50inthefifties.com

North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, and Tennessee- hiking, states 32-35

February 26 – March 4, 2017

Inspiration

I don’t want to provide a step by step regurgitation of my latest trip. I want to tell you why it happened and what kept me moving, day by day.

Inspiration, from the late Latin inspirare, inspiratio, through Old French and into English: To breathe upon, blow into, to fill the mind, heart etc. with grace, to prompt or induce someone to do something.

It started with an itch, a desire to move. I hadn’t logged any states since May 2017. Time to get moving, or fail. It’s only February. Am I really going to sit on my butt until Alaska, planned for July?

Itch led to click- United Airlines. I wonder what it costs to fly to Asheville, NC? What? You have got to be kidding me, $250, round trip. You must be joking. I’ve got to catch that plane. Why? Well, Asheville is in the mountains of North Carolina, within an easy drive of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee, Georgia, and South Carolina. I can hike my legs off and test out my gear for Alaska. Rain gear, that is…

So with no particular plan, I left February 26 for Asheville, figuring my trip would find me once I got down there. Thanks, United. While you are globally hated and much maligned, you set me on my way. Delayed, of course, but headed in the right direction.

I set up my base camp in a lovely West Asheville loft apartment and set off to find a bite to eat and a bookstore. I found an organic market and a book- Grandma Gatewood’s Walk, by Ben Montgomery. Herein lay inspiration. I curled up in bed with my book and learned that a woman named Emma Gatewood became the first woman to through-hike the Appalachian Trail (AT) when, in 1955, she told her children she was going for a walk, and did. A 2,000 mile walk. At age 67. In Keds. Without a tent. And after having 11 children, and 23 grandchildren. I closed my eyes, knowing that on the morrow, I would hit the AT and trace a fraction of the footsteps of this amazing woman.

A spectacular weather day greeted me as I scraped the ice off the car at 7 am and hit the road for Great Smoky Mountains National Park. The AT forms the border of NC and TN at the spine of the park. I hiked north, my left foot in Tennessee and my right in North Carolina. I felt so clever, capturing two states at the same time. I had bear spray, technical layers, a cell phone, and I was twelve years Emma Gatewood’s junior. She hiked the full length of the trail. Three separate times. I hiked eight miles, out to a rock known as Charlie’s Bunion, then back, with an extra mile or two in Tennessee on the Boulevard trail to Jump Off Point.

Just short of the Point and a brief, solitary lunch stop, I made a momentous decision. I came up with my trail name. Through hikers on the AT all have trail names, a handle they use when greeting one another. I ran through some possibilities- Kerful, Kerless, no… it has to be Kerry-oke, which perfectly captures my tendency to sing, poorly, for absolutely no reason at all, at any time. For while I cannot Kerry a tune, I do know all the words. I laughed to myself. It just felt right.

Later in the day, after icing my toes in the crystal clear waters of a frigid stream, I treated myself to a 5- mile waterfall and cliff- laden hike on the Alum Cave Trail. This hike lulled me in with a long flat saunter through groves of rhododendron, then smacked me in the face with hundreds of steps to an arch rock and beyond, to an overhanging man-made cliff where the Epsom Salt Company extracted, you guessed it, Epsom Salts.

On the way up, I encountered a couple of women whom I had seen earlier in the day. They were in their seventies. We recognized each other and compared notes on our exploits. They were finishing up on a thirteen mile shuttle hike. I had about fourteen miles “planned,” not that I really planned them. They put me in mind of Grandma Gatewood, and I drew further inspiration from them. If they could make it to Alum Cave, so could I. I hope like hell I am still hiking multiple miles in my seventies.

On the drive out of the park just before sunset, grazing elk dotted the fields and stopped traffic along the roads surrounding the Visitors’ Center, and a cloudless day drew to a close, the sun setting behind the Smokies. I had two states, two more days to get two more. My quads were pleasantly tingling, a solid, full first day. South Carolina beckoned on the morrow, and the weather was a-changin’.

Day two, rain, and a short trip to South Carolina, to Table Rock State Park, where I envisioned a ten mile hike, up Pinnacle Mountain, the highest peak wholly contained within South Carolina’s borders. I had all my new rain gear on, and it worked wonders, though my pants seemed too big in the waist, and the pack tended to shove them down, so I felt somewhat exposed in back. But with only myself for company, I had little need for concern, and ample time to reflect, amply, on my comfort. I decided that short of a hurricane, I’d just as soon skip the rain jacket. Smartwool, true to its claims, is warm when wet, even when thoroughly soaked.

Up, down and over, I followed the Foothills Trail, blazed yellow, through rhododendron and mixed hardwood forest, crossing many streams, and climbing steadily. My quads were complaining, and I was very aware that I wasn’t first day fresh. I stopped to rest for a second and eat an energy bar, and the word on my lips was Bonk. I was doing it, and had to stop it. Turned out I was fairly near the summit of a preliminary peak called Bald Knob, after which, the trail went straight up toward the fog-shrouded sky for a heart pounding quarter mile to the pinnacle of Pinnacle, 3,425 feet up. Not very high, but very UP.

I dropped my pack in relief and to get the camera out, and Pffft! Instantly, I knew.

My bear spray discharged, accidentally. No bear in sight. Its telltale red-orange stain spread harmlessly across the side of my daypack. I was one lucky solo hiker. Had it hit me in the face, I would have been temporarily blinded and alone at the highest peak in South Carolina, blowing out the dot dot dot dash dash dash dot dot dot of SOS on my whistle. I will never be without a whistle, unless I forget it, which is likely.

I followed the orange trail, which I thought would lead me to the red trail in a mile or so. It seemed to be taking me forever to walk that mile, and I started to doubt myself, perhaps shaken by the bear spray incident. On and on, and no red trail. I had checked the map, but I should have taken a picture of it. I started to make contingency plans to turn around. I really didn’t want to, but I was beginning to imagine that the trails were not going to intersect. The alone-ness was playing tricks on me. After a solid hour, I hit the red trail. I think it was more like a three mile traverse. So I was learning; it takes more than a whistle. Hiking demands a map.

Ok. Decision point. Do I add another three miles to my day by summiting Table Rock, or do I head back? I reviewed the days events: Bonking. Bear Spray. Crisis of Confidence. Continued Rain. Fatigue. I headed down the rocky, steep trail. I had to get to Georgia on the morrow. If it was my final day, I would have gone for it, but I had to keep my goals in the forefront of my mind.

Back at the parking lot, rain continuing, I saw two older ladies who were just embarking on a five mile hike, their first of the season. They said they were old, but I disagreed. I said we all just had to keep putting one foot in front of the other for as long as we possibly can. They headed uphill as I pulled out in my car. Sharing its enclosed space with my bear-sprayed daypack set me to coughing and wiping my watery eyes.

Day three, more rain. I hit the road for Georgia and headed straight for my destination, Black Rock Mountain State Park. After nearly two hours, I arrived.

Thwarted, I called another state park. Seemed Georgia doesn’t think people want to use state parks until March 15. I wonder if that increases the obesity rate in Georgia… Anyway I needed a Plan B. I went to a state forest and started off on an 11 mile mountain biking trail, reputed to be one of the best in Georgia. Lovely spot, waterfalls and hills, solitude and stream crossings, but poorly marked. And a loop. I am more comfortable on an out-and -back if trails are poorly marked, and especially when winging it. This was not my plan. I couldn’t afford to get lost. The forecast called for high winds, rain, and falling trees. I didn’t want to put myself in jeopardy. I hiked around four miles and abandoned the quest for Georgia, knowing I was due to fly out the next day. Time to download and use a hiking app. I learned that today. At least I accomplished something.

I wandered into Clayton, Georgia and explored the streets in the rain. A cute town, lovely coffee shop, where I treated myself to my first cup since arrival in the South. I am cutting back on coffee because my urologist demands it. And because, to be honest, it does make me feel better. I’m down to one cup a day, and kind of proud of myself.

 

He also wants me to stop drinking. That’s harder! Especially when there is live music to be had at the Bold Rock Hard Cider mill. I ordered a sample flight of six different ciders, bought barbecue from a food truck, and settled in to listen to the music and watch the FA cup on one of several TVs. The game was surreal, played in a snowstorm, with groundskeepers using shovels and brooms to keep the lines visible for the refs and players. Tottenham was hammering a lower tier side. My bartender recommended a hike for the next day that was near the airport, at  Dupont State Forest, where the Hunger Games was filmed. That sounded perfect for me, since my flight wasn’t due to leave until 5 pm.

Day Four dawned sunny and breezy, and perfect for hiking. Six more North Carolina miles on the Triple Falls hike.  Like my friend, Brett, used to say, “It don’t get much better than this.”

Upon my return to the car, I learned that my flight was canceled. Thanks, United! For while the weather in Asheville was fine, back in Newark, another nor’easter was pummeling the airport.

I am such a genius. I went right over to the airport, got myself a flight two days later,extended my rental car for two days, extended my air bnb one night and secured another night on the East side of Asheville. Thus outfitted, I determined to return to Georgia on the morrow and bag that sucker. Where to go? Why, Clayton, of course, and with my new hiking app, I can visit another Pinnacle Mountain, this one in Georgia, and hike the famous Bartram Trail.

