Into the Woods: Day-Hiking the Appalachian Trail

May 25, 2014

I left the interstate for the backwoods (or so it seemed) of Maryland on a Sunday afternoon, easing my way along curving two-lane roads surrounded by green. Twice I had to ask directions, the first time flagging down a car going the opposite way and the second time idling outside a yard to call to the owner. Finally I spotted the turn for my destination, a conference center situated on two hundred acres an hour and a half northwest of Washington, D.C.

I had signed up to hike the Appalachian Trail in four states. It was a six-day program designed for 24 of us older people. The activity was rated “Challenging,” but what did that mean? Was it simply an oxymoron? How fit did I have to be in order to hike the Trail in a group of senior citizens?

I had been fascinated with the Appalachian Trail for a year, hooked initially by Wild, Cheryl Strayed’s tale of hiking alone on the Pacific Crest Trail. I’d subsequently collected and read more than 25 books about the AT and had spent a weekend backpacking in the woods of Georgia in a guided group. I’d registered for this group hike in Maryland months ago.

In this instance, “hike” meant that we would day-hike, leaving the conference center every morning at 8:30 to be driven to a different trailhead. We would hike until 3:00 or 4:00 p.m. and be picked up by the vans at the other end. The hikes for the week were from 6.5 to 9.7 miles each.

Our meals were provided, including lunches we packed ourselves from a food selection laid out every morning on one of the round dining tables. Breakfast and dinner were buffet style.

Supper the first night was two kinds of fish, broccoli, mac and cheese, and pumpkin pie for dessert. A salad bar was a staple for those with better constitutions than mine. I’d suffered intense stomach cramps before the trip and had barely eaten in three days.

Every evening after dinner we were treated to a program. The first night it was a talk by a member of the Appalachian Trail Conservancy. Before that talk began, we took turns standing in front of the group to introduce ourselves. Each of us put a push pin in a U.S. map to mark our town or city. My group for the week consisted of three couples who signed up together, five single women, and a few couples who did not know one another before their arrival.

Before registering for the trip, I’d wondered about my ability to take on this series of hikes. I wanted badly to experience the Appalachian Trail, so I signed up and then began walking at home. In March I started weekly physical fitness sessions with a trainer. “Get me ready” was my simple plea. She worked on my core strength as well as that in my arms and legs, with less than two months to make me hike-worthy.

Maybe you’ve sized up the other members of a group and compared them to yourself for reassurance. I already knew my co-hikers were nice people, but what was their potential to climb mountains, compared to mine? Some were experienced hikers. I didn’t want to be the one they waited for once we got on the Trail.

You know how this goes. You look at your hike-mates and think, landing on one: If he or she can make it, surely I can. We all do it, but in reality—and in a group as fit as ours--it is difficult to tell another person’s level of stamina. You might be dead wrong, as I was. Every day some of those folks passed me like I was standing still. Okay, I was standing still.

Stay tuned for the next installment: hiking the Appalachian Trail in Pennsylvania, a state known for rocks, rocks, and more rocks. Our first hike would begin at Caledonia State Park and end at Pine Grove Furnace, a distance of about 8.5 miles.

My First Blog

So Write! is my second blog ever. My first was titled Jane’s India Trip.

In 2008 a colleague and I took a business trip to India. I was an editor; Sally was, and is, a techie. These are simplifications. We, and others, traveled 8,600 miles to approve a product for our company.

We were in India for a total of 16 days, based in Bangalore but traveling to Mysore, Delhi, and Agra. When Sally told me she intended to keep friends and family informed about her trip by posting a blog, I had to ask her what a blog was. Remember when people had to explain that blog was short for weblog? I didn't even know what a weblog was. She, on the other hand, knew exactly what to do.

Sally's idea to write about her experiences excited me, and she offered to help me set up my own blog. In just a few hours, Jane’s India Trip was real and my first entry, “Invitation,” was posted.

I recently thought about my India blog and tried unsuccessfully to find it online. At one point--years ago, before my three computer crashes--I could access it on the Internet even though I’d stopped writing new posts once we were back home.

A few weeks ago Sally came to the rescue again, locating the link, and then I lost it a second time in a morass of old e-mail messages. I had to ask her to send it once more. Now I’m saving it as part of this post, hoping I won’t lose it a third time.

Why do I care so much about accessing that old blog? Sentimental reasons; the trip was an amazing opportunity and a memorable time. Thanks to Sally, I also found out in India how much fun it is to blog. That discovery eventually led to So Write!.

http://janesindiatrip.blogspot.com/

If you’re curious about the impressions and adventures of two Americans in India, you’re welcome to check it out. (Begin at the bottom of the list of posts.) And thanks again to those who read my first blog the first time.

Get Real

It’s hard to write as someone of the opposite sex. I’ve done it. You have to stop and consider every word, every description and thought. Avoiding stereotypes takes on a new dimension.

I’m reading a serial-killer novel right now. The author is a man writing about women who end up murdered. This is a guy who’s written 40 novels, yet something is off when he tells us how the killer gets these women alone.

Three women have encountered the murderer so far, and two thought he was stalking them before they actually met him. Yet he has easily turned each meeting into a dating situation. His looks and clothes are average and his conversation is uninspired. He barely flirts. The women start out uninterested, even annoyed or frightened. But each one magically decides to have a wild time with this near-stranger.

The whole city knows a killer is on the loose; it’s all over the news. Yet there is victim No. 3 studying her companion as they head for private quarters. He looks harmless enough, she thinks to herself—and here is where it goes astray: “Even if he did get a little kinky, she was sure she could handle him. Besides, what was wrong with a little kinky?”

I’m not saying that no woman would ever entertain such thoughts, but when promiscuity is written in a book as a predictable trait of multiple women, and in fact as the sure-fire way for a serial killer to operate, it doesn’t work for this reader.

I hate to spend $9.99 on a book and find out something like this.

Back when my mother and I were visiting my grandmother in a nursing home, we passed the five-hour car trip listening to books on tape. Mom tended to choose detective stories from another era, written before widespread awareness of sexism. She didn’t notice what I did; I was too tuned in and after a while had to tune out.

Here’s another cockeyed take on women from the book I’m reading. They consistently eat like farm hands: eggs and bacon and toast; French toast; and “huge bites” of pizza—not all at once, but still. Sorry, Mr. Writer, not happening.

