Another Moving Day

It is, after all, a mobile mansion.

Yesterday, I repositioned my fifth wheel RV, the “mobile mansion,” from an RV park at the Colockum Ridge Golf Course in Quincy, WA to a residential construction site high on a hill on the east side of Squilchuck Valley. The site is across the street from an 86-acre orchard I’m responsible for drying with my helicopter after it rains for the next few weeks.

The Move

Moving an RV you’ve been living in for two months isn’t as easy as just hooking up and rolling out. The first step is to put away all the loose objects you’ve been living with for that time — loose objects will get tossed around in transit. I had to stow my desktop computer in its box to protect it, clear my desk and table and kitchen countertops, stow shelf items — the list goes on and on. Even the small tabletop lamp beside my La-Z-Boy rocker needed to be stowed.

Of course, since I was putting things away, I felt compelled to dust and vacuum. The benefit is that when I arrive at my new parking spot, my home will be clean.

Then comes strapping down the items that can’t be stowed: my swing-arm mounted 36-inch HDTV, the La-Z-Boy, and Alex the Bird’s cage. The RV comes with straps for all of these things. (Alex’s cage sits where the second La-Z-Boy would be.)

Outside, I needed to take down my windsock and its 14-foot pole. (I had to use pipe wrenches to get the three pipe segments separated.) Stow the bird feeder and grill. Take down the outside sun shades, hose them off, and hang them to dry — then stow them when dry. Roll up the awning. Dump the gray and black water. Wash and stow the sewer hose. Disconnect the water and power and stow the hoses and cables.

Use the remote to slide in the RV’s four slides, raise the stabilizer legs, and lower the landing gear. Back the pickup into position — by myself, mind you — and raise the landing gear to drop the hitch on top of the ball. (Yes, this is a fifth wheel trailer, but we put a gooseneck adapter on it since we already had a gooseneck hitch in the bed of the pickup.) Fasten the pin, chains, and power cord.

RV CheckI use an app on my iPad to list and check off the things I need to do. It’s called RV Checklist and although its not as slick looking as a typical iOS app, it does give me the ability to create and use custom checklists. The benefit: I can include items like “Take down windsock” and “Secure bird cage,” which are not likely to appear on any standard check list. I can also remove items I don’t need, such as “Disconnect satellite dish” and “Hook up towed vehicle.”

On the Road

My RigOnce the trailer was hooked up and the chocks were collected and stowed, I loaded my potted tomato plant and Alex the Bird into the truck and headed out.

Driving a 3/4 ton pickup with a 34-foot fifth wheel trailer behind it isn’t something to be taken lightly. Every turn needs to be considered. Every downhill slope needs to be approached with care. And driving in city traffic can really pump up stress levels.

My drive wasn’t long — only about 50 miles. The first 35 miles was two-lane state highway with little traffic, 60 miles per hour speed limit, and passing lanes every 5 to 10 miles. Easy going. The next 5 or so miles, however, was city driving through East Wenatchee, over the Columbia River, and into Wenatchee. This is tense stuff for me because, with my load, driving defensively is not much of an option. I have to keep to my lane and hope no one around me drives like a jerk. Then the final 10 or so miles was up windy canyon roads. Yesterday was a special challenge — a detour onto a narrower, windier road. Fortunately, traffic wasn’t an issue.

After two turns, I climbed up the last road to my destination. The pavement turned to fine gravel. A quarter mile later, was the circle of a former cul-de-sac, now with a narrow dirt road leading farther up the side of the valley. My parking spot was a sharp right turn down a steep dirt hill. Since I’d be backing into it, I pulled up into the far side of the cul-de-sac and got out to set my cones.

Parking

I have a trick I use to back up the RV by myself. I have four small orange traffic cones. I set them out as guides to where I want to park the RV. I can clearly see them in my side view mirrors. All I have to do is line up the side of the RV with the cones and I can get it into position.