Day five, which almost didn’t happen, another beautiful day, if cold and windy. And again, I found myself following in the footsteps of giants. William Bartram traced this route between 1773 and 1777, as the revolutionary war took hold up north. He was collecting plant specimens to send home to England. That must be why he walked up and down the hills so many times, gathering plants at various elevations. I can tell you what he found- rhododendron! It was everywhere on this hike.

I parked in a CCC site known as Warwoman Dell. Warwoman was the name given to a Cherokee named Nancy Ward. In 1755, after her husband was killed in battle, she pick up his weapon and led the charge against the Creek. There are Cherokee in the vicinity still, and a reservation school sits near the National Park in North Carolina.

The Bartram Trail is rife with waterfalls, rhododendron, impossibly huge white pines, and the song of the Carolina Chickadee. As I approached the summit ridge, I startled an older man who had a friendly but very noisy dog. He had gained the peak a while before me, and he and I remarked on the chill wind, when we could get a word in edgewise through the barking. He was an avid hiker. Matter of fact, he told me that he had been planning a 20 mile hike for the day before, but the wind chills in the single digits led him to wait until this day, and he only had time for eight miles.

On the way down, I passed him a time or two as we both made adjustments to our equipment and he worked, unsuccessfully, to keep his dog from barking at me. By our third encounter, I finally noticed that he had a severe gait abnormality. He was probably close to eighty years old. He had a challenging dog on a leash, a walking stick that both helped and hindered him, and a pronounced limp.

The Bartram is no cakewalk. Here he was, out there, alone, climbing mountains, despite all his difficulties. Today, I realize that every day of the trip, I found someone to admire, to emulate, to learn from. Emma Gatewood. The two ladies at Alum Falls. The two ladies at Table Rock. The gentleman and his dog at Warwoman Dell. They were my inspiration on this trip. They saw me through. As I age, they give me something to shoot for. I won’t forget them.

My final day, back in Asheville, in a new air bnb owned by a woman my age who is about to retire from the postal service after 38 years and start her own business, I was thumbing through a hiking book, and I found one last place where I could walk in the footsteps of people I greatly admire.

Folks in Asheville tell the tale of President Barack and First Lady Michelle Obama’s visit to the city. First off, they ate ribs at 12 Bones, a legendary Asheville barbecue joint. Then, they took a hike. Their 3.5 miler on the Mountains to Sea Trail is now known as the Obama Hike. Icy, muddy, challenging, I trekked along, imaging Obama’s long legs striding along the same path, and Michelle, like me, picking her way over the roots and rocks, looking out from the ridge at fields and woodlands.

Next, I drove a portion of the Blue Ridge Parkway and stopped off at the official Folk Art Center of the Park. I bought a hand- loomed blanket for the nephew I know is soon to be born, Dusty and Melinda’s second child, who has already lost his dad to the opioid crisis. Funny how easy it is to say “opioid crisis,” and not really know what it means, until it hits close to home. I opened up about the blanket and the baby and our loss to a volunteer at the Folk Art Center, and she shared the story of her brother. He, too, is struggling with addiction, and she never knows, day to day, whether their conversation that day will turn out to be their last.

We touched each other’s lives that day, and she tucked a set of notecards into the baby blanket. She bought them for me. I gave her a hug. We told each other that we would always remember this day. If inspire can be defined as “to fill with grace,” she inspired me.

My last stop on this fortuitously elongated vacation was at the Frederick Olmstead Arboretum. I learned that all native North American azaleas are deciduous. I was too early for the rhododendrum or azalea bloom, but to be on time for that would mean to encounter crowds. Off season works for me, and winter weather at home afforded me the gift of two extra days.

I boarded the plane and made it back to New Jersey in time for the next nor’easter.

As I write this, I can accurately report that we had four nor’easters in March. And today, April 2, we had a Nor’Easter, the day after Easter. Apparently it was not a nor’easter… 😉 Nor was it on Easter. So it must have been a Nor’Easter…

OK. Enough of that nonsense. I’m just having so much fun exploring the USA, I can’t contain myself sometimes.

Just a short note. As I hoped, I rode a horse, I had my first mountain bike ride, I summited an 11,000 foot peak solo with a screaming broken toe.

It rained, snowed, hailed, was foggy, windy, sunny.

While hiking Friday, September 29, I saw a mountain bluebird. I thought of Kip’s brother Gary, who died in 2010. The bluebird is his spirit animal. But this mountain bluebird was his son, Dustin, making an appearance for me on the last day of his life. On Saturday morning, we got the call. He died of an overdose, leaving a 3 year old daughter. He was just 36, and the gentlest soul I ever met.

I am making some changes. I have my own compulsions, but I am finally drinking less. Only way I could make the break was to have no wine in the house. One glass becomes two, then three, every single time. Now I am drinking one beer a night. Seven drinks a week is not nothing, but it’s better than fourteen or so. Dusty’s death gave me the shove I needed to act. Enough.

I keep playing soccer on that broken toe. I scored two goals last weekend in spite of that. And I wore my hot pink jersey the rest of the day, like a seven year old.

Do what you love. Love what you do. Tomorrow is not guaranteed.

Ok, so what have I been doing since May? At first blush, seems not too much.  No states tackled, still nineteen to go.

I spent most of the summer in Maine, a long drive from any states I need. I made plans to be in Idaho in June, but had to cancel them a day later after my sister reminded me that we had my dad’s memorial service scheduled for four days after my return. Idaho will have to wait. The service was wonderful, and I did need to be there in the days running up to it.

Maine afforded Kip and I a chance to see what it would be like to spend significant time there. It was nice, honestly. It was summer. The weather was perfect. I met a new niece, Haley.  I spent time with cousins, birdwatching, sailing, watching the harbor from the porches and decks. I cycled short sprint distances on Southport, ten miles with 900 feet of steep elevation gain. Day after day. Friends came to visit, finally, after years of our begging for someone, anyone, to come. Marcia and Jeff, Graham and Betsey, and an old friend of Kip’s from college who turned out to live in Camden, pretty darn close by. We went on a puffin cruise and bagged that little darling and the black guillemot as well. We saw bald eagles at the summer house and kayaked in our new lightweight bright blue singles. And I played pick up soccer with the local group. Amazing skill. Sick. So fun.

I did a puzzle.. Frustration! Every one of the 1000 pieces had the identical basic shape. First, I tackled the edge. I couldn’t quite get it to fit. Next, the fun stuff, the buildings, the transitions from sky to rock. And I thought, in puzzles as in life, a lot of the good stuff comes early. When that’s done, you see only slog and difficulty to come.

You want to quit. but if you persist, continued study and effort reveals complexity and beauty in the struggle for sky, rocks, water. And all of a sudden, close to the end, against all odds, the way becomes clear, and your brain knows the puzzle so well that you can just pick up a piece at random and place it correctly. The whole of it makes sense.

That doesn’t mean I ever want to do this puzzle again…

Next, I went to Scotland. This was mom’s trip, planned for prime time for state bagging, but it wasn’t optional, and it was great. Almost three weeks overseas with friends and family, a trip of a lifetime for mom, and it was so good to see her having such fun. Family first. And it’s impossible to say I suffered or sacrificed in going to Scotland. Wonderful memories, photos, and a journal to make sure I remember.

I had a possible chance to get states this fall, but Kip and I are headed to Crested Butte to visit Laura. I’m not sure how he will respond to the altitude, and Crested Butte is not well located to allow easy travel to Wyoming, the only state bordering Colorado that I still need (Well, except Nebraska… I also need a better understanding of geography, apparently.) I want to make a separate trip to Wyoming and be in the Yellowstone/Grand Teton area, which is near Montana and Idaho and just maybe…  I don’t know when that will happen but it will have to if I am to accomplish my goal before sixty. And Alaska looms. I just noticed today how huge it is. Seems big enough to cover most of the contiguous 48, but on examination, that is a trick of perspective. It is one-fifth the size.

So that’s what I’m up to. Fit, ready to go, except for a broken toe. I played soccer on it, which may not have been a great decision, but like my hat from Old Friends Animal Sanctuary says, Game On, Dude!

I’m ready to dig in and enjoy Crested Butte, and I would like to go to Black Canyon of the Gunnison National Monument. I want to try mountain biking, hopefully rafting. Lots of hiking. Maybe ride a horse. I realize as I take break from my quest that I should not pass up on opportunities to do new challenges in states I’ve already counted. If I accomplish anything blog worthy, I will be sure to make note of it here.

DATELINE: May 24-9, 2017

States 30 and 31, West Virginia and Kentucky

7.4 Mile hike in the Monongahela National Forest near Lewisburg, WV

62 mile metric century ride, The Horsey Hundred, Georgetown, KY

Preparations for this challenge began in April, when I finally made the jump to clipless pedals, a long time goal of mine, then promptly bought a Merckx aluminum and handed down my Trek Lexa SL bike to my husband. That forced him into clipless pedals as well, and also provided him with a fast, comfortable, modern bike of his own. So in theory, we were poised to become a cycling couple, and Kip was no longer a cycling widower. Additionally, we made the leap to birding couple by birding the Watchung Reservation in mid May with true birders Henry and Deborah, so we had binoculars with us as we headed into the birding hotspot that is West Virginia. Our ultimate destination was the 40th running of the Horsey Hundred, a recreational cycling extravaganza based in Georgetown, Kentucky. Bikes, birds, and horses: what a winning combination.

