She was the best possible canine companion: patient, playful and protective. She drew people to us and pushed loneliness away. She never complained (even at all those “whoops” U-turns) and was always up for a new adventure.

It seems fitting to let her have the last word on this road trip blog. Fortunately, Bella is a dog of very few words.

Push the little arrow in the lower left corner to start. (For some reason, this isn’t coming up on iPads, but laptops and desktops seem okay.)

And thanks for joining us on this trip!

 – 30 –

Aleen was the only artist working in Studio 107 on a quiet Sunday afternoon in Martinsville, Virginia.

She’s a retired high-school chemistry who firmly believes the world needs more whimsy. That’s part of the reason she’s a member of the Five Glassy Chix. And why she always wears a whimsical hat.

While some of the Chix work with stained glass, Aleen’s specialty is fused glass. Because I was clueless, she patiently explained the difference:

With stained glass, the pieces are soldered together (historically with lead, but now often with lead-free materials.) With glass fusing, pieces of glass are placed so they overlap each other and then are fused together in a kiln.

Aleen likes to infuse whimsy into her art as well. This particular piece includes a few bars from a tune in My Fair Lady:

I could have danced all night; I could have spread my wings…

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 It’s official. Highway 1, along the Big Sur coast, remains #1 on the My Favorite Roads in the U.S. list.  You’ve got the rugged cliffs. The hills that roll all the way down to the crashing waves below. The fragile, isolated roadway. Even partially shrouded in December fog, it’s pretty darn stupendous.

I met Michael Twig (“twig like a tree”) on the edge of the road. I had passed him pedaling his bike slowly up yet another incline, and he caught up with me after I stopped to take some photos.

I called out:  Pretty ambitious bike ride! 

Little did I know. Michael has been traveling the country – on a bike – since 2001. He was also headed north to Seattle but that’s all our journeys had in common.  I’d enjoyed in a fine breakfast and lunch so far that day. He’d eaten five blackberries. And praised God, he said, to have found them.

I gave him some tangerines and a bag of veggies and then somewhat sheepishly offered leftover fast food I’d meant to toss out. He literally jumped for joy. I tried to give him more, but he wouldn’t take it. You’ve given me enough, he said.

When we parted, Michael Twig-like-a-Tree asked me to keep an eye out for him in Seattle.

I told him I surely will.

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Martha’s mother knew how to survive, and taught her 11 children well. The family lived in a small house near the Isleta Pueblo in the Rio Grande Valley. They had no electricity, no plumbing, and not much of anything else. But they managed. They collected wood to burn, raised vegetables, sold tamales in the village.

“Nana” is gone now, but the tiny shop not far from St. Augustine’s Church (built lin 1612!) was named in her honor. Nana’s Gift Shop carries locally crafted Pueblo pottery, some jewelry and a few woven rugs. And baskets imported from Asia. “Tourists expect to see baskets,” Martha shrugs, “they don’t seem to care when I tell them they weren’t made in the U.S.”

It’s hard to image many tourists coming to this dusty little pueblo. When I tell Martha that I can’t stay – Bella’s in the car, and it’s hot – she welcomes the dog inside. A good move for both of us. I take my time shopping and chatting and end up buying a beautifully crafted pottery vase made by her neighbor.

The challenge is finding a place to stow it. The vase is small, but space is limited. I finally stash it with the two pints of well-traveled (and legally purchased) moonshine I’m bringing home for my cousin, Andy.

And bid Martha adios.

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Leigh Anne came out to chat while I was taking photos of the Mother Goose House across the street from her home in Hazard, Kentucky.

My friend, Janice, had flown into Lexington to travel with me for a while. We were exploring Kentucky and decided to check out the Goose house.

Leigh Anne is a district judge who – except for college and law school – has lived in Hazard her whole life.  We talked with her about the highlights and lowlights of living in a poverty stricken coal mining town.

Apparently, TV producer types have recently come to town scouting Hazard as a possible site for a new reality show.

Is this a good idea?  Leigh Ann is not so sure. The South already has Honey Boo Boo, she said.  That might be more than enough.

