Mean Girls has got nothin’ on our chickens.

Chickens, a bit like sharks, go nuts when they draw blood.

On our second night with six baby chicks, we couldn’t hear the TV. “Can you turn down the chickens,” said the Dimple. Peering into their box I found blood down the spine of one of them and the brood kept pecking the same bloody spot like it was pasta carbonara. I believe I squealed.

Tedium was one suggestion for chick bullying on Google – and could end in homicide; Bored To Death! Panicked, we dangled a CD into the box (for pecking), put up some Christmas lights and contemplated Adele for a dance party. All was calm when we went to bed.

By morning all six were alive, huddled together like a feather hat. We left them alone for a few hours and returned to more blood down the spine of the Pecked One. Plus the bitches had been attacking the vulnerable sides of the neck.

I wish I could say I behaved like a sane paramedic at the scene of an accident. There was more squealing.

Bob, who bursts into tears at the sight of blood, was gawking at his squeamish mother. The ‘Dactyl gave a sympathy squeal. I wanted to ignore the horror movie in the box but my children expected me to sort it.

Their coop – which was all ready and waiting for them to get bigger – was the only option but that meant picking UP the flighty, squawky, flappy creatures; something I managed to avoid last year without anybody noticing.

Not the cuddliest of pets.

Fear of chickens feels wrong in the woods – it’s not very Mother Natureish and I was seriously lamenting not getting a cat. At least my patting skills are impressive.

I have a confession: we never got the cat. We had the silver-grey one picked out from the shelter but then it was Christmas and then we were going to NZ and then he was gone. At one point I said to the Dimple, ‘But we have to get a cat, I said we already had one on the blog.’ He said some unprintable things about that being the worst reason, ever, to get a pet. So we got more hens; it fits with our off-the-grid, off-the-land (sometimes feels like off-the-planet) lifestyle.

“I’ll get them,” said Bob, when I announced the chicks had to leave their torture box. Swooping, cornering, grabbing them one by one, he was plucky. The boy who hates blood fastened his quick five-year-old hands around the torso of the Pecked One, not in the least phased by the gunky bits of flesh hanging off her back.

His love of chickens was greater than his fear of blood.

In a flash, my love for him was greater than my fear of chickens.

On the day he turned five he was annoying me, jumping on the spare bed as I tried to make it – for family arriving for his party. He dragged the duvet and pillows onto the floor and demanded I play in his hut. “NO!” sprinted out and then I wondered why. Why not join him for a minute?

We rolled ourselves up in the duvet and snored. I farted, he roared. As we snuggled I felt a surge of love for him, tears pricked my eyes. Afterwards, I looked at the clock. 10.37am. Exactly the time Bob was born five years earlier! I was glad I caught it.

Lately, he’s been pushing – making me count down to school – but in that moment it was a delicious pull, yanking me right back to the day we drove home from hospital and looked around wondering who let us leave with a baby. Our boy! How would that tiny thing ever be big enough to handle lofty subjects such as Natural Selection?

We've threatened the chicks with a cold bath if they start bitching again.

Way over here now, at five, he surprises us with what he can cope with emotionally and mentally. He knows last year’s chickens were taken by the woods – when the murderer evacuated us. We can no longer keep his innocence in a bottle; it’s escaped without us noticing.

When it comes to squawky birds, he’s braver than me. Fearless! He’s the teacher and I’m the child. We both held the Pecked One and told her to stand tall, don’t let the mean girls win.

Considering my enthusiasm to see a bear or cougar here, the Dimple thinks my chicken phobia (Alektorophobia) is comical. “Can’t wait to see you extract the eggs once they’re laying.”

Oh ha ha. By then, with some secret training from the five-year-old, I’m planning on not being such a chicken.

It’s wader, Mom, not water.

Last month, as we stood under the carved archway dividing Duty Free and NZ Customs listening to Haere Mai, I felt overcome with emotion. That silly happy song I’ve never given two hoots about before was making me feel nostalgic for my country. Home.