I loaded the bikes in the old minivan, and Kip and I hit the road on a Wednesday at 9 am, right as rush hour dwindled. We had no particular agenda for the day beyond arriving in Lewisburg, West Virginia by the end of it.  Route 78 turned to Route 81, and we headed south around Harrisburg and crossed a bit of Maryland and found ourselves in Middletown, Virginia, site of a crazed, harried, topsy-turvy Civil War battle: the Battle of Cedar Creek.

Civil War sites disappear under asphalt and sheetrock every day. Under constant development pressure, usually only a tiny corner remains, with a forlorn plaque commemorating it, next to a shoddy strip mall with pawn shops and dollar stores. Not so Cedar Creek. Soldiers stealthily slipping through the hayfields have been replaced by cows.

The Heater House survives, from which a Union sympathizing mother sent her sons off to die for the Confederacy. It was a field hospital during the battle. And in the near distance, the Belle Grove Plantation, a site of the National Trust for Historic Preservation, presides over the battlefield as it did then.

We indulged in a bit of birding on plantation grounds, bagging mountain bluebird, cedar waxwing and eastern meadowlark, then we were treated to a private tour of the plantation house, which has been restored to its 18th century glory.

Built by Isaac and Nelly Madison  (as in sister of James Madison) Hite in 1797, it served as headquarters for the Confederate, then the Union generals, all in the same day, as the battle raged literally in the front yard. In later years this gem served as a roadside inn and as a weekend home for a gentleman who had the generosity and foresight to will it to the National Trust. The limestone home is meticulously preserved, and I would live in it in a heartbeat.

Any plantation home carries with it the stain of slavery, so I was curious to see how the subject would be covered in our tour. Our guide did not shirk from his responsibility or sugar coat the facts. He stated them outright without a trace of politics either way, but my impression was that he did so in almost hushed tones, seeming uncomfortable, even contrite.  We didn’t talk about it much. It was kind of like, “Yeah, so THAT happened. We all know it, we all regret it, even though we didn’t do it, We as a nation did it.”

But the last stop on our tour, in the root cellar and winter kitchen, surrounded by pictures depicting the lives of slaves on the farm and in that time, we watched a filmstrip. Here, we were treated to the kind of history that is probably still taught in schools throughout the south. There was a syrupy quality to it. “The workers were slaves, but they were allowed to do as they pleased once the work day was done, and blacks and whites were almost one big diverse, happy family kind of crap. I don’t know if they meant it to placate certain visitors to the plantation who were raised to believe that slavery was good for the planters and equally good for the slaves, or whether they plan to update the narration, but I am going to write and suggest they review their own filmstrip and check their white privilege at the door.

Drive drive drive. By the time we reached Lewisburg and turned the key on the 1853 mansion we were to call home for the next two days, it was raining hard. We walked to dinner through the drizzle. The hostess said she hated this time of year. The fronts march across Kentucky like Union soldiers intent on the sea, and when they encounter the resistance of the Alleghenies, they dissolve into tears, in the form of rain. Prospects for the West Virginia challenge, only vaguely conceived by yours truly, were dampening by the hour. We drank local beer and splashed our way home, hoping for a brighter morrow.

Next morning, I set out early to explore Lewisburg on foot. Voted the Best Small Town in America in 2011 by something or other, maybe even the Lewisburg Chamber of Commerce ;), this is a lovely spot. Architecture ranges from log cabins to Victorian charmers, with proud, square-shouldered federals like our Air BNB occupying the middle ground. There are plenty of restaurants and shops to interest visitors, but none besides coffee shops were open at 7 am for me. After an hour or so, I went home to meet up with my husband.  The weather forecast called for flood warnings through 9 am, then a break till one, then more downpours, so we knew we had best get a move on if we were going to do any hiking.

Our destination was the Blue Bend Loop in Monongahela National Forest. Enduring a mystery squeak in the car so annoying that I was tempted to count tolerating it as my challenge for West Virginia, we made it to the parking lot in about 40 minutes, stepped out of the car, and immediately were enveloped in the steady drone of a roaring river. There was a ranger standing in the center of the lot, looking for all the world like he had just stepped out of Central Casting. He even had a dog named Blue. You can’t make this stuff up. In a drawl as steady as the shower that had just descended on us, he explained that the water was high enough to block access to the valley from one side. He had found Blue tied up at a campsite, no car around, Blue in danger of being cut off from rescue, so he took her with him. He said the river was still rising, and that he didn’t think our trail had been cleared since the storms of the prior year, with big trees down over the path. hmm.

Anyway, after a longish chat about the fire road that led up the ridge, we crossed the bridge to reach the start of the Blue Bend Loop. This is what we saw under our feet.

With the far side of the bridge already underwater, and the water still rising, we abandoned the hike after 25yards and headed uphill on the fire road. Discretion over valor.

We climbed a steady 3.6 miles in overcast, no rain, no other hikers. There were a couple rangers in trucks and one man pulling a camper. Everyone’s final word after conversation was Be Safe, which was sobering. We determined to beat the weather if we could. I had visions of the car being swallowed by the river, and wished I had moved it to the high end of the parking lot. But while I was worrying, was were hiking, and birding. We saw scarlet and summer tanagers, blue-headed vireo, heard a barred owl, got indigo bunting by eye and by ear (Fire!Fire! Where? Where? Here! Here! See it! See it!), eastern towhees galore and somebody with a tangerine throat, probably a female blackburnian warbler. We put in a call to Henry and Deborah, and they couldn’t think of another bird with that color…

At the top of the ridge we got a fine view of both the surrounding ridges and of a towhee advertising his territory with a rousing chorus of “Drink your Tea!” And we turned for home.

 

 

Seven and a half miles total, the car didn’t float away, we didn’t get drenched. In fact, it didn’t rain the rest of the day. Go figure. A bit of West Virginia in the bag. we got a late lunch and a Guinness, bought some cheese and crackers and wine in a local shop, and ended up having dinner at the French Goat, a lovely little place right across the street from our home.

The next morning, facing a four plus hour drive to Georgetown, we still had time for more West Virginia adventures. I wanted to go rafting, but with the rivers all in a muddy torrent, we figured that was going to be impossible. North of the highway a bit, we could have explored the lower New River Gorge and the highest metal bridge in the nation, but harkening back to our early parenting days, we opted to head south and view the Sandstone Falls. This is is slow roller that an unconscious Lassie slipped over after falling in the river in an effort to rescue her boy from the mean rancher next door and his gun in the 90s movie of the same name… Whatever. It was something to do…

We picked our way round puddles and construction equipment on a long ass access road to the park and falls. Here and everywhere in West VA, we saw evidence of Robert C. Byrd, the senator who served for decades. He was able to get stuff done for his constituents. He was probably Chair of Appropriations, a powerful perch indeed.

 

 

This road really did need improvements, and the people living along it did not have much. Many folks seemed to have decided that a mobile home was their best bet, wheels allowing them to escape the unpredictable river and its endlessly malleable banks.  We had a right good time birding near the falls, once we remembered to bring our bins with us from the car. Kip got his first common redstart, which had no red, but a goodly amount of orange. Also had a yellow breasted warbler and a yellow throated warbler. I think… It’s now June 19, and I don’t have the best notes…

Kip took the wheel, and instead of backtracking, which was my unvoiced plan, he continued on, the construction zone now finished, and went straight up the ridge. The road was close to terrifying in a minivan with bald tires, low clearance, and 150,000 miles on the rusted chassis. I found my voice and voiced it. One lane, rocks, washouts, steeps beyond steep, like my recurrent nightmare where the car flips back over on itself. This for 7 miles, an eternity. Even longer for Kip, because as I mentioned, I had found my voice.

Just as the road was hinting it might flatten, a beat up old pick up truck ambled towards us, and an older couple  in faded fabrics eased to a stop to allow the driver’s side windows to align for a spell of conversation.

“how’s the road up ahead? Is it passable?”

“oh, you’ll be fine. It’s just a few chuckholes…”

And so we survived and left West Virginia in the rearview, crossing into Kentucky. The terrain in Kentuck is classic rollers, and the drive gave me plenty of time to coach Kip on how to ride them. There is always another hill in view. Do yourself a favor and keep your gears up and keep working so that you can almost crest the next with a minimum of fuss. He likes to go slow on the downhills. That will hurt, here. He nodded sagely, but he doesn’t really listen when I tell him how to bike.

The Horsey Hundred is in its 4oth year. That means they really know how to do this cycling thing. We checked in, got our dorm rooms, took the bikes out for a very short spin, and then treated ourselves to the food trucks and live band. Some guys in their early 20s shared our table. They said it was their first century ride and what should they bring. I said Gatorade, water, food, the cue sheet, oh and sunglasses. They didn’t even know that they would need glasses..

A century ride is nothing to take lightly, if you plan to complete it. I was wrestling with myself. The weather forecast was pretty ominous. The ride organizers were texting us instructions for how to save ourselves in the event lightning chose to enter our bodies. Did you know that you should crouch with your heels touching and your elbows on your knees? I tried to do it, but with my tight hamstrings, I found it difficult to stay balanced and toppled over.

After a restless night featuring endless slamming of fire doors at both ends of our dorm and of every room along the corridor, I gave up on “sleeping” and arrived at breakfast at 6:15, to find a LOT of riders already eating, talking about one thing: the weather. I didn’t meet one person who planned to ride the hundred. I made up my mind to do the metric, 62 miles. Riding in storms is not fun. I was looking for fun.

