“I’ll just wait in the car,” he said. “I didn’t bring footwear for hiking.” He flew in from Seattle the day before Thanksgiving with the requisite winter coat on his back and a small backpack to stow under the seat of the plane. It was now two and a half days past Thanksgiving and four hours before departure time. “No problem,” we said, Christmas Tree permit in hand. “It will be fun.” “We know the area. We’ll find a good place to park and a perfect tree 101 feet away.”
But first: First the wilderness ranger went to church to be the drummer for the praise band. First I went to the French Bakery to play the piano for three hours and a half. Then he and I ate lunch and waited for the drummer to come home. Time to go. But first he pulled on wool socks over the cotton pair. First the wilderness ranger had to unload the camping gear from her four-wheel-drive truck. Then she ate lunch. And that is how it came to be we set out four hours before departure time to find the perfect Christmas tree.
But first: We needed to stop by the One Acre Wood to get the tree saw and hatchet. No problem. We were at the One Acre Wood only three days ago on Thanksgiving afternoon. Eight inches of new snow had fallen in the interim. With full confidence she drove her knobby tires over the snowy barricade caused by the neighborhood snowplow and began the descent to the camping shed and tool chest. I jumped out and loaded tools onboard. Jumped in, buckled my seatbelt and after slippery attempts at each of the ramps out of the circle drive, and critical assessment, we found we were – – stuck.
Gentle Reader, he did not – he did not wait in the car. Nor did I. Shovel by shovel, bucket of gravel by bucket of gravel, mud mat by transferred mud mat; we advanced car length by car length up the slippery incline until the angle of ascent became manageable. 90 minutes of intense workout for three persons each well-conditioned for their respective ages. Some will not need to go to the gym for a few days. All will need a hot tub. And, yes, thanks to forethought and planning, we made it to the airport on time – but we didn’t pass home. And we don’t have a Christmas tree.
Success! A week later. The wilderness ranger completed the mission alone.
It is an allegory. It is steampunk. It is a little bit novel. It is now available from Amazon and other major book distributors – also from your favoite bookstore – ask for it. Here is a sample of my favorite characters and my favorite chapter.
Stalking the Sleuth
Traveler was being followed. He sensed it from the moment he exited the train. It was a new sensation. For the traveler, open and transparent as he was, was still used to being nearly invisible, sleuthing from the sidelines. It did not feel like a malicious sort of stalking, it was more like shadowing, anticipating. For instance, how did this person whom he had not yet seen – merely felt the eyes and their constant following of his every move – how did this person know he would be on the train? Traveler had not known himself whether he would drive or ride until a few hours before departure. Traveler stood for a moment on the station platform and wished he had his Convie. What am I thinking, he asked himself. I have two sturdy legs and walking is so beneficial to clarity of conclusion.
Followed or not, he was hungry. He turned into his favorite establishment on the wharf and ordered a basket of fish and chips and half a pint of the local ale. Fishing nets and colorful floats adorned the walls. Over the years, hardwood floorboards had been worn to a patina by the constant comings and goings of locals and tourists. Places this popular rarely have extraneous personal space. Every inch was shared with a constantly undulating crowd. Traveler was no sooner seated at a table then he was joined in quick succession by three other persons, two male, one female, constantly in motion changing places like musical chairs as an order number was announced or someone spied a friend, waved, and changed position.
Receiving his order, Traveler closed his eyes and savored the fried sea aroma curling up from the steam. Another basket slid onto the table and a sinewy male eased expertly into the neighboring seat.
“What is your interest in my sister?”
Traveler looked up into cool and intelligent blue eyes and held their gaze for a few seconds.
“Sean Journey, analyst,” said the man, extending a hand.
The traveler shook hands silently, reached for the malt vinegar, fingered a chip and waited.
“You show up in the city and ask background questions of the flakey receptionist. Next, on a road trip, you stop at a little café that just happens to be owned by my parents. No doubt, they gave you volumes of information couched in opinion. Assuming you were capable of distilling the information from the opinion; your next stop was obviously here, where my sister spent some of the most enjoyable and enlightening years of her life.”
“You have tracked me this far, including following me from the train station. You are an analyst.” Traveler met Sean’s eyes again and continued, “You have to ask what my interest is in your sister?” he paused. “I wear a trench coat, I have a fedora, how is it you did not assume I am a private investigator hired by the man himself to track Precious?”
