This trip started off much like any other. I shrouded my face in cloth before entering the establishment and paying to rent a minivan that had been converted into a camper and been worked on upon by a very talented graffiti artist to colorfully splash two pigeons across the back sides of the mom-mobile gone rogue as to assuage any suspicion that the person inside of the vehicle was subtle or cool in any way, shape or form.
One positioned behind the naugahyde covered wheel, sleeping bag and old trusty green Coleman wedged into the recesses of the vehicle, I was off.
I was supposed to be in Ecuador this week. 2 weeks really. There have been several points in my life where I have had tickets to Quito and for some reason or another my trip has been thwarted. This is no different. When we all locked down from New York to LA I too took shelter and Mexico and Vancouver became elusive and, ultimately, disappointing.
When are March, Friday the 13th I began sheltering in place, I had no idea that months later, in mid June my annual pilgrimage would also be cancelled, not by me but my the airlines. Yet, here we are.
Instead of a South of the Border adventure I went to Utah, alone, returning to California for a partnered trip to Los Padres National Forest for father's day, and the 6th anniversary of me losing mine.
They're right. It doesn't get better. Losing your North Star never rights itself. In fact, sometimes its worse. And several months trapped within the confines of my West Coast abode has led to me missing him MORE, not less.
That being said, a little escape from quarantine was needed - for both me and Dad.
I returned completely from the majestic Zion National Park. And a little piece of Dad will always live there, as he does within me. Forever.