I crossed the start line at 7 am on the dot, knowing it was going to be too early for rest stop support for the first 30 miles, but wanting to beat the weather. I stumbled through the first few miles, where the arrows were white and faded, not matching the green I was expecting. I texted Kip to warn him…The weather was overcastish and warm, but not oppressive.

Early on, in a bit of fog, a loud and bubbling birdcall caught my attention. I looked up at a fencepost and saw a bobolink. This is a blackbird with a white back. They are in decline because they are grassland birds, ground nesters, and lawns do them no good at all. Additionally, the hayfields they rely on in rural areas are often cut too early, before their young have fledged. I have only seen these birds once before, in upstate New York near Canton, and I was captivated by them. One expects to see crows out walking the fields, but not with creamy white backs! The bobolink sighting was worth a second text to Kip.

There was, literally, no traffic.  The countryside was gorgeous, the rollers kept lining up like infantry, and I powered through, sharing much of the ride with Dave, a train engineer. He had a Ragbrai jersey on, and told me he had ridden the Bicycle Ride Across Iowa four times. He said, though, that the Horsey Hundred is his favorite ride of all.

We saw horses, lots of horses, and I stopped at the top of a roller to make friends with one chestnut colt. He had a brass nameplate hanging off his halter. It said Ocean Magic. That is the name of his mom. Watch out for a colt out of Ocean Magic in a year or two. He will make a name for himself.

A chicken, and much later, a rooster, crossed the road. Why? For an instant, it was impossible to guess. But when I saw the flock of turkeys, I had my answer. Why did the chicken cross the road? To avoid spending her day with a bunch of turkeys. As for the rooster, no telling what that bad boy was up to…

Dave was riding strong, and hanging with him was a challenge. He rides in his big ring, the high gears, all the time. I usually stick to the small ring unless I know that the terrain ahead is flat or downhill. Anyway, by the time I got to the final rest stop, fifty miles in, my left foot was screaming, and all I could think of was I WANT TO GET THIS SHOE OFF.

 

 

I sat in the grass, rubbing my toes, looked up, and there was Kip. He was thirty miles in on the 42 he chose, and we both were facing the final twelve. He said he was being passed by grandmothers exclaiming, “On Your Left!” He does have his own way of riding, that’s for sure, but he is ok with it, and he made me laugh, which I sorely needed.

Given our disparate styles, we decided to ride in apart from each other. Dave had gone on ahead, saying he was tired and just needed to get done. I know the feeling. It’s the Emily Haselton This Needs to End feeling. I arrived at the rest stop in that condition, but a foot rub and a lot of Gatorade helped, and I was able to enjoy the final stretch run, like a colt out on a morning gallop. Sixty-two glorious miles, no rain. Wow. I showered and waited for Kip. It wasn’t long till he glided in, having ridden his Longest Day. Together, we indulged in the sumptuous lunch offered at the cafeteria from 1 pm to 7 pm and stared into space along with other dazed and happy cyclists.

After duel naps, we found an Irish pub featuring actual Irish people and practiced our gift of gab. Dinner at the very popular old warehouse with a young vibe but so-so food finished off our day. We were already of a mind to skip the next day’s ride in favor of exploring Kentucky further. And after miles of pedaling, the slamming fire doors did not seem so loud overnight.

Sunday dawned, as we knew it would. I forget what the weather was. The folks at breakfast who make long distance rides the basis of their every vacation were making plans to ride again, but Kip and I thought we had seen enough rollers from a bike seat that we knew what it was all about. We headed for Old Friends. Old Friends is much like Best Friends, only it’s in Kentucky, not Utah, and it is a rescue only for thoroughbred racehorses. Michael, the owner, is on intimate terms with all the resident horses, from Kentucky Derby and Preakness winners War Emblem and Silver Charm, all the way to Genuine Reward, a son of the legendary Genuine Risk who never raced and who was once listed on eBay for $500. Every horse here, famous or a nobody, is a somebody on equal terms, and truly loved. They all have found their forever homes in the Kentucky bluegrass, grazing their days away. I was in tears at the opening movie, laughed my way through the tour, and cried again at the close when leaving a donation in support of the mares.

 

My favorites were Game On Dude, who won $6.5million and was owned by Joe Torre, and War Emblem, winner of the Kentucky Derby and the Preakness, who decided one day he was not going to run another step. He later decided that he was not going to breed another mare for humans. Ever. I admire his independent streak. I left with a heart full of memories, a new Game on Dude baseball cap,  a War Emblem pint glass, and a postcard of Genuine Risk running with her little Genuine Reward by her side.  If you ever find yourself near Lexington, KY, check out Old Friends.

Country roads, take me home, through the place I belong, West Virginia… (John Denver).  I wanted to sing but spared Kip the agony as we took a northward swing out of Georgetown and headed for Parkersburg, WV, situated on the Ohio River. Parkersburg looked like a ghost town. We walked down to the river to do a bit of birding, and we met a tour guide who worked at a local historic site. He recommended we check out the Civil War overlook on the bluffs above the river.

 

Afterward, the streets were empty. We had trouble finding a place to eat, but figured out there was a restaurant at the historic Blennerhassett Hotel downtown. Lovely place, not too expensive, and we had a decent dinner there, though the service was oddly pokey.  Not southern necessarily, just odd. No other way to describe it. You may be asking yourselves, what were we doing in Parkersburg?

 

 

 

Good question. I was in pursuit of Alexander Hamilton history. At the turn of the eighteenth century, a very wealthy Irishman named Harmen Blennerhassett purchased an island smack in the middle of the Ohio River and built an incredible plantation house. It burned in 1811, but has been painstakingly rebuilt and meticulously restored. Harmen and his wife were rich, but not wise.

After he had gunned down Alexander Hamilton, been acquitted of murder, and left the vice-presidency, Aaron Burr concocted a plan to capture all the land west of the Mississippi River, which was French and Spanish but was in the process of becoming American since the Louisiana Purchase. He was going to establish his own country and make himself king. And he needed funds. And he found the Blennerhassetts. He gladly took their money, then tried to raise an army. He had about 60 men, which was hardly enough. Long story short, Burr was tried for treason but never convicted, and Blennerhassett lost everything and returned to Ireland to live in shame, supported by a sister. Incredible story, but pretty much true, though my memory is not perfect. Oh, and you can see Aaron Burr’s deathmask in Parkersburg. Check out the museum before you board the ferry…

 

 

There are no roads to Blennerhassett Island. We took the ferry and signed up for a horse and wagon tour and a house tour. Both are excellent. The mansion houses many antiques originally owned by the Blennerhassetts. And there is another fascinating house out there. It was moved to the island because it was the home of the Blennerhassett’s best friends. They used to walk across the Ohio back in the day to visit them. This second, more modest house reminded me a lot of my own farmhouse. The folks who own Blennerhassett Island are in the process of restoring it. What an amazing place to visit on Memorial Day.

 

 

Thoroughly pleased with Parkersburg, we caught the 12:30 ferry and grabbed a quick sandwich at the only open place in all the city. Then we shared the drive and wended our way home through friendly West Virginia, trafficky Maryland, and tidy Pennsylvania farm country before rolling in the drive around 9 pm. Several life birds, a good hike, a trip through thoroughbred country in the slow lane, and a bit of edumacation. Who could ask more of a spring weekend?

 

A few days after stepping off the plane in Newark, my blog post covering Texas and New Mexico half-drafted, I was out on a bike ride, having fun, training for Kentucky, when my phone piped up from inside my jersey, yelling “Emergency call!” Emergency call!”

Well, that was alarming. I thought it was some kind of intervention by my cell phone carrier to get me to answer the phone, because there was a true family emergency…

I careened to a stop and wrested the phone from my shirt. I couldn’t get it to work at all. It seemed to be trying to revert to original settings. I begged it not to.

It said, “Portrait. Landscape. Back Button. Home.”

For sure, I agreed it would be best to get home.

I tried to turn it off.

It said, “Off button.”

I said, “I know. just do it.”

But it refused.

I hustled home, then went to the Verizon store. They diagnosed Blind Mode, when a phone decides that its owner is blind. My vision is not that good, but blind may be pushing it a bit.

I bought a new phone which promised to trust my eyesight.. But the Young Frankenstein procedure, in which the two phones, Old and New, lie on adjoining gurneys and the brains are transferred from Old to New, didn’t go quite as hoped. Brain transfer yielded only 1452 pictures. The rest were nowhere. Not the Cloud, nowhere. My phone ate them, and I had been ignoring warnings that my Cloud was full.  Everyone knows that when clouds are full, they rain.

Since the operation failed, I have retrieved a few of my favorite shots from Facebook and from among photos I had emailed to family, and I am thankful for 50inthefifties, which survived.

But…Photos of my dad. ..My daughter’s graduation…  I have a few; I lost a lot. All of 2016, in fact.

It’s my own damn fault. What a fool. With time, I have accepted this, but it was a shocking loss on the day.

There are so many worse things. Moving on. Making memories, taking photos, not beating myself up over it.

