Summer Lake

Like many places in this part of the world, the western edge of the Great Basin Desert is rimrock country, and for the curious, looking out on the resulting splendor that occurred because of the immense natural forces that determined the shape of this landscape, an appreciation for wanting to learn more about geology, nature and local history is quickly acquired.

At Summer Lake the big sky and the way the vast tracts of land seem to lean up against the straight ridges of mountain and long rims of shear rock walls, makes quite a first impression when arriving there and it was a nice change from our tree screened double-wide in the woods.

The establishment we stayed at however, Summer Lake Hot Springs, at first glance seemed a bit shabby, or like many of us, just barely hanging in there. Besides the weathered look of the main buildings and bathhouse, the place looked as if it were conceived on the run without an overall plan. A landscape designer by trade, my wife, Denise, quickly volunteered that a trade may be in order indeed. The cabins were spread out, disconnected from the bath house and disconnected from each other, without a good view of the lake. Gravel roads or paths took seemingly unnecessary circuitous routes between the various buildings. Oddly placed fencing, not really separating anything, popped up here and there. The land that was set aside for patrons was simply sage brush and native grasses cropped close to the ground by tractor. The boundary demarcating this haphazard landscape was sage brush and native grasses that was not cut. D assigned our initial disappointment with the grounds and the infrastructure to the fact that Summer Lake Hot Springs seemed to be run by a rather bohemian fellow. Upon reconsidering the fact that we related to bohemians quite well, she reversed field and allowed after a short while that a little shabbiness, a little disorder was to be expected, perhaps even embraced when heading to the outback, after all we got to bring our dog along. It being my birthday and all, the subject of trading my services in return for future lodging, wasn't brought up again.

After loading the cabin from the expertly packed trunk of our car, D's a whiz at preparing for trips, we reconnoitered the resort and got a more local and pedestrian feel for things. The interior of cabin we stayed turned out to be rather nice. Along with a kitchen sink and a half bath, it was clean and tidy. It had a naturally fed radiant floor heating system that parlayed into an even and cheerful coziness in contrast to the chilly winter outside. A hot plate was provided, along with cooking and eating utensils and a small bar fridge. Even though we were miles from civilization, we had access to commercial free Pandora Radio through D's Android. She had been prescient enough to insist, over my protests about all the cables, to bring along our computer's stereo speakers. Soon enough, the music of Joni Mitchell, Van Morrison, James Taylor, Marc Cohn, John Mayer, and Sarah Bareilles filled our world... the fast moving sky stretched off past the edges of possibility, the dark green wooded mountains surrounding the plain were topped with a fresh powdering of snow , the rabbit brush and heathland leading down to the lake was the color of light gold and silver, our dog was happy. As I stepped out of the cabin, as I frequently did that eventing and early the next morning, it was as if, in the silence, I was listening to the land, as it listened to itself. The funkiness took on a charm... it hadn't taken long... joy was settled upon as we reconnected with our inner bohemians.

The last of a Winter's storm was flying by overhead the evening we arrived and between the cloud cover moving on and the rise of a nearly full moon, we only caught a brief glimpse the closeness of the Milky Way spinning into view, so we didn't get much star gazing in. Having grown up as city kids, that would have been nice.

Soaking in the spring fed geothermally heated mineral water was the bomb. We had the place to ourselves, we soaked until the wrinkles on our fingers had wrinkles. Writing about bathing in those healing waters makes me want to go back now...

We toured the area the next day, including visiting a site recommended by the resort's owner. This suggestion being a self guided visit to Paisley Caves. The caves, a complex of five caves located on what was the former shore of a much larger Summer Lake are a six mile drive up a dirt road along a barbed wire fence from the hot springs. A couple of years ago a team of Oregon University archeologists through DNA testing of coprolite (fossilized excrement) found there what had long been suspected,that those caves housed evidence establishing them as the earliest known place for human presence in North America. They determined through this testing that these early visitors, as early as 14,290 years ago, are genetically related to Siberians and Asians. Pre-Clovis, D, the archeology buff noted. These were probably a nomadic people who roamed up and down the Pacific Coast.

We also traveled into Paisley, a few miles from the caves, and up above it on a forest road to have a look around. The vistas were spectacular. You could see where the Chewaucan River used to flow into a large marsh, before water from the river was siphoned off to water fields. I found a sign in the city's park that told of Paisley's history as well.

I have to admit, it was a little heart breaking to consider that despite an aboriginal or indigenous human presence in that fairly unforgiving region that had been continuous over 14 millennia , it took only all of about 20 years for that bit of human history to be 100% terminated: John Fremont's Second Mapping Expedition first laid eyes on the land in the Winter of 1843 and the last Indian in the area was either shot dead by a rancher declaring territorial rule on recently self claimed land, or hauled off to a far away reservation by 1870. The idea of the aboriginals abrupt and ruthless demise seems way out of scale with immense time they lived, breathed and walked with nature as the only species of man in that desert. Natural harmony, or more accurately natural balance was replaced in short order by fencing and cross fencing, damns and damnation. Considering that we get most of our beef from feed lots these days, I'm not sure if the more recent course of events was an improvement over the last in that vast tilt of beautiful and desolate land.

