Cloudy with a Chance of Geese

In mid-March the sky was overcast and the rain, steady but light at 7:00 a.m. I double-tied my hiking boots and zipped my rain jacket over mismatched sweats, stuffing the left jacket pocket with tissues. On chilly or windy days, my eyes water and my nose runs, bringing to mind Mom’s predictable quip: “Everything’s working.”

Through the spring and summer, I take a break from my indoor fitness course for senior citizens and switch to the outdoors, taking morning walks on a paved hiker-biker path. Occasionally I’ll drive to a park and walk the trails, but that’s impractical every day. It takes too much time.

I walk for my health, hoping to balance my appetite with exercise, and I walk to train. In early June I’ll be joining a group in England to hike in three of the country’s national parks. After spending 17 weeks on the Appalachian Trail in recent years, I know not to show up for a hiking vacation without  prior conditioning.

Ohio is flat where I live. The only hill within walking distance is an embankment separating a shopping center from the nearby homes. When I line it up visually, the top of that “hill” is about as high as the gutters on the nearest two-story house. In addition to serving as a buffer between retail and residential properties, the grassy embankment is a sometime meeting place for geese. I hear them barking in the sky as they head somewhere and cross my fingers it’s somewhere else. Do geese experience memory loss the way we do? Can they forget their gathering places?

I remember how the geese land: a flock of 30 or more suddenly fluttering, hissing, honking, and heading in every direction. When they arrive, they take over, pecking at the ground and chattering like cronies in a fast-food coffee club. In past years I have slunk by hoping not to be noticed, but geese intimidate me. Most often their presence is my cue to make an immediate U-turn and cut my elevation training short. 

My attitude toward geese is “Live and let live.” I’ll take ducks.

For the longest time I couldn’t tell ducks from geese, the way as a young girl I couldn’t tell lettuce from cabbage. I now know that ducks are not only smaller than geese; they are friendlier. I’m not intimidated by ducks.

One day it was raining hard, so I put on my sweats, waterproof hiking boots, and rain jacket before heading out. In hindsight, I should have worn my rain pants, too; next time. I had to walk around puddles, and two young ducks stood along the path. “Nice weather for you,” I said in passing.

Most days when I reach the other side of the hill, I see a lone duckling sitting next to the wet end of a drainage ditch outside the strip mall. Where are its mother and father? Its siblings? And don’t ducks imprint on other species in the absence of their own parents?

“We’re just friends,” I said to the duckling the first time I saw it. “Just friends.” I didn’t want it to follow me home. I had enough wandering geese and energetic squirrels in my yard.

The following day the duck was back, sitting alone beside the ditch. I could hear his soft quacking as I reached the bottom of the hill and turned around. He wasn’t afraid of me either.

Sometimes the little fellow was in the same spot, and sometimes he was gone. One day I watched him toddle away with another duckling. Maybe, like so many humans, he doesn’t want to go home for good. Maybe he favors his independence or—can ducks be introverted? Maybe he likes to visit and then get back to his alone time.

I conclude my morning walks by going over the embankment two or three times: up one side, down the other; up that side, down to where I began.

A few weeks into my training, spring burst onto the scene after a long Ohio winter. Forsythia bloomed, the treetops turned pink and white with blossoms, and the grass stood lush and green awaiting the mower. A lone bird, still as a Hallmark ornament, chirped on the tippy-top of an evergreen tree.

I continued to pass the solitary duck on my turns. Most days it sat in its usual spot, and I’d say, “Until next time.” Recently as I crested the hill I looked ahead and saw only an empty stretch of grass, but then I spied my little friend on the other side of the empty road, as though he were waiting to cross.

Now it is the second week of May. The grass is mowed, the walking path resurfaced. I no longer need to wear a sweatshirt on my walks. Today I hiked over the embankment twice—four times up and four down--without slowing my pace. My hiking trip is less than a month away.

The little bird still sings on the tippy-top of the evergreen tree, but the duck has been gone lately. I read that it takes a baby duck 50 days to fly; is my little friend still grounded, or has he taken to the sky? I hope he is safe. The geese have not returned. If they do, I will find another hill to climb.

Mont St. Michel

“Somewhere in the center of a huge sky-sea with only a single road leading out is a circular city. A church like a castle rises above the rest and dwarfs all the cars and houses, and something which looks like a stream flows to the right of a yellow-brick wall. This wall surrounds the small city and seems to force it upward, keeping it from sinking into itself like batter in a cake pan. If a person could suddenly transport himself to the winding dirt road ending at the castle it would be a hot day and he would feel very small looking up toward the spires and high walls of the building. He would be kicking dusty pebbles and trying not to get dirt on his socks and shoes. The loose rocks would crunch under his steps and he would be tempted to seek shade but somehow never would, thinking he was almost there. The city would seem large enough if he were there, and not like a small island in the middle of a cloud, not really big enough for anything but a picture on a calendar.”

I was 22 years old when I wrote that. It was 1967 and I had begun my second real job, as a newspaper reporter, after finding that teaching a bunch of hooligans did not agree with me. One day as I sat in our dingy newsroom listening to the clack of the AP wire, I looked up at a wall calendar and saw the image that would tease and fascinate me for the next 50 years. What was it? I could only imagine what went on in such a magical setting.

Mont St. Michel (when in France, “Le Mont” if you don’t want to sound like a tourist) is a tidal island in the English Channel off the coast of Normandy. It was built on a dream. According to legend, St. Michael came to Aubert, Bishop of Avranches, three times in dreams ordering him to build a shrine off the foggy coast of France. That was centuries ago. Now millions of visitors each year cross a causeway at low tide to visit Le Mont, since 1979 a UNESCO World Heritage Site. In April 2017 I was one of those visitors.

