50inthefifties.com

After a long and wonderful visit in Oregon with Matt, Megan, and Tessa, Kip and I found ourselves in the northwest corner of the U.S. as Labor Day weekend was kicking off. Why head home when we were sooo close to the border of Washington State? We pressed on, renting a car and making a beeline for Mount St. Helens National Volcanic Monument.

We didn’t have a permit to climb the cone, but there are tons of hiking options not requiring a permit. We chose the eight mile out-and-back known as Harry’s Ridge Trail. Harry Randall Truman owned an inn at the edge of Spirit Lake, in the shadow of the volcano. As warning advanced in the days leading up to the eruption in 1980, he refused to leave his piece of paradise on earth, and it became his final resting place on May 18, 1980.

Mount Saint Helens creates its own weather, steam still rising from it, and a cinder cone reforming minute by minute. This is an active volcano. We hiked in her self-created intermittent to steady rain showers and marveled at the profusion of wildflowers reclaiming the hillsides.

Thousands of dead tree trunks of massive proportions clogged the edges of the lake, grim reminders of the concussive force and heat which stripped this place of vegetation and robbed it of light under an enormous ash cloud 36 years ago. As we hiked, the sun did its best to peek through the fog and mist, and it acted as a roving spotlight, drawing our attention to details we otherwise surely would have missed. There was one segment of the trail that hugged a steep hillside, requiring us to sidle carefully past a few hikers heading in the opposite direction.

As we headed back, I ran the last mile or two of the trail in a steadily increasing rain. We lingered outside the Visitor’s Center at the viewpoint, as blue sky tantalized us and threatened to reveal the volcano, only to recede or be shoved back by clouds and fog.

On the way out, in the rearview mirror, we saw our chance, turned around, and gaped at the immensity of the mountain, the crater, and the re-forming cone. An excited young boy and was able to take our picture, and we returned the favor for his family.  Success!

After a full day of exploration, we continued on to our Air BNB accommodations for the night. Our hosts were Aussies with Italian names, and they greeted us warmly at the door and welcomed us into their family life, trading stories about the kids as we sat down to spaghetti Bolognese and big glasses of chianti. I was able to diagnose plantar fasciitis for the lady of the house and show her the stretches which would help her heal. We tottered off to bed a mite unsteady, and it wasn’t because of foot pain… The next day, Fabrizio was up and offered breakfast, but we demurred. We wanted to see Mount Rainier National Park.

It was Labor Day. It was crowded. It was totally worth it. We did two short hikes near waterfalls and then hiked about four miles out onto the lower shoulder of the big daddy volcano, which we had been  able to see looming over a playground all the way back in Portland. Like Helen, this mountain teased us by draping himself in fog and cloud. I took about a thousand pictures of him, staying alert every second, hoping to catch him unawares, sadly, without success. I rescued a bug from the middle of the trail, and we saw a black bear and her cub at a great distance on a grassy slope, chowing on berries. Many lovely chats with others out enjoying the park on a gorgeous day.

Afterward, we went to Seattle, staying with another nice couple in the Capitol Hill District. We reconnected with Rachel and Edith, whom we had met in 2015 on Bus 2 of the Selma to Montgomery 50th Anniversary March. Edith has two older sisters, Helen and Bea, and it was great to meet these girls, about whom we had heard so much. We all posed with the Jimmy Hendrix statue downtown.

On our last day, Kip and I explored Seattle, taking a ferry ride to Bainbridge Island and exploring the museum there documenting the Japanese Internment camps during World War II. Little did we know then that Trump would be elected, bringing with him the vague but disturbing possibility that we might be doomed to repeat this shameful period of our history, this time directed at Muslims. RESIST.

Stepping off the ferry, we explored the Pike Place Market down on the wharves, but it was overrun with tourists. We walked back to our Air BNB and collected the car, and checked in Haselton- early at the SeaTac airport for our red eye flight home. Oregon, Check. Washington, Check. All three west coast states done this summer. And I had plans for late September into October. Next up, Nevada, Utah, Arizona.

But first, I needed to get home. My father was fading away…

Hey everyone. We are Sasha and Carina and Tessa, a spunky set of sisters/cousins. Sasha and Carina are sisters from Oakland, California, and are ten and eight. Tessa is the cousin in the pack, a ten year old from Portland, Oregon. Technically, though we are all cousins, since, well, we are cousins!

We think summer is one of the best seasons of the year, right up there with spring and fall, and way better than winter, except for the days you can ski or sled. Winter on the west coast of America is wettest and coldest. Summer is warmest and brightest, and there’s no school. Repeat, NO SCHOOL!

The thing about no school is that there are a lot of hours in the day that need filling. Say for example we get up at 5 am and finally collapse in exhaustion at 7:30. That’s like more than 14 hours of running, playing, jumping on beds, begging for pets, asking questions, expecting answers, and making life interesting and fun for our parents. It’s a big responsibility, and sometimes, frankly, we need help thinking of new ideas to keep Mom and Dad entertained. Luckily, there are a few other adults we can call on to help us.

Neighbors can be fun, but Mom and Dad see them so often that they kinda get bored with them. Teachers are out of the question because they never seem to want to hang with our parents when school is out. And most of our family still lives in, GASP, New Jersey and Pennsylvania! Don’t ask us why.

One day, the parents emailed our Aunt Kerry, using the cell phone which they hog and never let us use. They did what we had been hoping they would do for a looong time. They asked her to come out and visit and help us kids manage them on a trip to the great outdoors.

Aunt Kerry is rather old and slightly crazy. She lives in New Jersey, so what did you expect? She carries all her belongings in a big black fanny pack which she wears like a belt on her waist. Rumor has it she even sleeps with it on. We don’t know, but we have to admit we had never seen her without it, that is, until we went hiking. Then, she needed an even bigger pack. She stuck the black pack right in there, and then packed the rest of her gear on top of it.

When hiking with adults, make sure you take them to a beautiful place. That will keep them occupied longer than, say, taking them to Starbucks to hike, or to the Mall or the supermarket. The longer you can keep them busy marveling at the wonders of nature, the less trouble they will be. We consulted the maps, the websites, the libraries, the blogs, asking, “Where should we take our aging parents and Auntie hiking?” Everywhere we looked, we heard the same thing:

“There is no one place which will enchant them enough to grant you any respite, but if you take them on two trips, and then review your photo albums some weeks later, you may well discover you each had a total of five minutes’ peace. ”

Experts agreed that was the best we could do, so we split up the responsibility, agreeing we would each handle our own parents and we would both take on Auntie Kerry, in hopes having another adult along might help us a smidge.

For their part, Sasha and Carina decided to go big or go home. It is impossible to hike at home, so they went big, as in Yosemite National Park. Yup, that big.  Tessa choose Waldo Lake State Park, which boasts the second largest lake in Oregon and water so clear you can see straight through to the bottom past 100 feet. Plus, it’s not too long a drive from Portland, and we all know how antsy grown ups get on long car rides.