Of course, this site required quite a lengthy roll back. As a result, I had to set the cones out once, back almost all the way to the last one, and then get out of the truck and set the cones again. The last little bit was particularly challenging, since I’d be positioning the RV between the edge of a cliff and the home under construction. I managed to get it in place without too much difficulty — this surprised me because, by that point, I was completely exhausted. I’d been on the move all day and it was about 6:30 PM.

Before disconnecting, I needed to make sure the RV was level. After consulting the level right inside the RV’s door, I decided that three leveling blocks would do the job. I positioned them and rolled the RV back on top of them. Although I probably could have been a bit more level with just two blocks, this was good enough. Besides, I knew from experience that if it rained, the blocks would sink a bit into the ground beneath them. That would likely make me perfectly level.

Then lower the landing gear, disconnect the hitch and its chains/cable, and pull the truck out. Raise the landing gear to level the RV. Slide out the slides. Good to go. I’d pull out the things I needed as I needed them over the next few days.

Later, after a shower to wash away the day’s dirt and sweat, I ran a power cord to the 110 volt outlet on the homesite’s electric box. This power connection is a far cry from the 50 amp power supply at the campground. I know I won’t be able to run certain appliances at the same time — for example, the microwave and air conditioner. But at least I won’t have to rely on the RV’s solar panel or run the generator for power.

My Campsite

I stayed here last year for the first time. Back then, the only sign of construction was a building foundation and the concrete pouring forms that had been used to make it. This year, there’s a small, two story vacation home framed out and roofed. The siding should go on this week; the windows, which have been delivered, will go up soon, too. Then construction will stop for the season. The owner of the property is paying for construction as it is completed and he says he’s out of money.

A time-lapse movie I shot last year from this spot.

My parking spot is literally on the edge of a cliff — the ground drops off about 10 feet past my door. The views out the side and back window are spectacular. Across the valley are scattered pine trees, granite rock outcroppings, and orchards. Sunrise is amazing; golden light creeping down the hillside. And back toward Wenatchee, I can see the Columbia River and Rocky Reach Dam, which are all lit up at night.

Helicopter in OrchardMy helicopter is parked down in the orchard. I tried to park it near my campsite, but I couldn’t find a piece of ground level enough to make me comfortable leaving it there. I might try moving it again later today — I really don’t like it being out of sight. Wish I could get my hands on a Bobcat for a few hours to level out a piece of this hilly homesite.

I wonder what will happen next year. Will the house be done? Will the owner tell me that there’s no room for an RV in his side yard? Will I be parked down in the orchard beside my helicopter and the scummy pond, hauling fresh water and running a generator every day? I hope not. But I won’t worry about that now. I’ll just enjoy this year’s hillside campsite.

Today, I’ll hook up the water connection and set up the gray water to drain away from the RV. (I’ve already switched to biodegradable soaps to minimize impact.) Then I’ll head down to Wenatchee and do some shopping.

I’m glad I’m up here. Although this location is lonely and remote at night, there’s activity during the day on the house construction nearby and on the orchard. And I can’t imagine a more pleasant place to park.

Back in the Saddle Yet Again

Reawakening my motorcycling skills.

This week, I jumped back into a hobby that had once been an integral part of my life: motorcycling.

A Little History

Years ago, when I was in my 20s, I came up with a personal list of skills I wanted to acquire during my lifetime. Although they didn’t have any particular order, the one I went after first was learning to ride a motorcycle.

I was 29 when I bought my first motorcycle. It was a 1978 400cc Honda Hawk — what we might call a “standard” bike with an upright seating position. It was black with red trim, and despite being 11 years old, it only had 941 miles on it. Its previous owner, also a woman, had died of cancer 9 years before and her husband had been unable to part with it. A motorcycle dealer, he’d kept it in mint condition and I was the lucky person to buy it. I don’t remember what it cost, but I do remember that it was a good deal. Wish I could find a photo of it.

Because I understood the importance of safety and I didn’t know anyone who rode, I signed up for a Motorcycle Safety Foundation course (highly recommended). Mike, who was not yet my husband, also signed up. His idea was that after taking the course, we’d both go riding on my motorcycle. I made it quite clear that my motorcycle was mine and if he wanted to ride, he needed to get his own. So he bought a very functional but tired looking BMW Boxer.