Bob and the ‘Dactyl watched some loutish lads pose underneath the Māori carving with the obligatory tongue out and tilted their heads.

“Wot are they doing Mom?”

Sadness swamped me. Not only are our children speaking American, they’re not learning important kiwi-isms like taking the piss out of the fierce haka warrior; handy when dealing with assholes later in life. Or understanding, if we want our oceans full of fish by 2037, then the best kind to eat are made of chocolate and pink marshmallow.

The ‘Dactyl is not learning Haere Mai in music class, she taps her cute phalanges to Dinah Won’t You Blow Your Horn. Bob knows how teepees are constructed but doesn’t know a tiki from a troll. Tomato, I hate to admit is now tomaydo. Just wrong.

Even the buildings in New Zealand stick their tongues out.

Throughout our two weeks in New Zealand, the Dimple and I snorted it all up: family, family, wedding, beach, lousy summer, but Bob and the ‘Dactyl kept asking when we were going to the airport.

“I guess America’s home now,” said my Mum, looking forlorn, until we realized it was the journey not the destination. Bob couldn’t wait to watch infinity movies on the plane! Cheers, Air NZ. At least home is still up in the air.

Even though I want my children to feel connected to their roots, it felt right coming back here to the US. We know it’s weird, living in a forest and it’s darn tricky to explain.

One friend, Kary, asked me with a crinkled nose, “Yes, but what’s the best part about being there?” Yanking different images in my mind: skinny dipping in the river, riding the skunk train, wild turkeys in our backyard, bear poop, I gave a lame response. “Family time.”

She looked most dissatisfied. You can attach that answer to any destination: ice-cream shop, bed on Sunday mornings, farting on Daddy’s knee.

Bob and the 'Dactyl teaching the Other Camp Four-Year-Old how to Do Maori.

On our first day back in the woods, with the Dimple at work, the needle scratched across my idyllic vision of family time. Bob took the last blueberry from the ‘Dactyl, her favourite food in the universe and a jousting match ensued, both using their plastic bowls as shields and bashing instruments. I watched, musing why this didn’t happen at the Grandparents. Why save this charming behaviour just for me.

Looking at the clock, I thought grimly of the next three hours before lunch – and a distraction with the Other Camp Mother – and wondered how I was going to get through 2190 more three-hour slots of child rearing before both of them are at school.

I did what I often do: get angry, then, when they’re gawking at me for losing it, have a better idea. The idea is always the same so it’s amazing I forget it so often.

“Outside, NOW!”

Rain, frost or sunshine it always works. I’m just like every other mother trying to get through the days – savouring the delicious moments and gritting my teeth through the challenging ones – trying not to wish it away too fast because everyone tells you it will go super quick and then it’s just gone.

An old lady stopped me on the street when Bob was six months old and said, “Enjoy it dear. Best years of your life!”

Old bat, I thought. Obviously she can’t remember the pumpkin poo up the back at 2am.

The woods are huge, peaceful and beautiful but I’m no Buddhist freak that appreciates serene family time more than anyone else.

The honest answer to give Kary would have been we’ve gotten used to it so we’re talking about the positives because that’s what humans do when we’re not ready for change.

We’ve gotten used to feeling like we’re on holiday during winter: beer and wine o’clock at five, eating together every night like the Ingalls family where Bob says the evening prayer: “Thank you pigs for dying so we can eat you!” The Dimple has gotten used to leaving for work at 8.59 and we’ve gotten used to waving goodbye in our pyjamas, then seeing him around Morning Tea. We’ve gotten used to building a fire every day and it makes me feel strong and earthy; two words I never thought I would want to be. We’ve gotten used to no wind, no debt, no deadlines, no stress; we can’t spend a cent here at Camp as the trees won’t take it – I know, the ‘Dactyl’s tried. We’ve gotten used to making toast over a gas flame when the generator isn’t on (although it took me a long time to get used to and I’m still peeved when I can’t heat up my forgotten coffee in the microwave.)

Amazingly, we've even gotten used to living an hour from the nearest cool bar (hiding behind us).

