I must have been somewhere in those awkward preteen years where I wanted to be a tomboy just like Amanda on It Takes Two (Mary Kate? Ashley? Whichever one it was….). Probably nine years old, but that’s just a guesstimate. We stayed in this amazingly rustic little cabin with our family friends and played Uno all night long. Looking back, I sure hope Alex and I have family friends like them so that the kids can all play Uno together while us parents do our adult things that float over the kids heads just like half of the jokes in Shrek.

Moving on….

This cabin was in Wolftown, Virginia. I bought this enormous t-shirt as a souvenir that had a wolf on the front. It would still fit me today if I had it. And goodness, I could probably rock an awesome hipster outfit with that shirt if I did find it. But after a late night by the crackling fire playing Uno way too long, we went out hiking.

Old Rag.

I think I heard our dads say “Old Rag” a million times on that trip. I guess they were excited. Thirty minutes into that hike- what seemed like an eternity back then- we were all a worn out disaster. Uphill, switchbacks. And, oh, the worst part was that everyone we passed kept telling us “you’re almost there!” and then smile at us with their “I just climbed a mountain” smile.

We never made it to Old Rag. Shoot. We never made it out of the forest. My memory is hazy but I remember my brother and dad hiking on while we sat on a boulder and ate our lunch. They didn’t make it either.

Wimps.

To date, I’ve hiked Old Rag six times. Aborted the mission once. Completed it five. Every time I hike that mountain and see parents with their nine-ish year old kids, I think back to that forfeited adventure the weekend we stayed in Wolftown. I purposely do not tell them “you’re almost there!” because the truth is, really, you’re never almost there. In five hour, ten mile hike terms, at least.

Now would be a good time for you to visit my favorite hiking website and plan your trip out to Old Rag.

In other news, I’ve grown rather fond of the Dallas filter on Afterlight (so sad it’s no longer Afterglow and I couldn’t tell you why). But I’m sure you could already tell that by the look of these pictures.

Need more Old Rag?

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• Old Rag
• blue ridge
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“This is how we fell in love.” Alex mentioned quietly.“Yeah, I miss this. I miss our hikes.” I pick up the pace, almost skipping I’m enjoying our run so much. “You mean our outdoor adventures?” I laugh. Yeah, I guess you can call them adventures.

Old Rag loops to a conclusion with a 3 mile stretch back to the parking lot from the end of the trail. You’re on the Weakeley Hollow Fire Road so it’s flat and boring- except for the occasional pile of bear droppings that look too fresh not to ignore. After scrambling over miles of boulders and climbing by hand at dangerous heights, all you really want to do is rest by the time you reach the road.

We run. Every single time we hike Old Rag, we run our exhausted butts the three miles back to the car. And what is it about being on top of that mountain all day that makes those three miles seem so simple? On any given weekday, after plugging in a solid instructional day with my class, a couple of meetings and an hour or so of tutoring, three miles can kill me. But after six miles of hiking and rock climbing? Pshhh.

This makes zero sense.

But, really, it’s simple.

I don’t refuel in the classroom. I don’t refuel at my job. Not one ounce of the energy I put into teaching, into planning, into meetings or tutoring could even pretend to be that sort of energy. Instead, my day to day is of the soul sucking energy that drains you exponentially. The more you get, the less you have. And I definitely don’t find the energy to be the wife, best friend, lover, or companion in my day to day.

But then we hike Old Rag. We escape the madness of suburbia and the twelve lane deep rush of the beltway and the stress of never ever stopping and we find the time. Just us. And it’s a rough enough hike without carrying anything on your back. So you limit yourself to three pb&j’s, two water bottles, three powerades, a bag of trail mix, the dslr, and a few band aids. You know. Just in case.

Old Rag requires the sort of energy that holds the power of a chargeable battery. Plug us in and we’re on fire. This is how I lose track of time. This is how I meditate. This is how I pray. This is how I make it through the day to day. 

This is how I, we, fall in love. 

And it’s quiet on that fire road. Just the sound of the gravel as we stomp above it and the whisper of the trickling creek that winds in and out around us. At the very end, right before you hit the trail head, coming full circle, the fire road crosses the rush of the creek bed. You can go around on the bridges. Or you can cross through.

We stopped, I snapped a picture, and we blessed each and every one of those rocks with our exhausted feet. But, really, they were blessing us. It was our baptism. As the mountain water runs crisp and clear through the pores of our shoes, stinging in a beautiful and empowering way, we are whole again.

So, it’s through the pillars here on earth… the pillars of the earth…. that we finally can take a deep breath. And recharge.

P.S. Today’s the last day to enter to win $100 to spend at J.Crew!

• Tags
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• fabulous adventures
• hiking
• Old Rag
• blue ridge

from the garden in my Aunt Jeralyn and Uncle Bruce’s front yard// Denali, Alaska// August 2008

It sure is becoming a gorgeous spring around here. Nearly every tree’s begin budding and the birds are starting to sing outside of our windows before the alarm even goes off. Maryland’s humidity lingers with the morning dew, but it’s still burning off by midday. We’re having good hair days in these parts and we’re digging up the fun part of our closets- the brights and the pastels and the skirts and all of that fun jewelry we don’t care as much about in the winter.

But I’ve been so angry at this place lately. With every passing beautiful weekend, I am filled with more anxiety and pressure. We’ve lost time for the important things to overbooked schedules and piling dishes and those pesky little chores that must be done before my mind can even think about relaxing. And then, when we have a moment to think, we want to be anywhere but here.