On July 1, the Lovell sisters loaded up their parents and the amazing amount of gear parents need into the SUV and hit the road. Yosemite, here we come. Luckily we had plenty of stuffed animals to share in the driving. After hours and hours and hours, we arrived at Rush Creek Lodge, which was hardly complete in time for our arrival. But the POOLs were done, thank heaven. We found Aunt Kerry wandering the parking lot, dazed and confused, because she had been on three hikes since arriving and had eaten exactly two granola bars all day. How many times do we have to tell these people that they need to fuel their bodies and stay hydrated, especially at altitude? It must be that as their brains age, they get dumber. She looked a lot better after stuffing herself at the buffet, which was free because the restaurant couldn’t figure out how to take our money until the second day. Then, we got to swim in both pools till dark. Sweet!

The next day, we rounded up our adults and headed for the May Lake hike. Soon as we got there, we learned that some grown ups don’t know how to hike. They shoulder their backpacks and TRUDGE. Yup, that’s the only way to describe it. Dad, whom Tessa calls Uncle Matt, and Auntie Kerry are downright glum hikers. Mom is smarter and has more fun, taking her time, noticing wildflowers and birds and bugs.  We know exactly what to do. We jumped from rock to rock to rock for one mile. This is exciting but tiring, so we stopped for snacks and chatted about kitties and stuffies. Dad and Kerry kept glancing around the tall pine trees, following the track of the path with their eyes. We zigged and zagged, and after another mile, reached the shores of May Lake, our destination. Yay! But we didn’t swim, because it’s a wilderness area and there are signs saying NO SWIMMING. Some older people swam. Maybe they can’t read English, or maybe their kids haven’t taught them how to behave.

After a rest, Dad wanted to edge around the left side of the lake and get up in the steeper boulder field and climb and climb and climb. Aunt Kerry was right on his heels. They both have summit fever, which is an urge to keep going until you reach the top, no matter how far. It’s like that song in Sound of Music:

Climb Every Mountain

Ford every stream

Follow every rainbow

Till you find your dream.

Sometimes, you just have to let the old people do what they want to do and tell them you will see them later.  At times like these, it is important to communicate clearly. Dad and Kerry went on, and Mom stayed with us, but Mom thought Dad was just checking ’round the bend, not going on a summit push. We are kids, so it wasn’t up to us to get it right. Remember, we don’t even have the cell phones, and cell phones don’t work in Yosemite National Park. So there was much confusion, and Carina wanted to continue, and Sasha did not, and Mom was caught in the middle of us, and, well, it wasn’t ideal. This is how crying happens. Grown-ups, get your act together and you will save yourselves some aggravation.

Dad and Aunt Kerry did make it to the summit of  Mt. Hoffman, nearly 11,000 feet up. They said there was a scary rock scramble at the top and a big drop off on the other side. A cute little animal called a marmot chewed up Dad’s brand new pack. It wanted to eat his sweat. Ewww. I hope he learned his lesson from that. Not the marmot, Dad. Dad said the marmot was a varmint.

The next day, we decided that Mom needed a rest. She had a blister. So we insisted she sleep in with us, and after a healthy breakfast, we took her to the Evergreen Lodge to play on the playground and swim. Sometimes, kids just have to step in and make adults take care of themselves or they are going to get hurt. Mom really appreciated the chance to swim in a different pool and go on the rope swings 1,257 times. Daddy and Aunt Kerry were gone when we woke up and they went out to the far end of the park and hiked thirteen miles to get to the top of a mountain called Cloud’s Rest. It wasn’t even as high as the one they climbed the day before, so why did they even bother?  Anyway, they said they had fun and that the views were pretty. And they weren’t too tired to swim at Rush Creek that night, so no harm done.

The next day was our last, but we had time for one final hike, at Carlon Falls, very near our lodge. Everyone, young and old, agreed this was the perfect hike to end our vacation, not too long, not too short, not too steep, not too hot, and there was a waterfall and a swimming hole. And because it was July 4, the busiest day of the year in Yosemite, we were able to find someone to take a picture of our whole group. That doesn’t happen often. Usually one of the adults has to take the picture, and it looks like she wasn’t even there. But we got lucky. Here’s the proof:

After the hike, we kissed Aunt Kerry goodbye and we snuggled into our carseats for the drive back to Oakland. Dad said Aunt Kerry went over to Hetch Hetchy and did yet another hike before she drove back to Sacramento and took the red eye flight to New Jersey. Aunt Kerry can be fun, but being with her is exhausting. She does know lots of good hiking songs and makes up silly rhymes, and she did teach us a lot about swimming in her backyard pool, but she should learn to slow down and play. Maybe she needs some stuffed animals. Or a cat.

Hey, it’s Tessa. I’m ready to take over the narration. Thanks, Sasha and Carina, for getting us this far and getting Auntie Kerry safely through Yosemite. I wish I could say that she arrived in Oregon in good shape. She managed to hurt herself training for a running race. She was supposed to run with my dad in the famous Hood to Coast relay, but she ran too fast, too far while training and she couldn’t run a step by the time she got to Portland. It’s important to remind your older relatives to act their age. Just say, “Remember, you’re not kids anymore.”

Auntie Kerry brought Uncle Kip with her and they stayed in my basement for a few days before we went to Waldo Lake. That left plenty of time for playing with me and my dog Floyd before the camping trip. Dad ran in the relay race, and he was pretty tired after it was done, but no matter, we had lots of chores we had to do, so no rest for him. We rented two huge canoes and took one for a test paddle down the Willamette River. Auntie Kerry and Uncle Kip took a while to learn how to say Willamette right. I worked very hard to keep them entertained. I had two of them to deal with, plus my parents.  Luckily, I have a lot of energy.

The canoes looked so silly balanced upside down on top of the cars. We stopped every now and then to tighten the straps. Dad drove with Uncle Kip, and Mom with Auntie Kerry and me.  Sometimes, letting the girls and the boys have some time away from each other works well. But we girls had Floyd, and he’s a boy…

We got to the lake just in time for Mom to have a swim. Of course, I had to supervise her, so I couldn’t take the lead in pitching all the tents. I didn’t have any kids to help me manage the grown ups, but there were lots of other grown ups, including Syd and Marilyn and two other couples whose names my Auntie Kerry can’t even remember. See what happens when you get old? Your mind just doesn’t work as well. I was pleased to note by the time I came up from the lake with a soaking wet and thirsty Mom, that my Dad, Kip, and Kerry had set up camp and started dinner and found some wine.

We hung out and watched the sun set and drawled into our sleeping bags early. If you don’t get your grown ups to sleep early, it’s hard to get them out of bed at 5 am to begin the day. They need lots and lots of rest.

The next day, I was first up. I had to watch Dad. He and Floyd are always running off running or biking or hiking, and so I have to stay alert. Floyd ran so much on this trip that he hurt his feet and had to go to the vet. I was so busy watching the adults I forgot to worry too much about the dog. Floyd has more energy that even I do.

I gathered up all my grown ups and assigned them to canoes and we paddled off to the Rigdon Lakes Wilderness, where there was a fire some years back. The trees and burned but there are lots of little lakes. Auntie Kerry and one of the men went swimming in the lakes. Auntie Kerry had to borrow a bra from my mom, or she would have been skinny dipping! She’s crazy, remember.

We paddled, they swam, we hiked 4 miles, we paddled back. It was a pretty busy day that ended with S’mores.  Don’t let your grown ups have too many of them, because it makes it hard to get them to bed.