Friends that come to stay – Zac & Shannon, Ross, Paul & Olivia, Shaun & Tania, Kerry & Sasha, Gareth, Dave & Ashley, Alida & Gary, Cari & Brad – get used to it too, especially wine o’clock. They melt into forest time like it’s a lazy boy chair and don’t want to leave. Uncle Clive was the only exception where we couldn’t actually get him out of the lazy boy chair but that’s probably because he doesn’t like wine.

We’ve gotten used to living amongst Redwood trees, sadly without the Haere or the Mai, I think, because deep down we suspect that old bat was right. It’s even worth a little wawder here and there.

As Bob would say – with the only kiwi-ism he came back with – “For Real!”

PSST. Apologies to Aucklandites we didn’t see, we spent our time in Wellington.

The Cabin

When you die, Mummy, we’re going to put you in bags and eat you,” said our four-year-old. He had just seen what happened to the pigs: they arrive, we feed them, they die and come back in small packages labeled Chops, Ribs and Jowls. After seeing a dead fox last week Bob’s been obsessed with time. Are you nearly 100? Can we all become infinity? How long until we leave the woods?

Before we left New Zealand, a friend of my mother’s said “You’re brave taking off” and my eyes welled up. I didn’t feel brave, I was scared. I couldn’t say, “I’m following my husband’s dream right now,” as that sounded like something a wife from the 1950s would say. But it wasn’t my idea to live in a forest. It was the Dimple’s dream to come to Camp, this place he’s returned to on and off since 1987 and bring us with him. A place where he could be his own man, off the grid and bring home the bacon. Literally.

From the moment we landed, if anything went wrong, my emotions reached for my trump card: “I didn’t choose to freakin come here, it’s not my place!” I would be lying if I said it didn’t cause friction.

The Dimple's pal, Spencer painted this - that's him on the right. That's the Dimple on the left with the club foot.

The Dimple lived in a cabin in these woods for a year way before he met me. It’s the cabin in the painting that hung in our lounge in Wellington, tempting us with a stretched out paint stroke.

I stumbled across that run-down cabin one day. As I pushed on the No Trespassing sign I smiled: my chap values privacy, even in the middle of nowhere.

Inside, the feeling overwhelmed me. There was his double bed, stove to make coffee on, the red armchair – that was on the porch in our painting, a small bedside table for a candle. Maybe a whiskey. There were no windows, just mozzie screens and the sounds of the forest right outside just as he had described. I heard a woodpecker knocking out a flat tune and imagined him: single, living alone, completely free. His sheltered private pool in the river just below, where he swam naked under the moon.

The Dimple’s past was lingering in the dust particles all around me, the place he healed and made peace with himself. The place where he wished for us, his family, in a future he hoped for. I whispered to him in the dusty darkness, “We’re here my lover,” and tears rolled down my cheeks. I had wished for him too from the mayhem of New York City.

We’ve held hands and jumped off a few cliffs, but shifting to the US has been the biggest. It was a leap of faith, for me. When my dear brother, Shaun and his wife, Tania and their three children visited last October – days after the murderer had been shot – I realized, as I proudly showed off our Camp, I had fallen in love with it too. Their delight with where we lived was validation we weren’t totally mad.

We went to a party in San Francisco recently and people said, “Oh you’re the couple that live in the forest, I’ve heard about you.” Together, united in our fruitiness.

One night I told the Dimple how I felt about the woods and he looked at me for longer than usual, “Sounds like it’s not just my place anymore,” he said. Like him, I’ve made peace with myself here; I too am reaching for a dream.

The 'Dactyl and Bob have asked if they can be here until they reach 100. At 138, it's unlikely I'll have an opinion.

Bob wants to be here for infinity and we’ve tried to explain that only happens – for the pigs, fox and chickens – once they die but he’s not buying it. To him, infinite life is all around us. We won’t be leaving because I finally won an argument, we’ll leave when we decide together the time is right; hopefully not in small bags labeled Steak.