Our love, relationship and friendship was homegrown on nature. We fed it a hearty diet of Appalachian hikes, rock scrambles, and pitched, nylon tents. Then, we washed it all down with a couple of vineyards. Here, in the armpit of suburbia, not so much.

Often we catch ourselves stomping our feet and throwing tantrums at the fact that a good- real good- worthwhile hike is hours away instead of around the corner from campus. And the good- real good- vineyards, campsites, and waterfalls are also hours away.

Anyway, we’re hiking one of our favorite mountains this weekend and I’m pretty sure we’ve ignited a fresh spark in our marriage simply talking about this upcoming adventure.

We know we have to move some day soon. This isn’t the right place for us. And for some odd reason, Alaska’s been on my mind. I think it’s that near brush with the norther lights. No, we aren’t moving to Alaska. But, I went out to Anchorage on a business trip five years ago and spent a few extra days of personal leave visiting my aunt and uncle who live in Denali. The entire trip all I could think was “gosh, I have got to get Alex back up here one day” and even today, I’m still thinking the same thing.

There’s beauty in Alaska unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. Raw, endless beauty. Wild beauty. Untouched earth. The bus ride from Anchorage out to see my aunt and uncle was, looking back, one of the most impacting moments of my life. You haven’t seen the earth until you see what I saw. More than miles, further than a million horizons, land and nature untouched and left in its raw state. Even thinking about it makes me feel claustrophobic living the way we all do. Cities and suburbs and light pollution.

I suppose because each year our ache for a more appropriate place to call home gets greater, this spring’s hitting harder than normal. We made some big decisions that are keeping us here a wee bit longer. And it’s for the best. But…. a trip back to Alaska may be in order one of these summers.

• Tags
• fabulous adventures
• Alaska
• nature
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• Denali

It was a real downer in the memory department. The glitz and glamour of a childhood memory squashed to smithereens. The sunsoaked laughter and rippling waves upon the shore blown apart by reality. Some things are better left in childhood memoryland, not revisited.

Last week while visiting my mom in northern Michigan, Alex and I were trying to plan a trip of sorts for our last day. With great enthusiasm and happy-memory filled exuberance, I suggested we go to Sleeping Bear. Well, in case you’ve been living under a rock for the past year, this is Sleeping Bear:

And before it made national news as Good Morning America’s Most Beautiful Place in America, it lived in a corner of my mind reserved for the happiest, shiniest memories from being a kid. The memory glistened in summer sunlight, the waves of Lake Michigan crashing below as I stood atop a gigantic sand dune. I run to catch up with my feet as my body tumbles down the side of the steep dune, laughing and carrying on until I reach the bottom and splash effortlessly into the water. Then, I trudge slowly back up the dune, careful and with several rests, to the tip top of the dune to do it all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat.

Well, apparently I have altered this happy moment of my past greatly because this is not what Sleeping Bear Sand Dunes are. And poor Alex had to actively participate in my sad realization last week. In reality, it is not one, steep sand dune that takes you to the glorious waters of Lake Michigan but dozens of steep sand dunes. As you begin your journey, you cannot see Lake Michigan at the summit of the dune. Or the next. Forget about it. You’ll have to ascend dune after dune, trudging along in the unforgiving heat without any respite of shade (these are sand dunes, after all). And finally, after climbing uphill, dune after dune for a miserable eternity of 45 minutes, you will see Lake Michigan in the distance. The distance. Did you catch that? Up and down, up and down you climb, each time hoping that the summit will surprise you with the water down below, but my joyous memories deceive me and we continue along, conserving our water because guess what? Once we make it to the Lake, we’ll still have to climb back. Uphill, both ways.

What were my parents thinking? Or, better yet, What kind of kid actually remembers this as a HAPPY memory?

We made it. It is gorgeous. Lake Michigan has the glistening splendor of natural remarkable beauty. We had our picnic, rehydrated and worked on our sunburns. The gentle breeze calmed our muscles and the cool, refreshing water never before looked so clear. It truly is the most beautiful place in America. But it is too damn hard to get here.

Off we went into the Sahara Desert of America once again, fighting off heat exhaustion, blisters and dehydration. When we finally made it to the last hill, where we could see the parking lot down at the bottom, I began to realize the distortion of my memory. Sure, I ran happily down a dune. But Lake Michigan wasn’t at the bottom. It must’ve been the solace of an air conditioned car, ready to take me  away. Yes, this must be the real memory.

And next time, we’re taking a dune buggy.

We’ve only just begun. In the background, that’s a tiny little lake on the other side of the parking lot. Ahead of us are several dunes. We have no reason to be smiling…

Hiking a little further into the middle of nowhere…

Every hilltop had the magical power of making us think that maybe, just maybe, it would be our last.

Until finally, we saw Lake Michigan… so. far. away.

And then, about 20 long, terrible minutes later, I cried out in serious relief when we saw this:

Welcome to Lake Michigan, you made it across the sand dunes!

Yes, it’s beautiful. The most beautiful place in America! But you’ve already forgotten our car is an hour hike back, uphill both ways, in sand. I suppose it’s like a hazing ritual. Now, Alex has become a true Michigander. He’s survived Sleeping Bear. And forget the dune buggy, the next time I want to catch some rays on Lake Michigan, I’m doing it from the comfort of our cottage, where it’s a short walk down the steps to the beach:

*Filed under Social Life and Personal Life*

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