I’ll make better choices next time. I guess I should have known when the phone started taking pictures on its own from inside my cycling shirt that something was amiss…

DATELINE: March 22-27, 2017

States 28 and 29: Texas and New Mexico

Hiking: Guadalupe Mountains National Park, TX, Carlsbad Caverns National Park, NM, White Sands National Monument, NM, and sundry adventures

The prospect of getting on a plane alone and traveling solo makes me nervous, so I know I have to push myself and get over my fear. This spring, I had the perfect opportunity to do so. I looked at my trusty ginormous map of the USA, and I saw two national parks in close proximity to one another yet in two separate states, Texas and New Mexico. El Paso, nestled up on the Rio Grande, was the nearest city, and with a burgeoning interest in and concern for Mexican immigrants, I thought it was high time I high-tailed it down there and checked out our southern border before our toddler-in-chief built his block wall so high that I couldn’t see the other side. So I got me some flights, a car, and an air bnb in Carlsbad for a couple nights. I felt a Texas twang creeping into my conversations with myself.

Everything went swimmingly on the front end. I had my book, Mexicans in the Making of America. I flew into El Paso by way of Houston, snagged my little rental car just north of town, and easily found the Candlewood Suites. My room was more like an apartment, full kitchen, stainless appliances, and a really comfy bed. Feeling organized and intelligent, I thought ahead to the final night of my trip, which would see me back in town. Liking what I saw, I went to the front desk and made a reservation for the last night of my quest on the first. Clever world traveler, me.

A quick change of clothes, and I ventured out for some Mexican food at a place called Kiki’s, which boasted a friendly, family vibe, pictures of Little Leaguers and pro ballers on the walls. Next, I wended my way up the scenic drive to a lookout over El Paso, a city tucked away in a vast valley between mountains and the river. It was impossible to see the river. Cuidad Juarez, Mexico blended in seamlessly with El Paso. The border appeared conjured from air, yet increasingly, it is impenetrable. Remember, Texas was Mexico until 1848. As a Mexican historian once said, “We didn’t cross the border. The border crossed us.”

I watched the sun slip behind the western peaks, some surely Mexican, some American, but all together.

The next morning, I was on the road by 6 am, the desert cloaked in darkness. Just as the sun was inching its way to a sun-sized break in the toothy mountain range to the east, I had my first ever encounter with ICE, Immigration and Customs Enforcement. I was funneled into a huge permanent roadblock with high ceilings and multiple lanes.  Since I was the only car heading east on this deserted stretch of desert road, I had everyone’s attention. I rolled my window down.

“Hello, sir.. Oh, sorry, MA’AM. I saw your ball cap, thought you were… Are you a United States citizen?”

“Yes.”

“Alone in the car?”

“Yes.”

He was glancing into the corners of my tiny Chevolet, even contemplating whether it would be possible for someone to have curled up in the trunk. He waved me on, wished me a nice day. I suspect that if my skin were a few shades darker, I would have been asked to step out of the car and produce papers.

Looking out at the desert, flat, treeless, waterless, intersected only by barbed wire fences for cattle, not roads, it was impossible to imagine how anyone could survive out there, and if  he did, how he would evade capture. How desperate would a mother, a father, a child, have to be to set out on that journey?

For those fortunate enough to have a car, pale skin, and citizenship, getting around in West Texas is a snap. The roads are long but straight, and there is no traffic. I covered the one hundred miles from El Paso with only the glare of the sun as an obstacle, thus earning my first glimpse of El Capitan, the westernmost peak of the Guadalupe Mountains. This range is actually a coral reef pushed up eons ago out of an inland sea. Incredible.

I made a left into the inauspicious entrance to Guadalupe Mountains National Park. The smaller parks are no less impressive and enjoyable than the Yosemites and the Grand Canyons, but they don’t call much attention to themselves. Most of the signs along route 64 marked the distance to the more famous Carlsbad Caverns. It’s ok with me if most people give this park a pass. No crowds.

First stop: the campground. Because there are no advance reservations, I wanted to be sure to get a spot. I planned to adjust to the mile- high elevation with an easy hike on this day, and spend the night in my trusty car. The following morning, I planned to summit the highest mountain in Texas, Guadalupe Peak. Planned, planned, blah, blah.

Yeah, right. After experiencing a moment’s panic because the campground was FULL, I decided to take a chance and speak with the campground manager. Friendly and super helpful, she gave me some instructions for paying for a parking place, then said she was off duty that day but was going to work anyway, making sure all the people in the campground knew to expect 70 mph winds that night. She said motor homes would be shifted several feet overnight. She was the first of many people that day to tell me that camping wouldn’t be fun. Furthermore, hiking the high peak would be unfun, if not impossible, the following day. No way to escape the wind. A miserable experience awaited me.

Thinking quickly, I trotted up to a flock of young people heading for the trailhead.

Hey. What trail are you guys doing?

The Peak.

Can I hike with you?

Well, we will be going slow…. We are from the University of Colorado.

And I’m thinking, true, but you are also less than half my age. We could have a match here…

Then their leader started to go through his opening instructions, explaining how the tortoise beats the hare, every time. Despite my well documented summit fever, I could sense how inappropriate it would be for me to join them. Plus, I wasn’t acclimated to altitude, and it was getting late to set out on a summit push.

Still, it was a beauteous morning, calm and free. (I stole that line from William Wordsworth, whose words are always worth remembering.) I laced my boots a bit tighter and chose a trail: Devil’s Wall. Three or four miles, up a wash to its end, and then a boulder scramble to a fabulous slot canyon, canyons wrens flitting about, a tiny water seep filled with bees, flies, butterflies.

Afterwards, I spotted a kingbird in the campground. West Texas is a birding hotspot, and I hoped to catch sight of a few life birds, so I lugged my binoculars on every hike. Thing is, birds are not very cooperative. The times I find my ‘bins’ useful are far outnumbered by the times they just add to the weight of my pack. Hope springs eternal…

Invigorated by my first hike and first bird, I stopped off at the visitor center and learned that the best birding in the park is at McKittrick Canyon, a few miles down the road, but my chances of success there would be better in the early morning, not mid day. I set off right from the center on a short hike to see the ruins of a Butterfield stagecoach stop. The Butterfield stage predated even the Pony Express. Butterfield, Pony Express, railroads, telegraph, one followed the other in the drive to open communication and settlement across the West- once we had won it from Mexico, stuck the Native American’s onto reservations, and barged our way in.

Bursting with energy and enjoying the warm sun after leaving snowy New Jersey behind, I wandered over to the Frijole Ranch, a century old stone house. At the beginning of the twentieth century, the Smith family set their homestead by a spring, the wellhead of all desert life. They built a gorgeous home, still habitable today, and once they had a sturdy roof over their heads, they fashioned a generator, set up indoor plumbing, hired a teacher, grew an orchard full of fruit, and dammed the Frijole spring to create a swimming hole. Our ancestors were so ingenious!

Though the wind outside was starting to howl, when I stepped in the door, I was enveloped in quiet. A steers skull graced the mantle over the whitewashed fireplace, and comfortable chairs fashioned of deadwood and covered with ticking lined the walls. I felt teleported to the 1860s. Next I wandered the yard and visited the guesthouse and the springhouse.

That afternoon, I took another 3 mile hike to see the Smith Spring, upslope. By the time I got halfway round the loop, the visibility was dropping as the wind pulled sand and soil up in to the air. I figured I would be confined to my car cum bed for the whole night, but wait…

Buzz, said my phone. It was my Air BNB hosts.

“Where are you staying tonight?”

“I’m camping in my car.”

“Well, you’re paying for two nights already. You could stay with us tonight for FREE.”

“Seriously? Because I am hearing there will be dangerous winds tonight.”

“It’s up to you, but camping would be more fun without the wind.”

Who gives away a free night? I would have thought, no one. I would have been wrong.

The fifty mile drive flew by in low visibility, the sun occluded by sand, the tumbleweeds a blowin’. Everything was grey. The brightest light came from the flame of an off-gassing oil field, blown sideways by the gale. I parked behind the house and blew in the front door when Nick opened it.

I drove the short distance to the Red Chimney Barbecue, where I had to wait five minutes for a table. Just five minutes. The hostess brought me a tall glass of water with lemon so I could drink it while I waited. I was stunned by the wind, but blown away by the kindness of the people of Carlsbad. Over brisket and potato salad, I made alternate plans for the morrow. I would retreat underground, to Carlsbad Caverns National Park.

The Caverns are about twenty miles from Carlsbad town. (Carlsbad itself is a struggling industrial town, which sits forlorn, like a less favored child, in the shadow of the resplendent Caverns.)

The air this day was clear, but the wind persisted, and when I arrived at the visitors’ center, I felt compelled to turn the car around to keep the door from blowing open too far and hyperextending itself like my knees sometimes do. I boogied inside out of the wind and was able to score a ticket to a ranger- led tour of the King’s Palace. Then I headed to the Natural Entrance to begin my trek down 75 storeys to the largest single room in known cavedom, the aptly named Big Room.

The Natural Entrance was “discovered” in 1898 by a sixteen year old cowpoke on horseback. He saw what he thought was a black plume of smoke rising from the desert and feared wildfire. But it wasn’t smoke. It was bats. Millions upon millions of them. April to August, they still exit the cave every night at dusk. I’m sure that’s a show worth watching. I ambled my way down, past the ramp to the Bat Cave, and arrived in the Big Room, complete with flush toilets and a restaurant. Thanks, National Park Service. Especially for the restrooms.

The perimeter trail to the Big Room is 1.2 miles. Eight hundred feet Under the Ground. I saw stalactites, stalagmites, draperies, soda straws, and popcorn. Sounds like I was in a movie theater, but these are cave formations formed by dripping water. They are astounding.

