Sit down and stay awhile

This is the juicy part. The part I crave. My Tuolumne Meadows in Eastern Yosemite that happens after the first five days.

Right now, it’s the first four days here on the outskirts of Sedona, camping in the same place that will be tomorrow’s first five days.  

Let me spare you the narrative—how I got from there to here—-and cut to the chase: It’s the feeling. It’s the getting-to-know-you. It’s the intimacy. It’s the familiarity. It’s the acceptance. It’s the opposite of the next, next, next checklist mentality and lifestyle many of us embrace: Move on, see something new. Selfie, selfie, click, click, I’m popular, Instagram reaction. It’s, as in Capital I and Capital T, the I’m here, thank you. I’m your humble student. How can I best serve you?

And the answer: Be still. Do nothing.

Can you do that?

I’m not saying it’s hard. It’s different. It’s counter-Society. Maybe even counter intuitive. 

But that’s what my instincts told me to do, after a great deal of mapping and thinking and weather-checking and plotting-out the remaining days of my two-month sojourn before returning to the South Bay. 

Sit? Stay still? Don’t sightsee? Don’t move Bonnie Doon? Don’t worry? Be happy? 

It made me twitch. 

But that’s what I did. Twitch and change courses. 

And you know what? I know it may sound crazy, but this beautiful landscape became my friend. 

I know her spring-fed swimming hole, the rocks to avoid, the sand bars to secure my footing. I know it will be cold, then less so the longer I stay in. I know visitors will walk by and it’s OK to be old and have a droopy body. 

I know the sky will be cartoon blue. I know the stocked, brown trout will pop up every now in their longing doomed gnats. I know my body will tingle for several hours after my plunge and that it will leave me feeling fresh and revitalized. I know it’s best to submerge no later than 2 p.m. so I have plenty of time to dry off. 

I know sunset is at 5:48 p.m. and I need a sweatshirt and my baggy turquoise Patagonia camping pants on by 5:30 so I don’t get cold. I know the best place to sun-saturate my solar lights and where to hang them up on the oak tree next to my rig. I know where to place my chair in the center of the wild mint next to the creek so that every time the wind blows, I’m misted in spearmint.  

I know it will be in the mid-80s by noon and to keep the van cool I need to draw the blinds before 11 a.m. . The sun stays away from the picnic table, so I know it’s OK to lunch or read there before early afternoon. 

I know that the cars rushing by on Highway 89 stop speeding after 7:30 p.m. I know that there’s no Internet reception and the trash can is 50 steps away. I know that this campground doesn’t attract partyers and is a loving respite for one-night travelers. I know there was a tarantula sighting two months ago, and that the camp host caught a rattlesnake, but there hasn’t been a bear or racoon or squirrel all season, “and we don’t know why.”

I know fly fisherman recognize Manzanita’s Forest Service Campground as one of the top 17 fishing holes in Arizona and was re-stocked just today.

I know next time I visit, to be safe, I better make reservations. Sites 17, 18 and 19 are best. 

I know the time the wind shifts and the smoke from the prescribed fire burn covers the afternoon sun, creating a celluloid coating like the recent Ring of Fire Eclipse. 

I know that I will sit by the creek and read 100 pages a day, then go for a walk, and before I know it, it’s 4:30 and almost time for a veggie, one-pot dinner. 

I know that by 8:30 I’m in bed, feeling sleepy, safe, and comfortable in my tiny home, that tomorrow, my last day, will be savored like the steaming coffee I will pour for myself as the sun sneaks over the mountain. One last day. The fifth day. Settled. Grateful. Fortified.

As a traveler, it’s inevitable that those long days between here and there are going to happen. For instance, the drive between Kingman, AZ and Barstow, CA is bleak. No choice but to gut through it. But if I can plan it out and settle-in for two days, better yet five, it is revitalizing. I know I’ve been there. Somewhere.

My sister asked me last week which my favorite place was to camp. “So far,” I told her, “The redwoods in Northern California.” But that’s because I was there for five days, I told her. “It felt like home.”

Now, I’d tell her, my new favorite place is the forest before you get to Sedona, a campground you’d likely jet past on your way to the spectacular red rock scenery. Small, about 27 sites, close to the road, but once I decided to set out my solar lights, tablecloth and nuzzle my chair down by the creek, I shifted my mindset from spectator to welcome guest. 

Five days. It takes five days to see the same butterfly land on the same rock at the same time of day and just when you take your camera out, it flies away.