We met other motorcyclists at the safety course and it wasn’t long before we were riding weekly with a group. They were, as you might expect, mostly male and all right around our age or a bit younger. Women, when they came along, were usually passengers. The bikes were mostly sport bikes — crotch rockets, as some people call them — and the group rode fast on twisty roads, mostly in Harriman State Park north of our New Jersey home. It was challenging to build the skills to keep up with them.

1992 Yamaha Seca IIWe went to Americade with the group one year and that’s where I got a chance to test ride what would be my next motorcycle: a 600 cc Yamaha Seca II. The Honda was a nice bike and it had helped me build and refine basic skills, but I was ready for something more sporty. Almost a year passed before I took the plunge in 1992. Right next door to the Yamaha dealer in Paramus, NJ was a BMW car dealer that just happened to have the previous year’s model BMW K65S (I think), still new, in an electric blue color. Mike bought it. A few days later, we rolled up to an upstate New York campground on a pair of brand new bikes, shocking the hell out of the members of our riding club that were also on the trip.

We did a lot of riding in those days. One of my favorite vacations was the trip we took from the New York metro area down through Washington DC and onto Skyline Drive and the Blue Ridge parkway. It was a motorcycle camping trip and folks in the campgrounds we stayed at couldn’t believe how much gear we were able to pack on those bikes. We came all the way down the Blue Ridge Parkway to Tennessee, with a great ride through Deal’s Gap, then headed over to the coast and came up the barrier islands, following the wake of a hurricane that had battered Hatteras. Mike didn’t tell his mom that we were doing the trip on motorcycles — she thought we were driving. During one call to her while on the trip, I heard him assure her that I was doing just as much of the driving as he was.

Time went on. We did another camping trip with the club, this time up to New York’s Finger Lakes area. Riding through farmland at speeds I don’t want to admit, I found the top end of the Yamaha’s power curve. I instantly fell out of love with the bike.

1996 Ducati 900 SS/CRIt wasn’t long before I bought my next bike, a 1996 Ducati 900 SS/CR. Now here was a bike with testosterone. I recall trying to find the top end one day on a piece of long, straight desert road. I got to 130 mph when I decided that I didn’t really need to find the top end. Needless to say, I had no trouble keeping up with the group.

Things change. We moved to Arizona where the riding wasn’t quite as good. We got horses, which were more interesting to ride. Later, I learned to fly helicopters — another one of the skills I had on my list. I bought my first helicopter. Which do you think is more fun to take out for a spin? The motorcycles gathered dust in my hangar.

Fast Forward to Today

I’m up in Washington State for the fourth summer in a row, working a series of cherry drying contracts. With me are my helicopter, Mike’s pickup, and my very large fifth wheel trailer, the “mobile mansion.” The pickup is my only means of ground transportation.

Last year, I almost bought a Honda scooter. This year, I looked at them again and realized that a 30 MPH top speed would not be much use for serious transportation. I even looked at motorcycles with the thought of getting a dual purpose bike I could take off-road a bit. But when a reality check reminded me that I’d be turning 50 this year, I decided against such a purchase.

I wished I had one of the motorcycles I already owned, which were languishing in my hangar 1,200 miles away.

I called Dave, who runs a motorcycle shop in Wickenburg. I asked him if he knew of a company that could ship one of my bikes up to me. He not only knew a company that could do it, but they could do it for about half of what I thought it would cost. I told him to fetch the Yamaha from my hangar, do what he needed to to get it running, and ship it out to me.

The Yamaha ArrivesIt arrived on Thursday, on a specially designed dolly in a 18-wheeler filled with motorcycles. I took possession about half a mile down the road from my temporary home, at a closed-down weigh station. I’d asked Mike to put on the Givi hard luggage I’d bought for it; the helmet and my old denim riding jacket were stowed inside. Once I remembered how to start it — I knew there was a primer switch somewhere but couldn’t remember where at first — I was good to go.

