Senseless Ramblings

The Hiraeth Series

Don’t be afraid to be weak; Don’t be too proud to be strong; Just look into your heart my friend; That will be the return to yourself; The return to innocence.” – ENIGMA

Facing the Past

The title of this piece, as well as the first paragraph, are the opening lines to the song, Return to Innocence by the group Enigma. They seemed oddly apropos, given that the return to my hometown in California, the source of my hiraeth, is also a return to more innocent times in my life.

In previous posts, I talked about my travel from the Midwest back to California. I also discussed a three-day stay I allowed myself in the beautiful mountain town of Idyllwild, CA. Those combined three days gave me an opportunity to prepare for what lie ahead. It helped me slow down, and it helped me gain perspective.

As I came down out of the San Jacinto Mountains and into Hemet, I did feel my back start to tighten. Once I was off the mountain, I was subject again to the traffic, the congestion, and the sprawling nature of southern California cities. I made my way past Winchester, Menifee, and Canyon Lake, and jumped on northbound I-15 at Lake Elsinore. These are all communities that were very remote when I was a child, and now they are just more of the urban sprawl that makes up SoCal.

I got off the highway at Corona, CA and wound my way through town to pick up CA-91 for the last 15 minutes drive down into Orange County and the city of Orange, my hometown. Once I got into Orange, I felt like my chest was in a vise. I have come back many times and I have always felt the hiraeth, but this hit hard. I have to wonder if it was because it has been on my mind more lately. I don’t know.

The first destination of my “nostaglia” tour is always to drive by my childhood home.

When my parents bought this home in 1963, it was brand new. In my mind everything is still as it was, and to wrap my head around this house now being 62 years old is hard.

What’s more, in 1963 when this house was brand new, my parents paid $30,000 for it. Today these houses, despite being more than a half century old, garner north of $1M. In fact, a year ago I saw a news article that stated that the median home price in Orange County is now over $1.8M.

My next stop – the elementary school. In this photo the school is across the grass ball fields. I chose to take this picture, as this is the way we walked to school in the morning. Elementary school in those days was K – 6. My memories are of everything from parents night, to ice cream socials, an annual school carnival, being a cub scout, and so much more. It was a perfect place to grow up.

Now under normal circumstances, I would offer you a nice picture of my Junior High School. Unfortunately, it is gone. Where Peralta Junior High stood is now a pre-school, and a golf driving range.

Moving on people…moving on!

If you read my post Halloween Memories, you may remember that I talked about the destination being the fire station. They gave out full-sized Sugan Daddy’s. Well, here she is. Only holds two trucks. Seemed so BIG as a kid.

I made my drive through downtown. Downtown Orange is a plaza. Plaza’s are not uncommon out west, and what we mean by plaza is that rather than a straight “Main St.,” downtown is the intersection of two streets. Where those two streets intersect, there is a large roundabout and in the center of the roundabout is a park. The cover photo above is downtown Orange.

You may recognize it. It has been in many movies over the years, and was also the fictional town of Grandview in which Jennifer Love-Hewitt lived in Ghost Whisperer.

I made other stops as I went that I will not bore you with. To repeat though, for some reason, the old sadness of a lost time was very present.

I had “family business” to attend to while in SoCal. My main reason to go was to visit my 94-year-old mother who is in assisted living. I was able to spend time with her and that is always valuable. Despite being deep in the darkness of dementia, she smiles and talks. Sometimes the wit and sassiness that I remember surfaces and it makes me smile. Dementia is a sad disease. Looking at the person who raised you and whom you love deeply, only to know that they really do not know who you are is painful, but I will say this – she is happy. As a son, that means more to me than anything. She is not aware of her disease, and in her mind she is happy. So, I am happy too!

I spent four days in SoCal, visiting my mom and other members of my family (that is why a posting gap). During this time a very interesting thing happened within me though. The hiraeth? That vise that was so strong and seemed to press in on me relented. Not only did it relent, I left SoCal with less of that “lost boy” feeling than ever before. It is almost as if a fever spiked and I was very sick, only to suddenly feel better than ever for it. I don’t know. That’s my analogy anyway.

I left SoCal this morning. I am on my way home. MY home. Back to MY family. My wife, my children, my grandson, and my dear sweet dog. I am taking my time and savoring this beautiful and amazing country we live in. As people we can disagree on politics, religion, and more, but we cannot deny the grandeur that nature has provided us on this continent. It is a salve, and I am slathering it on. No rush. Stop, take photos, smile, breathe, meet good people, see great things.