At 22 I knew nothing of the archbishop’s story or the shops, cafes, and even two hotels that now line the cobblestone streets within the walls of Le Mont. Today crowds wind upward toward the abbey, whose spire rises toward Heaven topped by a gold-plated statue of St. Michael. A person can walk along the top of the sea wall and look out over the mud flats to the bay—sand, sea, and sky. Sheep graze in a distant pasture. Tides dictate the traffic flow. I crossed the causeway to enter Mont St. Michel on a perfect spring day under a bright blue sky. Was it the most gorgeous place I’d ever seen?

In 2008 a work trip took me to India, where I was fortunate to visit the Taj Mahal in Agra early in the day and watch its marble colors change as morning fog gave way to sunshine. Until I saw Le Mont in person, the Taj Mahal was the most beautiful structure I’d seen. Now I don’t know.

In India I couldn’t bear to leave the Taj Mahal, turning again and again to look before it was out of sight. I took my last photo of Mont St. Michel from our coach after miles of looking back at the coast of Normandy to see it one more time.

Some dreams are so big they seem impossible. Think of the archbishop, who ignored the first two dreams tasking him with building an abbey on a pile of rocks in a tidal basin. The stories say St. Michael finally poked him in the head during the third dream, and that did the trick.

My dream took a while to percolate, too. When I got home from France a few weeks ago, I got out the metal box that held my musings from my year as a reporter, including the piece on Mont St. Michel. It was fun to compare my first impression with reality. 

Those newsroom musings were written on a manual typewriter in spare moments. The newsprint is curled and yellowed, the edges fragile. Why did I save them? Ask any writer.

Fangirl at 71

My granddaughter was here for a visit last week. At 14, Annie is devoted to her favorite teen idols. She spends hours listening to their music, watching YouTube videos, and catching up on concerts and other news. She writes fangirl fiction and posts it on Tumblr under a different name.

During the same week I received a Facebook friend request from the man who had been my favorite teen idol when I was about Annie’s age. He is still famous and still performing. A thousand women respond when he posts.

The friend request looked real. I went to his fan page, a page I was already following, and saw the same profile photo that had been sent to me. Could it be? I knew better, but the past came rushing back to me, sweet and irresistible.

As a girl in West Virginia I rushed home when my teen idol was scheduled to sing on American Bandstand. My heart would race with love and excitement, tempered by a cold fear that I would be interrupted during those precious minutes he was on TV. Please, I prayed: no phone ringing; no Mom coming in from the kitchen; and, most of all, no failure of the picture tube in our black-and-white set. I would pull the vinyl-covered ottoman close to the screen, sit down, and make sure the volume was just right. How I loved that boy’s moves, his hair, his twinkly eyes, his voice, and the way I could hear his smile in the music.

I’ve kept the record albums I bought and memorized. I’ve seen my idol in concert twice. The first time I was a screaming teen-ager thrilled to be present for Dick Clark’s Caravan of Stars at the Charleston Civic Center. I was too young to drive, so Dad chauffeured my friend Mary Jo, my little brother, and me to the show. When we sat down, Dad stood out in his gabardine topcoat among the squirming, screaming kids. The second time I saw Bobby Rydell I was a senior citizen, still thrilled and screaming like it was 1959.

I deleted the fake friend request and decided to do what I would do for anyone I thought was hacked. I sent a PM (personal message) from his fan page.

He responded, advising me not to accept: “I do not send requests.” A second message came the next day thanking me for the heads-up.

“Your grandma had a teen-age idol too,” I said to Annie. “I still do, and guess what? He’s writing to me on Facebook!”

“Grandma, that’s really exciting!” You said it, Sister.

He posted a SCAM alert. On the private side, I wished him luck and got a “thumb up” in return. I thought that was it, but we had another couple of exchanges about the fake account.

Was he really writing all these notes? It was fun speculating with Annie about whether the messages were real or had been generated by someone hired for the job of keeping up the star’s social media presence.

I then noticed "he" was one of my 83 personal page followers. What? A follower is someone who chooses to follow another’s public posts. Was it possible? After all, we had corresponded--if all of that was real. I compared photos, and the “follower” looked as real as the “friend” had--but no. It was not possible my teen idol was following my Facebook posts. I decided to write again to let him know the fake account had turned up on my page. I thought that would be the end of it.

“I think it’s over,” I said to Annie. “My messaging romance is over.”

To my surprise, he replied again with a lovely note. I was suspicious, though. How could he take that much time to write to me?

I asked Annie’s dad, “Do you think it’s him?” and showed my son the string of messages. He studied the latest one while Annie and I waited.

Greg said, “I think it’s him.”

I have other idols. I’ve been introduced to a few. Fabulous performers, some are also known to be aloof or demanding. Surely they grow weary of the attention from time to time. One star’s stage makeup failed to cover his five-o’clock shadow before scruffy beards were fashionable. Another performer shook my hand and gave me a photo signed “Love.” Honey, I thought, if you love me, put an expression on your face. When we learn to expect and excuse giant egos in exchange for entertainment, kindness is a surprise.

After his last message, ending with “It is a pleasure,” I found myself love-struck again, the way I’d been at 15. I could think of nothing else. Messaging with my idol had provided more than a memory; I was once again immersed in the experience of fan love. I figured I was on the brink of becoming a pest by then, so I sent a final message and mentally signed off.

My buoyant feeling persisted the next day as I listened to oldies on XM radio while driving to a local mall in the spring sunshine. I was filled with a sense of well-being. I knew exactly what emotions had prompted those love songs.