That first half mile ride was the first time I’d been on a motorcycle in over two years.

Motor Skills Return

Yesterday, after a long, hot day of doing helicopter rides at a local winery, I climbed on, put on my helmet, and rode the 5-1/2 miles into Quincy for dinner at my favorite Mexican restaurant. I admit I was nervous at first — what if I screwed up and killed myself? The speed limit on the road between my RV and town has a 60 mph speed limit. It didn’t take me long to get it up to speed, though.

But what really surprised me is the way my hands and feet seemed to go into auto-pilot mode. My right hand and foot automatically moved to the brake lever and pedal to apply just the right amount of pressure for braking. My left hand and foot automatically moved to the clutch lever and gearshift to change gears smoothly. Balance comes naturally, even in the gravel parking lot at the RV park.

I’d been hoping that the skills would return. I’m thrilled that they have, but admit I’m very surprised that they have returned so quickly. I guess that’s what experience is all about.

Back in the Saddle

Today I’m planning my first big ride — a 70-mile trek from Quincy to Chelan, WA. I’m toying with the idea of mounting my GoPro for the ride — I’ll be riding along the beautiful Columbia River most of the way — but don’t need even more video footage I can’t really use. So I’ll likely just take it easy and enjoy the ride.

It’ll sure be nice making the trip in something other than a 3/4 ton pickup.

More Blog Posts…Soon

Still very busy, getting ready to relocate, but the end is near.

First of all, you need to understand that I really do like writing in this blog. It makes me feel good to post something each morning as I enjoy my morning coffee. Whether it’s a poorly disguised rant or a detailed account of my latest helicopter trip, it feels good to get the words out and share them with others. I am, after all, a writer at heart and writers need to write.

And that’s actually what I’m doing. I’m working on a revision to a 600+ page book and am about 3/4 finished. There’s a very tight deadline — one I’m not sure I’m going to make this time (don’t tell my editor) — and I’ve been working my ass off on it, getting very burned out in the process. I’m not complaining; this one book earns a whole year’s income so it’s worth what I put into it. But it does leave me too tired and burned out to write in this blog — and not really enough time to do it right anyway.

But the end is near! I’ll soon be repositioning my helicopter and RV to Washington State for the summer. (My house-sitter is already installed to care for the fish and backyard birds and keep an eye on things.) Once there, I’ll finish up the book and have a lot more time for other projects, including some videos and, of course, this blog.

Between now and then, I’ll be making two trips from Phoenix to Washington. On one, I’ll be a passenger in my own helicopter for a day or two. On the other, I’ll be driving my “rig” on a two to three day journey through Arizona, Nevada, Idaho, and Washington. On both trips, I won’t be writing about computers. So I expect to have a clear enough head to share some stories about the trips. Maybe some photos, too. With both hands free in the helicopter, I’ll have no trouble taking photos.

So bear with me just a little longer. New blog posts will come soon. I promise.

The Jehovah’s Witnesses at My Doorstep

And the reason why I spent 30 minutes talking to them.

The other day, a pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses showed up on my doorstep. I knew they were Jehovah’s Witnesses when I caught sight of them on my driveway, walking up to the house. Two women, one older carrying a book and pamphlet, one much younger. Nicely dressed, looking very out of place.

Understand that I live at the end of a road — actually, beyond the end of a road. To get to my house, you need to drive at least a mile past where the pavement ends. The last stretch is a very steep — think 10% grade — and deeply rutted because one of my neighbors (and his family and friends) doesn’t know how to drive up a steep dirt road without spinning tires. One you get past that, you’re in a dry wash where there are three driveways, one of which is mine.

Because of this, we don’t get many strangers stopping by. The folks who do make the trek are either paid to do so — UPS, FedEx, USPS, repair guys, etc. — or very motivated.

Perhaps motivated by God.