These things wouldn’t bother me if they were noted as unusual, but universality is implied by the repeated examples. Maybe the author is writing primarily for a male audience. He’s sold plenty of books and has won awards, but I’m grinding through this book. I might finish it, but I’ll skip the other 39.

My brother let me know plenty of times during the writing of Mr. Joe when I had misrepresented him. One time he came walking up to the front door announcing, “I would not say ‘fret’ under penalty of death.” There is nothing wrong with a reality check. It can make us better writers.

The women in this book won’t be marching up to the author’s door to complain; his lack of appropriate dialog took care of that before the murderer ever stepped in.

I’m now reading about the next victim-in-the-making. The killer says to himself as he approaches her: It’s so easy to know what women are thinking. In the story, he’s right; she quickly offers herself up just like the others. And there’s the flaw. The author doesn’t have a clue what women are thinking. 

This post was written in 2013. 

Into the Woods: Rural Ohio (Part 3)

It was just me and my bladder in the tent, holding fast for daylight. My mind did a soft-shoe to the tune of “Me and My Shadow”: “Me…and My Blad…der…” Just when I knew I couldn’t wait all night, I remembered I was still wearing my headlamp and watch. It was 5:00 a.m. I headed for the house and indoor plumbing. Afterward I returned to my tent, and the next time I opened my eyes it was 7:00 and bright outside.

What a glorious morning to be outdoors! It was easy to say now that the sun was shining. Flowers were blooming and the air was clean. After coffee and a light breakfast, I was ready for a hike.

This would be the first time I’d worn my backpack, with the exception of the evening before at the REI store when I was deciding whether to buy it. I’d packed it at home instead of a suitcase, discovering its multiple compartments, straps, loops, and options. Packing the right stuff the right way was a challenge. I took items I didn’t find over the weekend; items I forgot were there; and a confusing array of small articles I didn’t need.

The second challenge I faced with the pack was finding out if I could comfortably wear it on a hike. My friends and I walked up and down the hills behind their house. I felt at home in the woods as we tramped across fallen leaves, stepped over logs, and jumped narrow creek beds. I was happy not to be winded from the elevation or sore from the load I was carrying. After we’d bonded in the middle of the night, my pack and I were simpatico! In Wild, Cheryl Strayed named her pack Monster because she couldn’t lift it. Unless I think of a better name, I’m going to call mine Blue because it is blue.

We crossed a mountaintop in high, yellow grass. The hills were quiet and peaceful. I did not know then that wild turkey season had opened in Ohio, but I did have time to ponder the idea that hunters could be afoot in some adjacent wood. Hiker wisdom warns that at certain times of the year we need to wear an item of clothing in blaze orange, the universal signal of human presence. My tent was orange; that was good, but I had nothing appropriate with me. I had thought about ordering a Buff, a multi-function cloth whose uses include neck scarf and hat, but could not decide on the color. Now I knew: orange.

“Oh! Look at this,” I said later when we’d begun taking down our tents. The instructions for assembling mine were on a tag sewn inside the main stuff bag. How had I missed them before?

This would-be hiker will need a lot more practice in order to be comfortable on the trail. Ultimately we all hike our own hike. I know I must learn to be in the woods alone, and I hope that happens, but nothing beats friends willing to share the experience.   

Into the Woods: Rural Ohio (Part 2)

“Why don’t you camp out with me?” I asked my friend, sending up a little prayer that she would say yes and reduce my fear that “IT” would get me in the night. I knew that she and her husband had a stockpile of tents and sleeping bags in the house.

The formerly sunny strip of mowed grass where we stood was now in shadow, a preview of the total darkness that would soon take both the scenery and my frontier spirit. The curved path from her weekend house ended in a wide swath between a mountain and a stream. It was perfect for pitching a tent, but I had not counted on it being out of sight of the house. I’d packed a whistle, but I realized the chances of anyone hearing it were slim to none.

“It will be like a slumber party,” I said, aiming for perkiness. When she agreed to pitch a tent next to mine, I was buoyant with relief.

“We can have a fire later,” she said, referring to the circle of rocks near the center of the clearing. Chairs had been set around it, extending a promise of warmth to the tent site that was now ours rather than just mine.

I had insisted on assembling my tent during the warm afternoon, primarily because I had not done it before. I’d laid it out flat in my den at home, but my furniture hadn’t left room for the movement required to put it together. Hiking experts advise us to erect a tent so many times that we can do it in the dark and take it down in rain without it getting soaked. I wasn’t there yet.

“Do you have instructions?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “but I watched a video on the Internet.” With a bit of guesswork, we managed to get the footprint in place, the tent up, the rain fly attached, and the sleeping bag and pad inside. Finally I could stop obsessing about the tent.

After dinner we walked the path with flashlights, mine a headlamp. My friend had talked her husband into camping out, and now there were three of us. “You’re blinding me!” he said of my new headlamp, the one with the eye-friendly red-light setting that I could not find no matter how many times I pushed the buttons. Know your gear.

He built a fire, but I missed most of its ambience because I was tired. I had been up a ridiculously long time and looked forward to sleeping through the scariest part of the evening—from about 9:00 p.m. until morning. Their voices receded once I zipped myself into my tent.

Hikers are advised to carry ear plugs for the times they need to share a shelter body-to-body with others. In my case I simply tucked my two hearing aids into the little pocket on my tent wall, and I was immediately alone. Oh.

I had put on my REI Revelcloud cold-weather jacket, my knit beanie, and my long underwear. I slid into my sleeping bag, thrilled to find it warm. I was now stretched out one inch from the ground, and my limbs had never felt so angular. Besides experiencing the discomfort of my own bones, it wasn’t ten minutes before I had to pee. No! I would not climb back out into that chilly night. I’d already felt my nose with my fingers, and it was as cold as the carrot on a snowman.

If I fell asleep at all, I didn’t know it. Mostly I tossed and turned in my sleeping bag. Once in turning, I rolled against something solid outside the tent. Was this “IT”? What was I feeling: Was it a raccoon? A skunk? My friends’ pet dog? None of the above; it was my pack, stored in the vestibule of the tent.