At age 71 I was floating on a fangirl cloud like the one I remembered—one like Annie’s. It was fun and wonderful. I got a “thumb up” to my last private message, a perfect ending to my week of fan love. And was that really B. R.? I say yes. 

Window Dressing

I recently put up a decorative curtain rod and hung new floor-length floral curtains in my master bath. Putting up rods is stressful. The task brought to mind a few “curtain fights” with significant others over the years. Now that I live alone, I attempt simple household tasks by myself with my limited supply of tools.

Getting those curtains into place was important, as my only line of defense for a few weeks was the translucent blind on the window, hanging slightly crooked from worn-out strings. Every morning during those weeks I took my shower with the lights off; thus, I had to wait until it got light enough outside to see where the soap and shampoo were. I could find everything else.

Every day my process brought to mind a scene from “Seinfeld” in which George Costanza visited his mother in the hospital. As I remember it, she was hungry and asked him to go to the cafeteria and bring her a sandwich, but George stayed put because he was mesmerized by what was happening in the next bed.

“It’s six-thirty. Time for your sponge bath,” the nurse said to her patient, pulling the curtain closed between the beds. George then enjoyed a “cinema in silhouette” as the nurse slowly sponge-bathed the shapely female patient.

I didn’t want to be backlit and displayed like a shadow puppet as I went about my morning routine. A viewing audience outside my house at 5:00 or 6:00 a.m. is unlikely, but people do walk their dogs and get their newspapers. My neighbors and I share sidewalks, and most of my home is on the ground floor.

When I moved into this condo, the previous owner had left mini-blinds on all the windows, so I didn’t put up curtains right away. One day a neighbor told me she could see me in my room at night. She was doing me a great favor, letting me know my mini-blinds with their gaps and bent slats were not affording me complete privacy. Live and learn.

The recent curtain installation went smoothly after I exchanged the first rod I bought. (Note to self: Measure the window before buying the hardware.) I have no power tools, but my hammer and screwdriver did the job. I left the blind in place. The curtains not only added a layer of privacy; they also look pretty. Because they match the ones in my bedroom, they visually define the space as what it is: a master suite.

Sweet!

Popsicle Parts

At age 70 I may have solved one of the little mysteries of my childhood.

When I was young my grandfather was the postmaster of Glen Ferris, West Virginia. The post office was located within our company store, so Grandpop also ran the store. If he wasn’t sitting at his desk behind the postal cage, he was standing behind the counter of the store in a white butcher’s apron waiting on customers.

I loved to go into the store and visit Grandpop. I also loved popsicles. Against a back wall of the store sat a long, low freezer like the one Aunt Bea had on her back porch in The Andy Griffith Show. It contained varieties of ice cream. I would open the heavy top and look into that freezer often because I had noticed that sometimes one or two of the popsicles were broken.

Two attached “pops” on sticks constituted one popsicle, but sometimes only one half remained in the wrapper. I called them “extra halves,” and when I found one I knew no customer would buy it; therefore, it was free. My friends and I enjoyed many extra halves as well as the thrill of finding them in Grandpop’s freezer.

This morning I was remembering those days and I thought: How did the extra halves get into the freezer? Who ate the missing halves of the popsicles? A customer wouldn’t have paid for a popsicle and left half of it in the store.

It had to be Grandpop!

Maybe my grandfather munched on part of a popsicle while he stocked the shelves or had a few minutes between customers and then put the rest into the freezer for later. Or maybe he did it for me, knowing I had discovered a great treasure in those abandoned pieces. That mystery won’t be solved, but either way, imagining my grandpop in his store apron, bending over to put popsicle parts in the freezer so many years ago, gave me a smile.

Dick Clark

Dick Clark was the Oprah Winfrey of his time—or, more accurately, of my time. If Dick Clark sold it, I bought it or asked my parents to buy it.

I was trying a new shampoo this morning when I remembered my long-ago loyalty to Pink Pamper shampoo. As a teen-ager it was my go-to brand. Why? Dick Clark. I believe he also advertised Tame cream rinse, the product I applied to my hair after the Pink Pamper shampoo.

Clark hosted two television shows, “American Bandstand” and “Dick Clark’s Saturday Night Beechnut Show.” In the days before commercials were big productions offered as entertainment, Clark was a spokesman for his sponsors. The spots were simple; he held a product, looked into the camera for the sales pitch, and talked right to me. I’m sure of it!

The title of Dick’s Saturday night show was a huge clue to my hoarding of Beechnut Spearmint chewing gum. We were supposed to save the green wrappers and send them in once we accumulated a certain number. I don’t remember why, just that I kept mine in a paper sack on top of the bookcase in my room. In order to collect a sack full of gum wrappers, I chewed Beechnut Spearmint exclusively and often, despite the oft-repeated advice of my high school French teacher:

“The only difference between a girl chewing gum and a cow chewing its cud is the thoughtful expression on the face of the cow.”

Dick hawked another product I knew I needed the minute I saw the commercial. “When you learn to talk with your eyes,” Dick said, “it’s time to curl your lashes with Kurlash.” Of course it was. I bought not only the eyelash curler but also its companion piece, Twissors, used for grooming one’s eyebrows. One end was a tweezer and the other, scissor-like handles that were pink to match those on the Kurlash. The eyelash curler is long gone, but I still have my Twissors!

I loved Dick Clark and his TV shows. As a girl I used to write letters to him, pouring my heart out about which Bandstand regulars and songs I liked. One day my mom and I stopped at the Glen Ferris Post Office on our way to some appointment. In the mail was a postcard for me from Dick Clark! His signature was at the bottom. I was ecstatic. It’s all I could talk about. After that I wrote more letters to Dick and collected more postcards, each with a different message. The fact that they were mass-produced did not occur to me once.