The next day, I let Dad and Auntie Kerry and Kip go off and do their own thing. Floyd went with Dad and ran maybe a thousand miles. Kip and Kerry hiked to Betty Lake, Upper Betty, and over toward Bobby Lake, maybe eight miles. Those lakes have silly names.  Kip got lost. I thought they would have been ok, but they didn’t stay together. Never let older folk hike alone, and make sure they have food, water, and a whistle.

I needed some down time, so I played in the tent a lot that day. I was saving my energy for the next day’s summit push. Twin Peaks!

Dad, Floyd, Auntie Kerry, and I did this hike. We are amazing hikers. We did seven miles and climbed both peaks. Not just Floyd, but all of us got sore feet. Here I am with my dad near the top. Remember, grown ups can do more than you think they might.  You just have to give them frequent rest breaks and feed them strips of green pepper. And Sasha and Carina were right: Auntie Kerry talks and sings and recites poetry and then she talks some more. We both like talking so we are kind of the same, and kind of different, too.

The next day, It RAINED. It was chilly. Some might even say cold. Mom and Dad said we just ran out of steam. We huddled together for warmth in a big group hug and said goodbye to Waldo for this year.

Next year, I hope my aunt and uncle come back so I can teach them more about camping, hiking, kids, and s’mores. They have a lot to learn, but I love them.

We hope you have enjoyed our stories. Looking back, we did have some brief and shining moments when the adults didn’t need constant attention. As they grow more mature, we hope they will continue to gain independence. Hiking is a great way to build their confidence.

Wishing all our readers a Happy 2017!

Tessa, Carina, and Sasha

Dateline: July 2016, Running in NJ and Maine… until…

After Yosemite, it was time to buckle down and run. Yes, run, and like it, damn it. Matt Arnold, my cousin’s husband, had invited me back in April to be the first member of his 12 person team for the Hood to Coast Relay: 200 miles, 1,000 teams, 2,000 vans, 12,000 runners, sells out in minutes.

I was, like,  hmmm. I haven’t been running. But I did a relay once before, the Tom’s Run in Maryland. I don’t really enjoy running, but I do like riding in vans with sweaty strangers who become friends overnight and over 200 miles of suffering. So sure. Count me in.

I went to Pleasant Valley Park to begin to get fit. It was hot. It was sunny. It wasn’t fun. I did under 5k. But it was a start.

I kept at it. I figured the best thing to do was to go to Maine, train in a climate closer to Oregon’s. Oh, it was lovely. I came up with a five-mile route on Southport with Porta-potty availability. I ran in the morning, 60 degrees. What could be better? And the scenery can’t be beat.

Just one problem. I texted Matt, asked about the weather in Portland (Oregon, not Maine!).  He said it would probably be close to 90 degrees. Should have stayed in New Jersey, I guess. But I was having fun with family, sailing with Kip, celebrating a friend’s 80th birthday. And the running was going well.One Saturday, end of July, there was a race- the Rock the Boat 5k to benefit the Southport Yacht Club junior sailing program. Our next door neighbors clued me in. I figured it was a good chance to check my fitness. My plan? Run the race, then, in the afternoon, after watching women’s Olympic soccer, go for a second run. When you are going to have to run 17 miles in 36 hours, it’s important to try 2-a days, right? Matt told me to..

The 5k went well; I ran medium fast, and I didn’t feel like vomiting at the finish. I was third in my age group, and happy because I wasn’t sick. That meant, maybe, I was expanding my range. Things were looking good, one month to race day.

I watched the soccer then set off from Kay’s townhouse back to our home on Southport. It was 4.5 miles, with some hills. It was tough. I walked about 50 yards total. But I did it. Next day, rest day. Next day, bike ride. Third day…..

I set out for my five miles. I was hurting, my butt, left side. I said, ok, it’s going to hurt, keep going. It got a bit looser, then I met a woman my age, a triathlete. We finished up together. She was renting a cottage two doors down from me.

By the next day, I knew I was in trouble. Only 3 weeks now until race day. I went back to the physical therapy place I worked at for five years. Kelly worked on me every day. It was a strain at the piriformis and hamstring insertion. I followed her instructions exactly. I went to the track to walk/jog. And with just a week to go until departure, I wasn’t capable of running 400 meters. I called Matt, and through tears, told him I was OUT. Twenty five percent of my team dropped out in the final week, injured. I pushed too far, too fast. I needed more time, or I needed to stop running races. I’m not sure which.

Nothing was going to stop me from going to Oregon to see family. Kip and I volunteered on the course for the Hood to Coast. As luck would have it, we drew leg 11, and we were in charge of getting runners safely across a highway ramp at rush hour(s). Five hours.

It was 97 degrees. Had I not been injured, Leg 11 would have been mine to run. As one competitor opined as she dodged cars, “This leg sucks.” Truer words were never spoken.

Without my running a step, the Old School Corduroys completed the Hood to Coast. And not a single runner was injured or killed on Leg 11, at least during the 12 to 5 pm shift Saturday. And that is something to cheer about. Even better, though I couldn’t run, I could hike, and I was able to bag Oregon and Washington and have fun doing it. Keep on reading for details.

Dateline: November 9, 2016, Trumpocalypse 2016

Today is 11/9. It feels like 9/11. Gray skies, chill breeze, a country brought to its knees by its own actions. We have elected a man so stunningly unprepared to lead us, so small, so small-minded, so mean, so stunted. I fear for our nation. I fear for the Earth. I can’t speak, can barely write, can’t imagine the future in a positive light. We must stand up and fight, oppose, make our voices heard, love each other, refuse to descend into the caves of misogyny, xenophobia, and narcissism. But that will have to wait until tomorrow.

Time to do the blog. Ok, that means I need a framing device. I’m glad that I got to visit so many National Parks this summer during the 100th anniversary of the National Park Service. Why? Because I am sure that Donald J. Trump is going to allow corporations to start naming the parks and using them for cross-marketing. Google Yosemite Park, Yahoo! the Grandest of Canyons. And mining will be allowed along the banks of the Colorado River as it traverses Yahoo Canyon.

Stand up! Fight! Oh wait, write. Someday soon you might not remember where you’ve been and what you’ve done, so write this blog for you. No one else will read it.

State 21:California

Dateline: July 1-4, Yosemite National Park, 34 miles total, Clouds Rest Summit, 14 miles

My brother, Matt, and his family live in Oakland, California. Aware of my quest and that I was fully recovered from my first breast surgery, Matt and Colleen invited me to join them as Yosemite for Fourth of July weekend. Fourth of July, you know, when we celebrate the Declaration of Independence, we hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal. And when I meet Thomas Jefferson, I’m gonna compel him to include women in the sequel. ( Hamilton strikes again, in parentheses..) Evidently, he should have mentioned it right from the beginning..

After a few days in Sacramento exploring the Statehouse and Old Town, I drove to Yosemite and hiked about five miles at Hetch Hetchy, the seldom- visited twin valley to Yosemite which was flooded in the early twentieth century to provide water to San Francisco, over the vehement objections of John Muir. Despite the damn dam, the valley is still beautiful and well worth a visit. One can hike in near solitude there even in high season, right up under Wapama Falls.