 

There is a rock called the iceberg rock, which fell off the ceiling of one of the passages down to the Big Room. There are stalactites on it which protrude at an angle, not straight down. These are not active formations anymore, and geologists were able to determine when they stopped growing- 515 million years ago. So they know that the iceberg rock fell 515 million years ago. Give or take a few million.

Caves are great for letting us know how insignificant we humans are in the span of time. And they deserve the present tense, because they are timeless, their past and future infinite. Imagine yourself exploring this cave via the rickety old ladders the first tourists used, before the paved paths and lights. Splurge on a ranger tour. You get to see areas otherwise off limits, and you get to see and hear Nothing. The rangers turn off the lights, and you experience total darkness and silence broken only by the drip, drip of the cave, doing its own interior decorating one droplet at a time. When the lights are off, if you pass your hand in front of your face, your brain will create an image of your hand passing in front of your face. It cannot comprehend and accept the complete lack of light. Eerie.

I made two forays into the cave, one on my own and one with Ranger Dan. At the tail end of each, I challenged  myself to double time hike back up the 800 foot vertical to the natural entrance. The first time, I was huffing and puffing a bit; the second was a breeze. The difference? On the first trek, I had water in my pack. Two and a half liters makes a huge difference in the effort required, but outside in the desert, you need to carry at least that for a day hike. In the cave, not so much.  But I was mindful that I was in New Mexico seeking physical challenges, and I needed to do some work.

In between my spelunks, I hiked about five miles above ground on the Old Guano Road. Guano is a euphemism for bat shit. The road was a means by which enterprising fertilizer salesmen could get the bats’ waste product to market. It’s loaded with soil- enhancing minerals and what not. The desert lacks much organic material. The cave was a treasure trove for these folks, and they blasted a new entrance just to lower buckets in, fill them with crap, and drag them up. When the work day was done, tourists would ride up and down into the cave in those same guano buckets.

Bat shit crazy. That phrase played in my mind as I hiked the old road and made my way towards the edge of the high desert and the drop into the flats at White’s City. I also thought about my Mennonite host back in Carlsbad, and thought about religion as it applies to my life. I am not an organized religion person. My philosophy for life is “Treat others as you yourself would like to be treated.” I feel that is all I need. But I do think I’m spiritual. Like Wordsworth, I find religious ecstasy in nature. The wildflowers were just starting to bloom in that area of the Chihuahuan Desert, and I saw tiny blooms in red, yellow, orange, white, and blue. These flowers are as tough and resilient as the immigrants and refugees who risk everything to seek a better life for their families.

After my tour with Ranger Dan, I decided to go home to Carlsbad. I was already thinking of my Air BNB as home. I could have stayed a couple more hours and watched the bat flight, but there were only 50-100,000 Mexican bats that had migrated to the cave thus far this season. A mere shadow of their potential wow. And, I had an offer from Nick and Rhonda to go with them to Roswell, only 150 miles, round trip, to see a local theater production of The Music Man. I didn’t want to pass up the chance to get to know them better. By the time I got back, Nick had packed sandwiches and Oreos and bananas for all of us. New Mexico folk. Good people.

Well, two 75 mile car rides and a play certainly provided us with plenty of space to get to know one another. We talked about religion, kids, physical therapy, nursing homes, hospice, family, divorce, Oreos, culture, politics, New Mexico, old Mexico, the East coast, mental health, the affordable care act, Medicare, and our sweet tooths. At intermission, I found myself unable to rise completely from my seat in a fluid motion, my knees seizing up with rust from the day’s exertions. Nick was bummed. He was counting on me driving home…

The only low point of the excursion was the moment on the ride home when Nick exclaimed, “Rabbit!” And then we heard the thump thump of the tires over Thumper.

To fill the ensuing silence, I said the first thing that popped into my mind.

“Dagnabbit!”

Nick asked me if Dagnabbit was a New Jersey thing. I assured him that it was not. That was worth a good chuckle, and soon after, we arrived back at home and trundled under our respective covers. Guadalupe Peak beckoned in the morning.

My summit push to bag Texas started about 8:20 am. The winds were light, the skies clear, my decision to wait wise. I logged in for the Guadalupe Peak hike. There were other hikers making a start at about the same time. I had the requisite water weight, 2 liters worth, the only kind a woman likes to carry. I had power bars, hiking poles, a whistle, a windshirt, a sweatshirt, sunscreen, a cell phone, and the car keys. Mustn’t lose the car keys.

There were three peaks to climb to reach the top of Guadalupe Peak, 3500 feet of elevation gain in 4.2 miles. The first peak was the hardest. Much of it was steps. Up Up Up. They tended to be big steps too, higher than was comfortable for my knees and quads. I wasn’t alone in that; the outline of other’s feet skirting to the sides of the steps and edging around them offered proof. I was pouring sweat and stopped to remove the windshirt, which was functioning more as a wetsuit. After a particularly harsh set of switchbacks and a cliff to skirt, I rounded a bend and caught the first glimpse of my ultimate goal. I was more comfortable on trail and moving than I had been trying to get out of a chair at the play the night before.

The second summit was a cool, woodsy surprise. High up in the mountains, a relict from earlier climates and times, exists a pine and fir forest. Mountain chickadees and warblers cavorted in the treetops, and the pines shaded the trail and made the gradual climb seem effortless, well almost! I picked up my usual rhythm and paced my steps by whispering the words to the opening number of Hamilton: The Musical.  Two hours in, on schedule, my stomach started to growl. I stopped and sat on a boulder for 10 minutes. I was at the summit of peak two, perhaps 30 to 45 minutes to go, according to a couple who were descending.

The Peak trail was well laid out. There were two exposed faces that caused me to use my hands on the inside wall rather than poles. I thought about what it would be like to be up there with 70 mph gusts buffeting me without warning. I don’t think I would have made the summit. On this day, though, I pushed past those nerves and arrived on Top O Texas, 8751 feet at 11 am on March 25, 2017.

I signed the logbook, which is located in a heavy metal box, and added my website, 50inthefifties.com. The monument put me in mind of the book I read immediately before making the trip: The Inventor and the Tycoon, by Edward Ball. It tells the story of Leland Stanford, who funded Stanford University and the transcontinental railroad, and Eadweard Muybridge, the photographer he hired to document the movement of his racehorses. This was the beginning of the motion picture industry, later more fully developed by Thomas Edison.

Long story short, Muybridge discovered that a racehorse does indeed have all four feet off the ground for an instant in each galloping stride. But when that happens, the legs are curled together under its body, not apart, like on this monument and in all early paintings and prints of racehorses.

Not to be a bore, but I really love it when my physical and intellectual lives converge as they did on top of Guadalupe Peak. Not only the issue of racing horses, but also the Butterfield stagecoach, the Pony Express, the railroads, the annexation of Texas, all coalesced in a single point on a clear day as I stood, clear headed, at the top of my game. I sat, briefly, willing myself to savor the moment, and when I looked at my rock perch, I saw fossils, thousands of them, caught in the coral of that ancient sea. The sweeping views hundreds of square miles wide surrounded me, and my feet tread on the evidence of life ages past.  Full circle. Fulfillment.

Just before 12 noon, I pointed my boots downslope. Halfway down, I locked eyes with a woman just about my age and stage of life, the first I had seen on the trail. I was heading down, she up. While we didn’t say a word, much passed between us as our bodies passed each other. Connection.

On my final day in New Mexico, I woke to Nick’s generous offer of breakfast. Over eggs and sausage, he invited me to church, too. But I was eager to get on the road. I was going to take a new route and wend my way northwest to White Sands National Monument.

As Nick and Rhonda promised, the drive through the mountains was beautiful. I was utterly alone on the road. Climbing, climbing, skirting the southern edge of an Indian reservation, I entered the Lincoln National Forest. I stopped at a  small picnic area to use the bathroom, and I noticed that there was an area that had recently burned. I don’t know if it was intentional or not. There were birds flitting about looking for seeds on the blackened earth. I saw two life birds: a spotted towhee and a flock of grey-headed juncos.

Next stop was just past the town of Cloudcover at the high point of the mountain pass. A two mile hike promised superb elevated views of the White Sands, and it did not disappoint. I marveled at a grove of enormous douglas fir trees, stretched my legs, then drove my little blue car to White Sands.

I was able to squeeze in two hikes at the monument. I learned just how disorienting it is to wander among the dunes. Right away I could sense that I could easily get lost, so I started to drag my hiking pole to make my footprints distinctive among the very few other sets that were out there.

Most people at White Sands bring sleds which they lug up the dunes but never seem to slide down upon. Instead, they sit in groups at the top and talk and picnic the day away. For those who want to be more active, there is one signature hike, Alkali Flats. It is clearly marked with red poles. Deviate from this path even a bit, and you better have your bearings about you. I saw a tree that was perhaps 100 yards off path, and even with careful planning, I had to retrace my steps twice to get myself back on course from my turnaround point. And just as many photographers were arriving for sunset, I returned to the trailhead and started the car. I wanted to get back to El Paso before dark.

I crossed two valleys and climbed two more mountain passes on the way in. The landscape is forbidding but beautiful, although as I re-approached the urban areas, an ugliness presented itself that will stick with me forever. There was a feedlot that stretched for perhaps two miles along the right hand side of the road. Young cows stood by the hundreds, in barren squares of soil and bovine waste. Not a single blade of grass poked through, not a solitary weed. To eat, the cattle must stick their necks through bars and feed on hay that lines a depression on the other side of the fence. And though this day was cool, there were no shelters from the relentless sun, no sheds. When summer temperatures rise above 100 degrees, doomed animals will still be standing aimlessly on the wasteland, awaiting the day of their deaths. Sad and sobered, I resolved to push my diet further into vegetarian. I don’t eat much meat now, was vegan for a time, and haunted by this enduring image, I am happy to be veggie, and to choose meats and eggs from small local farms.