“Puh!” The analyst nearly spat. “That man never had a modicum of initiative. He could find her easily enough on his own if he cared to take the trouble.”
“He wants her back.”
“He wants her to come back, you mean –without him lifting a finger.”
“You have a close connection with your sister.” It was a statement, not a question.
“My sister is kind and caring. Growing up twenty months apart, it felt like we were twins. She protected me. She is a very loyal person.”
Traveler began, “You say Precious is kind, caring and loyal. It seems so out of character for her – from what I have learned of her character – that she would leave the man.” Again, it was an observation, not a question, and the traveler took time to bite off a portion of batter-dipped cod and chew thoughtfully.
The analyst fetched a checkered napkin, wiped his mouth and again made eye contact.
“Precious has an Achilles heel.”
Traveler raised an eyebrow.
“She can’t help rescuing people.”
“That is the compassionate thing to do,” shrugged the traveler.
“Once she rescues them, they make her feel responsible to care for them. When she draws a line and is no longer responsive to plaintive whining, they accuse her of being insensitive.”
Traveler thought back to the helpless wail that first drew his attention to the cave.
“How did she come to connect with the man in the first place?”
“It was here, at the Western Conservatory of Earth Studies. Precious had a work-study assignment in the botany department. She was building the terrace at Salt Park. It looks out over the bay. The botany department was eradicating noxious weeds and studying plants native to the area. The man, as you already know, was a botany student. His field study and her work shifts overlapped.
“She was cute. She had a fascinating set of tools, so he followed her around like a puppy. And she responded to his needs, encouraging him, complimenting him, building him up.”
“So Precious encourages people and builds them up?”
“Yes, she is always adapting and giving the benefit of the doubt. As a result, people depend on her.”
“It is a credit to her strength of character that your mother has not prevailed on her to move back home.”
“Yes. And one of the greatest disappointments of my mother’s life to find that they are not joined at the hip in every opinion.”
Salt Water Park
Traveler’s basket was empty. The two men rose together in a sort of natural synchrony and headed out the door. Traveler set a course for Salt Water Park and Sean Journey fell into step beside him.
“We have dined together with perceptive conversation,” stated Journey, “but you have not yet identified yourself and your interest.”
Again Traveler mused on the oft-asked question. He preferred not to answer directly. There is no succinct and simple way to reply; “I am a traveler, scribe and cycloptic seer for the core.” It leads only to complication. First, most people think you are joking. The common man, meaning the majority of homo sapiens populating the earth, would guffaw and snort, “You think you go around seeing Cyclops?” Sean Journey was a human of no ordinary intellect. He had shared honestly. The ball was now in Traveler’s court.
“I am a traveler, scribe, and cycloptic seer for the core,” he replied.
“Meaning you work for the Cranial Reservoir,” stated Sean. “Why the qualifier, cycloptic?”
“I am a visionary of only one eye,” said Traveler. “Were I to see with both eyes, I would be omniscient, omnipotent. As it is, I observe wisdom. I am able to see imperfectly into the behavior and motivation of others. Once glimpsed, the motivation and personality fascinates me. I travel to ferret out the needed wisdom for each relationship observed. I scribe. The results of seeing and scribing are uploaded to the global Cranial Reservoir – all the collected wisdom of the ages.”
“You upload directly to the Cranial Reservoir?” queried Sean.
Traveler smiled, “There is a good bit of residue and affinity for the past in me. I first make my notes on papyrus tablet. The very act of writing is stimulating to thought – therapeutic to confusion. Once I reach the conclusion, my results teletransport to the core cranium.”
“They pay you to upload facts?”
“Sometimes hard facts; more often truth couched in myth.”
“I have accessed the Cranial Reservoir many times in my profession – more often in the classifications of military behavior.”
“My work is about relationships.”
As the analytical silence grew, the men sat musing with similarity of mind. Sean absently caressed a Michaelmas aster and then hefted a black volcaniclastic rock the size of a bowling ball. Fire glass.
“All that rot about Precious loving rocks inordinately? The goblin princess accusation?” said Sean. “Precious loves rocks for what they are, a normal part of our earth surroundings. She also, as you know, loves jewels and gold and silver – for their excellence. The man, he tends to objectify. He loved rocks only because they were pretty – and because Precious was good at rocks. He is a covetous being. He craves for himself everything someone else has. Precious was naturally gifted with the ability to know just which rock fit in which space as she built that terrace with our father, Petros. Then, she went to college and graduate school to find out the latest techniques for identifying gold and minerals. The man, on the other hand, absorbed Precious’s successes for himself along with appropriating her tools. He seemed to think whatever Precious did, he could do better just because he was the masculine portion of the team. He wanted to stay home and enjoy rocks without having made any effort to learn about them.”