I am content.

I hope you come back for more stories of my adventures on the road as I go back eastward across America.

Keep rambling!

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Breathe Again

The Hiraeth Series

Eastbound on Interstate 10, about 20 miles before Palm Springs, is the town of Banning, California. Banning is just a dusty desert city, but it is the gateway to a mountain paradise. Twenty-six miles from Banning, after climbing over 2,000′ on CA-243, you come to Idyllwild.

Now you may get a different picture in your mind when I use the word paradise. Maybe paradise to you is palm trees, sandy beaches, and warm tropical waters. My paradise is an alpine one: pine trees, not palm trees; mountains and creeks, not beaches. I’ve never been one for sun tans and swimming.

Idyllwild is a special place. It is very hard to believe that you can possibly be in southern California, yet you are. There is no congestion. There are none of the noises you attribute to cities and freeways.

The surroundings are breathtaking. Idyllwild sits in a valley at nearly 6,000’ above sea level. It is nestled among granite peaks and protected under a blanket of ponderosa pines, black oak, and cedar.

It is a small town and it is very walkable. People are friendly. They smile. They say hello. You don’t find restaurant, hotel, or store chains. Here, the cafe is locally-owned, one of a kind, and excellent.

Another thing you’ll notice here; dogs. It seems that almost everyone has a dog, and they are out walking them, playing with them, or taking them to the local brewpub to hang out.

Now it may not seem too odd that a town seems dog friendly; they are man’s best friend after all. But you need to understand, really understand! In Idyllwild, CA, the town mayor…IS A DOG!

Yup, you heard that correctly. The mayor is a golden retriever named Max. He is actually Max the third. The previous mayors were also named Max. I “sort of” met the mayor. Walking from my inn to dinner one evening, mayor Max’s limousine pulled into the local pet store. As I walked past, Max let out a couple of friendly barks. I’m not sure, but I think I may have even heard a “ vote Max” in there.

I went to Idyllwild because I feel at ease there. It seemed an appropriate place to relax and prepare for my visit back home in Orange County, which I knew would be somewhat difficult. It is a place where I feel like I can breathe. Not literally, but figuratively. It is a place where you feel burdens lift, as if for the first time in a long time you can truly take in a full measure of air and let it go.

Hiking one of the local trails was also a high point. It was also exhausting. When you are a “flatlander,” you forget that hiking at altitude may not be as easy as it would seem. The trail I took started at 5,600’ and rose 2,200’ more in 3.3 miles. It was a slow go and I made some stops to catch my breath, but was it worth it? Absolutely!

At the end of the hike up, the trail opened onto a beautiful granite outcropping called Suicide Rock. The views were amazing. I lay down on the warm granite with my back pack as a pillow, closed my eyes, and listened…to the birds, to the breeze, to my thoughts.

After I had let the sun and air rejuvenate my soul, I ate a light lunch, and started the 3.3 miles back down the trail. Can I just say, 2,200’ down is much easier than up!

I have included a gallery of some of the photos of the town and the surrounding area. I hope you enjoy them.

I feel rejuvenated and ready for what lies ahead after this brief stop in my travels. My head is clearer and my heart is lighter.

Thank you for reading my story. I hope that maybe you will get to Idyllwild someday, or that you find your own Idyllwild.

Keep rambling…

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The Hiraeth Series

This is a story that is adjacent to the third day blog of the larger Hiraeth Series. It is a dark and sad story, but is relevant to the history of the path I have taken to California. In the previous posts I have make quick comment about the settlers of the U.S. western expansion in the mid-1800’s Their crossing of Nebraska. The intimidation they must have felt at seeing the Rocky Mountains. The deserts of Utah. This is the story of one of those groups of settlers. They beat the obstacles that distance and remoteness placed in their way. Despite all of that, they met their end in southern Utah, in a manner that was as brutal as it was wrong, unfounded and dishonorable.

An Act of Dishonor:

The Mountain Meadows Massacre

Off Utah Highway 18, about 32 miles north of St. George, Mountain Meadows is a beautiful grassland sitting among the surrounding hills. Driving by today, it is a serene and peaceful place, dotted with some ranches. You could easily drive by without thinking twice about it or knowing that 168 years ago, a horrible bloodbath took place down on the valley floor.