I saw a couple of backpackers in the Hetch parking lot at 9 am, but that was about it. I crossed the dam and entered the dark tunnel leading to the Wapama Falls hike. Every step I took altered the view.  Every blink of the eye was a new vista. wildflowers thrived in tiny crevices between the rocks, and the only sound was the gradually building roar as I approached the falls.

The hike of 5 or so miles was not difficult, but it was hot, and the mist roiling over the bridge at the base of the falls was a welcome relief. At times, the water runs so high here with snowmelt that people are swept away. Not so this day, but I could feel the power, a wind generated by the cascade.

Something tells me we will be lucky to have the next intrusion into our national parks end as benignly as the damming of Hetch Hetchy, but eventually all the people who remember how the parks used to look will be dead. Surely that will mute the negative effect on future generations. They won’t know what they’re missing, so who cares? Pave paradise, put up a parking lot.

Hike one done and dusted, me fried and dusty, I decided to head into Yosemite Valley at noon on July 1. I got past the entrance gate with my annual pass with no delay, but the Valley was a mob scene. I felt like Elmer Fudd chasing that wascally wabbit: which way should I go? Which way should I go? I ended up walking over to Bridalveil Falls and then had a brainstorm. Why not make it a waterfall day? Oh look, there’s a trail called Yosemite Falls. It’s ok that I haven’t eaten, it’s ok that I have just arrived at 5,500 feet, it’s ok that it’s 95 degrees and I’ve already done 5 miles. This will be fun. Especially since Yosemite Falls is the tallest waterfall in the contiguous United States.

I was about as prepared as Donald J. Trump is for his next job. I was woefully inadequate. But unlike him, I realized that if I proceeded on my chosen course, I was likely to run into disaster in the ensuing days. I stopped. I reconsidered. I backed away from the figurative and the real precipice. Unfortunately, people with his mental illness never do.

A lovely drink at the world famous Ahwahnee Hotel (renamed The Majestic due to some ridiculous corporate thing (See warnings in paragraph 3, above.)),  and then I met my bro at the brandy new Rush Creek Resort just outside the park gates and had a terrific buffet meal poolside and chatted up my nieces.

Day Two featured a hike with the girls to May Lake and beyond, onto the slopes of 12,000 foot Mt. Hoffman. Our group split up at that point and Matt and I headed for the summit ridge, which was a bit too much for the girls. The two of us have summit fever to a certain degree. I also have a fear of heights, and I was, like, ok, you go ahead, I don’t really have to climb those boulders and get to the tippy top and see the 7,000 foot drop off the other side. But two women who were about to make the attempt said, oh no, come on, you got this far. And don’t let anyone tell you women  can’t do anything they set their minds to, (yup, even win the popular vote for President of the dis- United States despite being too competent to be popular) because we did it, and shared the summit space with this marmot. He kept us occupied taking pictures while his partner in crime was chewing up Matt’s brand new pack and my hiking poles. Marmots need salt, and they get it from eating sweaty gear. Opportunistic little rodents. Like some politicians.

July 3 was the day of the requisite dawn assault. Matt and I left before dawn to drive to the trailhead for Cloud’s Rest, a 14 mile out and back hike to the top of, well, Cloud’s Rest, which looks down on Half Dome. It’s not as high as Mount Hoffman, but it is a major hike in and out. We started the climb about 6:30 am, as I remember.The sun was barely up in the valley. It was cool and dry, and the trail was nearly deserted. Wildflowers, boulder fields, steeps, switchbacks, skinned knees, bathroom breaks off trail, and the sound of our breathing underscoring the birdsong. Matt is tall and strong, and the pace was a challenge for me. So fun.

Every mountain seems to end in a rock scramble. Matt captured this shot of me striding confidently toward the summit…

and this one of me suddenly feeling exposed and crouching feebly toward my feet.

The view from Cloud’s Rest down into the valley was worth the momentary terror. Half Dome is left of center, people ascending the cables like ants.

The final day, July 4, we hiked out to a waterfall and swim along the Evergreen road called Carlon Falls.  I hadn’t hiked with young children for quite a few years, and doing so reminded me that a slower pace is not a lesser pace; it is just different. It reveals details best savored slowly. After we said our goodbyes, I headed back to Hetch and did one final 2 mile hike on the ridge before driving back to Sacramento to catch my flight home.

Yosemite is vast and varied, and surely one of  the crown jewels of our public lands. May they be forever public. I honestly don’t know what will become of them.

Sorry to be so negative but this is a terrible horrible no good very bad day. My memories of Yosemite are fading with time and more travel and final goodbyes, and they are tainted by my fears for its future.

DATELINE: May 2016, REWIND January 22, 2016, Morristown Memorial Hospital

I am weary of painting a perennially rosy picture about my life, blogging, but skirting the tough issues. My readers are probably tired of my relentlessly upbeat and cheery tone, wondering if I am for real. This blog is supposed to be about the triumphs and little victories in my quest, but also about the obstacles that I face in achieving them. True, I have structured my days to enable me to train and to travel and to bag the states, but there are other things going on, things I haven’t revealed, secrets that are weighing on my mind.

Remember that surgery I blithely mentioned in my Florida post? That was a double mastectomy. Nobody wants to have this surgery, but among those who do have it, I consider myself lucky. I had it on my terms, while healthy.

Since early 2010, I’ve known that I carry a gene mutation called BRCA1. It is similar to Angelina Jolie’s mutation. This  defect in my genetic code predisposes me to breast and ovarian cancer at ten or more times the rate of the general population. That means that my risk of breast cancer before age 70 is something like 70 percent, and my risk of ovarian cancer, among the most sneaky and deadly forms of the disease, is, oh, I don’t know, high enough that I make a point of not knowing.

Some people inherit genes for ghastly illnesses for which there is no cure and about which they can do jack shit. One example is the gene for early onset Alzheimer’s, which is not a predisposition, it is a guarantee of dementia and death by age 60. I am fortunate. I can take steps to reduce my risk of breast and ovarian cancer to way less than that of the average woman. I can save my own life. And I did. Six years ago, I had surgery to remove my ovaries and fallopian tubes. And in January, I had the mastectomies and reconstruction. My husband, mother, and sister were all wonderfully helpful during my hospitalization and recovery.

My saline implants are temporary now, but I will go in for my surgery to place the permanent silicone implants in the fall. Between now and then, I’m allowed to do all the stuff I love to do, even play soccer. I’m on a spring team, and I have logged a goal and two assists since the season started a month ago. Oh, and I have plans to capture a slew of states this summer. I feel empowered by my decision and haven’t regretted my choice for a single moment.

The way I figure, if I had continued to postpone surgery, with each passing year, I would have a greater chance of contracting breast cancer, and if I got it, I would feel stupid for letting fear of change endanger my life. I would then have a mastectomy anyway, and I would also have to go through chemo and radiation, and I could DIE. Feeling like I had stupidly contributed to my own death would suck. I’m sure that my dying thought would be regret. That’s not how I want to go.

Today, I feel great, I feel normal, and I am no longer burdened with the threat of cancer which has lurked in a dark corner of my life since my cousin contracted ovarian cancer in her 30s and I tested positive for the mutation.