Again, Sean and the Traveler rose from their flagstone seats in tandem. As though with one mind, they headed toward the beach. As they walked, Sean probed for more details about Traveler’s work. “What do you consider your most valuable contribution to the Core – to the Cranium?” asked the analyst.
“Frankly, I come to many conclusions that I choose not to upload to the Cranial Reservoir.”
“You remain covert? You withhold information?” queried the analyst, almost, but not quite accusingly.
“That is one thing I would never willingly do: withhold a discovery that would make life better for all. But there is significant danger in serving up truth before the time is right. Precipitous truth could cause a Lady MacBeth situation on your hands.
“You understand the process, of course. After much research and observation, information is uploaded / teleported to the Reservoir. Everyone has access to the Reservoir — and the Cranium, but few go to the bother to digest and think. It is much easier to let others digest the information and broadcast it in 60-second sound bites. Besides, the process to final truth and familiarity with the Universal Cranium is life-long and seems unrewarding to the average seeker.
“Once the information reaches the Cranium, it goes through an extensive process. Anything that is not precise truth is sloughed off. Unscrupulous – or maybe just ignorant- individuals harvest the debris and make their living – and their power – from it. It is this detritus in the hands of well-meaning, but misguided individuals that can inadvertently cause spiritual abuse or emotional abuse. Detritus adds a lot of pressure, stress to the lives of sensitive souls. I want to be overly careful. That is why I withhold; until I am sure – sure that everything I upload is precise – so that I do not add to the detritus.
“There are things that people believe so heartily to be truth they would stake their life on it – maybe your life too. For instance: you must have meat and eggs for breakfast before you have pie.” Traveler paused, and then asked the rhetorical question, “Is it wise to eat a healthful breakfast before pie? Yes. Might an omelet serve the purpose just as well – or better- than biscuits and gravy?” Traveler raised his eyebrows into question marks.
The analyst gave a rueful smile.
Traveler continued, “Is it imperative that children respect their parents? Yes. Must adult children follow every word of advice that falls from the lips of antiquated ancestors in order to show that respect?” Traveler paused for a moment and let the question hover. “Myths that hold the essence of truth may cause simple minds to make a shrine of the shell. They worship the vehicle of truth rather than the truth. They make sacred the cow rather than simply being nourished by the meat.”
It was not often Sean Journey found himself in the presence of someone both safe and intellectual. He proffered a rare insight from his personal life. “I respect my dad for his philosophical, good-hearted patience and perseverance. I love my mother because she gave birth to me and nourished me, meeting my basic needs when I was young. But very seldom do I find it comfortable to visit Castle Rook.”
It is more truth than myth, the idea that struggling musicians, actors, and opera aspirants work in a deli while waiting for a big break. It is vintage legend and it is just as true today in any music city as it was 100 years ago. New York, New Orleans, L.A. Durango. Yes, Durango. I heard the tourists talking as I sat at the piano at Jean-Pierre French Bakery during the recent Blue-Grass Meltdown. They were talking about the prolific amount of musical talent in such a small town – especially the pianists. Very true. The Strater Hotel anchors the other end of the same block as Jean-Pierre and boasts two restaurants and one saloon. The Diamond Belle Saloon is historic and famous and houses a grand old upright piano. During the season – May through October – there is a continuous line-up of ragtime pianists playing every night of the week. The most famous is Adam Swanson – four-time World Champion Old-Time piano player. Another piano man appearing regularly at the Diamond Belle is Daryl Kuntz. He and his brother have been in the movies. Daryl also plays piano one morning a week at Jean-Pierre. I cover Saturday and Sunday mornings.
For my side-hustle, I administer the private lessons schedule at Stillwater Music.
So I get to meet them, 25 or 30 of these aspiring and practicing professional musicians, as they carry out another traditional side-hustle of musicians – private lesson teacher.
She is a musical theater major, an opera singer headed to graduate school, and she gives voice lessons three days a week to students of all ages, five-year-old Disney princesses to 65-year-old choral singers. She also cleans houses to supplement her living – and walks dogs – and works evenings in a liquor store.
