During the early period of my self-isolation in Arizona, USA, Guerrilla Cartography put out a call for maps that represented “Community,” to be completed in 24 hours. Along with the call for maps, GC offered and organized free online talks, which included various and interesting cartographers from around the world.

One of the things I appreciate about GC is that there was no expectation that every map-maker would be available to watch, but that all and more are welcome.

Whether in person or online, these talks, for me, have been the most important part of learning my personal process, and have encouraged me to make maps on the fly. I can’t really explain even to myself why these talks matter so much, except to say that with particular speakers, and with each talk, I am especially moved by at least one of the cartographers and the initial idea for my map changes radically.

The cartographer whose talk immediately captured my interest and moved me most during the Community talks was Annita Hetoevehotohke’e Lucchesi, with a phrase from one of her maps, “with family from around the world.” I love the feeling and the visual image that “family from around the world” brings up for me, and this is just one example of her use of language that I feel in my brain. When she said, “a map needs no words,” she removed the “rules” from my personal known and unknown map-making and map-reading. I was freed to create, and I knew immediately what I would do!

The goal for the rough harvester Formicidae Ant map, after hearing Annita speak, was to communicate with as little written language as possible, using symbols to communicate the Ants’ message.

I began the map about the rough harvester ants and ant hill that I had been watching for the last couple of months, observing the ants travel from the nest to the unknown. Though not a word-free map it is the beginning of a concept I have been tossing about all of my life: communication without words.

Annita not only helped me formulate the Formicidae Ant map’s message of Community, but also furthered much of my other work along. The pandemic has provided time for ant watching and GC community thinking, both important tasks that add to my solitary moments. As a Guerrilla Cartographer I see myself as an individual and as the group, similar to the ant. I make maps as a Guerrilla Cartographer and within Guerrilla Cartography.

One of the wonderful parts of being a Guerrilla Cartographer is the seriousness and importance of map-making. If you are making a map up in your head, you must say so. If you are recreating a map you must cite. During the process of almost making a ‘map without words,’ I realized that I too would soon be traveling, from a place known to me, to a place I knew prior to Covid-19; a human ant, and decided to record this journey as ‘words without maps.’

*Inscription at the top of our stairs, Bisbee, Arizona*

As I moved from one place of self-isolation to another place of isolation, I recorded the interactions, and sometimes nameless places, along with my personal communities in between. I think it important to share from my perspective, as a member of the Guerrilla Cartography community, what a fortunate car traveler might expect on a lucky, but stressful trip in the USA from south-eastern Arizona to northern California.

Generally, writing comes easily to me, but this time, the writing became difficult, because the trip was difficult.

*Fremont Cottonwood trees along the San Pedro River, Arizona*

I leave south-eastern Arizona a bit before 9 a.m. on a quiet and cool Friday morning. Packed with a tent, food and drink to share, we and our dog fill the car. The plan — our Covid-19 travel plan — is to stop for gas and at rest stops to pee and let our dog out, and then to camp in our friends’ yard or driveway along the way and share socially distant meals. My dog is sick and an elder; this does not make the trip fast, as we will make many stops for her.

As we are pulling past the orange cones on the left, moving towards the Stop!, I look over to my right and I see a young Latina in the back of a green and white border patrol truck. I am struck that she is held in the back of a truck. We both have many feelings, no words are needed. I see her eyes and her face, she does not wear a mask. She is a woman, I was that age once. She sees only my eyes, I wear a mask. She leaves her face blank, she knows I have concerned feelings for her.

There is a car in front of us. We are urged with moving arms to keep rolling forward, and a bit further I see a young man, only his body, his face is not in my view, an agent is taking his personal possessions and putting them into a clear plastic bag. I wonder if the young man will get his items back, and in a quick second I realize I do not believe he will. In my mind, if he were going to get his possessions back he would not be held in the back of a truck, is my personal opinion.

The agents want us to quickly move on. I later assume they don’t want us to witness them holding humans in the back of trucks.

We roll the window down an inch or so; Covid-19 allows us to be less than polite. We are asked a question, then we are waved quickly through. I have so many terrible feelings that I don’t notice if the Border Patrol Agents are wearing masks, something I never miss, as it is quite telling. They illegally ask if we are US citizens, my partner responds yes. We do not need to answer the question of residence, is all I say. After we leave, I give vent to my feelings and thoughts.

This is the beginning of the word map of our Covid-19 relocation from self-isolation to a different self-isolation. I see the woman’s eyes, her face, her shape for the remainder of our drive; even as I write this blog I see her. I am humiliated by my government and my own lack of action. I had no plan for this. This story is the beginning of my plan.