If you think there is no comfort to be found in inanimate objects, I'm here to argue. From that moment on, I knew that my backpack would be my silent companion as I learned to love the outdoors. I would need to give it a name.

Into the Woods: Rural Ohio (Part 1)

It was a tryout experience. I wasn’t just trying out my new backpack, sleeping bag, and tent; I was testing my mettle as a camper and hiker. It was not unlike last year’s group backpacking trip in the mountains of northern Georgia, but this time I had my own gear and was exploring my own state.

In the long view, I saw myself thru-hiking the Appalachian Trail as early as 2015. I’d read 25 books about hiking the AT, and No. 26—a new account of 67-year-old Grandma Gatewood’s historic thru-hike in the 1950s—was on its way. I knew the history of the Trail and the names of towns and shelters all along it. Sometimes I felt like I’d already walked “the roller coaster,” “the green tunnel,” “the presidents,” and all the PUDs (pointless ups and downs) in the 14 states from Georgia to Maine. Through my reading I’d hiked alongside Bill Bryson, Earl Shaffer, Jeff Alt, and the Barefoot Sisters. I’d answered the call of the mountains with “Brownie,” “Badger,” “Skywalker,” ”Odyssa,” and others whose trail names I’d forgotten. They had walked the five million steps to support charities, forget wars, set records, channel grief, make life decisions, or simply appreciate nature.

When I took the short view of my hiking self, I saw a gear junkie fascinated with hiking equipment but inexperienced at using it. I’d lovingly researched every item I’d bought, but until Easter weekend 2014 I had not field-tested most of my purchases, especially the “big three.” A hiker’s comfort, and even her life, can depend on the performance of her tent, backpack, and sleeping bag. Those large investments have to be worth it.

My first “big three” purchase was a Marmot EOS 1 single-person tent I bought online. Seeing a tent before you buy is not a common experience; many brands and types exist, limiting retail floor displays. I caught a sale, and between the tent and its footprint (a separate ground cloth) I saved about $70. When the package came, it was the size of a large computer tower but the contents were light, as advertised.

I found my ideal sleeping bag, a Marmot Ouray, in a store but I’d chosen it long before on the basis of internet research. Being a cold sleeper, I’d placed the highest value on temperature rating. I would not be one of the poor souls I’d read about freezing in the Smoky Mountains! The bag was light, too. Its downfall was volume. I bought a compression sack to squish the bag small enough to fit in its compartment in my pack, but a 20-minute wrestling match with my dream bag convinced me to trade it in for a less voluminous REI Flash.

The backpack I bought was a popular model, the Osprey Ariel 65. It was so popular, in fact, that the color I wanted was unavailable. I hadn’t intended to buy a pack before my outdoor Ohio weekend, but I changed my mind when I discovered that REI had only one left in my size.

My plan was to drive to my friends’ country acreage four counties away, pitch my tent in a flat area away from their house, sleep there overnight while they slept inside, and hike the hills of their property wearing my new backpack. That was a good plan in daylight. However, when the sun began to sink and shadows fell across the valley floor, when the temperature dropped and the trees on the mountains blended into one big blob of darkness, that plan wasn't quite so appealing. I had to wonder what I'd been thinking.

(To be continued…)

Spring Shopping

It’s almost that time again.

What can a woman who has tried on—let’s guess: 300?—bathing suits in her lifetime possibly have to say about the process that’s new? That’s what I asked myself after coming home empty-handed from what most of us know to be a self-esteem-sucking, physically exhausting session wrestling bits of cloth in front of a department store dressing-room mirror in unflattering light.

Some aspects of swimsuit shopping haven’t changed a bit, but others have. The women’s swimwear department of my local Dillard’s is stuffed with colorful tops, bottoms, and cover-ups--everything from bikinis to board shorts for the discerning surfer girl and slimming, skirted one-piece numbers for the more modest or matronly shopper. I figured that if I couldn’t find a bathing suit in there, it didn’t exist.

I already had one suit. It was comfortable, and it covered me in all the right places; time and gravity had made that a necessity. But I was planning a vacation that involved daily swimming. To avoid the agony of stepping into a cold, clammy wad of spandex some morning, I needed a spare. My goal was to suit up as attractively as possible for my age and body type.

I’m a senior citizen, often described as “tall and thin.” As my brother says, being thin seems to equal an automatic pass for some folks. “You’re not getting any sympathy from me,” the clerk said after handing me yet another suit. Maybe not, but insecurities can plague us all when it comes to baring skin, especially as the years go by.

I wasn’t out to catch a wave, so the poster of the young girl in a pink bikini on the inside of the dressing room door didn’t help as I prepared to find the leg openings and wiggle into the latest creations and then peep at myself in the fun-house--I mean department-store—mirror. When I did open my eyes I saw in the reflection a soft body, one that could stand to tighten up around the middle. I saw a form as white as Casper the friendly ghost and slightly scarier. Let’s face it: we’re rarely so exposed as when we go to the pool or beach.

Two hours later my credit card was still in safe mode; nothing I had tried on was just right. It seemed a stretch to blame the hundreds of bathing suits in Dillard’s. After I got home I stripped down to my underwear and looked at myself in my own full-length mirror.

My thinking that day had been: The more of me that’s hidden, the better. And then, standing there, I remembered the time I decided to stop wearing shorts because I noticed spots and wrinkles on my legs. I was all set to buy Capri pants for the rest of my days when a wise friend took issue with that decision: Why should we give up shorts? That’s not the answer to living life. We all have to reach the point at which we accept ourselves.

I looked in the mirror again, and that time I didn’t see Casper. I saw a body that was healthy and whole. It was mine, imperfect but in fine working order. The only legitimate emotion for such a moment is gratitude.

I knew I would return to the store. People in their sixties are like everyone else. We like to swim. We like to sit in the sun or take a ride in a boat or occasionally climb into a hot tub. That’s why bathing suits were invented. 

Wellness One Year In

About a year ago I set out on a path of deliberate wellness. By that I mean that, besides embracing nutrition (see post from April 23, 2013) and exercise, I committed to making medical appointments I had put off and dutifully reporting for various screenings and tests I had been too frightened to schedule. I wouldn’t recommend it for stress relief, but no one needed to tell me it was the smart thing to do.