I opened the door just as they rang the bell, prepared to tell them how not interested I was and send them politely on their way. Although a lot of people are very rude to Jehovah’s Witnesses, I don’t get rude unless they get stubborn. Although I’m an atheist, I respect people’s rights to believe whatever they want to believe — as long as they don’t use my tax dollars to spread their religious word. (And yes, I don’t think churches should get any kind of tax break; they should be operated like businesses and pay the taxes at the same rates that my businesses do. But that’s another topic for another blog post. Save your comments, folks.)

I got right to the point without even looking at them: “Jehovah’s Witnesses?” I don’t even think I gave them a chance to reply. “I’m sorry, but I’m really not interested at all. You’d be totally wasting your time with me.”

I really don’t remember what the older woman replied, because by that point, I’d gotten a good look at the younger woman. Woman is being generous. She was a girl, perhaps in her late teens. She had an interesting round face that reminded me of the actress that played Wednesday Addams in the Addams Family movies. She even had the long, straight brown hair, parted in the middle. (The IMDb tells me it’s Christina Ricci; if you follow the link, be sure to look at her Addams Family shots, too.) Of course, she didn’t have Wednesday Addams’ glum features. Instead, her face looked more non-committal.

And my heart was instantly filled with sadness.

Here’s my reason — which took quite a while for me to figure out afterwards: Here was a young girl, perhaps just getting started with her “mission” of spreading the word of God (or whatever they say their mission is). She’d be knocking on doors, likely facing rude, obnoxious people every day she hit the streets. People who would ignore her knock (if she was lucky) or people who would answer the door, curse her out, and then slam the door in her face. How often did Jehovah’s Witnesses actually score a “hit”? Get a door answered by someone who wanted to listen to their line? Judging by the people on Twitter who chided me about talking to them for 30 minutes, not very many.

I thought about these two women, going door to door in rural Arizona on whatever schedule they might need to keep. And I thought about all that time utterly wasted. Life is so short — why don’t people see that? — and it can be snatched away at any time. In fact, during our conversation, I suggested that they might better spend their time doing something more interesting together, like going shopping or learning to knit. My words were directed toward the girl, even though I said them to the woman. I was hoping to plant a seed.

And I guess that’s the reason I spoke to them for 30 minutes. I was trying hard to plant seeds in her young mind, hoping to give her real food for thought. Our conversation covered my beliefs — or lack thereof — and some of their standard line about prophecies. I was pleasantly surprised when I gently told them that I didn’t believe God existed and they didn’t get offended or angry.

We talked about the Bible and I told her what I think of it: It’s a collection of stories written by normal people who may have been inspired by faith. I did not believe it was the word of God — how could I if I didn’t believe there was a god? The older woman, who did most of the talking, tried to convince me that the Bible was more than I thought, using Ezekiel’s prophecy regarding Tyre as “evidence” (her word) for the Bible being God’s word.

I was not familiar with the prophecy, which surprised me. Despite being a non-believer, I’ve done a considerable amount of research into the bible — although, admittedly, mostly New Testament material. Because I looked at things with a skeptical eye, if this prophecy was such strong evidence in favor of the Bible, I thought I might have heard of it before. It puzzled me that I hadn’t.

They went on to tell me that the prophecy, which was given by God to Ezekiel, had come completely true — that the Island of Tyre had been destroyed and no longer existed. Not having any facts at hand, I was not willing to debate their claim, yet I told them that I still did not believe the bible was the word of God.

That’s when the young girl chimed in, asking if I believed then that it was just a coincidence that the prophecy had come true. I told her that if it had indeed come true, I did believe it was a coincidence since I did not believe in God. To their credit, they took that with ease. I suppose they must hear all kinds of things from the people they talk to.

The WatchtowerThe older woman tried to give me references to the Prophecy of Tyre, but I assured her that I didn’t need them and that I would Google it later on. She also tried to give me a copy of The Watchtower, which she had with her, but I wouldn’t take it.

We talked about what’s going down in the world — how everything seems to be “going to hell in a handbasket” — my phrase; not used in the conversation, but you get the idea. They apparently believe that it’s a sign of the end of days. I obviously don’t. I told them that most of the world’s problems are caused by greed and selfishness. We agreed that if people would consider the consequences of their actions as they affect other people before taking them, they might think twice about taking those actions. We talked about some local and national level examples — for example, the scraping clean of the desert to build huge housing subdivisions that, because of the housing bubble bursting were never built. The natural landscape destroyed because of greed, with no consideration for others. I told the girl that I felt bad for young people like her who were inheriting this mess.

