My husband and I have enjoyed several off-road experiences since we bought our ‘87 Jeep Cherokee Limited during the aftermath of the ‘92 LA riots.  Rex’s car was essentially demolished and, under time constraints for two Los Angeles commuters, we looked down a line of cars on the lot and I spoke up.  “I’d like that one” I said, having absolutely no concept of what that bargain would entail. 

Those that know me well, as a person who enjoys hanging out at the Ritz Carlton and has a penchant for luxurious experiences, have often remarked with surprise when I share four wheel experiences in Mojave, Death Valley and locally in the Los Angeles National Forest. Fast forward to vacation plans for 2000.  Rex seduced me with Internet exposure to Moab, definitely one of the most spectacular places on Earth, and we set off for NAXJA’s Fall Fling.  The official event was to begin October 12th, but our schedule placed us in Moab 10/10 and required that we return to Los Angeles 10/13.  Comfortably housed at The Dreamkeeper Inn, we set off on the day before the kickoff to search for the campground that my husband had found on the NAXJA website.  “How will you find anyone? I asked.  “We’ll look for Jeeps” was Rex’s plan of action. 

And there they were; seven other Cherokees, a magnet for ours.  Introductions were easy between Mil (GRNT with faithful Lab, Josie), Mike (a New Jersey firefighter), Mike R (from Newport Beach, California), Bob (BLOOSE from Wisconsin), Jeff V (from Wisconsin , accompanied by his ultimate pet “Dog”) and Charles from San Diego and Sean, who drives the same car we do, although his choices have radically altered its look.  Battled scarred, Sean tows it behind a truck to off-road events, while our Jeep is a primary transportation vehicle.  I soon christened Sean “Mad Dog” and he more than lived up to that name with his antics behind the wheel.  Hagen traveled from Germany, where he teaches off road classes in Berlin.  As we introduced ourselves, I suggested that I be known as The Woman.  BLOOSE had a decal which read “It’s a Jeep thing…you wouldn’t understand.” 

Off we were in drizzling rain with GRNT as leader, connected by CBs and headed for the Merrimac and Monitor Trails.  First stop was to “air down”.  I was videoing the trail as it progressed from mild to moderate, remarking about the landscape changes until we came to Double Ledge, at which point my words were “Noooo, he’s just making this up!“  The participants approached the challenge one at a time, Hagen played spotter.  With each success, Rex had less reason to follow my plea to refrain.  On the other hand, looking around there was no apparent alternative.  Once Rex had mastered the task, I thought my initiation was complete. Group Photos are apparently de riguer for these expeditions and the locations quickly decided. The eight Cherokees were lined up so that they were framed by spectacular Red Rock formations.  I couldn’t help but imagine the power of the geological events that created them.  The towering redness was prevalent in the palette of green from the scrub flourishing from the early rains, gray of the powerful slate which appeared defined by the fallen pieces below, as if the former defied the latter by its intact survival.  It struck me that the architects of Ancient Egypt might have come to this place in order to study what nature had created and taken the experience home to gratify the Pharoahs. 

Then the sky broke and blue joined the color parade.  It was amazingly quiet. We drove on to Wipe Out Hill—where’s the comfort in that name?  Even after the first jeep successfully accomplished the climb, I could witness no longer.  One by one, The Boys cheered each other on without me.  When Rex’s turn came at last, I had to turn my back and focus intently on Hagen’s voice, positive, encouraging and telling me in his tone of voice that the rock crawling was a success and that my husband and car remained intact. The graduates divided themselves at this point between those satisfied with the downhill experience and those that felt incomplete with only one Wipe Out Hill notch on their belt and were compelled to seek an elevated challenge, to crawl up a more difficult approach and descend again.  I was very happy to watch this spectacle standing with Rex, finally able to cheer the thrill seekers of our little group, marking my own personal graduation.

Back at the campground, Mil barbequed sausages and the Official NAXJA Fall Fling was launched as They came.  No longer the only woman, the group swelled.  I met Richard and his charming dad, Jack and personally greeted the other newcomers in my designated role selling raffle tickets.  The video that I had taken of the day’s drive threw Mil into gales of laughter due to my commentary, which sounded like the audio of a porno film: “Oh god, honey, no, no, no, stop, ohhhhh, honey no…ahhh, ahhh, ahhh“  You get the picture.  I told Hagen that I felt as though I had graduated that day by virtue of survival.   Exhausted, we retreated to our bed and breakfast sanctuary. 