I began with a “wellness visit” to my physician, followed by lab work (blood analysis) and a series of appointments with specialists. In the last 12 months I’ve had a mammogram, a hearing test, an eye test, a colonoscopy, and screenings by a gynecologist and a dermatologist.

My reports were good, but my nutrition and exercise programs had become inconsistent. I had slowly gained weight over a period of months and couldn’t seem to lose it. With spring on the horizon—yes, yes, superficial reason—I knew I had to jump-start my weight loss.

After reading about the 10-Day Detox Diet, I ordered the best-selling book by Mark Hyman, M.D. I knew that Dr. Hyman’s program would be an extension of my previous forages into nutrition, but I did not realize it also encompassed exercise and relaxation.

The 10-Day Detox diet is meant to address food addiction, reboot the body, and result in reduced insulin levels. Weight loss is an advertised benefit. As I write this, I’m completing the diet a few pounds lighter than when I began it March 6. Here’s the scoop:

Weigh and Measure. The first thing I did every morning was to strip down and weigh myself. I had not stepped on the scale at home in many moons (so to speak), but the weighing was helpful, not traumatic. How else would I see my progress? Ditto the daily measuring, except that my plastic tape measure was v-e-r-y cold against my skin.

Exercise. The second order of the day was 30 minutes of exercise. I chose brisk walking and took the opportunity to try out my mid-weight long underwear from REI, purchased for hiking. It was cold and often still dark when I walked out my front door. The first day I lasted 15 minutes before coming inside to do floor exercises. After that I walked every morning. I loved it. A couple of times I witnessed gorgeous sunrises over our lake. The ducks were black silhouettes as they slept. I did have to pack my pockets with tissues, as my nose and eyes ran constantly in the wind. I learned that I can walk in 36-degree weather much more comfortably than I can in 20-degree weather. Occasionally I would pretend I was on the Appalachian trail, noting that if I were on the AT I would not be going back to my nice, warm house anytime soon.

Food. Yes, finally it’s time to eat! I especially loved my morning shakes. All of the meals except luncheon salads were made from recipes. For the uninitiated, this means that you have to cook before you can eat. With the exception of some recipes that provided leftovers, I spent a great deal of time chopping and mixing and watching bits of asparagus and cauliflower ping off the cabinets or roll across the kitchen floor. Yes, all fresh ingredients; nothing packaged. Let’s just say that I considered getting on the delivery route for a produce truck. I also spent a great deal of time cleaning up after myself. In addition to the food, I took vitamin supplements. One, I ordered online. The picture on the box showed a fine powder to be dissolved in drinking water, but this stuff couldn’t have been broken up with a ray-gun. I ended up putting it in my food and hoping it would melt.

Relaxation. One of the recommended stress-breakers is a bath with certain ingredients (e.g., lavender oil) added to the water. I bought the products but had to give up after two nights and an aching back. My bathtub has to be the worst tub ever made. Who in the h--- would design a tub that prohibits leaning back unless one is a contortionist? Hmmm. Oh, could it be Sa-tan? Same one who designed the U-Scan-It machines at the grocery store.

So there you have it. I’m glad I embraced the 10-Day Detox Diet, and I'll continue the parts of it that worked for me: the weighing and measuring, the morning walks, and many of the recipes. In fact, I’ve ordered Dr. Hyman’s cookbook. I feel good and finally can put my mom jeans in the regular laundry rotation in favor of items I previously could not wear. Yippee!

What am I writing? Besides this, you mean. For the last week and a half, I’ve been journaling my way through the diet. That’s a part of the program, too.

Food and Philosophy

Today is Valentine's Day, and there will be no chocolate for me. I don't mind at all.

I am by default a compulsive overeater. My adult life has been a fight to maintain a healthy weight and stay in shape. You might not know this by looking at me, but it would be a mistake to assume that a thin person has no such struggles.

If you read It Started with Dracula, you know that I have been on many diets, some successful and others just plain crazy. Weight Watchers is my most recent program, but lately my WW goal has been receding into the distance after nearly four years of successful weight loss and maintenance. Despite my attempts to correct the situation, it has persisted.

Emotional eating is eating that originates from feelings other than hunger; sadness, anxiety, and excitement are examples. Over the last few months I have seen the result of such eating: of the pants hanging in my closet, I choose the same pair—my mom jeans--every day. The others are too tight. Every couple of days the mom jeans go back into the laundry.

Yesterday was different. Oh, I still wore the mom jeans, but yesterday I ate reasonably: no binges, no frequent snacking, no bedtime treats while I watched TV. Even when I ran through the possibilities in my mind, no food appealed. I did not want to eat. That was curious, to say the least.

Sometime yesterday I also realized that my To Do list has been out of balance, weighted by too many things I dreaded. Every day I awoke to that checklist from hell: make doctor appointment, call insurance company, make other doctor appointment, get tax information together, write something brilliant before the deadline, find out why the contractor dropped off the face of the earth…

Should a retiree be stressed out? I don’t think so; aren’t these our leisure years? But there it was, and my nature also includes procrastination. I had been putting some of those hellish chores off for weeks or even months. The items that made me anxious sent me to the kitchen to make recipes instead. If I didn’t cook, I hid in a book or went out somewhere. Until yesterday.

Yesterday I called the two doctors, put the last of my tax documents into the 2013 folder, asked for help on a project, and completed other anxiety-producing tasks on my To Do list. The doctor appointments had topped the list. Even though I now have to GO to the appointments, my anxiety about making them immediately evaporated once I’d done it. Is that what made the difference in my appetite? It’s too early to tell, but I’m hoping to keep at this and work some variety into my wardrobe before spring thaw.

Here’s the point: We all need balance in our lives, and mine has been missing. Part of the reason might be the isolating winter weather, but the To Do list has been a factor, too. In addition to tackling the tough jobs, I (and maybe you) need to put more items in our path that we can look forward to--trips, time with friends, special treats—so that all the dates on the calendar won’t be for doctor appointments. 

Valentine's Day is a good day to begin.

A Circle of Lies

I just finished reading a great detective novel titled Circle of Lies. About halfway through, it became irresistible. That was a pleasant surprise, as I had known that buying the book was a risk.

I chose Circle of Lies after wandering around the Mystery shelves at Barnes & Noble hoping for something new in paperback from one or another of my favorite authors. That’s the way many of us buy books, only that day it wasn’t going to happen so I took a chance on Circle of Lies even though I had not heard of the author, “Douglas Alan.”

