This is an excerpt from my blog Chasing Clean Air

Ahhh!

There’s a fork in the road, and it looks like this. Storm clouds in the distance. How close? When will they break above my head? Come crashing out of the sky….

I’m “supposed” to drive toward Mt. Baker today and stay at lovely Bed and Breakfast that was recommended. And when I went to the B & B’s web site earlier this morning, it said, I might see animals.

Bears.

I might.

Well, what if I do?

My suitcase is like lugging 50 cartons of gold. Why gold? Maybe I want some. I’ve got that many tee-shirts, sundresses, and a few sweaters to tide me over for the STORM. 

I can see it now: I’m lugging my overstuffed, evergreen suitcase (hey, it matches the trees!) when I see the bear. He looks at me and I look at him. And damn I try to run, lugging the damn suitcase with my favorite warm weather clothes… and…

I’m at this fork in the road, as I’m about to check out of the lovely Chrysalis Inn in Bellingham, and they’ve kindly extended my check-out until 1 p.m. They do everything kindly here. The receptionist thanked me for asking her for an extension of an hour for my stay.

So I walk along the pier behind the hotel to think about my possibilities.

Drive to Seattle, fly to L.A for a short break before my next Chasing Clean Air destination.

Drive to Seattle, fly to San Francisco (and see my mom, dad, uncle)

Drive to Seattle, fly to San Francisco, arrange for mom and I to do Northern California like Sonoma together.

Drive to Mt. Baker and see rain, sleet, bears OR beautiful trees and a pretty mountain.

As I walk the pier, I feel my thighs.

Like ice against my jeans. Remember it’s warm here.

And my fingers. Like icicles.

Warm.

Alternatively, I pass tourists in down jackets, and natives in shorts, jogging as if it’s 75 degrees out. Not even close. And then I see him. A smiling man in shorts, enjoying the view. He sits on a bench, overlooking Bellingham Bay, and we talk. He says I’m the friendliest person he’s met in three days. According to Danny O’Brien, people are very friendly in Oregon. He also loves Santa Fe, and Boulder. And beer. It’s 11 a.m. I learn he’s a hitch-hiker from Texas, and when he tells me he slept last night on the hill, I believe I’ve met my first “homeless” man in Bellingham. He smiles, “I’d love to go with you to Mt. Baker.”

Ha. Ha.

Got to run!

Speaking of running. I get diverted from my fork in the road, as I check out people– practically naked, running on the pier. And people think we’re crazy in California?

These are crazy people wearing shorts; I’m wondering where to buy long johns.

I really must sign off to take a quick shower and decide to drive toward Mt. Baker — take my chances — or drive toward Seattle — take my chances.

What do you think I’ll choose?

Here’s a parting shot of the marina area that I thought my nephews would most appreciate because there are big boats, small boats, and a train. In other words, boy heaven.

Road to Mt. Baker

So I’m running from the bear, as a storm cloud EXPLODES!

My heart races.

I push buttons on my cell phone.

No dial tone.

Running on gravel, windy road, no cars, no people.

Six miles.

I pass Douglas fir trees.

Bushes, blending into a relay course.

Over bridges and streams.

In the wild.

The bear approaches, an eagle swoops down, and…

I’m kidding to create the effect of fear to share how scared to death I was driving alone on windy roads with a mean BLACK cloud lowering in the sky.

It wants to eat me! It’s coming to get me! No one’s around. No one will know. Except the bear.

It begins to rain.

I drove east from Bellingham (inland) toward Mt. Baker, part of the Cascade Mountins, on Route 542 because Doreen and Bonnie,and every other person I met in Bellingham, told me Mt. Baker was a “can’t be missed” drive. So it might rain, no big deal.

So I’m driving alone in the rain, in an area I’ll learn is the wildest terrain in Washington State. The highway narrows from two-lanes to one, under an angry sky.

No big deal.

The menacing black cloud follows normally swimsuit, sun dress-clad, Southern California me, and it’s getting bigger and meaner and uglier, and it takes over the sky.

My nerves and imagination take off, as the cloud lowers in the sky more. My index finger can reach up and touch…

There are no cars on the road.

Just me. And my cell phone. Ah, yes, relief.

I call Fernando.

No dial tone.

I drive further; only 5 markers left (measuring a mile) until I’m at the Bed and Breakfast called The Inn at Mt. Baker. It’s romantic, I’m told. I don’t care if it’s a garbage dump. I can’t wait to get there. Time can’t speed up fast enough. My car can. I drive faster along windy roads.

No cars.

No people.

No big deal.

I call Fernando.

No dial tone.

I see the 29 marker for the B & B, and turn left onto a gravel road.

Rocks–sharp silver rocks line the narrow road.

Up a hill.

Shrubs on both sides.

My tires sound sick. Gravely. In need of care. I see a blown-out tire in my imagination (its happened five times before) only this time, I have no phone service. In red letters NO SERVICE. Unmistakable.

I’m not sure I’m even on the right road to the romantic–who gives a crap–B & B.

The mean black cloud lowers, overtakes the road. As I’m about to reach out to touch my nemesis, instead I reach for the phone. I hit speed dial.

Still…

No dial tone.

My heart races.

My hands shake as I back the car into branches juttting out from bushes in the tiny narrow road. I’m praying I don’t go the side of an invisible hill on the other side of the bushes. I pray a bear doesn’t pop his head out, (I just watched the documentary about the guy in Alaska who got eatten by a grizzly bear) or God-knows-what-else. Once again, my SUV’s positioned to turn right up the hill, or left, down.

I’m at a fork in the road, stuck between bravery and wimpdom.

Which road will I take?

I reflect: There are no people. There is no phone service. I could get a flat tire. There are bears.

And, I didn’t mean to share this with you reader, but it’s important: It was my time of the month. Yes, my period. Most certainly, a deadly scent.

I look over my shoulder.

A breeze rustles the bushes leaves.

Bears were one of the B & B brochure’s selling points. It read something like I might see wild animals, bears.

So I did what any sane Southern California gal would do.

No big deal.

I SUVed outta there, and two and a half hours after I left Bellingham, I arrived to Bellingham, and embarked on one of the most scenic roads in Washington State and, luckily,under blue skies. It was once part of the scenic Pacific Coast Highway, starting in San Diego and going up to Vancouver.

The Chuckanut Drive