He is a coffee barista who manages one of the many, many hip coffee shops in Durango. He also is an accomplished fingerstyle guitarist who plays, bass, mandolin, and uke. Other musicians refer to him with the nickname Prophet of Jazz. He has not always been in Durango, but he always comes back.
He is a much revered, most veteran of piano teachers; so laid back he could be a bass player. He has toured with his guitar, finished his piano degree as a young adult and married man, and sometimes takes time off to attend his son’s soccer games. His son also plays cello. His daughter; piano. He used to take time off to tour with Chevel Shepherd on keys and guitar. I am not sure whether being a sought after gigging musician and recording studio staple is his side hustle or weather teaching 32 students a week is his side hustle. But either way, he is making a full-time living in music.
She will ride in the Iron Horse Bicycle Classic tomorrow – all the way to Silverton – on a bicycle – racing the train. She only graduated college a year or so ago – with a double major. She has 30 piano students and is dedicated to giving them her best. As a side hustle she accompanies for the local middle school and works mornings at the golf-course. She will leave for graduate school in the fall, but she will keep as many of her students as possible online, because even in graduate school, you’ve got to have a side-hustle.
Your payroll information has arrived. I love those words. Instantly, I am humbled. Once again, I am provided for. True, by the work of my own hands, my efforts. This is not a handout or a free gift. I have been paid. Paid for my expertise, my organization, my ability to persevere. True, I have put forth the effort, given my best work ethic, earned these dollars. But I have been acknowledged – acknowledged with a paycheck. Why does this continue to amaze me? Because I know that feeling, that tired, burned out, wrung-out feeling of giving my all; throwing myself into a project and reaping too little reward for too big a piece of my life. I have experienced much in six decades. I have been self-employed and been the self-sacrificing partner of the self-employed. I have been a business owner and have also been a paid employee in times when every earned cent was spoken for before it transferred to my account. Survival for the next 30 days was precarious, outcome unknown. Your payroll information has arrived. The financial math is done. A plan is laid. The money will be parceled out. Some to share. Some to save. Some to spend. Bills will be paid. Your payroll information has arrived. Your needs are provided for. Be at peace now for 30 days.
She rarely drags her heels in dread at birthdays. What can you do to stop them? Nothing. The years will march on. So why not party? Eat the cake, blow out the candles and not rue the passing of the earth one more rotation around the sun. But this year? She doesn’t want to turn another year older. She knows these truly are the best years of her life. Sixty-seven has been the best year ever and therefore she wants to stay 67 forever. Finally, she has tasted it all. She has enjoyed the accomplishments she longed for, basked in snippets of affirmation, engaged in friendship, made the decision to enter in to self-confidence, greeted most days with gratitude.
Does she now have it all? Is the bucket list complete? Is it time to fold herself up and return to her maker? She doesn’t think so.
She wants to stay 67 forever because she has finally tasted what life can and should be and she wants more of it. She wants to know the rest of the story. She wants to continue the momentum. She wants to keep saying to younger people, “It gets better! Hang in there! The 60s are a great decade! You have so much to look forward to!”
Still, she would like to linger in this year just a little bit longer, enjoy a second helping of this year’s goodness, perhaps order dessert, savor another cup of tea, a few more hugs and the promise of kisses, another sigh of satisfaction at a job finally, finally well done.
She had, for some years, been actively taking responsibility for herself – meeting her own needs both financially and emotionally – attending to selfcare when necessary now that she had reconciled herself to the notion that one can’t be successful just sitting around waiting for someone else to notice need and fill the void. In other words, if her soul needed a hot meal; she cooked one. If she felt like dancing; she took herself dancing. If she needed a break or a vacation; she provided for herself.
So, as I was saying, she had, for some years been actively taking responsibility for herself financially and emotionally, when a book fell into her hands. And I hasten to assure you that “fell into her hands,” is proper grammar and tense – whether you find it active or passive – because all she did was open the little glass door on the neighborhood sharing library – a little ADU house that shelters up to 20 books at a time – and take out a yellowed previous best seller (1999) titled, How to Get What You Want and Want What You Have. Rather long for a title, given the spine of a paperback doesn’t offer a quantity of space. She was pretty much done with self-help books. Also, she was – as Jane Austen might put it – vastly content – in her activities and semi-retirement. But still, she did want something more. Further, the book was written by the author of Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. Knowing that to be true, and also having a certain amount of respect for a writer who could reference outer space and Greek myth in a literary sounding sentence, she shlepped the book home and began to read.