The bio at the back of the book gave little information about Alan, mainly that he was from Atlanta. Author bios can be brief—privacy is a consideration--but generally they’re a bit friendlier than his. There was no photo, no hint of family, and no series of accomplishments. After starting the book and liking the first few pages, I began to want more information about Douglas Alan, so I went to the Internet.

I discovered that Douglas Alan isn’t his real name, but that wasn’t my big surprise. As reported on www.cbsatlanta.com, www.usatoday.com, and other sites, Mitchell Gross is serving a 12 ½-year sentence in federal prison after pleading guilty to wire fraud and money laundering in 2012. It seems he scammed women out of millions of dollars after meeting them on the Internet.

In addition to Circle of Lies, Gross wrote a series of books called “The Fifth Ring” under the name Mitchell Graham. According to an article on www.examiner.com, he also spun a few tales about his writing. For example, Gross claimed that one of his books won a contest and that his novels were being made into movies. In reality, he had made up the contest himself and had no film adaptations in the works.

After reading that information I felt foolish for buying a book written by a criminal, a scam artist, a flimflam man. I still read it; there is merit in separating the artist from his or her work. All the while I was thinking what a waste it was for a man with his writing talent to have gone down that other path, the one that landed him in jail.

Many of you know that I read with a pen nearby. When errors pop up, I fix them on the page, something that other editors will understand. Circle of Lies was so good that I hardly picked up my pen. It was well plotted, well written, and well edited. I would have read Douglas Alan’s next book, and his next, and his next—if that darn Mitchell Gross hadn’t interfered.

Now, that was a crime.

High Tech

Every now and then I clean out my Word files and find forgotten fragments or completed pieces I didn't post. Here's one from April, 2013. 

I followed a bus home this morning with this advertisement on the back: “ANSWER YOUR DOOR WITH YOUR CELL PHONE.” I thought: Is this the epitome of laziness? Are we no longer expected to bother going to the door to peep out or greet someone in person?

When I first noticed the ad, I pictured the homeowner deciding from the couch whether to “unlock external device” remotely with his phone, but perhaps this gimmick is designed to be used away from home. After all, a traveler can now start a car parked in the airport lot before she gets off the plane. I suppose we could answer our door from the doctor’s office or a bar, too, but why would we?

Maybe I’m missing some vital point. The photo in the ad showed a man waiting outside an entry door. I can understand wanting to know who is ringing the doorbell, even if you don’t live in a questionable neighborhood or haven’t been victimized in the past. I live in a safe area, but I keep my doors locked whether or not I am home.

If answering your door is the stupidest use of a cell phone yet, then checking in at the airport while you are still at home is the most ridiculous use of the Internet. You can go online and check in to avoid those pesky lines at the terminal, and I’m sure many people do it; but, as Tina Turner said near the beginning of “Proud Mary,” “There’s just one thing.” You aren’t there.

How do you know you won’t get a flat tire on the way to the airport, end up by the side of the road wailing for help like the GEICO Gecko, and miss your flight? You don’t.

I do try to keep up with technology, but we all have to make choices. For me it makes sense to ignore some high-tech applications. If you ring my doorbell, I'll still answer it in person. 

Fall Cleaning

By now my collection of stuffed bats should be populating the living and dining rooms. The candlesticks with the spider webs should be decorating the mantle, and my framed picture of “Father Devlin” from The Ghoulish Gallery should be displayed where visitors can watch the somber priest turn into a screaming vampire.

I’m slightly behind schedule.

My collection, built around the theme of my Dracula memoir, is most suitable for Halloween. In the beginning I kept “everybody” in my office. Black bats, a carved Dracula, my little doll of Christopher Lee as the Count, an evil eye from Turkey, Father Devlin, and others surrounded me while I worked. A few years ago I ran out of room and had to put most of my little friends in storage. In October they get to take over the house for a few weeks. I hang the little ones from my dining-room chandelier and put the rest on the tables and chairs.

And, because I skipped spring cleaning, fall cleaning is strongly indicated as a preliminary step. The signals are all there; for instance, every autumn as I track in and out, small fallen leaves from the locust tree out front blow in and settle on my carpets. When I look down, chances are good that I’ll think at least one is a bug. That’s a perfect incentive to vacuum.

This is the weekend.

I started yesterday, but instead of starting in the rooms people would see, I sat on the bedroom floor and de-cluttered a few of my dresser drawers. It’s very important, you know, to divide travel gadgets into backpacking and non- and to separate non-latex bandages from the regular kind in one’s medical kit.

Before I went to Romania, I bought a “healthy traveler" kit online in anticipation of--well, if you know me at all, you can fill in that blank: in anticipation of every possible ailment short of a vampire bite. The kit was filled with little packets of pills, every label unfamiliar. Luckily the names were decoded on a sheet of cardboard included with the medications, but every now and then I have to go back in and sort through the pile and organize it. Oh, yes. It wouldn’t do to pop a couple Alcalak when what you really need is Decorel Forte.

You can see why I didn’t vacuum.

I hope to be able to report in a few days that I’ve decorated for Halloween. That would indicate an absence of autumn leaves as well, although I have so many that I could sprinkle them along the mantle instead, the way people do with Christmas greens. Happy October!

Into the Georgia Woods, Part 4

I feel like my new writing genre is disclaimers. Readers, please don’t think that in putting my backpacking adventure on the page I am being critical of anyone or anything connected to it. I have intended for this particular series of posts to be about my unique experience. This trip was a wonderful learning experience for me, and I would recommend it to anyone considering an investment of time and money in backpacking. I have chosen what to write, and any misinformation or misrepresentation, however inadvertent, is solely my doing. Now, let’s see what happened after the stars came out in Georgia.

When bedtime came, it came for all of us. We gathered our toothbrushes, went into the woods to brush en masse, and then retired to our tents. Camping can be said to reduce your entertainment options, especially after dark, but to me that’s the idea of being in the woods.

I wondered if I’d be able to sleep with my brain working overtime and my senses on the alert for anything from a centipede to a bull moose. However, as soon as I removed my two hearing aids, the sounds of the forest receded. Tired from the day’s events, I soon fell asleep. The next day my tent-mate would tell me that she thought she heard a bear during the night, but it turned out to be someone in the next tent snoring.

