Making Peace is the twenty-eighth installment of Finding My Way Home. To view the previous installment, click here. If you wish to start from the beginning, click here. This is the ongoing story of the six years I spent as a vagabond photographer.

I’ve planned a short stay in Maricopa, Arizona where I put my son on a train to New Orleans and set off again on my own. The place I’ve chosen is near a feed lot which, depending on the temperature and wind direction, turns out to be occasionally very smelly. There is a flock of great-tailed grackles who roost in the trees across from my site. Each evening they arrive and make quite an amusing racket while they settle in for the night.

As I plan my next stays, with an eye toward meeting Chris in the southern California desert sometime in March, I discover a route which takes me through Needles, California. My friends and family, especially Chris, are somewhat puzzled by my desire to spend time in this run-down, economically depressed place. But, what they don’t realize is my father is buried there.

I have very mixed feelings about my dad, who died when I was just twelve years old. On the one hand, he was an alcoholic and compulsive gambler who would sometimes disappear for weeks at a time, leaving my mother and us kids wondering when he might return. On the other hand, he was a charming and fun guy, who had a profound love of nature.

When he was home, we often went on adventures. These were not your normal “Sunday drives.” Often, we would end up stuck in four feet of snow, or four-wheel-driving on precarious jeep trails holding our breath and hoping we didn’t tumble off the side of a cliff. One of the things that bothered him to no end was litter. I remember him stopping the truck so many times and ordering us kids to get out and pick up some trash he had spotted on the side of the road. We never went on vacations to places other families went, like Disneyland or the beach. His idea of fun was always camping, fishing, hunting or hiking, far away from civilization. My love of nature was instilled and fostered by my father.

By the time we lost him, I had never spent an entire school year in the same school. We were always moving, sometimes in the dark of night with no warning. I remember feeling profound envy and sadness when someone would say “best friends since kindergarten,” or “lived here all my life.” Those are things I would never know. I learned to fit in wherever I was, but never tried too hard because I knew it wouldn’t last. In school, I decided learning was more important than friendships because whatever I learned would stay with me, even when the people were gone. And getting straight A’s all the time pleased my parents.

The cause of death was officially suicide, but later in my twenties, I learned that it was more likely murder. He was deep in debt to some rather vicious people and, of course, could not pay. One of my relatives even shared about a phone call in which the caller said they would not only kill him if he didn’t pay, but also make sure his family never received a penny. Life insurance does not pay if the cause of death is suicide. There were other suspicious circumstances that I also only learned of later in life. The end result is that I spent my teenage years being very angry and feeling abandoned. I understand why I wasn’t told the whole truth – I was only a child. Sometimes I wonder if knowing what actually happened would have made a difference. I’ll never know.

I make some calls and secure a spot at Needles Marina for the month of January 15 to February 15. Meantime, I head to Ehrenberg, Arizona with an eye on spending some time exploring Cibola National Wildlife Refuge. The RV park is on the shores of the Colorado River, which makes Luna very happy. After spending the first day exploring the park and watching my joyful companion swim to her heart’s content, I’m off to the refuge on our second day. On this day, the visitors center is in a bit of chaos.

In visiting with the person greeting me, I learn that they are in the process of changing volunteers. A new group has just arrived and the group that had been there for several months is leaving. This reminds me that I want to do what they are doing, so I ask a lot of questions. As it turns out, this refuge has a long waiting list of people who wish to volunteer on site, and they prefer couples to singles since they have limited space and wish to have as many bodies as possible. It looks like I will have to find a refuge that is less popular and more in need of volunteers.

While Cibola is large (more than 18,000 acres), the most interesting and accessible area is a small plot near the visitors center. In this short auto route, I see large flocks of ducks and geese, including snow geese, several raptors, sandhill cranes, and much to my delight, burrowing owls! This is my first experience with these adorable little owls. At Cibola, they have a robust burrowing owl conservation program. Burrowing owls generally use the burrows of prairie dogs, ground squirrels, or other rodents. Preferring to modify existing underground tunnels, rather than digging their own. In this part of the country, their habitat is being eliminated by development and agriculture.

At this wildlife refuge, staff build tunnels for them, utilizing flexible plastic conduit, and the owls apparently love it. As I drive the loop, I notice many of the man-made burrows, each marked by a small post with a number. I decide to park at a pull out and wait. Sure enough, sitting quietly for a while pays off. Several of the curious little creatures venture out to see what’s going on. I’m thrilled to add this species to my life list.

Once I arrive in Needles, I look up directions to the cemetery. A few years ago, one of our second cousins reached out to my sister about a headstone for my dad’s grave. He was doing some genealogy work and discovered many people in our family did not have markers at their graves. My sister agreed to pay for a headstone and our cousin provided the logistics to have it installed. She has not seen the result of her generosity, so I will take a photo to send her.

I get to the cemetery and something tells me to walk to my left. It’s been forty-five years since the funeral, but I still have a vague memory of the burial. The place is well-kept and freshly mowed, so scanning the names is easy. After walking around for a few minutes, I see his name and it takes my breath away. All of a sudden, I’m twelve again and crying my eyes out. I brush away some of the grass clippings and snap a phone photo for my sister. Then I sit down on the lawn and have a long vent at him. I tell him how angry and disappointed I was as a child and how it has affected my whole life. I scold him for being absent and missing out on every milestone and achievement I ever reached.

Finally, after sitting there for an unknown amount of time, I get up and go back to my car in somewhat of a haze. It feels like I have let go of something I didn’t even realize I’d been carrying around for the past four and a half decades. It’s an overwhelming mixture of relief and exhaustion.

I spend the next couple of weeks exploring the area and figuring out what to see and do. Although I am in California, the Colorado River marks the border with Arizona. The Havasu National Wildlife Refuge is just across the river from where I am staying and there are also many public river access points on the Arizona side.

When I Google the wildlife refuge visitor center, I end up at the refuge manager’s house, which doubles as the office for the refuge. I’m there looking for information and maps of where to go on the refuge, and also to inquire about volunteer opportunities. The manager is very kind and helpful and I can tell it’s somewhat unusual for someone to show up at the office. He tells me they do not have a resident volunteer program, but lets me know that Bill Williams NWR, about seventy miles south, accommodates on site volunteers.

When I contact them, they tell me that I can put my name on a list, but they have enough volunteers who come back year after year that they probably won’t need me for some time. When I visit, I see why. The place is a snowbird’s paradise, both the avian and human kind. With warm winter weather, fishing, boating and hiking, they have more volunteers than they need.

My day trip also includes a visit to Lake Havasu City, which is one of the many places we lived when I was a child. The town’s claim to fame is the London Bridge, which was disassembled and brought over by Robert P. McCulloch (of chainsaw fame) in order to drum up real estate sales for the fledgling community he was trying to develop. You can read more about the story on the city’s website. After this short stroll down memory lane, I feel ready to visit Dad one more time before I leave Needles.

On this visit, I once again sit down next to him, but I feel more peace than anger. I thank him for sharing his reverence for nature, his sense of adventure, and for teaching me how to fish! For showing me that there is humor and happiness to be found, even in the worst of times. I tell him I learned from him that even the most flawed people can pass the best of themselves on to their children. He would be proud of the person I have become. Thanks Dad. I forgive you.