Back at Candlewood Suites, I showered and repacked my bags, managing to lay things out so carefully that I left my water pack behind the bathroom door, and left it behind the next morning, too. I nearly had a car accident on the way to the airport as I got stuck in cognitive dissonance between the gps and the actual situation on the road. I had trouble finding gas to refill the rental car, and I am pretty sure I was heading the wrong way on a one way street as I pulled out of the gas station. This time, I let my gut guide me and peeled out in front of all other traffic to get clear of the situation. That worked out great, but I felt airheaded and spacey. I was relieved to be at the airport. My return to traffic and civilization didn’t go nearly as well as my foray into the wilderness. My strengths lie in the backcountry.

Give me a trail and a hill to climb.

That’s how I choose to spend my time.

(Sorry for the paucity of photos and a huge thank you to the National Park Service website for providing all my Carlsbad shots. See my next blog for an explanation!)

 

 

 

 

State 19, Florida: 5 k walk and 34 mile bike ride- March

State 20, New Jersey: 100 mile Bike Ride- May

State 21, California: rafting the American River, 34 miles hiking, Yosemite- July

State 22, Oregon: 20 miles hiking, camping, Waldo Lake State Park- August

State 23, Washington: Hiking Mt. St Helen’s and Mount Rainier National Park- September

State 24, Nevada: Hiking Red Rocks, near Las Vegas, September

State 25, Utah: Volunteer, Best Friends Animal Sanctuary, Hiking Zion, Grand Staircase, and Bryce Canyon- October

State 26, Arizona, Hiking Grand Canyon National Park, North Rim- October

State 27: Virginia, Hiking Shenandoah National Park- November

2,000 miles total logged in racing, training, biking, hiking, post surgical walking by December 6

Goals for next year: finally clip into pedals of my bike, finally backpack somewhere, volunteer at the Revolutionary Ramble, do a service trip, hopefully with Great Old Broads of the Wilderness. Try not to fall behind in writing, keep a diary. Don’t lose heart since the election results, get involved. Help other people who need it! Make 2017 a better year.

Thoughts: Georgia, Cumberland Island National Seashore, Kentucky: Horsey Hundred, Natchez Trace National Historic Parkway, MS, AL, TN TX: West Texas? Austin area?

 

State 24: Nevada: Calico Tanks Hike, Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area

Girls’ Trip! The idea for this trip came courtesy of my friend Betsy, who is married to Graham, with whom I captured Pennsylvania back in 2015 by completing the four day Habitat for Humanity Ride for Homes. Betsy had her sights set on volunteering at the Best Friends Animal Sanctuary in Kanab, Utah.

I looked at the map and said, “Hmm. Look how Kanab is close to the border of both Nevada and Arizona. ”

Betsy said, “Hmm. I’ve never been to Vegas and I’ve never been to the Grand Canyon.” I had done both, but was up for a repeat, especially since this time, we would have more time, and I could see the Grand Canyon from the North Rim.

We got ourselves flights. We signed up for volunteer shifts. And we waited. Betsy worked with a personal trainer to get her mileage up. And then… as September 19 clicked over to September 20, my dad died.

 

He had suffered for years, without complaint. He faded like his favorite Princeton sweatshirt. Kim and I did the best we could to provide him with the best care we could, at home. We kept him out of the hospital for eight years, except for one night inpatient. We kept him out of a nursing home. We kept him close to us as his world shrank from his state to his town to his home to his bedroom to his bed. And we held his hands and wiped his tears on his last night. He slipped away so gently we couldn’t be sure. There was so little left to slip.

Six days later, Betsey and I jetted off to Vegas, one of us emotionally fragile and the other  needing a knee replacement and with an eye injury. Two women bearing the visible and invisible scars so common in middle age.

Vegas greeted us with brilliant desert sunshine, which would have been welcome, except Bets had burned her cornea with contact lens fluid just that morning, and she had severe pain and photophobia. I begged her to go to urgent care but she didn’t want to spend her time in Vegas waiting for urgent care. So she slept,  and I took the first of many Uber rides to Rite Aid and got medicines.

By the time I woke her for Michael Jackson Cirque de Soleil (don’t laugh!), she was no better but uncomplaining. Stoic like my dad. The show was right in our hotel, and it was lots of fun, much better than I anticipated. We caught dinner at the Bellagio after watching the fountains spurt under the lights, and then we trundled into bed, hoping for a miraculous cure by morning.

No such luck. It was time to take another Uber, or two or three or four, to get Betsy seen by a doc and pick up prescriptions and return to the hotel, check out, and go for the rental car. Finally we were on the road, maybe by 12:30, heat of the day in Nevada, heading for Red Rocks Conservation Area, close to downtown, for our Nevada challenge. We sought a fairly short hike, since we were off to a late start.

I asked the ranger if the footing was sure on the Calico Tanks hike, and she assured me it was. At first, it was, indeed, but it soon devolved in a mélange of slick rock and boulder scrambles which knocked at Betsy’s confidence as she struggled with her knee and her vision. I didn’t want to leave her but she insisted. I rushed my way to the tanks and the views, with many a hiker asking after my friend, all admiring of her pluck. She is very tough. This was only my first opportunity to see it. More was to come.

We had a long drive ahead of us, but it was stunningly beautiful, the sunset breathtaking, and after dark, we rolled into our home for the next week or so, a tiny house in Kanab, Utah, hard by an historic home and within walking distance to plenty of restaurants. We were due at Best Friends by 7:30 the next morning for orientation. I had Betsy set the alarm for 6:15. She gave me the side eye with her one good eye but complied. I was up at five. Time difference, you know… Plus Utah is one of my favorite places. It’s like the license plate claims- Life, Elevated.

State 25: Utah- Bryce Canyon and Zion National Parks, Grand Staircase- Escalante National Recreation Area.

Best Friends is no ordinary animal shelter. Tucked in its own red rock valley on over a thousand acres, it’s home to horses, dogs, cats, parrots, pigs, puppies, wild beasts, rabbits, ferrets, and furries and feathers of every ilk. Each species has its own experts and custom living areas and volunteers. There are morning and afternoon sessions seven days a week, and in the interim, the staff dishes a vegan lunch for five dollars a head to all volunteers. We started with dogs, walking on established trails and cleaning outdoor pens.

 

After three pleasant hours, we tucked in to a delicious lunch, then headed to Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument for our first Utah hike. We  drove for miles off the main road on a narrow dirt path and explored a wash where some movies were shot. There were signs warning about flash floods and sudden weather changes. We looked up and saw this sky:

and we cut short our hike.  By the time we got to the car, it was raining, and we had to ease the car up a steep hill on wet, loose sand without four-wheel drive. No problem, we are two women that can do whatever is required. Of course!Another good dinner and cowboy crooning in Kanab rounded out the day.

The next day of volunteering, Bets and I were sure to be early so we could score the plum assignment in Dogtown- PUPPIES! We spent the morning socializing nine week old puppies by sitting on the floor around the edges of a big room and allowing the little cuties to move among the volunteer group at will. Loads of kisses and laughs, and we learned a lot about dog behavior from the puppy manager. She took the time after to talk with Betsy about her rescue dog, Buddy. Betsey felt she had found her milieu and determined to work with puppies the next day, too. I was heading for parrots, switching it up.

It seemed to rain most afternoons for a while in Kanab, and this afternoon, we got a good old fashioned thunderstorm. Betsey passed on the hike, so I headed out myself and did two short hikes, one right down the street from our tiny house. I got caught in a downpour and royally soaked. There was a woman with a dog who said her husband had been up the rocks for two hours with an old beagle, and she was mighty worried. Turns out he met up with some younger guys and everyone was ok. As the weather cleared, I went in search of a mountain to climb. At the other side of town, I found a short, intense hike which I intended to trail run. I did, on the flatter sections, but it was really steep, and the altitude at Kanab, even in- town, is 4,970 feet. Here is a view from near the top, of the Grand Staircase and the ever changing Utah sky.

Next day, parrots for me and puppies for Betsy, and a hike together right at Best Friends. We weren’t lost, but we didn’t find what we were looking for. I forget now what that was, but we did find sunshine and solitude and picturesque views round every corner. We climbed up out of the valley, Betsy maintaining her steady, inexorable pace, me leading and circling back. We had a system that worked for us, and we were ready to move into the next phase of our adventure- the National Parks.

Day One was Bryce Canyon. We arrived not long after sunrise and spent the day watching the quality of light change with the weather and time of day. It was hard to refrain from taking photos long enough to put one foot in front of the other. We hiked all the way to the bottom of the canyon, then straight back up, through a narrow slit in the rock on an extreme incline, sharing the popular Navaho Loop Trail with other intrepid hikers of all ages. Several times I worried about Betsy’s knees and stamina, but I needn’t have. On terrain much more difficult than her home park in Philadelphia, Wissahickon, she surprised me, and herself, with her drive and guts.

