The hazy days of almost-summer

When we moved from sunny California to drippy Washington seven years ago, Rob and I agreed that every year we would be sure to have a trip planned in March or April. A warm sunny trip requiring daily leg-shavings. Well, at least for me. This is how we intended to cope with the moss sprouting behind our ears and the webs developing between our toes.

After a few years, we realized that March and April weren't the problem. No, the absolute suckiest month in the Pacific Northwest weather-wise is June. That month in northern California when summer really starts. That month when you start wearing shorts and sweatshirts in the morning before the fog burns off and again in late afternoon when the fog rolls back in. That month when you uncover the BBQ for the first time since November because it doesn't occur to you that you could grill in the gray clouds, much less the rain. That month when you start assuming it will be a sunny day everyday through most of October.

But in the Pacific Northwest, June is the month it predictably rains on the Grand Floral Parade in Portland. It is the month that you optimistically bring out the patio furniture but not the chair pads because they will get wet. It is that month that you get really grumpy in a green-with-envy sort of way at all the sun-shiny status updates of all your more southern Facebook friends. It is the month that you start counting down the days to July 5th ~ the unofficial yet eerily accurate start of the much-less-rain season other regions call summer. It is now the month that Rob and I plan our Let's Find the Sun Trip.

And so that is how we now find ourselves taking shallow breaths in the high altitude of Santa Fe, New Mexico. We have been here almost three days. We have been wearing shorts and sunglasses and SPF30. We have been gleefully sweating and drinking lots of water. My legs are freshly shaven. This morning I woke up and was excited to open the hotel curtains to yet more sun. Yes, we chose Santa Fe for the dependable June sun but seven years at Woodhaven have trained me to be grateful for each and every sunny day, especially those that are consecutive.

Of course, with our travel history, it comes as no surprise that our sun-seeking trip has been a bit blurred by smoke. Yes, the people who brought floods to Kauai and Norovirus to Alaska and 3-day-power-outages to the Oregon Coast and incredulous umbrella usage to the locals of Sacramento in May, have shored up their reputations by bringing the Santa Fe environs the worst wildfire smoke in recent (say, a quarter-century) history. Please, no need to thank us, Santa Fe; it's just how we roll.

A week or so ago, a big wildfire broke out near the Arizona/New Mexico border. As of tonight, it is 0% contained and encompasses over 400,000 acres. Until we arrived on Monday, the winds were taking the smoke more northward than eastward (hello, Iowa!), leaving Santa Fe unaffected. But by the time we finished dinner, Santa Feans were standing outside, mouths agape, cell phone cameras poised, staring at a most eerie red sun and breathing in dense air that smelled like pine incense. The light was freaky; a dark, reddish, hazy glow I have only seen in news footage of fires. Rob wasn't freaked as much as nostalgic. The red haze and pine smoky aroma instantly transported him back to youth soccer games played in southern California, games which nobody thought to call off despite the smoke plumes of raging wildfires visible in the distance. Ahh, the air-quality standards of the '80s.

Despite the diminished visibility and itchy eyes, Rob and I haven't really minded this new twist to our Travel Adventures here in Santa Fe. We kind of like the sweet piney smell, and the sunsets have been nothing short of spectacular. Last night's sunset was breathtaking...almost literally...as the sun passed through smoke clouds, changing color from red to orange to yellow. I have never seen the sun streaked of colors before. And as the sun set behind some mountains, the sky morphed into stripes of pink, magenta, and purple. In a moment, I understood all the paintings and pottery and woven blankets and t-shirts depicting the southwest in a rainbow of reds mixed with yellow or blue. Those images aren't artists' imaginations; those colors really exist here, in the sky. The sky blissfully without rain.