En route: Tucson to Seattle. I've been afraid to put down my camera.
|Photo by @3CatPhoto|
After braving the floodwaters in LA, my mother, my husband and I plunge into the lush rolling hill country of central California. The rains actually accentuate the colors in this region. Verdant greens and translucent rainbows pepper field and sky, and for a few miles, I watch the asphalt flow with the wet reflection of a double bow touching down on either side of us through enbankments of gray-blue clouds.
In Sonoma persimmons ripen orange, red, and pale pink, and throughout Napa's post-harvest vinyards, these autumnal shades crown the tangled woody ropes of winter grape vines. A full moon rises behind a sheen of ghostly fog over the terraced hills.
And now the towering Mt. Shasta at 14K feet, the second tallest volcano in the US, protruding from the nearby Cascades and powdered white after the recent storm. And as we drop into the valley, the city of Weed is surrounded by dry grasses and blowing tumbleweeds.
Christmas Eve now and the radio's tinkling with sleighbells, humming with the throaty voices of Bing Crosby and Burl Ives. 60 miles to Portland and several more hours to our destination. "Why don't you put down the camera; getting dark anyway." Yes, I think. Enjoy these quiet moments after the rush and bustle. Enjoy the journey. The Between is often just as festooned with wonder as the End. Which, don't you know, is always also the Beginning.