Then we talked a little about the young birds accompanying their moms to bird feeders and letting their moms feed them seeds. The older woman was amazed that the fledgeling chicks were nearly as big as their moms but wouldn’t feed themselves.

They were nice people and I felt bad for them. When we said goodbye, I told them to have a good life. My words were addressed primarily to the young girl, who still had her whole life ahead of her.

When they left, I went back into my office and Googled the Tyre Prophecy. I found two kinds of articles. One kind were created by believers to support their claim that the prophecy had come true, thus proving that Ezekiel had basically written down what God told him. The other kind were created by skeptics, like me, which presented detailed analyses about the facts of the prophecy, actual history, and the current situation. I found this one by Dave Matson that takes the prophecy, point by point, and details how it differs from reality. It is supported by actual bible quotes and a multitude of documents that are all cross-referenced at the article’s end.

In short: Ezekiel’s prophecy did not come true. So, as “evidence,” this particular prophesy falls far short of what I need to be convinced.

Did I waste 30 minutes of my day? I don’t think so.

I admit that I am fascinated by true believers — and these people — especially the older woman — definitely fell into that category. Why else would you go door-to-door relentlessly, getting the foul treatment handed out by people who simply don’t want to be bothered? These people have true faith — which is something most people claiming to be Christians don’t really have and something I definitely don’t have.

They didn’t convince me — although they did get me to do a bit of research and expand my knowledge of the Bible and religion. I didn’t convince them — although I demonstrated that a non-believer could be reasonable and share some of the same non-religious views. We had a nice discussion and perhaps — just perhaps — I planted a few seeds of reason in that girl’s head.

And, by the way, if you’re tempted to use the comments feature to blast me for my religious non-beliefs, don’t waste your time. After “The Bible in the Refrigerator” debacle, I no longer allow any personal attacks on anyone to appear on this blog. If you feel compelled to show your un-Christianity, show it elsewhere.

Homeless in Page, AZ

A true story.

“Can you help me…with some food?”

The query came from a Navajo woman with a cane in the Safeway supermarket parking lot in Page, AZ. I was just walking up to my rental car when she came up to me.

I thought for only a moment. “Sure. What would you like?”

“Taco Bell.”

The Taco Bell was just down the street. “I’ll take you there,” I told her. “Hop in.”

She walked around to the other side of the car while I climbed in my side. I put my Starbucks latte in the cup holder and tossed the lemon coffee cake I’d bought onto the dashboard. I had some things on the passenger seat and moved them for her. Then she climbed in, putting her cane between her legs and shut the door. She was conservatively dressed, looked clean, and didn’t appear (or smell) drunk. She had a round face with flattened features and half-opened eyelids. She looked almost Asian. I remembered that the Navajo were descended from the people who had crossed the Bering Strait into North America in prehistoric times. She looked to be in her sixties.

I started toward Taco Bell. It was 9:40 AM. “It’s not even 10 o’clock. Do you think it’s open?” I asked.

“No. I don’t think so,” she replied thoughtfully. “It’s open until 11 at night.”

“How about McDonald’s?” I suggested. “They make a good breakfast.”

“Okay.”

McDonalds was down off the mesa on Route 89, about 2 miles away. I started down the hill.

“Do you work for a hotel?” she asked me. She’d obviously seen my rack cards, which I’d be bringing to the airport the next day.

“No,” I replied. “I work for a tour company.”

“Where are you from?”

“The Phoenix area,” I told her. “Wickenburg.”

“Oh, I know Wickenburg,” she replied. “I used to live in Glendale. Peoria, El Mirage.” She thought for little while and added, “I moved there when my husband died. Now I’m just homeless.”

I steered us down the hill. Lake Powell and the Glen Canyon Dam came into view.