Best of all, I don’t need a bra. That’s right. No bra. Even for soccer!

My former breasts did their job. I nursed both my daughters and cherished doing so. My new breasts are firm- ok, really firm. But they are more shapely and they fit my muscular frame better, in my opinion. And my opinion is the one that counts.

I have kept my diagnosis under wraps, as concealed as my breasts, since 2010. At that time, I decided not to tell my daughters about the mutation. Each has a 50 percent chance of inheriting it. Nothing can be done until your early- to mid- twenties in terms of medical management, and I wanted them to experience their college years without having to wonder if they would have to face some difficult choices as they progress into full maturity. I shaded the truth when I had my ovaries removed in 2010, and again this year with my second surgery.  I hope they understand that I did it for them. I hope they know that I will be there to guide them through testing, genetic counseling, and whatever they may face. I hope they are negative for the mutation but if not, I hope to help them understand that there are worse things to face.

Looking back, I can now tell you, I must tell you, that the Avon Walk for Breast Cancer that I completed some years ago with Kelly and Jen was even more meaningful than I let on. I had already had my ovaries removed, and I knew that there was a very good chance I would someday sit in a stark waiting room watching a white-coated radiologist with a downcast expression walk purposefully down a hall toward me to tell me I had a malignancy.  And on March 12, when I completed that Breast Cancer walk with Kip and Kay and Susan on my 54th birthday, I no longer walked with that fear. What sweet freedom.

While I was in the hospital, one of the nurses asked me if I had ever heard of Sharsheret (www.sharsheret.org). It’s an organization devoted to helping Jewish women who carry BRCA mutations to find community, counseling, and understanding. Ashkenazi Jews have far more BRCA mutations than other groups (Outside this group, one in 300 people have a mutation.) I called Sharsheret and offered my services as a peer counselor. Despite the fact that I am not Jewish, they welcomed me with open arms. I look forward to helping other women with BRCA mutations to face each day with courage and a sense of gratitude for the choices that we have. Knowledge is power.

Here I go again, lapsing into confident tone, looking at the world through my trifocal rose- colored glasses.  I suppose there are worse things… I must be an optimistic, happy person.

I can live with that.

DATELINE: May 7, 2016 Red Bank, NJ, and environs

The Farmlands Flat Century; or, the Battle of Monmouth by Bicycle

I tried to capture New Jersey last October, through the MS Ride, City to Shore, but Chris Christie took time out from his doomed presidential campaign to declare a state of emergency in his home state, and the ride was called off. I spent that weekend in Philadelphia instead, with my friends Graham and Betsy, and Graham and I rode out with Gearing Up, a group he volunteers for, leading weekly bike rides for women recovering from addiction.  It was fun and worthwhile, and we didn’t have to ride 80 miles into the teeth of a Nor’easter.

Surgery in January, then a bit of recovery time, but I was feeling well enough to bike nearly 40 flat miles in Florida by March, so I figured, what the heck. We’d had a mild winter; I could keep on riding in New Jersey as winter rolled into spring, and I could shoot for my first 100 mile ride. Lo and behold, I found a ride in Monmouth County called the Farmlands Flat, scheduled for early May. Unless the organizers have a cruel sense of humor, it was probably going to be flat. Even better, Laura was flying in from Crested Butte for a short break. That meant we could ride together and get in some mother/daughter fun.

Meanwhile, I greased my chain and started to train. I came up with my own training plan- ride often, ride progressively farther, and when you come to a fork in the road, take the long, flat way.

I started to name my rides. The Heart Ride looks like a valentine when you check the route on GPS. Bob’s Ride is anything that gets me to my dad’s place for a visit. The Joyride is exactly what you would assume; when I returned from it the first time, I felt that I had reached the pinnacle of Abraham Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, fully self-actualized. I extended my rides by adding loops and playing with their lengths, using my house as the midpoint of my days for lunch breaks. Over time, I was able to stretch my long rides to 50, then 65, then 85 miles. While I cruised the flats and labored up the hills, snippets of the Hamilton soundtrack flitted through my mind and often slipped out of my mouth, as I sang, Work, work! Angelica, Eliza (and Peggy), the Schuyler Sisters, Work! This girl is non-stop!

And the miles slipped under the wheels. It doesn’t hurt that Morristown and Basking Ridge and Bernardsville and Bedminster are towns replete with revolutionary history and places where Hamilton doubtless ate, slept and courted Elizabeth Schuyler. I visited them all and biked by several. I wonder if Hamilton even may have trudged or ridden past my home as he made his way north after the Battle of Monmouth.

Three days before the ride, Laura arrived, tired but happy and excited for our adventure. We did a short training ride or two then popped the Hamilton CDs into the front and the bikes in the back of the minivan. As the opening number of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s groundbreaking Broadway play introduced Laura to the bastard, orphan, son of a whore and a Scotsman, I told her we were heading for Monmouth County, scene of an important battle of the Revolutionary war. She was nonplussed, but after a minute or two, she said, “Oh, this music sounds very modern.”

“Hamilton is a hip-hop musical. It’s the biggest thing ever.”

“Oh wow! I had no idea.”

The biggest thing in New York apparently had not made much of an impression on twenty somethings in Crested Butte, Colorado.

We headed toward Asbury Park with an Air Bnb reservation and a vague plan to play pinball on the boardwalk at a place called The Silver Ball. Despite a week of rain, we were not throwing away our shot. And the forecast looked like it might improve for Saturday.

After an hour’s drive through the drizzle, I pulled up to the location. Asbury Park looked like New York City during The Day After Tomorrow, when the Arctic blast froze everything and everyone who survived huddled together in the New York Public Library, burning books to stay warm. The streets of the Jersey shore were deserted, plastic bags and Dunkin Donut cups blowing inland, randomly tossed by the whims of another Nor’easter.

The Silver Ball loomed dark, the windows clouded, a perfect place to meet for a drug deal.

Laura and I looked at each other and burst out laughing.

“This looks sketchy.”

“That’s what makes it an adventure.”

I tentatively cracked open the car door. The wind grabbed the edge of the door and I yanked it closed. Discretion trumping valor, I turned the car round to face the other way. I didn’t want the lack of a driver’s side door to slow our escape from Asbury Park. Thus repositioned, we had to shove open the doors.  Stepping round a dinosaur and a giant clown, intended to entice children to play miniature golf but surely scaring them out of their wits, we turned our teeth and our flowing locks into the full force of a gale.

What is it with New Jersey and this quest? Seems Mother Nature wants me to head farther afield. As we looked north, subjecting our eyes to the blowing sand, I assured Laura that if the weather didn’t improve on the morrow, we would not be riding bikes.

Ok, so it wasn’t a beach day. We took our chances and walked into the Silver Ball. It was the locus of all humanity in Asbury Park that day. We milled about with half a dozen other people playing pinball games dating from the mid- 1950s all the way to 2016. It was a fine diversion for a stormy day. With the reaction speed of a koala and the ability to calculate angles of an English major, pinball is not my strong suit. I liked a game called Breakout, which I suck at, but maybe slightly less than I suck at games with flippers.