Thanks to all of you for reading this blog, you make me want to keep going. Happy New Year.

I Said A Kitten, Not A Baby.

“I can’t smell the cunt!” said our daughter, feeling left out. We could all smell it. There’s nothing like the pong of freshly killed skunk. Being only two she still struggles with her ks and sks. Her parents, being only four, find it hilarious.

The Dimple didn’t realize a family of skunks had built a basement apartment under a container. Since the massacre of the chickens we’ve talked about a new pet but can’t quite commit to a dog or cat. We’ve been fobbing off forest creatures as pets – quails, cougars, bears, stags, chipmunks, owls, bobcats and squirrels – hoping Daddy doesn’t accidentally murder them. Or vice versa.

Wild turkeys were hanging about but they've disappeared since Thanksgiving...

With Christmas coming, our pigs just had their final supper and the conversation of a proper pet came up again. Until I was three weeks late.

It was my turn to cuss. I was thinking a kitten, maybe. Not a baby!
Having only suspected twice in my life I was pregnant and both times being correct, I recognized the symptoms, plus the unofficial one: not wanting to drink wine.

A pharmacy was an hour away and a trip to town wasn’t planned for four days, during which time the bombshell took on a life of its own.

First, was the numeral problem. I hate odd numbers. Fi, Megan, Mel, Cindi, Annalise and Tracy (MH), you all chose three but I like two. Two adults: two kids. Nice and even.

The Dimple was thrilled, “It’s more of a family.”

He comes from four, he would say that. It’s just more sleepless nights, more diapers, more noise, and more pumpkin poo up the back at 2am in my mind.

He made jokes about his Killer Sperm. I moaned about the inevitable killer back pain, heart burn and sunset sickness.

The Dimple calculated June on the calendar: start of summer Camp, when he’s really busy. “You could have it in New Zealand?” he suggested unhelpfully, forgetting heavily pregnant woman can’t fly for 13 hours and what to do with the other two children and wouldn’t he want to be at the birth of his third child for fuck’s sake.

The thought of the ‘Dactyl, our current baby, as a middle child, grated. “She’ll love it, a baby all of her own to mother,” said the Dimple. Also unhelpful and far too positive. “And I’ve already decided it’s a girl.” Amazing how men think they can do that.

If anything we were going to have another boy. At least boy girl boy sounded even.

The only thing to do was stomp my worries through the woods. Trudging past the wooden playground, memories of Bob and the ‘Dactyl’s squeals on the tire swing tried to temper my mood. As I clomped over the swinging bridge and looked at the river we spent all summer in, heaviness lifted.

I marched by our woodshop and looked at the latest creations Bob and the ‘Dactyl have made – submarines, spaceships, planes, houses – remembering millions of dollars are donated every year so not-so-lucky city kids can spend ten days in this place.

Making a rocket-ship so we can go to Jupiter for lunch.

Ours have freedom, wonder and space all year, enjoying a large house and ridiculously huge backyard. If we added another one, nothing would have to change. Except my goddam attitude.

Recent reports on children’s education all say ‘More Nature’.

Nature was laughing at me. Deal with it. Don’t be so perfect: one mom, one dad, one boy, one girl and one more. Live with three. Fiddle dee dee.

At least, I conceded, I’d get those nice boobs again.

By the time I got home I announced I could deal with a boy. The Dimple hugged me and said we’d make it work and I loved him back really hard in that hug because that’s what I needed to hear.

The answer arrived in the pharmacy bathroom. Blood all over the tiled white floors.

Tears dripped down my cheeks when I told the Dimple that night. He cracked open a bottle of Mendocino Pinot; we both felt like a glass.
“I thought you’d didn’t want a third,” he said.

I didn’t, but that third little nugget, a mix of fear and wonder carved a small hole in my heart. There’s room I realized, for more love and a tiny bit more commitment.

We’ve chosen a silver grey cat from the animal shelter. Based on our luck with pets, the forest may take this too. “That’ll solve what to do when we leave,” said the Dimple.