The Baker-Fancher Party was a group of approximately 140 settlers. They had left their homes in Arkansas to start anew in California. Like all settlers, they were determined people with great hopes.

The path they followed took them through Salt Lake City and down what is referred to as the “Old Spanish Trail,” also sometimes called the “Mormon Road.” This was a well worn trail to California that had been used by many pioneers.

In early September, 1857, the Baker-Fancher Party stopped to make camp in Mountain Meadows. Their camp location was roughly in the area of the bright yellow trees in the picture. They had a church service, and settled in for the night.

Early on the morning of September 7, the party was attacked by a group of the Nauvoo Legion, a Mormon militia. The Nauvoo Legion had also recruited several Paiute Indians, in an attempt to make the attack look like an attack by the Native American tribe, rather than the Mormon militia.

Despite the sudden surprise attack, the pioneers were able to pull their wagons into a circle, and defend their position. Despite some deaths on both sides, the fighting continued for five days. By the end of the siege, the Baker-Fancher Party was getting low on water and ammunition, but determined to continue to defend if needed.

On the side of the Nauvoo Legion, members of the militia were concerned that the settlers had come to realize that this was an attack by white men, only being aided by the Native Americans. This led the militia commander, a man named William Dame to order his forces to kill the travelers. This is also where a plan was devised that is so irreprehensible, so dishonorable that it makes me angry almost two centuries later.

Knowing that the travelers had to be running low on water and ammunition, Dame sent in a group of the militia under a white flag of truce. The militia told the travelers that they would ensure that they got safely to Cedar City, about 50 miles to the northeast. The militia ensured the travelers that they were safe, to turn over their weapons, and be safely escorted. In doing so they were able to get the travelers to leave the defensive trenches they had created.

Once the militia had the weapons and had been able to move the travelers away from their defensive area, other members of the militia who had been hiding, came in and attacked. All the adults and older children in the Baker-Fancher Party were killed. Only 17 children ages six and under were spared. They were taken to live with local Mormon families, and the livestock and good that belonged to the settlers were auctioned off.

Members of the militia initially started to bury some of the members of the party, but in the end just left the remaining corpses to the wild animals.

In 1859, the U.S. Army rode to the meadow. The skeletons of many of the members of the party still littered the ground. The bones were gathered and placed in a mass grave which was actually one of the trenches the settlers had dug while defending themselves. After the burial, the soldiers built a rock cairn over the gravesite. The cairn has been rebuilt a couple of times, but still using many of the original stones used in 1859.

The location is a U.S. historic site now, but it is maintained by the Mormon Church. For many, many years the Mormon Church denied being part of the massacre, but at the end of the 20th Century and beginning of the 21st, different leaders of the church made formal apologies to the descendants of the Baker-Fancher Party, and also to the Paiute Indians for trying to place the blame on them.

To this day, the Mormon Church denies that leader Brigham Young had any knowledge or involvement in the orders to kill the travelers, however many historians take issue with that, stating that at that time in Utah, Brigham Young was aware of everything that occurred and that nothing was done that had not received his approval.

We can’t undo the past. We can only learn and move on. As I walked around the monument, though, I couldn’t help but notice all the memorial stones to the party members that list their names, ages, and relationship to other travelers. This group was very young. I was amazed by the number of children and very young adults who were so senselessly deprived of that dream that were seeking in California.

May they forever rest in peace.

Keep rambling…

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Nebraska, Colorado, and Utah

The Hiraeth Series

I woke up at 5am to start the next leg of my cross-country adventure. The sun wasn’t up, and it was 27 degrees in Nebraska. I was even too early to get my hotel lobby coffee, so I hit the Casey’s truck stop just before getting back on I-80 headed west.

I drove in darkness for the first hour on a quiet highway, only accompanied by a few other travelers and truck drivers getting an early start to their day. I-80 is a major US east/west trucking corridor, so there is never a shortage of big rigs to drive along with. A little before 7am, the sky in my rearview mirror began to take on that lightening that tells of the coming dawn. By 7:30 the sun was starting to bathe the landscape in that gentle first light of morning.