I met Dick Clark at a car show in downtown Cincinnati in the mid ‘80s and got his autograph on a piece of paper I was sure I put in my jacket pocket. When I looked for it later, it was gone. 

Hair Au Naturel

Month by month, my hairdresser is cutting the blond from my hair. I’ve wondered for a long time what would be left, and yesterday I saw my natural colors emerge. I’m now sporting a mix ranging from dark brown to light gray.

Perhaps this change is appropriate and well timed, as I’m having a significant birthday in a few weeks. After all, when one’s child, age 44, has gray hair and Mom does not, something is askew.

A practical decision triggered the change last March before I left to hike the Appalachian Trail. Knowing it would be months until I had a haircut, I opted for a short do a la Jamie Lee Curtis. Instructions for creating her haircut can be found on the internet.

In addition to the cut, I chose to have my hair highlighted in order to minimize the glaring contrast of roots vs. ends. Why some women think exposed roots are fashionable escapes me.

My hair was easy to manage on the AT, even as it grew out. I woke up, ran a brush through it, and moved on, having no idea of the result. In the woods there are no mirrors, and the one I’d brought with me was sent home during a pack shakedown shortly after I hit the trail. I did not shower, shampoo, or see my own reflection for days at a time—a fact of life for a long-distance hiker.

It’s freeing to go without mirrors. I was happy to do so, as my hair wasn’t the only wild thing. I wore no makeup. My nails were a disaster, jagged and ringed with dirt. I could be picked out from a distance by my outfit, which I wore every day and laundered about once a week.

By the time I’d made it to Hot Springs, North Carolina, I was in full-fledged hiker mode. In particular, I’d embraced my natural self. I vowed never to color my hair again.

When I returned home after three and one-half months, I high-tailed it to the nail parlor but left off the makeup. I got my hair trimmed, but not as short as Jamie Lee’s. A good deal of the blond color had remained. Until yesterday.

Will I keep my vow? It’s been only a day, but I’m thinking I will.

If I was good at selfies, I’d show you my new look. Oh, what the heck…

Appalachian Trail, Here We Come!

Yes, we.

This month I gained an experienced hiking partner for my upcoming 2015 adventure on the Appalachian Trail—the trip I thought I would be taking by myself. Well, just me and the bears, to frame it ungrammatically.

My partner goes by the trail name Peevy McG. I’m Early Bird. Peevy is someone I have known for years. We’ve worked together and live only 15 miles apart! We’ve even hiked together in recent months, though I didn’t dream she was dreaming of hiking the AT.

Our decision to tackle the trail together was a joyous turning point for me. For two years I had wrestled with my own desire to do a thru-hike. The idea of walking in the woods through 14 states for 6 months was both compelling and terrifying. As I thought it through, I wished for a hiking partner many times but knew that I would likely enter that 2,189.2-mile “footpath” alone.

My friend Peevy brings so much to the party. She has camped and hiked at home and abroad. She has the gear and knows firsthand what Mother Nature can bestow on us—from gorgeous sunsets to thunderstorms--when we choose to live in the wilderness. And then there is the fun factor. I like to be cautious with my announcements, but our plans are coming together. We leave for Atlanta in a few weeks.

I will be keeping a journal on the trail but most likely won’t be blogging during that time, as my writing process will be on the primitive side with no computer on board. I’ll post to Facebook occasionally using my cell phone.

Just wanted you to know. : )

Saturday

It’s a sunny Saturday morning in this Cincinnati suburb, and I have nothing on the calendar. This kind of day always takes me back to the summer of 1997 when I moved into my home.

I had been living with a man in a house we bought together. It was on the opposite side of town in a rundown area. Why? A thousand reasons, all of them bad. He and I were mismatched, and once that fact was acted out enough times to become indisputable, I began looking at condos. I moved to this place in June, so happy.

I hadn’t liked it at first. I’d seen it during an open house when it was empty of furniture except for the lawn chair where the realtor was sitting. It had a tired look for sure, but after seeing the other choices I knew this should be my home.

When I moved in, the place had been a rental unit. The predominant interior color was gray and the décor seventies “modern,” if there is such a thing. I was on a budget, half scared I wouldn’t be able to pay the mortgage, but every week I bought myself flowers at the grocery store. I put the vase of bright blossoms on the coffee table for color.

On Saturdays like this one I marveled at my new place, going up and down the stairs cleaning, fussing with this or that, putting things away, and thinking about furniture. Well, furniture placement; I wouldn’t be redecorating for years.

Slowly I began to make changes, but that isn’t the point. The point is the way the sun was shining on those magical Saturdays when I could do what I wanted. Sometimes I stayed home and puttered, perfectly content. Sometimes I ran errands and bought something small for the house. 

Seventeen years—nearly 18—have passed, and I still love my home. I still go up and down the stairs in the mornings getting coffee or doing laundry or just looking around, glad to be here. The only thing I would do if I could is to copy and paste, putting the clone next to a certain beach in the warm South. The sun has been out, but it’s darn cold here.

Is That You, Jiminy?

Where do crickets come from? I don’t mean mom and dad cricket; I mean how do they get in? Just now I entered my master bath to find a big one clinging to a wall above the baseboard. I came back with a glass and managed to capture it, but I couldn’t help wondering how it came to share my living space.

It’s snowing outside. I wouldn’t blame any creature for trying to find shelter, but I didn’t put out the welcome mat for these beings I have mistaken for leaves or mud until they jumped in my face.  

