About gretchenwing

A high school English and History teacher for 20 years, Gretchen now lives, writes, and bakes on Lopez Island, Washington.

BC x 3: Bella Coola in British Columbia in Beautiful Canada

Posted on September 19, 2025 by gretchenwing

For those of you who read my 2023 post on the various meanings of “BC”–don’t worry, I won’t subject you to more of that. I just couldn’t resist a nod to one more extraordinary BC discovery.

Since The Mate & I learned that a close friend got an amazing admin job at UBC in Vancouver–just up the road from us–we’ve been itching to go visit. Of course, since said friend’s job is just starting, we realized we needed to give him a little time before popping by…but by then our fires were lit. Maps were out. Venues were calling.

Yes, that’s a glacier, as seen from an airplane. I’ll explain.

Bella Coola is accessible three ways: by ferryboat–if you go to Vancouver Island, drive all the way up to Port Hardy, and ride the ferry for 16 hours. By car–if you drive 350 miles north from Vancouver, then turn left and drive another 250, 60 of which is gravel, including a super-sketchy portion known as “The Hill.”

photo courtesy Wikimedia, by some driver braver than I am!

Or you can fly. That’s the option we chose, and, despite the expense, we were SO glad we did. The sight of so many still-healthy-looking glaciers filled me with joy (despite my very scratchy window). And our descent…!!!

Not for the faint of heart…but worth the ticket if you love thrills. And peaks.

I grabbed this shot of the cockpit of our 20-seater plane, just to show the narrowness of the valley we descended into:

Green = safe. Yellow = LOOKOUTFORTHATMOUNTAIN!!!

Once down, The Mate and I looked around, then looked at each other and said the same thing: “Didn’t we just see this in Yosemite?”

Only this is no national park; this is where folks LIVE. That building? It’s an elementary school.

The town of Bella Coola is at one end of a loooooong inlet, giving way to a looooong, skinny valley, which ends in Tweedsmuir Provincial Park, and The Hill. One thing we quickly realized: with so little flat ground, hiking trails for our aging bodies were somewhat limited. But we managed.

This one included extra perks: suspension bridge, whee!

A couple of them I did alone, like Lost Lake:

But we didn’t let the lack of long hikes interfere with our awe and delight about the place, from large features…

…to small:

I even got to enjoy a fun cultural scavenger hunt, thanks to a Lopez Island friend who told me her Norwegian great-grandpa was buried at a Lutheran church in Bella Coola. I told her I’d try to find his grave, but all I found was an old-looking church, not Lutheran, with no cemetery, and this (closed) cultural center:

“Sorry,” I told my friend, “I’ll keep looking.” But meanwhile–forget humans, we had bears to find! September is full salmon-run season, so we hoped to see both fish, and fishing bears. Not in the Bella Coola River, which is thick with glacial silt…

…but in its clearer tributaries. Nor were we disappointed.

Salmon on the left: alive. Huge, upside-down salmon in the center: Thank you for your service. RIP.

Our first morning, we drove Up Valley to Tweedsmuir PP, and were promptly rewarded by seeing a pretty black fox (not pictured; I was driving), followed by a mama bear with 2 cubs.

I managed to pull over fast enough to capture Cub #2, following her fam into the forest.

The best bear-viewing spot, that first morning, yielded no bears.

Still a pretty good spot to hang out. No complaints!

But the next morning, as everyone was looking upriver at the most obvious fishing spot, a gravel bank, I happened to glance the other direction and spotted this fella, soundlessly swimming from OUR side of the river.

I repeat: he was on OUR side. Just behind us.

We all did like this person here, and activated our cameras. Most of what I took were videos–I wanted to capture sound and movement–but I did get a few stills (apologies for my lack of zoom).

Pointy ears; no hump; flat face = Black, not grizzly. Still a big guy!

Actually, during the salmon run, it’s obvious the bears have zero interest in attacking humans. Nice, oily fish are what they crave. What a gift, to be able to sit and watch them move, without feeling like we should be backing away.