Oh, you probably want to see the Mother Goose House, yes?

George Stacy, who was born in Hazard and worked for the railroad, started it in 1935 and finished it six years later.

Nobody knows why — even his wife, who cooked a goose so he could have a skeleton to work from. The head is about 15 feet high; it’s got eight egg-shaped windows and at the other end, there is — of course — a tail.

Apparently, people from all over have stopped to see it.  Including Oprah. And Janice and me.

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I had thought people I would meet along the way might be a little resistant –at least at first – to  having their photo taken. Before leaving Seattle, I’d even taken a workshop on “Photographing Strangers.”

But as it turned out, nearly everyone I asked to photograph agreed without hesitation. A few positively blossomed when I made the request.

Susan was one these. When I saw the “Walk-ins Welcome” sign on her little shop in rural Mississippi, I turned the car around and walked in. My hair was… well, let’s just say I’d been wearing a bandana for a while and was willing to take a chance.

Throughout the cut ($13, cash only) she seemed a little reserved, but was very polite. She asked about my travels and told me she’d like to travel someday to the motorcycle conventions in South Dakota. She doesn’t have a bike of her own, she said, but she does like to ride.

When I asked Susan if I could photograph her in her shop, all reserve disappeared. She glowed while she posed, talked much more about the biking life, and told me about the book she’s planning to write. It will be about Susan’s life experiences, and titled Mississippi Sunsets.

I’ll be watching for it.

It was a bit odd to drive into Sewanee, Tennessee – a place I’d never been – to have lunch with someone I’d never met.

But I knew I would like Annwn.  We’d been exchanging emails since I’d met her son, Pierce, back in Lander, Wyoming.

And I did like her.  Annwn is an Episcopalian priest who has worked at the University of the South for years. It’s a gorgeous place – one where 1,500 students enjoy a wooded campus encompassing 13,000 acres.

Annwn gave me the grand tour – including an inside look at the campus “chapel,” which rivals many cathedrals I’ve seen.

By the time I left, I had a new friend and Russ and I had a standing invitation to come and stay anytime I’m in the area.  And bring Russ, she said.  A very good idea.

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 Robert is 100 years old. I had the pleasure of meeting him when I tagged along with my friend, Susan, to his birthday party at a nursing care residence in Iola, Kansas.  She was there to get a photo for her paper.  I was there to get a photo for me.

Born just outside of Iola, Robert was a farmer his whole life.  Hard work and perseverance seem to have paid off for him.  He still tells great stories, and still looks quite dashing in his cowboy hat!

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 I met Spider at a garage sale in Boulder, Colorado.  I told her I had to take her photo because I’d never met anyone named Spider.

She came to Boulder years ago to attend college, and had never left. Given my own college experience in Bellingham, I understood completely.

Spider had recently lost a dear friend, and she and other friends had taken on the task of finding good homes for a wealth of very cool (to me, anyway) stuff, including: camera bodies, lenses, digital video equipment, and a mountain of software.

I managed to get out of there spending only $2 on a bag. It has turned out to be the Best Travel Bag Ever.

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I was working at at a picnic table in a city park in Tupelo, Mississippi (a park with Wi-Fi!) when I met Ariel and her daughter, Kinsley. They had come to the park for some fresh air and a change of pace.  Kinsley is­­ seven months old and had recently been a little cranky because she was cutting several teeth.

Ariel has lived in Tupelo her whole life. It’s an okay place, she said, but there’s not a lot to do there.  Maybe not, but as it turns out, it’s become a favorite place of mine.

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 When Alicia and her husband bought the KOA franchise in Goodland, Kansas, she didn’t know what an RV was, or why someone would want to have one.  She had never used a computer and was frustrated that the little mouse would listen to her.

She also feared that people who called the campground would not be able to understand her thick Polish accent.

But after 20 years working at a plant in Chicago, her husband needed a healthier lifestyle, and there they were.