My brother says that every woman he’s ever known covers bugs with drinking glasses and vomit with paper towels. I wouldn’t know about the vomit, but last week I had three glasses upside-down on my carpet, each one holding a darting cricket prisoner until I could safely retrieve it for disposal.

Personally, I endorse the drinking-glass method and plan to continue covering these little pests until they get the idea. Maybe, like ants, they have scouts that can pass the word.

Usually I talk to a cricket as I’m trying to capture it. I tell it that it’s made a mistake. Even so, many times I walk it to the front door and release it back into its own environment. Crickets are harmless to humans and are believed by some to bring good luck. They can’t help it if they hop. I still don’t want one for a roommate.

As a kid I thought creatures in nature would look like the Walt Disney versions. Jiminy Cricket, Disney’s version of the pesky critters I now chase with glassware, made his debut in Pinocchio, gracing the screen in a top hat, gloves, a little suit with tails, and shoes complete with spats, making me think now of Gene Kelly in Singin’ in the Rain. Jiminy sang and even carried an umbrella. He wore a smile and dispensed friendly advice.

Though it has been many years since I saw Pinocchio or watched the Mickey Mouse Club on TV, I remember one song that Jiminy sang: “Always Let Your Conscience Be Your Guide.” That would be good advice for real crickets considering a home invasion. I suppose it could apply to those of us bearing tumblers and juice glasses, too.

Now to do something with the original subject of this post, "under glass" in front of my makeup mirror. Don't worry, I plan to release it on its own recognizance. Outside.

Into the Woods: Smoky Mountain Backpacking, Part 5

I put up my one-person tent unaided, then unrolled and inflated my sleeping pad and laid my sleeping bag on top of it. All I needed to complete that theme was sleep. Next, with a friend’s help, I hung my backpack using the park’s cable system. I was learning the routines necessary for survival and comfort in the backcountry.

What do eight Women in the Wilderness do for fun? After supper we all walked to a nearby beaver dam. It had grown dark, so we wore our headlamps. The idea was to see the beavers, but they were not active. We then gathered firewood for a marshmallow roast. During that process, with our lights pointed at the ground, we were surprised by a black rat snake that slithered by and disappeared under a log. (Okay, maybe that last part should not be in a paragraph on “fun.”)

We sat around the campfire until bedtime, which was roughly 10:00 p.m. I mentioned that I had not slept well the previous night, and members of our group suggested a Benadryl tablet would be calming. I took one, lay down in my tent, listened to the creek a few minutes, and fell asleep for the next eight hours. When I woke up, it was light out, a great relief. I always dread being awake in the middle of the night, freaked out by forest sounds or needing to leave the tent in the dark to answer nature’s call.

TIP: Information about Benadryl products can be found at www.Benadryl.com. The company does not recommend its Allergy product as a sleep aid.

My sleeping bag was damp in the morning, as were parts of my tent. It hadn’t rained; I had failed to stake the rain fly away from one of the tent walls, letting condensation accumulate. I had to pack those items wet, which would have been more of a pain had I been on a longer trip. As it was, I’d be in the car in a few hours, heading home.

TIP: Stake your tent fly away from the tent walls on all sides.

Once again, resting had made all the difference in my attitude and my ability to hike. After a leisurely breakfast, our group formed a circle and did stretching exercises before packing up for the hike out. Our guide promised that our last few miles would be easy, even boring, as the trail flattened out to return us to the paved campground where we had left our cars.

That four-mile walk was a good time to reflect on my weekend: what worked, what didn’t, and what I would do differently next time. Yes, there would be a next time; I already had a two-night hike planned with friends for mid-October.

What Worked

I knew before this trip that most of my gear was just fine. I was testing my new, mostly self-inflating sleeping pad, the odor-proof bags I bought for my food, Fresh Bath Travel Wipes, and my new Darn Tough socks. I liked the Mountain House backpacker meals provided by A Walk in the Woods, though they are expensive to purchase. I took a few Clif bars among my snacks—always yummy.

What Didn’t

I had no mirror, which you might think was a good thing since I didn’t wear makeup or brush my hair for three days. I took a hairbrush, but forgot I had it with me.

TIP: Know your pack and what you put in it.

It took only a weekend to get sick of my favorite hiking pants, which I wore night and day. The camp shoes I got for half price are not good on uneven terrain; the soles are too thin. As for food, I took items I don’t normally eat. The smoked cheddar cheese and hard salami went untouched, as I didn’t feel like making a sandwich when we stopped on the trail.

I’m always conscious of pack weight. This time I misjudged my need for Kleenex and toilet paper. I ran out of both and had to be creative with paper napkins.

TIP: Take enough paper and consider adding unscented baby wipes for those tender areas.

Next Time…

I’ll take more paper products and buy a metal trowel (aptly named the U-DIG-IT Pro); exchange my tiny stove for a JetBoil, since my “cooking” will be limited to boiling water for instant meals; and replace my set of trekking poles.

It’s funny about hiking: from a distance, it seems attractive and doable. When I'm in the woods, putting one foot in front of the other with a pack on my back, reality steps in. Our guide told us we would remember the best parts of our weekend. The challenges would fade, and the camaraderie and beauty would stay in our minds. She was right.

We were almost back to the parking lot when the talk turned to animals. Our guide said, “You didn’t see a bear on this trip, but I will guarantee that a bear saw you.”

I can live with that. 

Into the Woods: Smoky Mountain Backpacking, Part 4

Do bears “go” in the woods? Of course they do (and may I never witness it). Only the bears in the Charmin commercials use the toilet. When we humans are in the woods, we adapt to our surroundings and “go” in a way that will leave no trace. Unlike the forest animals, we must bury our waste and pack out the paper we have used. One finds all kinds of uses for zip-style plastic bags on a hiking trip.