One hike for her, two for me, then we drove out toward the opposite end of the canyon and watched the rain walk the length of the canyon along with us, catching us in a royal storm and very chilly forty mile an hour winds by the time we reached Inspiration Point.  An hour later, no sign that rain had ever fallen. Someday, I want to come back and explore some of the other trails.

State 26: Arizona- Grand Canyon National Park, North Kaibab Trail

Day Two, Grand Canyon National Park, from the North Rim. The drive from Kanab is easy and scenic, itself part of the day’s experience. Thirty miles of meadows and pine forest form the transition zone from civilization to the wild lands of the canyon. The Grand Canyon Lodge perches on the edge and offers up the iconic view from massive wooden chairs. Some folks just park themselves on the patio or in front of the big window and spend the day. We wanted more; we wanted mules.

Afterward, Betsy knew she was not up for hiking, so she gave me the car keys and I headed for my Arizona challenge, the Kaibab Trail, 3 miles down, through and beyond the Supai Tunnel, then back up. Miraculously, I succeeded in parallel parking the CRV in the only available parking space at the trailhead.

My confidence soared. I used gravity to advantage during the first half of the hike, and grit to overcome it on the way back up. Along the way, I saw a injured trail runner, but she was well attended, splinted, under a makeshift sunshade. All the other hikers were wondering how she would be extracted from the trail. I should have known… then I saw our mule tender, John, riding one mule, leading another. She was to be muled outta there.

I found Betsy back at the lodge and we went to the gift shop. , where she treated me to a membership in the Grand Canyon Association, and I bought a book titled Grand Canyon Women. Certainly, Betsy and I counted ourselves among them.

I need to return to this park and spend more time. I want to go Rim to Rim.

Day 3: Zion National Park

Zion is very close to Kanab, well within an hour. Our hike was the Angel’s Landing Trail, a climb which ends on a rock so steep it is inlaid with chains for hikers to haul themselves up to the summit. The chain system is one of the engineering wonders of the park, and it has been in place for decades. Betsy went as far as her legs would carry her, and we leaned into the rock as the wind attempted to pry us off the trail. It was exposed, dizzying, and strenuous, but despite her fear of heights, Betsy went to the start of the chains, then wished me luck and left me to complete my challenge alone, though in the company of a line of hikers, each of us dependent on others who were heading down.

It was like Everest’s Hillary Step, only with warmth and oxygen. It proved a stout challenge to my own fear of heights and the strength of my arms and legs. It’s the most dangerous hike in Zion, and I did it, the final piece of my extended run of Utah challenges. After I made my way back to the lodge, Betsy and I shared a final lunch at a cavernous park lodge, along with AJ, a fellow hiker from NJ who was on an extended quest.

Afterward, Bets and I  rode the shuttle bus together and did the hanging garden hike. We met a couple who did the hike I want next, The Narrows, which is accomplished in the water, in a slot canyon. You can rent waterproof gear and go as far as you want, minding the rain, of course, as that could prove fatal. How cool would that hike be?

We drove to St. George for our last overnight, prior to a dawn flight and a day of travel to return us to NJ. The trip proved healing  to my heart, a boost to Betsy’s confidence, and a hell of a lot of fun. What a way to celebrate the 100th birthday of the National Parks.

 

Shenandoah National Park, November 3-5, 2016

Laura came home on break from her job in Crested Butte. We drove to Philadelphia for a visit with Emily, with a plan to kidnap her and take her on a family hiking trip. She resisted, we pressed. She relented. Success! I had both my girls. Let’s do this.

First stop, Front Royal, Virginia, a seedy motel and three hungry bellies. Across the street, a converted gas station called the Pave Mint. Local beers, friendly folks, and Game 7 of the World Series. Go Cubs!

Our first day of hiking featured a trek to hexagonal rock outcroppings that reminded us of the surface of a soccer ball, and a summit ridge where we saw a bald eagle swooping and playing with smaller birds, practicing her flight skills. Emily treated us to a lovely rendition of her medieval ballad, Louverdere and Eagle Feather. She has the voice of an angel.

Late that afternoon, some of us napped and others explored the local brewery and whisky distillers in Sperryville. The Waxamatic, designed to precisely place wax on the neck of a whiskey bottle, didn’t work, and was used solely as a bottle rack. But it put me in mind of Lucy Ricardo and Ethel Mertz in I Love Lucy, when they had their short-lived job at the candy factory. More than enough said on that, I’m sure…

We stayed in a lovely garage apartment, just across the street from excellent coffee and doughnuts. And we were happy to see big Clinton/Kaine posters on the property. That wasn’t a given…

Day Two, we almost hit a deer in the morning, but no harm done. Then we hiked to the highest point in Shenandoah National Park and were  treated to forever vistas and the galumphing stride and furry face of Lady Boots, veteran hiking Bernese Mountain Dog and chick magnet.

Whose woods these are I think I know. All of ours.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep, but we have promises to keep. And miles to go before we sleep.

So we hit the road, north to Philadelphia, then home.

January 21, 2016: The Women’s March on Washington

Fifty becomes fifty-one. I have been waiting for a challenge befitting our nation’s capitol, and This is IT. My good friend and writing coach, Donna, secured me a coveted ticket for the bus trip to the Washington March. Along with other members of the Somerset County Federation of Democratic Women, we made signs and prepared for the worst, writing our emergency contact information on our forearms in permanent marker and loading the ACLU phone number into our cell phones in case we got arrested. Turns out, we needn’t have worried.

When we pulled into the rest stop in Delaware, the place was wall-to-wall buses, the crowd, majority female, the mood, festive and supportive. The men were sharing their restroom with the women, and no one was assaulted. Imagine that… And I began to believe that this was going to be a transformative experience for the participants, and maybe even the nation. Like, when are people friendly in a rest stop?

Traffic was heavy on 95 in Maryland, mostly bus. The weather was gloomy, fog filling the deep chasm containing the Susquehanna River. I felt it fitting and symbolic, as a pall hung over our nation after Trump’s election and inauguration, empty stands lining the presidential parade route.  When we arrived at the RFK stadium bus parking depot, our Bus 1 was turned aside and told to seek street parking. No room at the stadium. We gathered our signs and took a Bus 2 photo. Good thing, because we never saw each other again until the end of the day. We split up into our groups of three and made the 24 block trek down SE Capital Street. This beautiful neighborhood had turned out on their front porches to support us on our march. Every home had a sign with a quote by Martin Luther King, Jr. Even the infants were caught up in the spirit.

The Washington Monument was truncated, its top third obscured by the lingering fog. Washington would surely have wished to avert his eyes from the constitutional crisis we have brought upon ourselves. We don’t have that luxury. These are extraordinary times indeed.

The March was gigantic, estimated at over half a million people, yet there wasn’t a single arrest. A young man remarked that although he had never been in a group so large, he felt surprisingly safe. That had not been the case for him the day before, when rioters had broken store windows and set fires.  This was like one huge, diverse family. I was agog at the variety of signs reflecting every viewpoint on every issue you could imagine, and at the amazing creativity on display. I joined in on chants and cheers, some led by little children in strollers. My favorite one provided me with the title for the piece: What does America look like? THIS is what America looks like!

The streets were so full that the start point for the march was moved repeatedly, until it became apparent to organizers that there really could be no march, since people already filled every inch of space from the planned start to its finish. We marchers didn’t know that, however, and with an inadequate sound system and the immensity of the crowd, very few people were treated to the speeches. Even though we were close to the stage, we couldn’t hear more than snippets of Angela Davis and the drums underpinning Alicia Key’s tribute to the mothers of young men and children killed by police officers. We became a bit impatient after hours of standing, and began chanting, Let Us March! Finally, they did, but they turned us around back toward the Capitol and sent us briefly up Pennsylvania Avenue.

By then, I had lost my buddies and needed to start back to the bus. I wish we could have had more time to explore, because I had several friends in attendance I met on the Selma march in 2015, but I didn’t want to miss the bus. Haseltons are never late. We have a family chant honoring that tradition, but I didn’t share it with the other marchers.

I jogged a bit of the 24 blocks back up Capitol St, and noticed that a Quaker church was open and offering free coffee and clean bathrooms. Best of all, they had the bumper sticker which I felt best captured the feel of the day:

Love Thy Neighbor. No Exceptions.

Even though all the police officers were aghast when they heard that we planned to walk to and from RFK because the Metro was overflowing with people, we all handled the distance with ease. It put the march back into the March. It felt so good to move in a wave among thousands of welcoming, committed, and interesting people.

I learned a few things on Bus 2 that evening. Three of our number had been born outside of the U.S.: one woman from Uruguay, a man from Paraguay, and a woman from Poland. All three said that Trump’s bluster, nativism, corruption, lying, distrust and control of the press, inability to tolerate dissent, all were familiar to them as the first steps towards dictatorship.

My mood turned somber as I thought about what they said. I hope we don’t all just go home and think, “Well, wasn’t that amazing?”, and go back to living our lives as if this is normal. It’s not.  I fear for our nation under Trump, who stands for nothing and could fall for anything. I don’t feel anyone is safe unless everyone is safe. But in my lighter moments, and as I review the stories and pictures others have posted about the marches across this nation and around the world, I realize that the Women’s March on Washington was a balm to my spirit in these troubling times, a reminder that there are kind and open- minded people in this country, and together, we are a force for good that cannot be ignored. If we are vigilant, we shall overcome the overcomb.

The young people thronging the streets and chanting and dancing give me hope for the future, for it is their’s.