Refreshed by a relaxed evening and deep sleep, we had healthful Nutty Waffles, heart-shaped no less, and chatted with our pleasant server about plans for the day.  “We’re going off-roading” I shared.  Later I would recall that I had said the schedule involved a path called Hell’s Revenge.  What was I thinking? Roundup at City Market was scheduled for 9:30.  We were the second Jeep to arrive, but the gathering soon swelled to 25 Cherokees; old friendships were renewed and yesterday’s participants greeted each other in comradeship.  The Boys circled each other, admiring each other’s lifts and engines. 

After introductions, we were off, single file with yellow flags in place and spirits high, headed for The Moab Rim Trail, Richard The Goatman with his father in  yellow Cherokee at the lead and GRNT bringing up the rear. Just before the entrance to the park we encountered the first obstacle.  I was incredulous as the players attempted the climb.  After several attempts, Rex joined others that were unsuccessful at the first approach, a nearly vertical elevation of several feet.  My initial relief when we achieved the task was soon dashed when we began the climb the first fin.  The tire clearance on the other side appeared much more hazardous than the space of two feet would suggest.  The perspective terrified me to the point that I got out and walked this section, feeling unsafe even while hiking the climb.  Mil’s tone was kind when he said that I was in for a long day, kind and prophetic, to be sure. 

The next task escalated my fear to a point beyond terror.  As I type these words, my palms become moist once again and I cannot believe that this experience is a true memory.  Eyes squeezed closed past any possible visual imprint, I begged my husband to tell me that we were almost done, almost done, almost done, done.  The next moment our Jeep’s heating valve blew off.  You cannot tell me that my terror didn’t play a part in this, so palpable was the emotion. 

The Boys circled to survey the damage.  Mil was the lead mechanic and  calmly evaluated the situation.  During the repair, he had a litany of calming words for my panicked self.  I clung to his observation that we had the ideal tires for the Slick Rock trail that we were following and that they would adhere to the road with a sandpaper effect.

Moments later we were off again. We climbed and climbed to a point far above the Colorado River, an ideal stopping point for lunch with an incredible panoramic view.  My enjoyment of this spectacular scene was tempered by the overwhelming relief I was feeling to be out of the car. 

The next challenge began as the Jeeps lined up to try Hell’s Gate.  At this point, another wife and I began to plan.  I am an emergency room nurse and she is a therapist with CPR training.  But then we considered what out efforts might accomplish,  CPR and then what, for the trauma that was suredly around the corner, as maniac after maniac made their way up The Gate.  When wheels became airborne, watchers were ready to climb on front bumpers to right the vehicle and prevent a backward tumble, to the oohs and ahhs of the crowd. Moving on to trails of increasingly terrifying angles, I began my major hiking portion of the day, obstinately refusing offers of a ride from passing Jeeps, then walking ahead when the ascent slowed to a crawl. 

 At the next stopping point, the entertainment was provided by The Wash Tub.  Fewer contestants participated in the insane exercise of driving down the approximately twelve foot hole and then attempting to crawl out of it.  I focused on the La Sal Mountains across the chasm at an equivalent height and wondered  a) how we got up this high and b) how in the hell we were going to get down.  Richard in the Yellow Ducky ,  Paul (“Bones”, a veterinarian) and Ray prevailed, although the latter’s wheel stand with a gas tank at the back of his Jeep caused me to worry even more.  Who was the first crazy person to consider this a sport? 

Time to descend.  I really do dislike this even more than climbing.  Rex was now wrestling with nerves from the drive, resolute nonetheless.  After all, what was the option?   How many times had I remarked that day that I was standing upright in a passenger space that was designed for sitting.   At one point it was impossible to hike or even crawl hand over hand.  Mike R convinced me to get into the passenger seat of his car at that point, as I felt that I could not occupy my designated place with my husband, in the fear that my thoughts of disaster might acquire a power of their own. Mike kindly talked me through the terror of the experience. 

 At the bottom of this fall, I had to resort to hiking again. Several mountain bikers crossed my path remarking “Look at all those Jeeps.  There must be fifty of them…are they all crazy?”  Could I argue the point? 

The final task was Tip Over Trail, providing the ultimate rock climbing challenge.  As each Jeep mastered the path, the drivers gathered to spot for following comrades.  I walked ahead with Jeff, who had sympathy for my fears and shared that he had been smoking cigarettes on the trail all day, after quitting several years before. At last, I joined Rex in our Jeep for this final descent, remarking that the trail we were completing would have terrified me only a day before, but was mellow in comparison to what we had just experienced.  On the final drop and we heard an ominous sound; the very last maneuver had compressed the tailpipe of our newly installed muffler to a crunch.  Rex first realized that the Jeep “sounded so quiet“, but the damage was discovered by those that followed us as we drove onto paved road — my Mecca. 