I didn’t want to do this. However, stuffing oneself at dinner with two helpings of reconstituted Chili Mac doesn’t leave much choice in the morning. Our backpacking meals were packaged for two, and we were encouraged to eat both helpings; otherwise, Mr. or Ms. Bear might want to finish our dinner.

Our guide told us what to do when it’s time to find a private spot in the trees. Before I tell you, I will advocate for taking along a shovel, which I had to borrow. Many hikers recommend skipping that piece of gear to save weight and using a stick instead to dig the required six-inch “cat hole,” but I’m not one of them.

A toilet area must be 200 feet (about 70 adult paces) away from any fresh water source as well as cooking and sleeping areas. Along with paper and the waste-paper bag, one should carry hand sanitizer to the designated spot.

It is wise to assume the position beforehand while clothed in order to correctly place the cat hole for solid waste. Then dig. Afterward, replace the dirt, making sure the shovel touches only dirt. You may want to mark the spot with a stick in the ground so that other hikers will know to choose a different location.

Now you know.

We left the shelter, hiking upward. This middle day would be our longest on the trail, and I had wondered if I’d have the stamina for it. Fortunately, a night off my feet--even without much sleep—and a Mountain House instant breakfast of scrambled eggs and bacon had restored my energy. I was grateful to have gained a second wind.

I’d hit a low point the day before, believing I would never hike the Appalachian Trail or write a book about it. Maybe I’d write a book titled My Year of Hiking instead, and end it with the present trip. But that was yesterday. My perspective was constantly changing. Hiking has its challenges, but hiking in a group of women had replaced many of my fears with fun. I wondered how I would feel when our Smoky Mountain hike was over.

It was another gorgeous day in the woods. The temperature was perfect, and I have always loved the way sunlight dapples the forest floor. In late September the leaves had begun to turn and fall. Every curve, every waterfall, every vista was  a photo waiting to be taken, and the phone cameras were out. Mine was out, too, just not in the same way. The battery had died the night before.

“Did you put your Smartphone in Airplane mode?” our guide asked. No, I hadn’t even thought of it, and I’d left my camera at home after deciding it was too heavy. No pictures for me.

TIP: A phone camera is as good as a standalone if the battery is charged.

We hiked that day until we reached our campground, located in a valley beside a rushing stream. It was time to pitch our tents. Darkness comes quickly beneath a canopy of trees.

As I unpacked the components of my tent, I broke out my little bag of Tylenol to ward off the soreness I had come to expect and quickly popped two tablets into my mouth. Hmmm, they certainly tasted good. I was puzzled for a second before realizing that I had downed one Tylenol and my rogue breath mint from the night before! 

To be concluded…

Into the Woods: Smoky Mountain Backpacking, Part 3

Though no headlamps were required to light our way, we arrived at the shelter after the sun had set. If this were a Dracula novel, the coming darkness would be key in a whole different way, but to eight hikers coming off  the trail it meant we had to hurry through a short list of tasks before we could rest.

Our guide had thoughtfully arranged for us to spend the first night of our backpacking trip in a shelter and the second night in our tents, giving us both experiences.

Shelters along hiking trails are typically three-sided, open at the front. They are constructed of wood and stone, without electricity. Inside ours, a two-tiered sleeping platform went wall to wall at the back. A fireplace took up one side in front of the sleeping area, and a skylight defined the middle of the tin roof above us.

When we arrived, a group of male hikers had settled in. They kindly gave us room as we made camp, trying to beat the darkness. The process was new and thus chaotic. I found myself becoming disoriented as we scrambled to stake out sleeping spots and hang our packs. All I wanted was to exchange my boots and heavy socks for camp shoes, and then eat.

I felt like my mother in her later years and feared I was acting confused the way she had when we traveled together. In her eighties her mind had lost its sharpness; eventually she would be diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Mom would sit on the side of her hotel bed, overwhelmed and lacking the energy—or clarity--to unpack.

To claim my sleeping space, I had to stand outside on uneven ground and dig my sleeping bag and pad out of my pack so I could place them on the wooden platform. In addition, I gathered any other items I could need during the night. My food would be left in the pack and hung until we needed it for supper. There in the dusk of the woods, I was working a system I hadn’t fully learned yet.

I had come to trust our guide’s decisions and felt safe with her. She was emphatic that no food or other aromatic items be brought into the shelter at any time, thus the hanging of the packs. We used a cable system behind the shelter to haul our backpacks high off the ground, keeping our food beyond the reach of animals.

I changed my shoes and dumped my night items in the shelter. The men took the upper sleeping deck, and our group spread out on the lower level. After a hot meal, I was happy to crawl into my sleeping bag and hope to drift off, but I had bears on the brain. I realized that I had inadvertently brought a breath mint into the shelter. Would one mint attract a black bear? I would have swallowed it, but I wasn’t sure where it was. Once the headlamps were extinguished, we were in total darkness.

The soft snoring above me was a comfort; its rhythm ruled out the possibility of a bear, and I relaxed until a loud crash jolted me off my sleeping pad. It had to be an animal. Could no one else hear the racket? My sleeping companions were still as I inched toward the back wall, hoping to go unnoticed by whatever was invading our space. The men were still snoring. They can sleep through anything.

Two more loud crashes came from close by, and I was sure the killer bear that was banging around outside—if it wasn’t IN the shelter with us--could be reaching for me any minute. That thought was not conducive to sleep. In spite of a dozen other people around me, I felt scared and alone.

How I got through the night is anyone’s guess. If I slept at all, it was moment to moment. 