On the way out, famished but not willing to fuel up on hot dogs and soda, I noticed a photo booth. I had never done that before, and so in we squeezed. After five minutes, we emerged with the worst strip of photo booth pictures EVER. Only a photo booth virgin could have made such a horrendous choice.

We walked across the street to the Stone Pony and took slightly better photos at the temple of Bruce Springsteen, then, our stomachs growling and the afternoon wearing on, we drove to Red Bank and checked in at our Air Bnb digs before heading to the center of town to find food. Yo, just like our country, we were young, scrappy, and hungry.

Red Bank is a wonderful town for walking and shopping, and, first of all, eating. We chose the Dublin Inn. We watched soccer and ate like cyclists, starting with nachos and ending with big fish sandwiches and plates of pasta and chocolate pies for dessert. Then we hit the town for the night life, but it was 6 p.m.

First up, we wanted to have psychic readings done, but none were on offer until 8:30. That seemed too long a time to walk round in the rain. Across the street was a music store. I bought three books of sheet music for piano so I can torture my family with some new self- taught melodies: my first books of Pink and Tom Petty, and some fresh Billy Joel pieces I can butcher.

Too early for a reading by those attuned to other worlds, we decided to get manicures. My first ever. There were so many colors to choose from, but I quickly decided on orange, to match my cycling jersey and my favorite water bottle. The staff at the salon guided me gently through the process, primarily through the use of hand signals, due to the language barrier. I felt at home; we cyclists also use hand signals. Outside, the rain continued to fall, although the buffeting winds seemed to be confined to the coast. I felt confined, my hands under the dryer for what seemed like hours, but when I snuck them out and stood up, the signal from the staff was clear. I sat back down and put my hands under the warm air. Oh well, I thought, if the weather doesn’t cooperate, I could consider my time under the dryer as an endurance event.

Flash forward- 6 am, in our cozy townhouse, shared with a mom and her college age son. I’d been up for hours, and only fifteen more minutes to wait until the alarm was due to wake Laura. Spreading my thumb and forefinger, I separated the blinds to glimpse our cycling fate out the window. Fog, puddles, spatters from the sky. And a hurricane came, and devastation reigned. We could see our future drip dripping down the drain…But we are here to ride- let’s try.

The drive to our start point, Brookdale Community College, was very short, and we arrived to a full parking lot and a fair number of grumbly cyclists. Folks were bailing on the ride, others were talking about doing shorter distances than they had planned. It was chilly, rainy, breezy. Personally I prefer that to the 100 degree heat which killed 1000 soldiers at the Battle of Monmouth.

Laura and I checked in and got some coffee and breakfast and put air in our tires. With a laugh and an extra layer of clothing on, we mounted up and rode together for the first 8 miles, until Laura’s green arrows for the 35 mile ride diverged from my white arrows for the Century at a classic south Jersey traffic circle. We were on our own.

The weather held. The roads dried. And I looked down at my arrows and read them wrong and went left when I should have gone right. This is easier to do than you might think, especially at the blistering pace I was setting. Not, but even so. I suspect very little oxygen is able to get into the brain of a cyclist with a properly fitted helmet. Finding myself at a T intersection with no arrows, I backtracked and made a correction.

The course was flat as a Wisconsin accent. The only hills were the rises on overpasses. Ascending one, I saw a young man wearing a parka and gloves. He looked a bit like the Michelin Man out for a 100 mile bike ride.

“Is this your first time?,” I asked.

“Yes! And my girlfriend’s too!”

We rode together for a bit and chatted. I tried to tactfully suggest that perhaps he might want to take the parka off. The sun was nearly out. I had ditched my sleeves. At first, I felt like we three may have been able to share the 80 miles ahead of us, but I realized three fundamental truths at the exact same time. Number One: We weren’t well matched for pace. Number Two: my new found friends were going to struggle to do the Century ride before the close of the decade. Number Three: He can’t be left alone to his devices. He’s indecisive from crisis to crisis. By crisis, I mean busy intersection. He was yelling at his friend, Attack! Retreat! Attack! Retreat! And I didn’t feel I would be safe with them. Honestly, I never saw them arrive at the rest stop. I think their day came to an end. I hope they had fun while it lasted.

I buddied up with a pair of men after passing through the most charming town on the route, Allentown. They seemed to be running GPS and they were strong, stronger than I, but I felt I could hang with them for a bit. We rode pretty fast, but we rode off the course, as the arrows disappeared and we had that familiar sinking feeling. The GPS was off…Retreat. Regroup, Rediscover the arrows. Ahh, finally, rest stop one, 30 miles in.

I sidled up to the snack table to down some trail mix and refill my Gatorade bottle, and briefly thought about joining up with a regiment of riders who were pulling out the driveway. Alas, they were on their way in, having already completed the extra loop that makes the century ride. I soldiered on alone, for the next 20 miles. Then, at the halfway point, I caught a break at the snack table. I saw the colors of a familiar battalion 7 feet ahead of me. They were the Morris Area Freewheelers, ably represented by Manny, Al, and Ron. I have seen their uniforms out on training rides all over Morris and Somerset. They told me that the weather had made deserters of much of their cohort, and they confirmed that they could use a new recruit. This orphan rider had found her regiment.

The Freewheelers are a very active cycling club. They host rides every day of the week, and they sponsor and support one of the best recreational rides in New Jersey, The Revolutionary Ramble. Now in its eighth year, The Ramble explores the roads of Morris and Somerset counties, featuring a revolutionary war theme, thus visiting many haunts frequented by Washington, Lafayette, and, of course, Hamilton. This ride benefits local ambulance squads, and takes place in early June. I have ridden it five times. Distances range from 12 miles to a full, hilly century. Next year, I will volunteer for the Ramble and help with food or traffic management.

Ron, Al, and Manny are poster boys for the benefits of biking. All three are older than I. All three ride several times a week. Manny is 67, and rode 6,000 miles last year. How amazing and wonderful is that? Inspirational.

We traded stories and traded the lead for fifty friendly miles. As we approached the finish, the guys pulled back and allowed me my moment of glory as I pulled into the driveway and saw my daughter and completed my very first century ride.  This is one type of event I will surely try again. I think cycling is a good fit for me, a sport I should be able to pursue for a lifetime.

Like our forefathers, despite the weather, we snatched a stalemate (at least!) from the jaws of defeat. And as we headed north to our encampment for rest and relaxation, with Laura at the wheel and me dozing off next to her, I thought, “Everyone must sit under their own vine, or fig tree, and no one shall make them afraid… they’re safe in the nation we’ve made… one last time.” And we pulled into the drive, safe and sound.

DATELINE: March 11-16, 2016, Pine Island, FL

5k Breast Fest Walk and 37 Mile Bike Ride

Invited by my wonderful sister in law, Kay, Kip and I jetted off  to spend several days in her rented digs on Pine Island, off the west coast, near Ft. Myers, Florida. I had surgery in January, and was just about cleared to run, bike, swim, lift my luggage, as we embarked. Eager to bag the state, I entered “us” in two 5k races in a row, in Ft. Myers. I figured Kay , Kip and I could walk the first, and I would run the second, solo, to see how much fitness I lost through surgery and recuperation. Little did I know how long it took to drive the short distance on and off Pine Island back to Ft. Myers. Honestly, it would have been a slog.