We also got a hike in and found a petroglyph rock to look at after scampering up an old rock strewn settler road. It was weekend layered in history. At a gas station in Summer Lake we talked to an old timer who also gave us directions to some other petroglyph sites down by Hart Lake and out of Adel. His eyes lit up as he recalled viewing them, like a vertical story board through time he said. He used a shovel to dig away sand to have a complete look at more recent events. We're hoping to take a few days later this year, pitch a tent and have a look as well. This part of the Great Basin Desert can be like that, you can be admiring a rock under a wide open sky one moment, and with a little effort the next thing you know, your digging through the sands of time further connecting to an ancient world, and somehow further reconnecting with your self.

No Mercy

It's been said that economically when the United States sneezes Mexico catches a cold.

The New Peso, established about a decade and a half ago, after a particularly volatile period of economic colds and bad headaches for Mexico, is currently once again in decline against the U.S. Dollar. Having hovered near 10 Pesos per USD for the time period since its inception, the New Peso has devalued by about 30 percent in the last year. What this means in regard to economic opportunity for those interested in the machinations of foreign exchange markets I do not know. What it means for the Mexican people, I'm fairly sure, can't be good.

Travelling to Puerto Vallarta last month, we exchanged our money after we got off the plane but before going through Mexican Customs in the airport at just under 12 Pesos to the Dollar. More favorable exchange rates, we found out later, were to be had at our destination of Sayulita.

After claiming our bags my wife Denise, blissfully unaware of the potential social and political drama rising in respect to the new purchasing power she had in hand, was determined to find the best deal on a cab ride as we exited the airport on our way to Sayulita, a small seaside surf village 22km to the north.  She'd done some research and had found that for the best cab fares we needed to get out of the airport proper and "get across the bridge"  over the highway fronting the main terminal to awaiting cabs.

As we wound our way out of the airport, Denise somewhat fixated on the idea of getting across the bridge, would mechanically repeat as if chanting a mantra,

"We need to get across the bridge."

The first time, just past customs and after we picked up our bags.
The second, after we randomly were awarded the coveted green light upon pressing the button below the traffic signal to exit baggage claim (thus avoiding a cursory and totally perfunctory bag check), The third time as we prepared to make the last part of our journey out of the airport past that dubious custom in Mexico's destination airports of running the gauntlet of tourism hawkers.

Thus, crossing this lobby, her rehearsed remark was repeated once more; in part to brace us against this phalanx of vendors and keep us on mission to make the streets of Mexico uncommitted to the shiny enticements of unplanned, inexpensive, or even free (with strings attached) tourist offerings.

Denise's experience with the Puerto Vallarta Airport, and the best place to negotiate cab fair there, also came from a trip she took with friends two years previous to this one. That trip, also to Sayulita, started out with her over imbibing on tequila and beer the first night out, and over dancing- barefoot until the wee hours of morning- causing her to hobble for far longer than the ensuing hangover.  She was limping when she got home as I recall and she can still not reminisce over the beauty and good times had on that trip without feeling some pity for her feets.

This trip was to be different. One, she would proceed with more deliberate caution in each and every exercise and two, she had me, her husband, to watch over her. Getting across the bridge to arrive at place where there was likely to be more affordable cab fair would be a good way to maintain control early this time, and get a good start to our vacation.

Rolling one suitcase behind her, about halfway across the lobby, and safely (we thought) past this cadre of specialty hawkers, we distinctly heard,

"We need to get across the bridge?"

A clear and impossibly immediate reply in impeccable American that came from far across the room and through the din of a mass of rolling suitcases, conversing travelers, and barking salespeople.

Upon us a second later, from out of the sky it seemed, and following us out the glass doors into the afternoon heat, the young Mexican man with a voice and accent that didn't fit, insisted he could find us a better deal right then and there, sparing us the task of toting and hauling our luggage on our (my) back over the arching concrete pedestrian bridge that ascended, in front of us over to waiting cabs that represented a good start to our vacation.

"Sayulita? I can get you a cab for $500 Pesos... Deliver you right to your front door."

He said as though in a commercial. I protectively thought we already had offered too much information. I also wondered if he had used a special boom mike to get a listen on us as we came into the lobby, or if the hearing/speech part of his brain was uncanny in such a way as to both singularly listen in on private conversations across noisy public places and process the nuance of learning it takes to speak a foreign language without any trace of an accent. I wondered if by practice he improved at this daily. I wondered if he could do this with other types of foreigners.  I wondered if he could do this with a British accent, or speaking German?

"How about $45 Dollars?"  Denise returned automatically, her suitcase almost slowing to a stop.

I could see already her determination to stay disciplined was waning.  I began to become concerned for her feet.

Fortunately, the conversion rate from Pesos to Dollars and vice versa was not quite understood by any of the immediate party at the moment, I do believe $45 was more or less $500 Pesos on that day (or exactly what he in his American accent had asked), our savvy interlocutor hesitated (concentrating on learning foreign languages, he may have lagged at perfecting arithmetic in school) and up on the bridge we went- he calling back to us too late, that $45 would be fine.