I did wake up in the dark, and I could have used a “nature break,” but there was no way I was leaving our tent. I wasn’t just jumpy; I was also 67, and not as agile as I might have wished. The previous evening I had lost my balance trying to exit the tent in a low crouch. Though I wasn’t hurt, I’d hit the dirt in front of everyone. It was another lesson learned: If I bought a tent, I’d need to pay attention to its construction and door placement. And my limitations.

I was the oldest hiker in our group, and part of my purpose in being there was to evaluate my physical ability to endure the trail. In 1955, Emma “Grandma” Gatewood hiked the Appalachian Trail at age 67 with a pair of high-top sneakers on her feet. It has been said and proven that even those with physical handicaps can complete a long hike, but it is also true that 70 percent of people who attempt a thru-hike drop out.

We broke camp after breakfast and began our hike back to the trailhead. We were following the same path we had taken before--the downhill one, if you recall—and so this time it was straight uphill. I didn’t weigh my pack, but I felt the strain of climbing the slippery trail wearing the pack and trying to grab onto tree trunks while holding a trekking pole in each hand. I wanted to keep up, but I also wanted to throw my gear over the nearest cliff and perhaps have someone serve me a tall glass of iced tea under a ceiling fan.

I was not the only one being challenged. One of the men fell and another smacked into a tree limb that hung at eye level in our path. In addition to navigating the natural vagaries of the trail, one of the women was nursing blisters. We crossed a paved road at one point, and it was there that our guide offered to let her shed her pack. We could hide the pack, he explained, and come back for it later in a car. That sounded good to me, and here is where I have to tell you that I wimped out. Two backpacks were hidden in the foliage, hers and mine.

It wasn’t a perfect trip and shouldn’t have been; it was a test. They all are. Mother Nature is unpredictable, gear is unpredictable, and we’re unpredictable. A thousand things can happen even to the well prepared. I’m glad I spent a night in the Georgia woods. Maybe I’ll give backpacking another whirl, now that I can boast that I’ve been four miles. All right, three.

After we returned to the shelter to empty our packs, return the gear we had used, and say good-bye I walked to the visitor center. Using the restroom there was a thrill. I also bought a T-shirt to remember my hike in Black Rock Mountain State Park. Back at my son’s house, I immediately took a hot shower, put on clean clothes, and assumed a catatonic position on the couch.

Oh--don’t be disappointed that we didn’t see any wild animals. I’m not.

Thanks to all of the outdoor experts who have helped me to understand what hiking and camping are about. You might even see me out there again. 

Into the Georgia Woods, Part 3

Once we entered the backcountry of Black Rock Mountain State Park—moments after leaving a paved parking lot--sounds of the outside world were muffled by forest. We walked in silence until our guide stopped us to point out a few more dangers we might face. That would be in the event we survived stepping on a snake.

Do you know what a widow-maker is? To hikers, it’s a tree or large branch that suddenly falls to the ground. Happens all the time in the woods, and you don’t want to be under one. Not only should we keep our eyes on the trail for snakes and now branches in our path; it wouldn’t hurt to look up once in a while as well.

Tip: An alert hiker stays alive.

Our hike to the campsite was about two miles, largely downhill. As we descended the mountain, our guide made sure we could recognize poison ivy growing along the trail, and there were discussions of mushroom types, water purification, and large animals.

“Make yourself big” during a bear encounter, he said. “Hold your jacket open and put both arms up so you’ll appear larger than you are. And make noise.” Don’t worry; if I come face to face with a 300-pound black bear, my screams will be heard in Cincinnati.

Did you know that an orange plastic buckle on the sternum strap of a backpack indicates a built-in whistle? The patented Whistleloc is easy to reach if an animal is a bit too interested in you. Unaware of its existence, I carried my own whistle on a cord, hoping not to have to mimic Cheryl Strayed, who had averted disaster by blasting hers at a charging bull in Wild. A whistle also comes in handy if you need to be rescued. Just saying.

The trail isn’t for sissies, particularly after a rain, but it’s a good test of boots. If your toes don’t jam up against the insides on a sharp downhill slope and you keep your footing while navigating wet rocks, slimy roots, and mud, that’s a good thing. I do love my boots.

Halfway down the mountain we took a snack break, removing our packs on a wooden bridge over a quiet little creek. The back of my synthetic shirt was soaked with sweat. I grabbed a hunk of my hair, and it was the same story. I was surprised; we’d walked only a mile. At least I had followed one rule: “No cotton!” The fabric of our lives is a deterrent on the trail, being too absorbent and slow to dry.

Wardrobe tips: Light-colored clothing will make it easier for you to spot ticks. Brightly colored outer garments will make it easy for hunters or rescuers to spot you.

Thunderstorms can be another danger to backpackers, as we found out minutes after pitching our tents. “Get in your tents,” our leader said. “If lightning strikes, crouch on your sleeping pad, touching it with only the balls of your feet.” My tent-mate and I sat side by side and listened to the distant thunder. We were not forced into the survival position; however, rain pelted our campsite. “Do you feel that?” I asked. “Our sleeping pads are moving.” The floor of the tent was undulating beneath our legs.

“It’s like a waterbed,” she said. “We’re floating!” Outside the rain flap, my trekking poles lay in a growing puddle. I pulled my pack into the tent, but that wouldn’t save it. We had to move.

Here’s a tip: Pitch your tent on level ground.

The storm put off dinner for a while, and by then the sun was gone. Our guide said, “Everybody put on your headlamps. We might be cleaning up in the dark.” When you camp, you don’t leave anything for scavengers. Solid leftovers go into a trash bag to be hung from a tree. If you have dishwater, as we did, you dump it away from your sleeping area. Fortunately, the men took over most of the duties that required going into the woods.

Later we gathered around a fire pit minus the fire, with a few dimmed headlamps our only light. Not only are campfires ill-advised in many wooded areas; it was the end of August and no one needed heat. We were a circle of shadows, and behind us the darkness was complete. Critters started making their night noises. I thought about those tigers in India that slip into remote villages to snatch people from their huts and drag them away.

Tip: The wilderness is a good place to try positive thinking.