Sometimes the travel gods look out for the unprepared. Our arrival at the house on the southern tip of Pine Island boasted three surprises. One: we would be sharing the house not only with Kay but also with her in laws, David and Susan, who hail from North Carolina and who proved adept at impromptu sing-alongs, sunscreen sharing, condo buying, and card games. Two, our nearest neighbors were two bald eagle adults and their flight fearful, fully grown chick, who delighted us daily with his awkward attempts to wield his wings. And three: a breast cancer walk was scheduled for the very next day, March 12, my 54th birthday, a block away from the house. Eighty percent of the family agreed to join me at 8:30 am for the walk, despite their not being “morning people.”

The walk was invigorating, the terrain, of course, flat, and the locals turned out in support with water bottles, doggie play pools, and live music, both at the turnaround point and all day long at the community center. We all completed the walk at a brisk pace and cooled off in the screened in pool right behind our house, along the canal. Kip and I set off later in search of a marina to make plans for a boat trip later in the week, and we all drove to Bokeelia at the opposite end of the island for a sunset birthday dinner at the island’s best restaurant, the Tarpon Lodge.

I let everybody sleep in Sunday morning and borrowed Susan’s rented beach cruiser for a sunrise start for my challenge: an end to end to end ride on the bike path that runs from St. James City to Bokeelia, 18 plus miles. Pine Island is far less developed than most of Florida, and I greeted the dawn thusly:

True, there were no hills, but no uphill means no downhill, no coasting, just consistent work. To add to the challenge, the bike seat kept inching down, increasing the difficulty and stressing my knees and thighs. After a little over an hour, I reached the halfway point in fine fettle.

After a little walk and a few minutes break, I remounted my single speed steed and… discovered that I had been benefitting from a tailwind the whole way. Now, my tail was turned and so were my fortunes. Eighteen miles ahead of me, into a 15 mph wind. Now I was working! No wonder the people I had met going the opposite way on the path had looked like they were in super slow mo.  And I thought they were just much older. They probably weren’t that much older. Feeling older, actually a year older on paper, I was not about to quit, and I trudged away at the distance. It took me significantly longer to do the second half, but I completed my challenge and hit the pool and had my second cup of coffee. Woohoo!

David and Susan spent the rest of that day buying a condo closer to the golf that they love, and we toasted their success that night ’round the corner at the Waterfront Restaurant and Marina in St. James City, topping it off with the chocolate peanut butter mousse cake. One slice is more than enough for 5 people. Don’t eat this alone unless you are, in fact, a moose. Then we played cards, a fun new game called Meet it, Beat it, or Eat it. I mostly ate it.

Day 3, Dave had a member guest tournament and the rest of us headed off- island to Airboats and Alligators, the closest opportunity to ride airboats and experience the Everglades. Lake Trafford, Immokalee, Florida, is reputedly the headwaters of the Everglades, and it truly does have an undeveloped shoreline, mangrove swamps, grasslands, and a mass of alligators. I expected to be disappointed but I wasn’t. I saw some wonderful life birds too, including boat-tailed grackles, coots, and the marvelous purple gallinule.

The only downside to the road trip was the mass of cages on the porch of the little cabin. Inside were scarlet and blue macaws, gray parrots, parakeets and lovebirds. The signs all screamed DON’T TOUCH! THEY BITE! But as I walked out onto the porch, the first bird cheerily said “Hello!” and every bird turned its shoulder into the bars of the cage, desperate for contact, begging to be stroked and touched. So I did. It’s cruel, tantamount to imprisoning a three year-old child for life. I wanted to take them all home with me.

We drove home, stopped to try to see manatees at Manatee Park, but the waters had warmed and the manatees had left their winter hang-out near the power plant. And it was back to the pool and to Myers Rum and OJ cocktails.

Our final day, we did a dawn assault and caught the 9 am boat to North Captiva, the shelling capital of Florida. It was a foggy morning, and became a foggy day, which was fine with me, since I prefer shade to sun as long as it’s warm. The first person we met as we carted our beach chairs and towels toward the gulf side beaches said, “No, there’s no beach here. At the end of the road, there is a 6 foot cliff. Even my dogs can’t get down it. They are not supposed to tell you that you can walk this island. You are just supposed to eat lunch and leave. The public beach is at least a mile down that road.”

She was wrong. She was mean. We walked a bit, ran into a resort, so we tried the road past the firehouse, and we found the beach. It is gorgeous, very quiet. True to its reputation, I have never seen so many undamaged shells anywhere else. They are piled up two to three feet high in certain areas. In other spots, there are none. Those are the places where swimming is best. The water was cool, no undertow, delicious. Two happy hours on the sand, and we trekked back to Barnacle’s Restaurant, where we had sangria and yummy salads, black beans and rice, and fish sandwiches. Susan and I schooled a younger couple in the game of cornhole, and we made our triumphant return to Pine Island on the 2:15 boat. Another great day, a relaxing and fun vacation overall, and a wonderful chance to get to know extended family. Now that Susan and Dave have a house down there… we may spend more time in Florida as the years go on.

DATELINE: Adams, Massachusetts, October 24, 2015

Ascent of Mt. Greylock via the Thunderbolt Trail

It would have been time to complete the Northeast States with a quick trip to the Berkshires during peak color. Unfortunately, my plan for New Jersey in early October was foiled by Chris Christie. His State of Emergency over Hurricane Joaquin ruined my plan to bike 80 miles, from Cherry Hill to Ocean City, in the MS City to Shore. My home state will have to wait. I want to do something big for New Jersey, having lived here for all of my 53 years.

No matter, Massachusetts beckoned. Laura and I hit the road for a mid-week weekend based in North Adams, Massachusetts. We traveled the Taconic State Parkway and saw no other cars. Had it to ourselves. Autocorrect prefers the Laconic Parkway, which means it is a road of few words. Since the highway had nothing to say, we listened to Taylor Swift on the way up, and she asked, over and over, “Are we out of the woods? Are we out of the woods, are we out of the woods?” Nooo. The whole idea is to be IN the woods.

We stopped on the way up at the southwest corner of the state for a quick warm-up hike at Bash Bish Falls State Park, which boasts the highest falls in the state.  We were straddling the New York/Massachusetts line, and could practically have set each foot in a separate state.Before descending to the falls, we hiked up a steep boulder and took in the incredible vista.

Bash Bish proved a very accessible and easy hike. We picked our way down the slope and were treated to this:

We were tempted to take a dip in the swimming holes, astoundingly clear. Locals told us that skinny dipping is common, despite the NO Swimming signage. I won’t say whether we indulged or did not…

From that point, we drove old rural Route 22 North on the New York side of the line, stopping at a Greek diner and treating ourselves to Bailey’s Irish Cream lattes, then crossed back over into Massachusetts. Rain made our next decision an easy one. We had two spare hours, and we spent them at the wonderful Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art, MOCA. We saw three floors of painted walls by Sol Lewitt, hand painted tents with a political leaning, a flaming Barbara Bush, and a convention of gnomes, which we joined enthusiastically before zig zagging uphill out of the valley to our Air BNB accommodation. We had no trouble finding a room in North Adams during high season for under $70. Do not attempt this on the weekend on the spur of the moment!