The next morning I asked our guide if she had heard the noise. Yes, she had heard the three acorns hitting the roof during the night, one at a time.

To be continued…

Into the Woods: Smoky Mountain Backpacking, Part 2

It was mid-morning. Seven women about to be in the wilderness sat in a circle with our gear as our guide explained the next order of business: “I’m going to show you how I pack a backpack.” The thought of that brought memories of my morning in the hotel room. I had already packed and repacked my own backpack, trying and failing to fit everything I needed in it.

How did people take layers of warm clothing? I couldn’t even cram my lightweight wool sweater in the remaining space. Where did they put enough food for several days? I’d barely found a place for my snacks. I hadn’t even brought my sleeping bag liner, or a stove, or fuel. Even though I’d purchased lightweight gear and clothing, packing it had been such a struggle that I dreaded this next activity. I wanted to sit in the sun and watch. Instead, I emptied my pack.

Our guide distributed huge black trash bags and told us to line our packs with them, and that was the moment the light clicked on for me. Yahoo!

The main cavity of a backpack has an opening with a drawstring at the top. That top section is made of soft material. On my pack it’s squished down under another pouch. I knew it was there, but I hadn’t paid much attention to it because my pack also zips open from the front like a suitcase.

I pulled up the top section, opened the drawstring, and stuffed the deep trash bag down inside to fill with my gear and food. It was going to work! Until that minute, I’d had no idea how to pack a backpack.

TIP: Even the basics must be learned.

When everyone was outfitted and packed, we caravanned to a campground in North Carolina. There we parked and rode a shuttle to Newfound Gap, a popular trailhead on the AT. I already knew that I was fortunate to be in this group. As we entered the woods, I looked around in wonder at the beautiful trees, clear sky, and sun-dappled path. Despite the wording from the Frost poem, I remember thinking I love this.

We were maybe one-fourth of a mile in, hiking single-file, when my left foot slipped on a wet rock, throwing my body off balance and setting my 28-pound backpack in motion. I fell backward from a standing position with both arms outstretched and a trekking pole strapped to each wrist. The fall seemed slow, yet I was helpless to stop myself.

I’d given my age when I had applied for this hike, along with the assurance that I was in shape. At 69, I wasn’t surprised to be the oldest member of our group, but I was determined to keep up. What must our guide be thinking now, to see me topple over like the trunk of a tree?

Luckily, I fell on my fat pack and was not hurt. Perhaps I had screamed a warning; the women behind me were in the clear when I landed. A fall can happen in a second, and it isn’t necessarily age related. We all have to be alert to what’s under our boots. My one casualty was a trekking pole that snapped in two. Our resourceful guide fixed it with duct tape. Awesome!

Note to self: Never be without duct tape on a hike.

“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.” They also go up and down mountains for miles, as we did on our first day. During the uphill climb I looked ahead to see if or when the trail would level off to give us a break. Our march seemed relentless, and I had to request a few stops. Occasionally our leader paused to point out a plant or creature endemic to the Smokies. With every step of my boots I began to pray that she would discover another flower or mushroom to stop and show us.

I reached a point that day when I asked myself WHAT IN THE WORLD I had been thinking when I told people I was going to thru-hike the Appalachian Trail. Was I crazy? I didn’t even want to be here. My legs were shaking, my shoulders ached from carrying my pack, and all I could see ahead was more trail. Now I knew: My little hikes around the lake at home, and even in the woods, had been nothing compared to this. 

Our destination for the night was a shelter our guide had reserved. Because it was afternoon before we began hiking, we had to cover ground. I was already walking like a zombie, the result of sore muscles in my legs. Could I make it?

Yes. Yes, I could. All I had to hear was the possibility that if we didn't stay on task, we could be breaking out our headlamps and finishing the hike in the dark. 

To be continued…

Into the Woods: Smoky Mountain Backpacking, Part 1

“The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.” Robert Frost may not have been referring to the Smoky Mountains when he wrote that line, but it was all I could think about as our group of eight entered the Appalachian Trail at Newfound Gap in Great Smoky Mountains National Park on a clear September afternoon.

“Women in the Wilderness” was the name of our adventure, a two-night backpacking trip for seven paying guests and our guide from the award-winning nature guide service, A Walk in the Woods. The company’s mission is to raise environmental awareness through “direct, fun, positive experiences with nature.” As a person considering a thru-hike of the AT and sometimes wondering why, I needed a dose of that.

I had found “Women in the Wilderness” on Facebook within a day of arriving home from a week of day-hiking the AT. Someone had cancelled after this Smoky Mountain trip was full, and the opening seemed meant for me. I signed up to gain more practice, but also to soak up some positive vibes about the wilderness. Anyone who doesn’t feel that way will have a hard time in the woods, because Mother Nature isn’t one to hold back on the challenges.

Great Smoky Mountains National Park covers 816 square miles. Its more than 500,000 acres are almost equally divided between Tennessee and North Carolina. Much of the park is back country, full of creeks and trees, wildlife, and trails both primitive and maintained. It is an amazing ecosystem, bursting with unique plant life and loads of animals. Scientists estimate the park is home to 100,000 different organisms.

I drove to Gatlinburg, Tennessee on a Thursday, arriving at a hotel I’d chosen on the Internet. In real life it was a disappointment, years beyond its heyday. One of the two lamps didn’t have a switch. The furniture was outdated, and no one would have stolen the TV; only Hercules Unchained could have lifted it. I was suspicious of the bedding, preferring to curl up in my sleeping bag on top of the covers. But at least I wasn’t bothered and my room had a lovely balcony overlooking a creek. The next morning after a freebie breakfast of oatmeal and coffee, I made the short drive to A Walk in the Woods.

