Periodically, Ninepatch proposes various themes for contributors letters. Here are the letters we received in response to the 'The Vacation' theme...

ROMANCING ARIZONA

I saw a great travel video presentation last night on Arizona -- one of my previous passions. I fell in love with Arizona in 1987. It was my dream to move there, not just vacation. And, I did.

However, my full-time life in Arizona was short-lived. Mom got sick and I had to return to Michigan. Still, I had five Eden-like weeks in Arizona that year. (I recall the heat was an enemy to a cold-blooded Yankee type like me. My rear-view mirror melted off my windshield one time.) But, I still love that country.

I've taken many hikes in many parts of Arizona since 1987.The Verde River Valley, where Sedona lies, gripped me. It seemed like the waiting room to heaven. I also hiked to the mesas on both east and west sides of the Verde Valley. These hikes to table-like mountain-tops made me soar like an eagle when I reached each peak!

I also climbed to the tops of Mt. Baker, Squaw Peak, Camel-back, Cave Creek and the Superstitions in Apache Junction, to name a few. (In addition to hiking, I rode a paddle-boat around Lake Powell.)

My time in Arizona was more like a sojourn than a vacation or relocation. I have nothing but fabulous memories of Arizona from '87 to '94. I could probably write an entire book about those adventures! Actually, I did write a poem about a hike in Arizona's Sycamore Canyon:

Two rivers meet
In a verdant pocket of high desert
ranges
Where javelina roam and eagles
hunt.
Beside the Sycamore Creek
we step through the soft red silky
sand -
a potter's powder.
Southwest wind has whipped the
cliffs to dust.
Lulled by seductive babble,
warmed by the deepening canyon
floor,
we cross rocky uncertain trails
in search of cairns to guide us.
Each step brings promise
of a deep cool pool around the bend
of the crimson canyon wall.
That paradise comes into view:
an eighty-foot sheer red rock rise
to a patch of periwinkle sky.
A late day sun hones its beam
upon a lone pricky pear, an isolated
yucca.
That is all
to view on the barren wall
as shadows fall.
Waters deep in canyon heat
anchor this mountain retreat.
I doff my socks and feel it soothe
my searing feet.
We have found Eden - a respite
before
we slowly trek back
along the rock-padded path.

Gail (Feb.'06) tells of the vacation/trip that gave birth to this poem in THE VACATION about this poem she says, "This particular hike with my daughter and her boyfriend took place shortly after my move to Arizona in May of '90."

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THE VACATION

No vacation story appeared in time for this month's issue, but watch for Gail's adventures in the March '06 issue. Meanwhile, here's another tale from me! During my "raising-children" years, annually, I visited Florida's Gulf Coast beaches with my folks. I arrived at those sandy shores tight from preparing the children, gathering necessities then riding two hours with my parents and two sons.

Once there, I relaxed a little. Sitting with my dad on the sand, a winter sun warmed us. Then, as Gulf waves gently soo-washed the shore, my tension melted and ran out to sea. Those were afternoons of vacation. My little boy ran about, waving at seagulls -- not bothering a soul. Daddy and I watched that child and Mom hunted shells near the shore with my older son.

Nowadays, I return to that beach whenever I can. Echoes of those happy times linger there.

Frances, Editor

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When I was eight years old, my parents took me on vacation with them and their friends. We drove over night to Blind River, in Canada. There, I spent two weeks with the group on an island in a huge lake where we could barely see the mainland.

We all slept in two rooms on either side of the main cabin. Grown-ups hand-pumped water and I had to use an outhouse. At night, lanterns and candles gave us light.

One day we took a group trip to a nearby tree- covered shore where we climbed a "mountain" they called, Ol' Baldy. That morning we got in a rowboat and two canoes. The big people pulled the oars and paddled until boat bottoms scraped the little gravel shore. We climbed out and waited while the men pulled the crafts up onto the lake's narrow stony edge. Then, everyone began to climb. We trudged up the steep slope through small trees and underbrush. My dad and others cheered climbers with choruses of, "On top of Old Baldy, all covered with rock…" I knew the tune, it was a children's song, "On top of Spaghetti, all covered with cheese, I saw my first meatball, 'till somebody sneezed…"

Before long, I panted and puffed. But, I didn't feel so bad because another grown-up also stopped to rest, her face red, and breath short.

I don't know why the group decided to make the climb -- or for that matter-- why anyone makes such journeys. However, I will say that I felt a sense of victory when at last, I scrambled onto Baldy's rocky top and stood up. My reward was a view over the vast, tree-lined lake and our small island across the way, now no bigger than my hand.

Frances Fritzie (Editor) adds, "One evening, supervised by "Uncle Doc", I stood and threw in a fishing line from the small wooden landing. Surprised, I caught my first- ever fish. Uncle Doc said it was a blue gill -- a good-eating fish. But, I was sad for Blue and let it swim in a big metal tub for several days. Finally, my parents insisted he had to be eaten and Blue became part of a "mess" of fish for dinner. I think I ate peanut butter that night …"

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