It's Raining, It's Raining, Tra La Tra La

After four months of no moisture, dry eyes, dust, grit, sand, warm temperatures and blue sky -- the bago, the dogs and I have arrived in Boise, where it's raining. On to Montana in April. Selling the bago. Bob Edwards does: This I Believe, now I'm doing: This I Know:

I could hike until I found the end of the earth. I will always pick up an interesting shell, rock, or piece of wood. I gather trash and am amazed when an artist doesn't throw it away. I will never live in a small space again. I have eliminated a lot of fantasies. That means I no longer want to cross the great waters in a small sailboat, sleep on the side of a cliff in a hanging sleeping bag, reside in cave, a crate, a basket, a tree house, an old train caboose, a smart car or anything in which my dogs and I cannot comfortably do yoga -- Lucy does the best downward dog. If I'm ever shot down behind enemy lines I only want to sleep in a French doghouse for one night. (Pat McCarthy's great story)

I now know I do not want to be a host of anything, including a campground, nor a historical docent, tour leader or general volunteer for anything extendning beyond a short time. I like to jump behind the driver's wheel and go!

I have discovered a greater capacity for meeting strangers and listening to their stories. Conversations with married couples are the most fun. They are a little tired of one another and have so much to offer. I allow myself to watch movies anytime of the day or night. I despise dune buggies and shooting ranges, which are everywhere "down there."

I love sunshine and don't miss snow. I will drive great distances for live music; music creates contentment, excitement and a feeling of being alive.

The RV taught me that shopping is suddenly very low on my list of things to do, that dogs are more important. The RV is a great turtle shell of a home, but RV parks are basically old folks' homes. And hey, good for them, boring for me. I went to ground in one for the holidays because of the swimming pool. I swam and swam. After a few days a man set up his lawn chair facing my lane of swimming, flipped open his newspaper, popped his beer and enjoyed my backstroke. The next day 3 more old farts showed up and sat with him -- I really wished I could have done some great water ballet for them. My 15 minutes of fame.

I drove home via Highway 93 out of Las Vegas --after visiting Death Valley -- Nevada really surprised me. It's undeveloped except for strange mining operations, and full of wildlife refuges. I would go back there anytime for hiking in the spring or the fall, or maybe never. It doesn't matter. I'll be passing through again somewhere.