We caught an early dinner, bought Gatorade and power bars for the hike the following day, and at 8 pm, it was lights out. We had a terrible struggle to remember the name of the highest mountain in Massachusetts: Greystone? No, that’s the New Jersey State mental institution. Greystoke? No, that is a Tarzan movie. Oh, yes, Greylock, 3,491 feet up.

We fueled up the next morning at Oh Crepe!, feasting on bagels with peanut butter and Nutella, surrounded by used books and antiques, also for sale. The sleepy young guy who had the early shift filled our water bottles for us, and we made it to the trailhead while the sun was still very low in the sky. It was windy and the temps were in the low 30s, so we were extra anxious to get moving.

The Thunderbolt Trail is historic, cut in 1934 by the Civilian Conservation Corps. It has been the site of the US Ski Championships multiple times. Clearly, the guys wanted to make this the shortest possible ski trail and move onto other jobs, because it remains the shortest, steepest way to climb Mt. Greylock. Elevation gain is 2,500 feet in under two miles. In the beginning, the trail lulls you into overconfidence with a traverse and a few switchbacks. Like most trails, it is sometimes clearly marked, sometimes indecipherable. It changes names for a short stretch for no reason at all. It has some sections with nicknames: The Bumps, and the steepest section by far, The Big Bend. That Big Bend is a Big Pain, two ascents of quad- burning vertical near the summit.

Just after the Big Bend, the Thunderbolt meets the Appalachian Trail and parallels it to the summit, marked by a war memorial.

Despite the cold, we explored the summit area for a while. A friendly motorcyclist had followed the paved tour road to the summit, and we saw two other hikers. It was 10:30 am at the height of leaf peeper season, and we had near solitude on the highest mountain in Massachusetts.

In addition to the Thunderbolt Ski Shelter, built in the thirties of stone picked off the mountain top, the highlight of the summit area is Bascom Lodge, a lovely restaurant and hiker’s rest that has been welcoming through- hikers on the Appalachian Trail since the 1930s. We were unlucky- today was the day that the windows were being boarded up to protect them from the winter winds. But I snuck a quick picture of a bunkroom, complete with stone fireplace, before we beat a retreat back down the Thunderbolt, our hands numbed and our insides chilled.

Climbing up a mountain is hard on the lungs, but climbing down is hard on the legs, especially since they have already worked their way up. Laura is quicker and more surefooted than I am, but by the time we revisited The Bumps, we were both feeling shaky. My feet wanted to skim the ground, and I felt they were flopping themselves down like I was wearing clown shoes.

Conditions, however, were really perfect. Not hot, not terribly cold, dry, no ice, and just enough leaves to cushion the footfall but not enough to hide the contours of the path beneath. All in all, a wonderful outing and a stalwart challenge, and another state in the bag. True, we didn’t complete the ultimate Thunderbolt challenge, the annual winter race. Participants strap on backcountry skis, climb up the trail, then ski back down. Then, they DO IT AGAIN. Why twice? WHY? I’ll never be that fit. But I’m ok with it.

We folded ourselves into the car and drove south on Route 8 through the touristy towns, where we saw buses and could not secure a parking place. Lovely architecture on view in Pittsfield and Stockbridge. By the time we approached Great Barrington, we were savvy enough to stop on the outskirts of town and we had a terrific lunch and some local beer at the Barrington Brewery, the first solar cooled brewery in New England. This is a cozy barn-turned- bar was perfect for two tired hikers seeking comfort food and to raise a glass in honor of a challenge met.

Back on the road, I could feel myself edging onto the rumble strips and my mind slipping to oblivion. I realized I could not drive anymore, and relinquished the wheel to my twenty something. She brought us in safe and sound.

I was very sore for the next few days, carrying the steeps of Mt. Greylock in my quads. But I was able to play my Sunday soccer game, and we won a nail biter, 4-3. Sometimes the only way to ease the pain is to literally work it out of the muscles. I’m looking forward to sharing more trails with friends and family as I traipse my way around the country.

Dateline: August 30, 2015  Smithfield, Rhode Island

The North Country 50 Ride, with the Narragansett Bay Wheelmen

After an unplanned lull in training, the result of a minor skin cancer on my forehead which left me under doctor’s orders to “take it easy,” for a WHOLE WEEK, I was heading back to Maine for a little more sun, sail, and family time, and on the way up, I detoured to Rhode Island to ride with the Wheelmen. We don’t need no stinkin’ training!

I drove up the night before and stayed in the Hampton Inn, treating myself to dinner at a down home place called B’s Breakfast, Brews, and Burgers. Sitting round the bar, I met a nice local couple and we chatted about Hawaii and Alaska and travel and our kids. We watched American Pharoah lose his race at Saratoga to Keen Ice. After a burger and a couple of brews, (I’m pretty much a vegetarian but when you are at a place called Burgers and Brews, you have to improvise…) I trundled off to bed. The ride director had warned me to “bring my climbing legs,” and to expect a hilly course.

Each Sunday, all year long, the Narragansett Bay Wheelmen mark out two to four courses on the pavement at distances ranging from ten miles to 100. And then they gather, and they ride. No race, no rest stops, no sag support, but very well organized and mapped, and welcoming to first timers. At 9 am sharp, the jackrabbits who ride at 19 miles an hour started off, and then the rest of us. This day, rides of 18, 30, and 49 were on tap.

I rode alone most of the time, and just kept on going. The hills were manageable and I was riding smoothly and easily. At the top of what turned out to be the biggest hill, I stopped, almost two hours in, and treated myself to a granola bar and some Gatorade and about five minutes rest. Several people topped the hill and rode past, leaving me thinking I might be the last rider on the 50 course. No big deal, but I was thinking, wow, these folks are fit, or maybe most were doing the shorter rides.

The most scenic part of the ride was crossing a huge dam. It was more impressive than the photo can capture. I didn’t get to experience any of Rhode Island’s coastal areas on this ride, which gives me ample reason to come back and try another ride. I can choose from 52 weeks’ worth, after all. Their signature ride is in September, and it’s billed as the flattest century in the east. It’s called TFCE, The Flattest Century in the East. Since Roger William’s day, Rhode Islanders have been a no- nonsense bunch.

Three hours in, I was getting tired, my water bottle and Gatorade were empty, and I was ready for respite. I have ridden more miles in a day, but usually with rest stops and lunch. It makes a huge difference. At Mile 49, as I turned into the school driveway and finished, I could feel my quads and groin muscles starting to cramp. It’s a good thing the ride ended when it did. I had nothing left to give.

I refueled on watermelon and a local beer and chatted with the other riders as several more filtered in. I wasn’t last in the pack after all. I was proud to have done nearly 50 miles, nearly nonstop, averaging over 15 miles an hour. A great morning’s workout. I hit the road for Southport, Maine, and I knew I was tired when I missed my exit off 295. No harm done; I got a chance to explore some new back roads in Maine. I took a few days off from riding and crewed on Mimiday in match races against Short Stuff, two family boats that turned out to be very well matched indeed. Beautiful weather, plenty of wind, loads of laughs. Rules were flaunted and corners were cut, but the Wilder Cup will be one of my most treasured summer memories of all time.

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