For me, Nebraska feels like the place where history of westward expansion in the U.S. starts. Buffalo Bill’s ranch, old pony express offices, Fort Kearney, places along the interstate where you can stop and see ruts created by thousands of pioneer wagons headed west. When you look at the landscape today, 175 years later, you can still appreciate the will and determination of people to leave all they knew behind in an effort to build a new and better life for themselves. You can also appreciate why the Oregon Trail is called the worlds longest graveyard. In 2025, on an interstate highway, it is easy. Opening paths few men had ever traveled in the 1850’s in wagons, with livestock and families – the exact opposite. Truly a life threatening passage.

About two hours after heading out, I left I-80 and dropped south on Interstate 76 into Colorado. The terrain and plants started to change fairly quickly after getting into Colorado and for the first time in the trip I started to really be amazed by the absolute sheer immensity of our nation. When you see this land from an airplane at 35,000 feet, it is surreal. When you drive through it on the ground, it is very real.

People are not aware of just how big western states are if they are from the east. They think Colorado and they think mountains. Certainly Colorado has played that up and marketed to it, but Denver sits at the base of the Rockies, and from Julesburg, where you first enter Colorado on I-76 to Denver is 185 miles, and it isn’t mountains. This is ranch land. There are miles of highway where the only living thing you see are cattle. There are water troughs and windmills, pastures and fences, grass and more grass. It is sparse. It is open; and it is absolutely beautiful. As I drove over this land at first light, I uttered for the first time words that I would repeat throughout the day, more times than I can count, “Oh my God!” There are no other words you can use to describe the sight of something that is so stunning, so amazing, that you feel your breath catch in your throat.

I was still in that ranch land when I first started to see the Rocky Mountains. How can one not see them – they are enormous. They are so large that they seem close, but they are still a long ways away. Katharine Lee Bates who penned the verse for America the Beautiful did so while in Colorado. It is easy to understand the phrase “purple mountains majesty” when you see the Rockies rise before you. I also had an appreciation for the fear that seeing this range of mountains must have put into the hearts of the pioneers.

Passing out of the western edges of Denver, I immediately began to climb into the mountains. I could hear and feel my car slip into overdrive and struggle against gravity to keep moving upward. The grasslands are gone and now I am in the rocky fortress of the mountains. Rock walls and pine trees tower above. My ears pop. I continue to mutter, “Oh my God.”

Little towns cling to the mountains as you climb. The canyon is narrow and there is hardly room for these towns, let alone an interstate highway. For some reason (I don’t know why) the town of Silver Plume sticks out in my head. It seemed to have that “authentic western feel” as I drove by. It’s a little town. A Google search tells me that in 2020 the population was 207.

This was a beautiful November day to drive, so the signs that advised areas to pull off to put on snow chains in the height of winter was not lost on me. I can’t imagine driving those twisting, rising roads would be any fun in chains.

Not long after Silver Plume you reach the Eisenhower-Johnson Tunnel. This is the longest tunnel in the United States, boring itself for 1.7 miles through the solid rock of a mountain peak. Being in that tunnel going 75 MPH, you feel a bit like a bullet being fired down a rifle barrel. It is also an amazing feat of engineering.

After the tunnel also came one of the low points of the journey. Vail, Colorado. Yes, that Vail. Ski resort Vail.

To me, Vail, Colorado is like a dog turd on a perfectly manicured lawn. Here I was in one of natures great creations, the Rocky Mountains, and I come into a town that is the epitome of pretense, wealth, and excess. As I stated before, there is not a lot of space in the canyon between the two mountains, though there is a bit more in Vail; but every inch of that space is filled. It is filled with condos, houses, hotels, resorts, restaurants, gas stations, fast food joints, and on and on and on. All feeding that transient crowd of wealthy skiers and golfers who have the money to own a weekend home and destroy a pristine wilderness. Enough said there!

So while Vail was a hiccup in the otherwise beautiful trip, the anger I felt was short-lived when I hit Glenwood Canyon, just before coming to the town of Glenwood Springs. At this point I was descending the western slope of the mountains. The feel is very different than the other side though. The canyons have a different look and a different feel. Equally as beautiful, if not more so, than the trip up the eastern side. Still forested and rugged. Still mountainous. Yet there is also a feel that you know the desert is coming.

Shortly after passing through Grand Junction, Colorado on the western side of the Rockies, you cruise right over into Utah. Utah, where the speed limit is 80 MPH. These people obviously have places to be!