The campground is closed four months a year during the winter. Alicia is not a TV watcher – those commercials, she said, they drive me crazy. So she makes jewelry to sell the rest of the year.  Very nice stuff, very reasonably priced. I was a good customer.

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To photograph anything on the Zuni reservation – including the stunning scenery – you need a photography permit. No problem, usually. But when I arrived on Saturday, no permits were being issued.

It was the day of a sacred ceremony. Unlike many of the pueblos in New Mexico, the Zuni allow outsiders to observe their religious ceremonies. But you have to attend an orientation first.

The orientation was, basically, a long list of things you (the outsider) may not do. And if you do, you will be in big trouble with the tribal police.

You may not:

• Take photographs or videos of the ceremony or any of the participants
• Make any sketches
• Go into the part of the homes where the holy people are
• Touch or speak to any of the participants
• Ask any questions or, for that matter, speak at all
• Post or publish anything about what you have seen
• And so on.

It was the sternest warning given in the most polite and welcoming way. And I thought it very, well… refreshing. That something so important to a culture is kept so private, yet shared with those willing to show the proper respect.

About 20 people attended the orientation. I mentioned to the gal next to me that I just happened to show up on this day. She exclaimed over my luck. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, she said.

But the ceremonies did not begin until midnight.

The reservation is in the the middle of a desert. The one motel was booked, and I had nowhere to wait or to safely stash my dog. The maps they gave us to the various sites were so obscure an outsider would really need a co-pilot for any hope of finding them in the dark. And, frankly, I tend to be pretty worn out by midnight.

So, reluctantly, I passed on this opportunity of a lifetime.

Instead, I enjoyed the gorgeous scenery, marveled over the beehive-looking ovens in so many of the yards, and feasted on tamales and oven bread pie before heading back out into the desert.

I had learned a lot. And actually had gotten a few scenery shots on the way into the pueblo – before I knew I was breaking the law.  But no photos here for you today. I’m a big believer in giving proper respect. And I wouldn’t want to be in trouble with the tribal police…

My (second? first-once removed?) cousin, Easton, is 20-years-old. He works 12 hours a day, hunts when he gets the chance, and knows how to “bugle” (a certain call out to moose that they will answer.)

He’s also, I believe, is a natural photographer. When I told him he had a good eye for composition, he replied in his usual straight-forward way: I have no idea what that means.

No matter. He took these with a little point-and-shoot camera while working the wheat harvest. He showed me these and many many others when I passed through Metaline Falls back in September. (Sorry it took so long to post them, Easton!)  I did only minor editing, mostly some cropping:

The KOA campground outside of Abilene, Texas, has very little to recommend it. It’s scruffy and not particularly well-managed. The afternoon I arrived there, I was feeling scruffy and not particularly well-managed myself.

For days, I had been traveling west on I-20. I planned to connect with I-10 near San Antonio for a straight shot to San Diego. And then shoot up I-5 to Seattle. Not the most direct route, but the easiest and likely the fastest.

And the most deadly boring. Been there, done that. And by the time I got to Abilene, I was seriously dreading doing it again.

The day was gorgeous. Maybe 71 degrees – in late November!  I pulled my cot under a tree, lay flat on my back and spent the next hour looking up at:

Now, some people read tea leaves for a hint of their future. Well, I lay there reading tree leaves for a hint of mine. And here’s what they said:

Don’t be a smuck! You’ve got a little time left on this adventure, make the most of it!

So the next day, I veered north toward Lubbock, feeling instant relief the second I got off the interstate. In Lubbock, I be-bopped through the Buddy Holly Museum, and bought my pretty red cowboy boots at Boot City.

From there, I headed for Santa Fe because I’ve always thought I would love Santa Fe.

Turns out, I don’t.  It’s all so very tastefully…uniform, in color and design. And red cowboy bots aside, I’m not much of a shopper, so 300 art galleries are 275 too many for me.

The Georgia O’Keefe museum is very cool. And the town is full of other wonderful museums as well.

But I was happy to leave there to explore the much grittier Gallup.  I had lost my dread of the long drive home, and was really grateful to those tree leaves for speaking so clearly.