The cab we decided on was yellow, shiny and new. But small.

The cab driver who did not possess any suspected supernatural talents, spoke no English. At first he seemed properly offended by the $45 Dollar counter offer to his $500 Pesos. I speak some Spanish and after listening to him adamantly protest the amount of effort that would be involved, the cost of feeding a family, and the general state of the economy. I began to become concerned for him. Denise doesn't speak Spanish and probably wouldn't have budged if she had. He was eventually over ridden by a supervisor, who came over and made the driver comply to her wishes. I wasn't quite sure why this disquieted me, as I usually complied to her wishes over some of the same issues without a much of a fight these days. Hell, she was mostly paying for this tightly budgeted trip, I was riding on her ticket to a Mexico vacation, so it was fairly important she succeed in saving those $50 Pesos. So what was I thinking? Plus, I didn't want to hike back over the bridge with the bags to where someone had already acquiesced to prerequisite $45 Dollar price. After twenty years of marriage and all the give and take associated with that time frame, I guess having another fella getting worked by my wife in a foreign land just seemed odd.

"Sometimes you think too much honey."

Our bags were loaded in the trunk, Denise and I climbed in the back seat and off we sped. Sped, not off, being the operative word. The back seat, neatly protected by a new colorful cloth seat cover (to hide urine stains of prior initiates I would later come to suspect), made it impossible to fasten seat belts. The driver, who in my mind, seemed overly intent on making his nut for the day, was showing no mercy to the traffic in front of him, alternately riding the brakes and pegging the accelerator to the floor to maintain a distance of no more than 2 meters (mostly less) between our front bumper and the vehicle closest to it. It mattered not if that traffic were a car, a double trailered semi-truck, a scooter bike, or a pedestrian; it mattered not if we were speeding along at 120km/hr along a jungle highway, or cutting through town 40km/hr, or just crawling through stop and go traffic- two meters for all those who happened in our way were all they were going to get.

It became quickly apparent that his maniacal driving manner was not suitable to a sober mind, and after about 5 minutes of this, I insisted we stop for beer. In about a minute we were at a convenience store paying for an ice cold box of six beers and his soda. He, to his credit, apologized for taking a full minute to find the store. A six pack, I calculated, could be evenly distributed between Denise and I in the next 1/2 hour or so, and take the edge off the culture shock of this wild cab ride- maybe even make it fun. Back on the road I instructed Denise to drink fast and avoid looking forward (anticipating doom while navigating along with our driver from our unsecured places in the back seat was not a good way to start a vacation). After draining my first beer, and deciding to either watch Denise, or stare out my door's window, I did make a note that for all intents and purposes the rest of Mexico was driving the same way.

Six beers later we arrived in the seaside village of Sayulita. A quaint town, with cobble streets lined with restaurants and small shops and a wonderful beach. A town that caters to tourists and the locals alike. Denise had produced a map from her purse a few miles from town. A map she downloaded from rental home's website, a map that came complete with written directions. A map that was supposed to get us through the small village and to our final destination, a hillside villa of sorts, Casa Ensueno, which translates to 'Dream Home'.

Between the beer, the computer generated map with clear but incomprehensible directions, the driver, who I now suspected of being on meth, and what ever was lost in translation we soon found ourselves shouting out our frustration in three different languages (Spanglish being one, right?), and taking corners full speed in reverse as we backed down narrow, bumpy, wrongly chosen almost primitive lanes. We were lost and bouncing wildly around in kind of bizarre scavenger hunt.
The part of the riddle we were stuck on was solving, was finding a building, from which ostensibly hung a small sign featuring the universal symbol for alcoholics anonymous,

"You know: AA."  Enthusiastically imparted Casa Ensueno's property manager in an email.

Our problem being, that despite some legendary weekend binging over the years, neither Denise or I did know what this symbol looked like, and our fail-safe, my Spanglish, was short when trying to recall the word for anonymous (I still don't know it).  I'm not even sure if alcoholism is considered something to meet over in that part of the world, unless of course you're getting together to drink.

The town's other landmark on the map, a gray boulder at an intersection of dirt roads/paths, was found.
Our problem was, the second dirt road/cart path left past this boulder, as per directions, looked like a dead end that wouldn't lead to the home of our dreams, or any destination of intentional consequence to this trip.

Denise kept insisting the obvious, that we turn around.
The driver was steaming and his face was in ours (driving backwards in a small car and all).
I couldn't process a solution from all the beer. In English or Spanglish.

Sometime during this frenetic ten minutes or so, I resolved not to raise my voice at Denise anymore, as this also was not a good way to start a vacation, and to her credit I really didn't know what part of our dilemma could not be fixed by turning the car around and going forward. Eventually, we stopped to ask directions and a local citizen kindly offered to jump in and led us directly to Casa Ensueno.

We were rescued.

Denise, her diplomacy filter also now trumped by the effect of three beers, confidently allowed,

"I told you it was here."

Our bags unloaded, we paid the driver our fare and then sent him off with an extra full $500 Peso note.