Interstate 70 through southern Utah brings with it a whole new series of “Oh my Gods.” Clay red mesas rise above you. You can see the effect that millions of years of hard wind and rain have had on the land. Where the mesas aren’t rising above you, equally gorgeous canyons are on display below you.

This landscape remained with me for the rest of the days travel.

To reinforce the immensity of this land, I stopped in the town of Green River for gas. As I reentered the interstate for that last leg of the afternoon, I was greeted by a sign, “Last Services For 100 Miles.”

At the end of that 100 miles was my destination for the night. I pulled into the little town of Richfield, Utah. I settled into my motel and the weight of another 12 hours on the road caught up quickly.

From the prairies and grasslands of Nebraska and northeastern Colorado, to the mountains of Colorado and down into the desert of Utah, this day of travel covered so much that this post cannot do it justice. Actually, no words can do any of this trip justice. To do that, you must travel the roads yourself.

Keep rambling, my friends!

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The Hiraeth Series

Our society has become too fast. Advances in technology and transportation allow us to have the world at our fingers in an instant. We hurry. We do more in less time. But at what cost?

I am tired. I am burned out. I am stressed. None of these are pleasant, and I wish these feelings on no one. Unfortunately, I think many people feel the same. Why? Because we can’t slow down. Not only can we not slow down, we can’t even take a minute and “turn it off.”

I am a retired officer in a law enforcement police detention facility. When you work in a uniform, it can provide you an unique “power switch” in your work life. At the end of the work day, when you stand at your locker and you take off that uniform, you also shut off that day. What you do for a living is defined by wearing that uniform.

I retired 10 years ago. Like many in law enforcement, I was still a fairly young man when I retired, so not continuing to work full-time was not an option. I took a new job and advanced into the management position I currently hold. I wear street clothes and work at a computer all day. I manage thousands of resources, several people, and a large budget. I am juggling new software implementations, a large budget reduction, a resource reallocation project, and employees pursuing new advanced opportunities within our organization.

The problem? The “power switch” is gone. There is no longer a uniform to signify on-duty versus off-duty. I feel like I am always on. I have trouble sleeping at night. When I do fall asleep, I wake up several times. On Sunday, I am thinking about Monday; and on Monday I am already wishing for the weekend. I can no longer give the effort I feel I need to give to perform optimally.

And so it begins…

Since my “power switch” is gone, I just decided to temporarily go “off the grid.” I have accrued a lot of time off in my job, and while always busy, this is the slower part of the year for us. I have a great staff and I know they are very self-managed.

I have taken a month off. I am driving to California to see family, and I am going to learn, even if by self-force – to slow the F*#K down!

I am embracing this time, and I am getting immersed in Hiraeth. Many may read the definition of Hiraeth and think it is bad. It does not have to be. Like making a pot of tea, you enjoy the beverage you create, you do not shove your hand in the boiling water, but the drink can’t happen without boiling the water, so you exercise caution.

I have stopped for the night in Nebraska. Day 1 of my journey has come to an end. It has been a long day: 12 hours across the American Midwest. I crossed Indiana, Illinois, Iowa, and better than half of Nebraska. It didn’t feel like 12 hours. The day was a little cloudy; it even snowed on me in Des Moine, Iowa. Just a dusting. A gentle reminder of what is to come.

I had forgotten how driving across the United States can make you feel open, free, and alive. To see so much land, so much vast space and various terrains, really makes you appreciate life.

After checking into my motel, I drive into the small town I am staying in. There is a little brewpub here that I have actually been to before and truly enjoy. I enjoyed sitting at the bar and having a cold one to end the day. I talked to the bartender – a young man of 26, originally from a farm in South Dakota. He talked to me about breaking horses when we was a late teen. He recalled his uncle giving him a cold beer and saying, “if you are old enough to break a horse, you’re old enough to have a beer.”

I spent some time talking football with the gentleman sitting next to me, adorned head to toe in his Cornhuskers gear. We talked about our teams and how they were doing this year. We talked about our shared dislike that the Big 10 now reaches the west coast and that with all the NIL deals in college sports these day, they might as well just be pro’s and not college players anymore.

I’m in the heart of America; not by location, but in feeling. The place where you put your worries aside, and enjoy the company of strangers who are just like you, and yet different too.

Tomorrow – Colorado and Utah lie ahead of me. I will drive from prairie, to mountains, to desert. Another 12 hour day. Another day that is quite literally a road to recovery.

Be safe my fiends; and keep Rambling!

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