eating of cardboard and water when I get home.    But that’s another few days.   Have decided to take the scenic route up California to Oregon, taking Hwy 395 as opposed to I-5 avoiding the cities where possible – seeing more desert and skirting Mt. Whitney in the process.    

Nancy’s Epic Road Trip is winding down.  Thanks for staying tuned for anyone still reading.  Please drop me a note and let me know what’s happening in your lives.  

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Being in an empty airport all night is an experience.  Those of you who saw the YouTube of the man trapped in the Vegas airport filming his own music video with Celine Dion’s “All by Myself,” may have wondered how he got all those shots with NO ONE in the background…  Well – here’s San Francisco’s airport to the right.  

Such an environment is ripe for introspection and remembering other airports, other trips, and other transitions. I realized I’ve lived in each of the four corners of the US and then some:  Lousiana/Texas,   Florida, Southern California, West Virginia and soon – Oregon.  I don’t know that that says anything in particular – just part of the Gypsy mentality I guess.  

So here I am in Welches, Oregon at the base of Mt. Hood where the beauty almost makes you weep – the pure richness and accessibility of it – picturesque little towns, bright purple and pink baskets of Petunias, giant evergreens and trails populated with families carefree enough to hike in the woods with the family dog, cold water rapids from melting snow.  I suppose in part it’s being in a culture where despite our problems and the complexity of life, we have enough disposable income and time and feel safe enough to go climb a mountain,  to travel, to expend energy in ways other than finding food and to think about what we’d like to do rather than endure what life has dished out.

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