To be continued…

Into the Georgia Woods, Part 2

The car aired out quickly after I dumped my badly wrapped trail snacks in Kentucky. By the time I swung back onto I-75 South, the sky was turning blue. Traffic was light, letting me enjoy the morning at a productive speed.

I do like nature. Even after the sun rose, the fog warnings were accurate. When I crossed the Kentucky River near Georgetown, I was the only one on the bridge. Fog hung above the water on both sides, and it was like driving into a make-believe land. In Tennessee the fog lay against the ground in sections of solid white, striping the grass like a flag.

I played satellite radio all the way to Atlanta, and during the last few miles I again heard the song that seemed to follow me to these hikes: “The Reverend Mr. Black.” Yes, I know I “got” to walk that lonesome valley, but at least this time I won’t be walking it by myself.

The class limit was 12 hikers. I knew that I would be teamed with another single female and that we would be tent-mates. REI would supply our tents, sleeping bags and pads, backpacks, cooking gear, and food for dinner the first night and breakfast the next day.

“Don’t let me forget my lunch,” I said to my son as I stuck my peanut-butter sandwich and power bar in his refrigerator. I even had a cloth bag with one of those built-in freezer blocks to put my food in, but there is so much to remember when you backpack. After all, I had to take my second suitcase with me to unload once the packs were distributed. Even at the end of summer, REI had required us to bring long johns, a fleece, a warm hat, and gloves in addition to a clean shirt, undies, and rainwear. My stuff bags, hiking boots, wool socks, and silk sock liners were loose in the trunk.

I had a two-hour drive north to Black Rock Mountain State Park—yes, Rev. Mr. Black, alone—which was plenty of time to imagine what was in store. What if I woke up in the wee hours having to pee? There are no toilets in the woods. You pick your way away from camp with a headlamp to guide you. I pictured our group hiking single file with me at the back. That was one picture I’d have to change; I’d seen enough animal shows on PBS to know it’s always the last ones that get picked off.

Anxiety would color my thoughts until I got where I was going and possibly after that; but, despite my fears, I knew I had made the right decision to test my mettle in the woods. I had a mini-library of hiking books, but you can’t learn it all by reading.

Black Rock Mountain State Park is located near Clayton, GA, a few miles south of the North Carolina border. Our group was to meet at the visitor center at 10:00 a.m. About halfway there, I realized I’d forgotten my lunch for the next day, so I stopped in Clayton to fill the gas tank and buy a couple packs of crackers to tide me over. Then, in spite of the clerk’s simple directions to the park, I missed the turn and had to go back.

The road to the visitor center made the two-lanes I knew in West Virginia seem downright roomy. Meet a car coming on the Black Rock Mountain Parkway and you had better be sticking to your lane and the speed limit. I was glad for my training on Gauley Mountain as I drove up the steep, twisting grade. The visitor center sat at the very top, in a spot that could have defined the term scenic view.

We met in a shelter. There were not 13, but seven of us: our leader from REI; a married couple; the single woman who would be my tent-mate; and two single men. One of the men arrived early and the other called from the road to ask if he should be in North Carolina. Uh, no.

An hour later, as we received our instructions and re-packed our gear, it began to rain. Hard. Was I prepared? You bet. Luckily I had sprung for a new, lightweight rain shell and still had the rain pants I’d bought for Romania in 2005. Remember: If it rains, you hike. We all suited up for nothing, however; in a few minutes the sun emerged and we left for the trailhead.

We met a ranger before we entered the woods. She held up a snakeskin and reminded us that our slithery friends might be seeking higher ground after the storm and therefore could be on the trail. “If you have to step where you can’t see,” she advised, “poke with your trekking poles and not your feet.”

At least I was wearing long pants, not that they’d stop a snake. I’d treated every article of clothing except my underwear with the tick repellent permethrin, so if I died of a snake bite, at least I wouldn’t be covered with ticks.

All-righty.

We started down the trail and in seconds were surrounded by dense woods; enveloped in green. The path, which I had pictured as wide as a two-lane with trees in the near distance, was no more than eighteen inches wide and all dirt. Wet leaves brushed against us on both sides. Our guide said it all: “We’re in the backcountry now.”

To be continued…

Into the Georgia Woods, Part 1

It was so dark outside that I couldn’t see my own feet, but I knew that smell: it was a skunk. All I needed was to be sprayed before the sun even came up. Not only was a skunk nearby; I could hear the bushes moving ahead of me. Creatures were calling to one another in a language I couldn’t identify. Were they bugs? Frogs? Feral animals? I gave up on stepping past the dim shapes unassisted and turned on the porch light.

If I was uneasy about encountering an animal on the way to my garage, I needed an attitude adjustment; wildlife abounded where I was going. I had signed up to spend a night in the mountains of Georgia, backpacking with a group. I was leaving for Atlanta at 5:45 a.m. to beat the rush-hour traffic, so in order to be efficient I had loaded the car the night before. I’d packed two suitcases, one for the time I would spend in civilization with my son and his family, and the other full of my stuff for the hike. Two of my three new dry bags—waterproof stuff sacks--were packed as well, one with “personal items” and the other with food.

A key to successful backpacking is packing light; after all, you are going to carry those items on your back for miles. Every ounce counts, and my personal dry sack was heavy. I knew in my heart that I should leave out some of the medical supplies, the ones for “just in case.” Would I really need a tube of calamine lotion? How likely was it that I’d get blisters, bug bites, sunburn, an upset stomach, a sore throat, constipation, and nasal congestion in one night? How many bandages could I use in 24 hours?

For snacks, REI, sponsor of the outing, had recommended dried fruits and beef jerky. Both are sold pre-packaged in their retail stores, so I had bought two zip-sealed packs of dried fruit as well as a big package of beef jerky, which ordinarily would not be among my snack choices.

I opened the store packages the night before I left and divided the contents in two, for the two days I’d be eating with my backpacking group. I put the servings in clear storage bags from the grocery and then packed one set in my food bag to eat along the trail. I slid the other set under the front seat of my car so that I could eat it for lunch when we returned to the visitor area of Black Rock Mountain State Park after our hike.