Stops for gas in Arizona and California are made easy if you have a credit card or debit card, if not, you must go inside to pay. Gas stations and rest stops on Interstates 8 and 5 are very busy. Not every Rest Stop is open and not all have facilities/toilets, but those that are open have many people and sometimes lines to use the toilet. Arizona has many and frequent rest stops, many in California remain thoughtlessly or thoughtfully closed.

When we use the toilets some people wear masks, some do not. It is always a surprise when folks do not, I always wear a mask. I find nothing visually that obviously connects masked or maskless people to each other, but either way, a group is chosen.

Soon after leaving Yuma, Arizona — my hero Caesar Chavez’s birthplace — there is a California border stop. This stop has two lines to choose from. We choose the long-winded agent’s line and wait anxiously for quite a bit of time. I notice the other agent waving folks through and glancing at his counterpart as we wait. I amuse myself and quietly talk under my mask during our wait.

We drive about nine hours with many stops in between to San Diego, California, arriving about 6 p.m. We spend two nights urban camping in our friend’s long driveway and eating shared, but distant meals in their backyard. We walk far apart with masks in their San Diego neighborhood and buy books that are in the window of their favorite book store, without leaving the sidewalk.

One of these best friends was born in Mexico and is married to an American who is also our best friend. A relative of theirs drives a semi-truck and travels between Tijuana Mexico, as far up the west coast as Washington State, USA. He recommends leaving San Diego by about 8:30 a.m. Sunday morning to miss the Los Angeles, California traffic. We do, and had little traffic the entire drive.

*Heron flying over the Birdhouse Ranch, Livermore, California*

We arrive at Birdhouse Ranch at about 3:30 p. m. the same day, about a seven-hour drive. The ranch is located about 45 minutes, southeast of downtown Livermore, California. We do chores and eat ranch raised Criollo beef for dinner and then again for breakfast.

*Calves traveling, Birdhouse Ranch, Livermore, California*

We pop up our tent, it is the full moon or almost the full moon, we spend the night and wake surrounded by young quail. We have a breakfast that seems less distant and a bit more like camping with friends, but is still distant and everyone realizes we must remain distant.

We leave mid-morning after eating, and have very little traffic coming into the City, San Francisco, California, USA. We arrive at our destination in less than an hour and a half.

Walking into our house after having self-isolated in southeastern Arizona for months is another story entirely.

Postscript: sapere aude (“dare to know”) — Immanuel Kant

I have since made another trip to southeastern Arizona, another 2020 transition. Early Thursday morning, in late December, we drive from northern California, USA; it is relatively uneventful. Since we last traveled to and fro, our ailing canine companion has died, she was 12 years old. And as we drive, I make jokes and we laugh about how many fewer stops are needed. And then I cry, quietly, as does my partner.

There are still very few rest stops with toilets open in California. The gas stations are not as busy, with some maskers, some maskless, easy to be unnoticed either way. I always wear my mask.

The drive from northern to southern California with no dog takes eight hours, with fuel stops and a couple of rest stops. There’s some slowing in Los Angeles but traffic is mostly smooth and relatively quick. The California checkpoint is not open, but the semi truck weigh stations are open and backed up, not a usual sight.

Our stop in southern California is always in San Diego, with long-time friends. We eat outside distantly, sleep in our tent, we do what we expect, just as the neighbors expect us to. We spend only one night. I wake during the night to many military helicopters rumbling overhead. As we drive the next day, I can find no information as to why so many helicopters were needed on such a cloudy middle-of-the-night. Even before Covid this would have been unusual and unnerving, and I wonder why.

Our internal checkpoint is Yuma, a military town. There are very few Border Patrol trucks at the stop or on the roads, also unusual. There are still some trucks off the road, but far fewer. The Yuma Arizona Border Patrol Immigration Checkpoint feels less tense, everyone wears masks; we are casually waved through.

Of interest whether you are a masker or maskless, Arizona voted for Biden/Harris, Democrats — not at all usual, first time since Clinton’s 1996 win, a major shift. Plus, marijuana was legalized in Arizona in 2020, and dispensary sales become legal April 21, 2021, but I am sure with many rules. The Tucson Weekly, December 17, 2020, has a good article about the rules, “sapere aude, dare to know.”

On a trip to Tucson through the south-eastern Immigration Checkpoint, the guard wears a mask, he looks into the back of our car filled with camping gear, and dares to ask if we are citizens. We mumble with our masks on, he wishes us a good day.

The day after Christmas, December 26, the Immigration Border Checkpoint is closed.

New Year’s Eve day, December 31, a year I look forward to the end of, the checkpoint is closed.

January 1, 2021, New Year’s Day, the border is open.