Bob has the perfect name for it. Third. Or if we’re speaking ‘Dactyl, it will probably end up Turd.

I’m Strangely Obsessed With Seeing A Bear.

We’ve got new neighbours. They’re big, black, hairy and often scary. Ursus Americanus (Black Bears) are lurking in our woods.

Bears used to hang around here but were hit hard by the recession. What with recycling and composting it’s slim pickings at Camp for food scraps these days. Word in the woods is that they went to North Spur, two miles up the track, where the Skunk Train stops for a BBQ lunch.

Now it’s apple season, they’re returning. I couldn’t be more thrilled.

Behind the Other Camp Family’s house, there’s a small orchard dripping with tart red apples; irresistible for bears needing to lard up before winter. There are half munched apples strewn around the ground but the real proof is the colossal poop – oh yes, this poo needs a p on the end – that looks like the inside of an apple turnover.

I can't explain why I want to meet the creature who did this.

We had one skulking around our house. The Dimple, who’s a lighter sleeper than me, described the noise as “like a drunk man crashing through the trees”. A friend was cycling past our house one night and heard said drunk man, stumbling from trunk to trunk, spurring on some ridiculously fast cycling.

I was excited and we discussed it at length. Bob and the ‘Dactyl would offer the bear a cup of tea once spotted. Or porridge.

The Other Camp Dad heard me chatting about ‘Our Bear’ to my brother and sister-in-law when they were visiting recently. It’s possible I was showing off.

“Turkeys!” he roared with laughter. “They’re so noisy they sound like a bar full of pissed guys at night. You wouldn’t hear a bear.”

Gawd, I felt like the turkey who’s spent most of her life in a city.

There was only thing to do: go bear hunting in the apple orchard. We piled into the car like teenagers and peeled out of the driveway, the law sis and I precariously perched in Bob and the ‘Dactyl’s car seats.

For a gripping moment we thought we saw an eye in the dark, and then realized it was my headlamp reflected in the window. Full of stealth, we were. We hunted everywhere, hoping to startle a well-satiated bear. We even got out of the car and sniffed about, no doubt sounding like a bar full of pissed guys ourselves.

The Other Camp Dad spooked us with roars, but alas, he was the only creature that made us jump that night.

I’m miffed. Everyone else has seen one: the Dimple, the Other Camp Dad, the Other Camp Mum, the unborn child in the Other Camp Mum’s tum. Last weekend, a young guy missed the train back from North Spur and got lost in the woods. He was on LSD, dressed in a toga and even he saw a bear! He also slept in a tree.

The Dimple woo'd me to Camp with pictures like this (taken in 2000)

I love how unhelpful the advice is if you see one: climb a tree (Black Bears are very good tree climbers), run (they could out run humans with a sprained paw), get into the foetal position (giving up, surely), make yourself really big (quite tricky if you’re two or four), don’t move (even more tricky if you’re two or four).

Strangely, curiosity outweighs my fear. Bears are pescetarian; they’re more interested in the shrubbery than coffee-tasting humans. Apparently.

“It’s possible you’re suffering from PMS,” said the Dimple (Post Murder Syndrome). He thinks I’m thrill seeking. I suspect I’m obsessed because I come from a country where there are no bears; the scariest animal is a pit-bull without a leash.

I want to see Ursus Americanus and live to tell the tale.

The Dimple predicts if I actually see one, both of us will be so frightened we’ll lumber off at a cracking pace in opposite directions. I hope to prove him right.

Even Murderers Were Five Year Old Boys Once.

It’s over. The Murderer is dead. For once, I understand the rush media must feel, chasing a story that keeps getting more extraordinary. Crazed murderers who think they are starring in their own Rambo movie don’t come along every day – especially in your own back yard.

We, the homeless ones, drifted back to Fort Bragg, lurking in a holiday home with the Other Camp Family while the events of the last week gripped us all by the eyelashes.

According to a pal of Aaron Bassler’s, Rambo was his favourite movie.