Let me be clear, she loved the semi-hermit life she now lived, but there was a bit of lack. She wanted more and she wanted to go about obtaining it with the best method.
In this book, the writer spoke of love tanks that need to be filled throughout the stages of a person’s life in order for one to be properly soul-nourished and to grow and thrive in health.
There were parent tanks and friendship tanks and higher-power tanks and even eros tanks. She was fairly familiar with the concept. It all made sense. But how does one go back and fill a deficient tank, a neglect that happened in high school or grade school or even in the womb? How does one cease blaming and actively take responsibility for becoming whole?
She found, for instance, that choosing a good counselor, taking a college course, or even reading a good book can fortify deficiencies in the parent love tank. A faith love tank is an ongoing journey. Some of the love tanks work like backup storage and spill over into others. And sometimes, sometimes one can go back and actually rebuild bridges to friendships in the past and reap the benefits of friendship in the present.
So it happened that in 2020 and 2021, in the midst of a pandemic and social isolation, in spending a minimal amount of time on social media, she was able to reconnect with old high school acquaintances. Hear me now, they had never been “close” or “besties” back in their school days – but there had been many, many hours and years spent in shared classes and activities in the years from 1960 to 1972. Twelve years of shared era and memories; a shared past. They reached out to her. She responded. Good women, all of them. Persons who from age 10 to 18 did not reject her. In fact, always she would have found a place of welcome at their lunch table – had she not been so concerned with the popular kids and the ones who did reject her – or worse – did not know she existed at all.
As the dust cleared from the first round of the pandemic and social distancing, she made her way back to the old hometown and reconnected with a few of the young women – now grown old – precisely as old as she. In addition, she journeyed over the mountains to reunite for a few hours with old colleagues – folks with whom she shared many fond educational memories. Then, she loaded her kayak and went paddling and hiking in a pristine mountain town with a newer friend, someone known to her for merely a decade. She got those friendship tanks full and in that newfound energy of friendship, she began to reach out confidently and intentionally to form new friends in her new community.
Thus, when someone asked her frankly about the pandemic years (2020 and 2021), she confessed those years had not been so bad after all. There was much to say in their favor.
It has been a really great year full of blessings and good surprises, never mind that we are now in the deepest darkest days of winter, I am experiencing the second cold in about as many weeks, and I definitely overbooked myself when I dipped my exploratory toe back into the workforce. Yes. I worked 50 hours in seven days last week– all in the name of survival, being a responsible employee, and independent retiree. But let’s start with the good stuff.
In January, February and March I kept to the house other than my daily 3 to 8 mile jaunts into the great outdoors. I practiced music, I wrote books, I published books. Life was grand. Andrea and I and my Dad took a two week road trip to the Northwest at the end of March. We had fun staying in contactless check-in Air B&Bs and visiting cousins and their families along the route. Andrea and I had fun. Dad rather missed the opportunities to socialize and joke with motel or restaurant staff – but he was totally satisfied by getting to visit with Joyce and Rod, David and Virginia Anderson and family; David and Gayle Harris and family, Cathi and Chuck. We even got to hike and enjoy a seafaring meal with Philip, and we met Shannon and Lisa on the outskirts of Salt Lake City to share an outdoor meal.
Once home again, Andrea returned to her seasonal job as a wilderness ranger with the National Forest Service and I continued writing and set about looking for music opportunities with which to supplement my income.
On May 21, I took a trip to Grand Junction to attend the high-school graduation of oldest grandson, Drew. Although I made it before the ceremony was over, the trip included traversing Coal Bank Pass, Molas Pass and Red Mountain Pass in eight to 12 inches of snow. Andrea followed a couple hours behind in her truck and was the last driver over before they closed Red Mountain. While I awaited the go ahead at the top of Red Mountain, I changed from my graduation sandals into my hiking boots and threw a down coat over my sleeveless dress.
In late spring, Dad and I spent an adventurous night in a cabin on Grand Mesa and followed that with an outdoor luncheon at Coni and Steve’s.