Once I’d lighted my way to the garage—sorry, sleeping neighbors—I opened the back door of my car to an assault of foul odor. What in the world could smell so bad? The same sickening smell wafted from my trunk, where the suitcases lay. It was my snacks! Their strong scents had escaped the cheap baggies I’d used and now mingled to permeate the inside of my car.

I was on a strict schedule with an eight-hour drive ahead of me, so I left in spite of the nauseating odor. A few miles down the road I realized that, by taking my snacks out of their original packages, I had made a potentially fatal mistake. Now not only would I have to endure the stink on the drive; if I hiked with this food, every bear in Georgia would be snuffling after me.

Keeping one’s food supply away from bears is a nightly activity in the forest. Outdoor stores sell bear-resistant food canisters designed to contain scents. Another method of foiling the animals is to tie a rope to a bag of food, throw the bag over a high tree limb, and secure the rope to the tree. My method was to pull into a rest stop in Florence, Kentucky and dump the whole works in the trash.

I knew I would have to buy the same items again once I reached the REI store near my son’s house, but I was all right with that. When one is preparing for a night in the wilderness with hungry animals afoot, seventeen dollars times two is not an expensive lesson.

To be continued…

Into the Woods

Joe and I were swimming one evening with our friend Anita. Maybe we were talking about what I might write next, and I was telling her about my new fascination with hiking the Appalachian Trail.

“It goes from Georgia to Maine,” I said. “You start in March and finish in September, hiking over the mountains. If it rains, you hike. If it snows, you hike. You don’t wash for days or weeks. You carry your own food, water, and shelter on your back. Sometimes you go for long periods without seeing anyone. It’s just you and the wildlife—ticks, snakes, bears, and more.”

My brother turned to me and pointed out, “It’s everything you don’t like.”

Was that true? Joe and I grew up in the Appalachian Mountains. The woods were part of our childhood, and I entered them unafraid. I hiked and climbed without a care, didn’t mind getting dirty, and gave no thought to wild animals. But something happened between that rural childhood and my current life as a retiree who spends most days indoors. Nature went by the wayside for me, so I’ve been taking steps to find out whether I might like hiking now.

First I took a class at our local REI store. The topic was how to pack for the AT, and I already knew much of what the instructor said. I hadn’t done any of it, but I had read a dozen books by then. It was interesting to see what he chose for gear and to examine items as they were passed around.

I love gear, but it’s expensive, so next I signed up for an overnight backpacking trip for which REI will supply everything but our hiking boots, rainwear, lunch, and snacks. This is in Georgia, a convenient location only because my son and his family live only a few miles from the REI store sponsoring the outing.

At the beginning of the summer, before I was infected by thru-hiking fever, I cleaned out my bedroom closet. There on a shelf were my dusty 30-year-old hiking boots, so I tried them on. Why did I keep these gunboats? I wondered, throwing them onto the Goodwill pile. Size 10 indeed.

After I signed up for the backpacking trip, what was the one thing I had to buy? Boots. Technology has made hiking equipment lighter, but it hasn’t shrunk my feet. The new ones are Size 10 ½.

The backpacking instructions specify that our boots be broken in. I wore mine around the house for a couple days, but the way to break hiking boots in is to go on actual hikes. Yesterday I drove to a county park near my home and hiked one of the nature trails. Alone, the way I would have if I’d been getting on the AT.

I was nervous to be heading out for a hike. What should I take? What should I wear? Would there be ticks? Animals? I realized I had no daypack, no walking stick, nothing to hold my water bottle except my hand, and a serious lack of pockets for what I wanted to carry. You don’t take a purse on a hike.

On the way I turned on the car radio to a prophetic chorus from “The Reverend Mr. Black”:

You got to walk that lonesome valley,

You got to walk it by yourself;

Oh, nobody else can walk it for you,

You got to walk it by yourself.

And I did.

The hike in Sharon Woods was fun. I liked being in the woods for a while on a summer day. I didn’t need my loud whistle (three blasts equal “Help!”), and my boots didn’t give me blisters. It was all good, but now I understand how hikers develop their distinctive sweaty aroma; after one hour I had the first traces of it.

Will I go on to thru-hike the AT? Will my experiences be the subject of a new book? I’m not convinced the world needs another hiking memoir, but I’ve already written the epigraph just in case. It’s the chorus I heard on the way to my first hike.

A special thanks to park rangers, in particular the woman at the Sharon Woods Visitor Center who made me feel so welcome.

 

 

Paper

I first encountered the term paperless office shortly after I began my career at a publishing house in 1979. My project was a textbook for training secretaries; tantalizingly placed among the step-by-step instructions for performing office tasks and tips for working with “your executive,” the concept of the paperless office offered those students a peek at the future.

A few days ago my desktop computer died. If not for the laptop I bought as a backup in 2009, the one I’m typing on now, I would be sitting in a computerless office.

Luckily, I had seen the end coming and had printed out my passwords from the program that helps me keep track of them. I’d also printed a screen shot of my document folders. I’d quickly written a list of my programs on a sheet of copy paper and had even figured out what I wanted in a new computer, jotting those specs and features on a separate page.

Paper: that’s the point of today’s message. Think hard about the paperless office, because a computer has a limited life span. When mine passed into the next realm, I knew that my documents and photos were safely backed up on the Internet through a cloud service. However, the cloud backup did not include everything. Suddenly I had no e-mail archives. My Windows calendar was gone. 

I use a paper calendar for medical appointments, workout sessions, and other wellness information; however, I’ve been recording my personal appointments electronically. August 7^th, I thought. What am I supposed to do on August 7^th?  I could recall many of my appointments, but the significance of that date would not come to me.

Even the absence of my old computer is hard to remember. I keep turning toward the spot on my desk where I most often typed, my hands ready to connect to the keyboard--which is connected to nothing-- or reach for the mouse that isn’t there. The monitor is now dark, the peripherals unhooked.

A new computer is on the way. I have two brilliant nephews, and Jason is the one whose forte is computer technology. He came to my rescue within hours of the unfortunate demise, choosing new components to build me a fabulous computer. In the meantime, consider paper.

I, for one, am not ready for the paperless office. I love electronic gadgets and will keep up with technology as long as it fits my needs and budget, but I’ll keep buying manila folders and legal pads, too. I did manage, without a paper reminder, to remember the significance of August 7^th. It’s the day the Culligan man is coming to refill my water softener.