Like Rambo, Aaron the Murderer ran from a brutal bust up with local authorities into wild terrain. Our woods were described in the press as “rugged, dense, bug and poison-oak infested forest”. Oh yes, that’s them, not a Sunday stroll.

Many sheds and the odd house were raided for supplies. His eerie sign, a crosshair – what you see through a rifle scope – was always left in his wake. In some cases, this mark was found right in the middle of where US Marshalls had recently been standing.

He left his crosshair mark on a stump in our Camp; a permanent reminder of what went down.

Adjectives like “shrewd” were reluctantly being tossed around. Like Rambo, he was starting to fuck with authorities, especially after nearly five weeks of fruitless searching. Aaron’s survival skills, everyone hated to admit, were impressive.

Somewhere along the line he discarded his camo gear and opted for black – like Stallone in Rambo 3. He had a 30-round AK47, handgun and a .22 rifle in his artillery. We imagined two bands of bullets crossing his chest in an X, perhaps a wig of curly black locks.

Barrels of food were uncovered in the forest; this Murderer had been preparing for a long walk in the woods.

On Day 34 there was a sighting and shoot-out at North Spur – a little community two miles up from Camp – yet the wily bugger eluded authorities again. A Marshall told the Other Camp Dad “he came bee-bopping down the road in broad daylight”. That’s cocky. Then, he open fired on police. Madness! Taken by surprise the police shot back, Aaron the Murderer disappeared into the foliage, then blindsided them, came around and started shooting again from behind. Now that’s ballsy.

Then it was all on. You don’t shoot at police, especially in this country, and get away with it. Full-warfare photos gripped Californian media. Everyone, like us, was riveted to news of the manhunt. We searched his name so much, other Aaron Bassler’s came up as suggestions on Facebook.

Many more men with many more guns flooded the area, determined to get him.

Watching, waiting in the moody woods was not a barrel of laughs.

A careless burglary – 13 miles from North Spur – was his fatal mistake, giving away a new location. Armed militia pounced, finally they had the upper hand and when he strolled down a track they nailed him.

Seven bullets to the torso. They lit ‘em up, Hollywood style.

Unlike Rambo, where he’s made into a hero, this unfortunate, deluded soul had a different ending. There was no ceremony. No crowning moment. No redemption. Just an end to it all; his torment; the angst of those close to his victims; the manhunt; our nomadic lives.

We waited 36 days. Like all good stories, this one had a lofty climax; there was only one thing to do the night we heard: drink tequila.

The Dimple and I went to an Inn, notorious for great company and all conversations wound back to the Murderer. We met a friend of the sister of the first victim. She was relieved. Another woman knew Aaron when he was five, they shared a kiss. She was sad.

It made me realize that before he became a gun wielding character in our woods, Aaron, once upon a time, was a boy who liked a girl.

I can’t even begin to imagine how his Mother feels. Rumour has it she was leaving food in a cooler outside her house for him. Once a mother, always a mother.

His Father claims he tried to get him help, wrote some letters, but nobody listened. $200,000 was spent on this manhunt, money which could have gone to drugs to quell his paranoia and delusions. Money that could have possibly saved the lives of Aaron’s victims. What a sad failure all round.

Rambo was dreamed up by creative minds. That young boy that kissed a girl, lost his mind long before he shot, and was shot.

I don’t feel sad about his death, which is a weird feeling. I do feel sad that his adult life had more hate than love.

Yesterday, we returned home. Boom boom! Unfortunately, there have been six more victims of this saga – our chickens. In our absence they had their own war game with a bobcat and lost.

We told the children they flew off into the woods. “Are they free now?” asked Bob with his big green eyes, fighting back the tears; he loved our chickens. The Dimple and I grinned. Yes Bob, like Aaron the boy, Aaron the Murderer, Aaron the son, they’re finally free.

Middle-Class Refugees Is Our New Theme Song.