Dad traveled to Durango with me to spent four days which we repeated again in the summer. At Thanksgiving Kevin and family passed through. We enjoyed 24 hours of music and hiking before they went on to Phoenix to have Thanksgiving with Sarah’s sister. Dad stayed with me for another four days.
In June I began playing piano for Saturday and Sunday morning brunch at a local French bakery. I like it immensely. I play love songs from the early ¾of the 20th Century. I spent a few days in Lake City with my kayak paddling every evening and hiking every day with friend Linda and her kayak. I also hiked Highland Mary’s Trail outside Silverton with friend Johanna and was privileged to have other good friends drop in and hike with me throughout the warm months. I took my kayak out solo so many times I have lost count. In October, my roommate (aka Andrea) moved out which greatly increased my living expenses. No worries. I found seasonal work on the Polar Express and then an administrative music job at Stillwater Music opened up – just the job I had been hoping for. In 2020 I sang virtually with the Durangatones from Stillwater. Now I enjoy playing keyboard with Groove Casters (also a Stillwater Adult Band).
I continue to write stories. I am writing songs again. I even played electric bass at a church meeting last summer. See what I mean? Life is good!
The truth is, she would have signed up for that kayaking trip whether it was August 4 or not. A friend – a fellow writer – who loved the beauty of the great outdoors the same way she did, had organized the trip. It was at least her eighth time on the water that year, but who’s counting? Besides, it was a kind of opened-ended goal for her to touch the Colorado River in as many places as possible.
A few years before, she had hiked beyond the headwaters of the Colorado River in Grand County Colorado – hiked all the way further in to Rocky Mountain National Park where the headwaters were merely snow that was melting and flowing under the ice beneath her feet. It was cold, very cold that April and the paved road had not yet opened for the season. On another trip, she rolled up her pant legs and waded into the river water at Lake Havasu. She visited the Salton Sea and crunched among the heaps of dead sea shells and fish bones. She hiked riverfront trails wherever she could find them and dipped her toes at Glenwood Springs, Rifle and Debeque Canyon; Palisade, Grand Junction, Fruita – and all the way down Highway 128 into Moab Utah. Her love of the Colorado River and its tributaries grew as friends urged her into a kayak on the Gunnison (Escalante to Bridgeport) and a placid-but still Grand – portion of the Colorado from Palisade to Grand Junction.
When you get the chance to paddle, you do. But the fact that it was August 4, made it oh so serendipitous. The part of her that loved history, indeed, the part of her that loved core knowledge and interdisciplinary learning and the way every piece of knowledge connects with another; the interpretive part that is fascinated by reenactments and tribute bands and trips down memory lane; that part of her savored the fact that it was August 4, 2019, exactly 150 years after John Wesley Powell and his expedition crew made their way down this very stretch of river.
On the night of August 3, 1869, Powell and his men camped somewhere near the Crossing of the Fathers (Dominguez and Escalante) on the Grand River. They rose the morning of August 4 and rowed the stretch of river ending at the juncture with the Paria River in Marble Canyon.
On the night of August 3, 2019, she slept in her own bed in Greenehaven, AZ, some 10 miles from the narrow gorge that is the Colorado River in Page, AZ. She rose the morning of August 4, 2019 and drove the 45 miles from Page AZ to what is now Lee’s Ferry just north of Marble Canyon. At Lee’s Ferry, the group caught a backhaul that transferred participants and kayaks just about as far up river as you can go given the presence of Glen Canyon Dam. Once dropped off, some paddled upriver a bit until they could see the power lines and the tunnel where commercial rafts put in just below the dam. When the entire group of eight had gathered on the beach at Fairy Swale, they were underway. Weather wise, it could not have been a more perfect day. The group paddled leisurely down a lazy river, beaching for short hikes to explore petroglyphs; pitied the hoards gathered at the top of Horseshoe bend while the river runners had the river nearly to themselves; caught a current here and there and lounged in kayaks letting the river do the work. The rain clouds rolled in, made the light picture-perfect, but did not rain enough to chill or drench. A pontoon boat passed and then anchored in a cove up ahead and a local musician provided an impromptu concert on the river. Thus, this became Music Canyon, despite being several miles further downriver than the one so named by Powell. The group of eight persons and seven kayaks continued on, exchanging positions, engaging in conversations with different members of the diverse group, getting to know biographies.