“Can’t they help you at the Chapter House?” I asked. It didn’t seem right that the Navajo people would let one of their own remain homeless on the streets of Page.

“No, they can’t help me.”

The conversation died as we rolled down the hill. I suspected she wasn’t telling me everything. She was too clean and well kept to be truly homeless. She must be going somewhere at night.

“Do you have family in Page?” I asked her as I made the left turn onto Route 89.

“I have a son in Salt Lake City and another one in Phoenix,” she replied.

The conversation died again. This time she revived it.

“I heard that Chinatown got wiped out.”

I made her repeat what she said; I didn’t think I’d heard it right the first time. But I had.

“Chinatown?” I repeated. There was no Chinatown within 500 miles of Page, AZ. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I heard it on the news.”

It came to me suddenly. “Oh, you mean Japan. The earthquake and tsunami.”

“Yeah, that’s it.”

By this time, McDonald’s was in sight.

“Can we go to Burger King instead?” she asked.

I saw the Burger King logo just up ahead. “Sure. You like that better?”

“Yes. They have a good deal. Two hamburgers for three dollars.”

I pulled up to the drive through at Burger King. The menu was on a board beside the talking box. “What do you want?”

“Two hamburgers,” she said. I think she was trying to save me money.

“Some orange juice to go with that?” I asked. I was thinking about getting something healthy into her.

“Yeah.”

“Anything else? Some fries?”

“No fries.” She was reading the menu board. “Maybe the sausage, egg, and biscuit,” she said suddenly.

“Okay. And two hamburgers for later?”

“Yeah.”

After what seemed like eternity, a voice came through the speaker. I ordered the sausage, egg, and biscuit breakfast meal and two hamburgers. The order taker asked if I wanted coffee or orange juice with that. I asked my companion.

“Orange juice.”

The order taker read back our order. It came to seven dollars and change. She told us to pull up to the second window.

At the window, the order taker took my money and gave us the orange juice and a straw. Then she asked us to pull up and wait in the parking lot while they made the burgers. Because it was so early, they’d have to be made special. So I pulled around to the parking lot.

While we were waiting there, I asked, “Why did you come back here from Phoenix?”

“I wanted to come back to my reservation,” she said. After a while, she added, “My mother and father live here.”

“Do they live far from Page?”

“Yes. Very far. Thirty-six miles. You go down Haul Road and then you keep going.” She added the name of the town but I didn’t catch it. Later, I found Kaibito on Route 98 36.9 miles from Page in the right general direction.

“Maybe you should go live with them for a while,” I suggested.

“I been thinking about it.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” I said honestly. I hesitated, then asked: “Do you need someone to drive you there?” I would have done it to get her off the street. My morning was wide open.

“No,” she replied. “I can hitchhike.”

I knew that hitchhiking was a popular means of transportation among Navajo people on the Reservation. I’d picked up a hitchhiker once myself, when I was driving through the Rez with some friends. She’d be okay.

The order taker came out with her food and I handed it over. I backed out of my parking space and prepared to take her back up into town.

“Can you drop me off at McDonald’s?” she asked.

McDonalds was just down the road, near the Wal-Mart. “Sure.” I drove over and made the turn. “Where? Here or near Wal-Mart?”

“Here,” she said. “By the tables.” McDonald’s had some outdoor tables in the sun. “I can sit and eat here.”

“Okay.” I drove over to the tables and stopped. For a moment, she struggled with her bag of food, orange juice, and cane. Then she managed to get the door open.

“Do you think you can help me with some money?”

I was wondering if she’d ask and was prepared. I handed her a $10 bill. “Here you go. Use it to get something good for yourself.” I still wasn’t convinced that she didn’t have a drinking problem — alcohol is a major problem on the Rez. But I couldn’t say no. I have so much; she had to ask strangers for food.

She took the money. “Thank you.”

She got out of the car, closed the door, and stood still behind it. I shifted into drive and pulled away slowly. When I’d gone around the McDonald’s to the exit, I saw her sitting at the table with her breakfast and lunch.

I drove back to my hotel, just down the road.