We met each other and our guide on a sun-washed deck outside Gatlinburg. Most of the women taking this trip were renting their gear, so the preliminaries included our guide fitting each one with a pack and handing out tents, sleeping bags, and sleeping pads. I’d brought my own backpack filled with gear. One item was still in the trunk of my car: the $46 can of bear deterrent spray with its special holster I’d bought to quell my panic regarding the scariest of wild animals. I’d read it somewhere: "We pack what we fear."

“I have bear spray,” I said to our guide. Will I need it?”

“No.”

Gulp.

About 1,500 black bears reside in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. They are known to avoid humans, and visitors who hope to see them are often disappointed. I was a different kind of visitor, hoping to be spared the tiniest glimpse of fur during our three-day adventure. With that in mind, I addressed one of my challenges--focusing on the positive--as our orientation continued.

To be continued…

The Nerve Center

When I committed to hiking the 2,000-plus miles of the Appalachian Trail in 2015, my mind flew apart like a scattering of birds. Suddenly I was overwhelmed with things to do. Never mind that I had spent a year collecting and reading books about the AT, buying gear, and signing up for “practice experiences” in the woods. I felt the weight of the preparation that was still to come.

Planning the hike would be logistically complicated until I hit the trail and began to live simply, because I also had to manage what I was leaving behind. The first order of business was to organize my growing collection of backpacking gear, books, and clothing. The items were stashed in different locations around the house, making me nuts when the time came to go hiking. I would forget something every time. Once it was my water supply—not a good thing to leave at home.

I needed a nerve center!

As opposed to a place to work up my nerve, this nerve center would be a location in my home for all of my hiking paraphernalia, where I could see what I had in order to fill my packs intelligently as I prepared for every practice hike and then the Big Hike. (I know, don’t capitalize for emphasis.)

I chose my linen closet, a double-wide with sliding doors. Several years earlier I’d had it customized to hold not just my sheets, towels, and table linens, but also a variety of suitcases. It has one narrow section for hanging clothes and the rest is divided by shelves. The space would be perfect for my two packs, their contents, my hiking clothes, and my books.

I wanted to see all of my gear and my full range of clean outfits at once. The goal was efficiency. I could dress quickly and learn to load my backpack consistently so that my movements would become automatic on the trail. A pack is a complex piece of equipment when you consider its inner cavities, pockets, loops, and network of straps. It has to hold everything you need for a hike, yet be light enough to carry mile after mile. Loading one is both science and art.

So, out came my bedding, towels, place mats, and luggage, to find another home; into the closet went my hiking gear, books, and outdoor clothing. I have a shelf for my tent, one for my sleep system, another for footwear. There are spaces for stuff sacks, trekking poles, laundry, and smaller items--socks, whistle, bug net, emergency blanket, matches, and so on. My hiking books are in one place.

I’d recommend this system to anyone. There is one little hitch. I haven’t yet found a new home for my extra curtains, comforters, scatter rugs, shower curtain rings…

Carpet Cleaning

Housework requires a jump-start at times, for instance in the dead of winter when productivity can seem impossible. My friend Betty K. had a four-season excuse for household tasks she didn’t want to do: “Who sees it?”

People do see dirty carpeting; just watch HGTV. No House Hunter lets a square foot escape a snide remark. So, when my brother offered to shampoo my carpets while I was on a trip, he didn’t have to ask twice. In my absence Joe was able to work at his own pace undisturbed, and the carpets had time to dry--undisturbed.

Joe repeated his offer a few months ago, with the difference that this time the job would be easier, just a touch-up. Most of my carpeting had remained pristine through the holidays and even during the harshness of January.

“Even with all the company you had?” Joe joked. I rarely host anything.

After I’d fortified him with a cup of coffee, he readied his cleaning equipment. “Let’s make this as easy as possible, I said. “You don’t need to do everything. Let me show you my path.”

“You don’t need to. It’s a shining beacon.”

I walk most often on the carpeted areas between the kitchen and my office, bedroom, and bathroom. If anybody wanted to trace my daily movements, it wouldn’t take Sherlock Holmes.

Joe started in the hall between the bedroom and master bath. Off that hall was my walk-in closet. I didn’t want him to overdo it, so I said, “You don’t have to do the entire closet. Just go down the middle, where I tend to stand. It smells like feet.”

“Have you considered slippers?”

I tried to stay out of the way, but it wasn’t long before I had to peek. “This is what killed me the last time,” Joe said as I rounded the corner and stifled a scream. The section he had cleaned looked like “attack of the black spiders.” The wet carpet was dotted with dark shapes the size of quarters that seemed to be advancing.

“That’s what the shampooer pulled out of your carpet. It’s dirt,” he said. I was glad to know that instead of an army of evil arachnids, I was looking at wet dust bunnies. “When I did your floors the first time,” Joe said, “it took me an hour just to pick them up.”

“Skip the stairs this time,” I said a few minutes later in spite of the trail of coffee stains leading up the steps to my office. “Maybe you could just shampoo the landing.”

“I can’t stop now,” Joe said. “Now that I’ve seen it, I have to clean it. Do you use a pogo stick when you carry your coffee upstairs?”

When he was done, he called me into the bathroom to see the murky water he was about to discard. It reminded me of the chemical spill that polluted the Elk River in West Virginia in January 2014.

“When I was still working as a school custodian,” he said, “I always showed the teacher the dirty water afterward. ‘What does it look like?’ I would ask, and they knew I wanted them to compare it to coffee: was it black or “with cream”?

He didn’t ask me, but “black with spiders” is what came to mind for the water. The carpet was pure cream.