Driving down the incline to Moab, Paul communicated via CB that he had to get his family out of the car, a conclusion no one would deny, as his wife and small children had been participants of the day. 

Back at The Dreamkeeper Inn, we entered our room at 6:30 PM.  Our day had begun innocently enough, not ten hours before.  How my history had changed in such a short span of time.  Oh, regarding “It’s a Jeep thing…” I think I’m beginning to understand.  And Woogie’s final remark?  “I need more lift.“          

If only I could remember to take my Ginkgo Biloba. 

It’s small comfort that I’m in such good company.  There must be millions of female baby boomers out there that, at least once each day, are certain to chant “now what was I thinking?”  Christina Northrup, M.D. addresses the problem in her book Women’s Bodies, Women’s Wisdom.  Her reassuring words speak to my fears.  “Many women describe a perimenopausal change in their thought processes.  This ‘fuzzy thinking’ is most commonly described as an inability to think straight, and is a normal development that is self-limiting.”   

I asked Rose, an eighty-three year old volunteer at my hospital about her feeling in this regard, hoping to hear that she had experienced a resolution of fuzzy thinking.  She replied “Well, I can’t really speak for myself, as I never did have a very good memory.  I remember a time in my twenties when I found myself standing in front of a freezer, holding an ironing board in my arm and wondering what the hell I was looking for.” 

As an emergency room nurse, I am comforted by my ingrained habit of practicing the 5 R’s (:right patient, right time, right drug, right dose, right route) and the team skills that are encouraged at my hospital, so you can all breathe easier about the prospect of needing emergency care from a fuzzy thinking RN.  I do, however, find it amusing when all three nurses on duty share my perimenopausal status.  We love to keep track of the number of times such phrases as “has anyone seen?.., now where did I?.., I just put it down and it disappeared…” are spoken.  We achieved an unofficial record on a recent busy day and it matched our average age. 

I recently asked my younger (but not by much) sister to look at a spot on my back that felt tender, one of those annoying places that are impossible to see in a mirror even with one’s best contortion, and tell me what she saw.   Her response was “ a weapon.”  Shocked by this report I said “a weapon?!?”.  She was surprised at the horrified and confused expression on my face and repeated “yes, it looks like a weapon”. Her facial expression conveyed her thought: “what’s your problem?”  It took some  investigation to discover that the word she intended  was “wound”. 

This exchange reminded her of a recent experience when she met a woman holding a rabbit.  My sister, a passionate animal lover, approached to pet the rabbit and attempted to make polite conversation. While stroking the soft fur, she said “Is it a puppy?”  the woman’s brow furrowed  and she appeared to be speechless.  After an awkward pause my sister said once again “is it a puppy?” As with our resolution, the rabbit owner and my sister eventually concluded that my sibling was expressing curiosity about the age of the rabbit in question and had meant to say “is it a bunny?” 

Ya gotta laugh. 

It seems to be a stage of Many Pauses.  We dial a number and when the receiver answers we ask “Who is this?”  We walk purposefully into a room and stop short, wondering what brings us here. The tip of the tongue becomes a crowded place when you search for the title of that great book or movie that you long to share, the name of the web site where you found that perfect jacket your boss simply must get for a niece’s graduation gift, your own telephone number or your children’s names. 

Life becomes suspenseful and challenging, to say the least.  I recall an adrenalin rush as I watched the garage door close as I realized the only opener was secured to the visor of the car inside. A friend confessed the embarrassment of calling mall security to report a missing car, having forgotten that she had relocated her car in the midst of a shopping day. She was convinced that her  careful memory markers of the first parking place were accurate, which they had been, prior to that “senior moment” which led her astray. 

It seems to me that this is a ripe opportunity for the inventive mind.  Millions of fuzzy thinking peri-menopausal female baby boomers are poised to spend their hard earned stock market winnings on just about any gadget that might help us.  I beseech you!  I promise that I will be scanning the Internet for your product… if only I can remember why I logged on……..

I borrow from Lao-Tzu and begin my blog adventure, feeling as though I’m cautiously touching the surface of a swimming pool, toes tightly curled –with trepidation, excited.

Obstinately, although harboring no affinity for puns, I found myself unable to shake the urge to utilize the write/right homonym for my URL and I salute the WordPress community that proceeded me in that quest. It wasn’t easy.

I’m a writer that hasn’t committed to my destiny, in love with words from my earliest memories.

So that’s it–admittedly a baby step, but my beginning.