It’s been twenty-four days since we had to evacuate our home. Never before have I heaped such violent thoughts upon a man I will never know. Our woods, dubbed Too Dangerous, are still a no-go zone. US Marshals have moved into Camp with infra-red gizmos, weapons, whiteboards and night cameras. They can confirm a cougar’s out there (because one stalked a Marshal) but Aaron, the armed and deluded misfit, is playing hard to get.

Armed Police ride the train through the woods.

Apparently he used to play war games in the forest with his Father, so now he’s in the biggest war game of his life with two murders under his belt and 80 men hunting for him.

The Other Camp Mom wrote on Facebook, ‘Forgive me Mother Earth, please kill this man.’ I wasn’t brave enough to like the post, but I nodded. I’ve never wished death on another human, but I, like half the town, want Aaron shot. Everyone’s waiting. And on edge.

The Camp Dads went back to feed the animals and watered the garden with loaded guns! Gardening has never been so grave.

Trying to do normal things like preschool and soccer practice, drifting between beach camp sites and motel rooms was making us feel like middle-class refugees. Especially in Fort Bragg where the stubborn coastal fog is more annoying than Wellington wind. Waiting, as Dr Seuss so eloquently put in Oh! The Places You’ll Go is the most hopeless feeling.

…Waiting for a train to go or a bus to come, or the rain to go or the mail to come, or the snow to snow or waiting around for a Yes or No…. Or a murderer to GO!

By day thirteen, back in a Fort Bragg motel, there was only one thing to do: drink tequila. I embraced the idea with the enthusiasm of a Cossack and, apparently, when I got home I went to kiss the Dimple but accidentally head butted him then laughed raucously long passed the nano-second he found it amusing. Amidst my cross-eyed haze I did say, at least twice, we had to GO ourselves. There had been an invitation to a festival of sorts. Details were hazy but it was what we needed to slip out of normal life and stop waiting to go home.

Since 1972, a bunch of free-spirited, creative people head to a part of California that is so remote it’s called The Forgotten Coast. Like Burning Man, everything is taken in: water, wood, supplies, a fully functioning kitchen, BBQs, entertainment, instruments.

Everyone cooked up a storm. The women danced. The men watched. I learnt to hula hoop. The Dimple and a chap with great side burns heaped logs as heavy as coffins onto a monstrous fire. Bob and the ‘Dactyl ran wild. We felt liberated – who needs a home! Once everyone left, we decided to keep moving.

Steve Miller’s ‘Time Keeps Slipping Into The Future’ came on the radio. “That’s so appropriate it’s bordering on cheesy,” said the Dimple.

Pausing to pose, half way up Mount Shasta.

We headed north to a mountain, east to a waterfall, west to a hot tub and lake. Names floated by on green and white signs: Legget, Dunsmuir, Grimes, Mt Shasta, Nice, Burney and Weed. I wanted to go to Susanville – to find out whether the town really was started by a bunch of Susans – but we turned left at a junction and ended up in Chico, bumping into a dear friend who happened to be looking after a wine cellar for the weekend.

We’ve had those chance meetings, offerings and meals that only happen when the itinerary is wide open.

“Where are we sleeping tonight?” drifts over from the back seat most afternoons. We’ve feasted on some gorgeous scenes. Bob and the ‘Dactyl are getting fussy about campsites – does it have a waterfall?

Now we’re around San Francisco, chasing the last of summer staying with our lovely law-sis.

While the Dimple and Bob are surviving on three t-shirts each, I’m glad in our panic to escape the woods, I squeezed six pairs of shoes into our Chevy .

The murders had made me feel like America wasn’t my country (which is a really bad line to use at a party, I only did it once). Only here, I thought, could we brush so closely with a demented killer. But now that we’re exploring this goddamn beautiful state of California my mind is open again. I’ve conceded demented killers, suffering from delusional paranoia with no welfare system to prop them up, live all over the world. Even in New Zealand.

Voodoo dolls of Aaron are not occupying my mind anymore. There is an end to his story but we can’t bring it on. We’re not waiting to go home; we’re having a big fat American adventure.

We’re off to Great Places!
Today is our day.
Our mountain is waiting.
So…we’d better get on our way!