With such halcyon circumstances, she forgot all about the stories of paddling against the wind – until it happened. About two miles out from Lee’s Ferry, the wind kicked up. Strong. Blowing up river. Around that same time, she was shunted off to the right by a little eddy, while other members of the group caught a stronger current to the left. Try as she might, she could not catch up. A women more than 5 years her senior outstripped her by 500 meters and disappeared around the bend. This was not her first experience paddling against the wind. Knowing she was in better condition than on any previous trip, she straightened her back, braced her legs, shoved her butt into the seat and began to power paddle – – without effect. Gradually the river carried her downstream. Eventually, she straggled in at Lee’s Ferry, the last of the group to arrive and not the first to exclaim, “Wow! What a trip! What a perfect day!”
She smiled broadly. There was a bit of a lilt, if not a swagger, to her step. She had just added another 15 miles to her Colorado River account.
I have often joked to my boss, in all seriousness, that I get more work done on the road than when I am in the office. When I travel – for work or for pleasure – I like to rise on my own schedule (5:00 am, if you must know), open my Mac Pro and knock out a few lines of work or of story while still in my pajamas, then ruminate edits while I shower and dress. After a morning hike and morning chores, my favorite haunt is a bookstore or coffee shop with wifi. There I can sit for hours and create a manuscript or spell-check or research an idea if I am on my own time, or complete merchandise orders if I am on the clock.
My studio apartment is much like a motel room; windows only on one side. If I spend an entire day off at home, I am likely to grow morose and lonely and useless as the day progresses. It is too hot to hike, too dark to be cheerful. In addition; my internet is irritating – sometimes non-existent.
Heretofore, I had not found an obliging and comfortable internet café in Page, AZ, nevertheless, I rose this Saturday morning determined to carry the vacation habits learned earlier this week right on into my weekend.
I rose.
I walked.
I wrote.
I showered.
I dressed.
I ruminated.
And then I recollected;
Hallelujah! There is a bookstore / coffee shop in Page, Arizona!
It is my very own bookstore! It has a fabulous, hand-finished, hardwood coffee bar and great music and amazing ambience, and coffee with a story, and hot water for tea, and a window for people watching, and international visitors coming in and out the door, and knowledgeable sales staff.
So. It is Saturday morning and I have come home from vacation – home to a place that is better than I first found it more than two years ago -and I have been a part of making it that way.
This happy camper has been writing and drinking tea for two hours. At the office, but out of the office, on Saturday!
P.S. Those are not my pajamas – they are my vacation clothes.
Take a hike, it’s good for what ails you. Especially if what ails you is stress, depression, anxiety, tension, panic, frustration.
Take a hike. Walk until you see something that makes you smile. Something pristine and natural like a mallard duck lifting off from a lake. Something wild like a fox never deviating off course – ignoring your presence. Something comforting like a fawn in the forest or quail noisily gathering their chicks, or a lizard zipping away from your shadow.
Keep hiking until it becomes clear exactly what it is that is eating you or whom you blame for your issue. Work it out with each step. Talk it out aloud to the wilderness. Keep going. Keep putting one foot in front of the other until your brain has stopped complaining and started feeling grateful. Press forward until you reach that crucial moment when you throw your hands in the air and shout “Thank You!” Then, and only then is it time to head back to your point of origin. You are now healed – at least for another hour, another day. Taken daily, this remedy will go miles toward keeping you balanced and healthy. Healthy in mind and soul as well as body. There is hope. Hope that you will be cured of your anxiety.
This remedy may also be found packaged under any of the following labels: bicycling, running, swimming, kayaking. Parent company: Exercise in the great outdoors.
One word of caution: hiking is addictive. You may find it necessary to walk further and further into the wilderness to effect a change in your emotional and mental well-being. But, dear friends, can you think of a better remedy with fewer negative side effects?
Hear me now, there are times when you feel like you are going to die. Your chest constricts. It is hard to breathe from the stress. The tension is mounting in your shoulders and around the base of your neck. Or perhaps embarrassment has joined with anxiety so that you feel as if you want to die. When you feel like you want to die – or when you feel that you are going to die; you must, you must get out of doors and take the cure immediately. Why? Because your last goal, the last thing on your bucket list is to die in a beautiful place. Remove yourself to a beautiful place immediately to position yourself to achieve that goal. Who knows? You may recover instantly. It has happened to me time and time before.
Ideas other have suggested as remedies for panic attack caused by anxiety or depression: Now I ask you, cannot all these be accomplished via a good hike?
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