We saw one other bear during our 4 days in the valley. But plenty of other wonders too, especially when we signed up for a boat tour…which also, surprise! solved the mystery of my friend’s great-grampa’s missing grave.

Our boat captain was full of history, with photos. Turns out the Norwegian families who arrived in the late 1800s built their settlement at the north end of the inlet…I’m guessing to get as far away as possible from the Nuxalk People who lived there.

See the old settlement? Nope. Because it’s gone.

Joke was on the white folks. In 1936, about 40 years after building their settlement, the Norwegians saw the whole place flooded away and destroyed by a king tide. All they could save was their church, which they pushed with canoes over to the road, then carried Up Valley…where it sits today.

No longer Lutheran, and no cemetery, but this was the church I’d been looking at! I was able to share this story with my friend, both of us agreeing her forebear’s bones now rest “full fathom five” in the inlet.

Capt. Daniel also stopped at the site of the Norwegians’ old school, explaining how the kids had to hike along the bluffs above the inlet twice a day to attend.

Far left: site of old school. Far right, not quite in the frame: site of village where kids lived. Yikes.

Capt. Daniel, by the way, had the most awesome First Mate: Buck, the Golden Retriever.

When we arrived at a site, no ramp was lowered: Daniel simply butted the prow against any handy rock…

…and off we clambered. Gingerly.

Our first stop was a hot spring. Have you ever sat in one that didn’t smell like sulphur? We hadn’t. It was MAGNIFICENT.

The big curvy thing above me is a cedar branch.

Here’s the view from Nature’s Best Hot Tub:

Wait. Is that First Mate Buck, asleep on the job?

When we got to the next drop-off site, our guides stayed in their roles: Daniel dropped us off and went fishing; Buck led us to the Big Cedar Tree.

Seriously. Not a guide dog–a dog guide.

Turns out Buck knew the way, all right.

“You’re not even capturing the whole tree in this frame.”

How about this?

Oh, that boat trip. We had waterfalls…

…ancient Nuxhalk pictographs…

That’s supposed to be a person. Telling visitors this land is OCCUPIED, thanks.

…and more glaciers, this time from below.

Before we left the valley, we spent some time in and around the town of Bella Coola itself, where the Nuxhalk culture felt pretty vibrant, at least to us outsiders.

I only wish I could have learned to pronounce that.

A nearby grove of cedars, some ancient, bears the marks of age-old cultural harvesting, both bark…

…and even wood, all without damaging the tree:

The last two days of our trip, the wind shifted and the valley grew smoky. We learned of uncontrolled wildfires to the east; Rt. 20 (The Hill) was closed. When it came time to fly out, this time we stopped in the tiny town of Anahim Lake, and got a good look at the fire-threatened sky for ourselves:

Not pictured: the ash falling from the sky

So after that sobering glimpse of what our planet’s facing, it was doubly gratifying and relieving to see those glaciers from above.

Restraining myself from quoting Robert Frost here…I’ll just say, “Hang in there.”

Next up: More BC! Islands, this time–the littler ones. Thanks for coming along.

Go Ahead, Take Tuolumne for Granite

Posted on August 24, 2025 by gretchenwing

I hereby refuse to apologize for any granite puns. When you’re in Tuolumne (“too-ALL-um-mee”), in the high country of Yosemite National Park, you’ll know why.

The Mate and I hadn’t been to Yosemite for–yikes, had it really been 11 years??? But that last trip, in spring of 2014, was only to the Valley. Tuolumne, at 9,000 feet, was still buried deep in snow then.

(with maybe a few peaks, like Cathedral, “peaking” out)

So, really, the last time we’d been in Tuolumne? We realized, to our chagrin, it had been DECADES. Thanks to our California cousins, who scored a couple of tent cabins (thanks to someone else’s cancelled reservations) and invited us to join them…we fixed that.

Oh, the backdrop of that swim?

just your average soul-shakingly beautiful mountain lake

Here’s what The Mate & I noticed right away about the contrast between Yosemite Valley and Tuolumne: the Valley makes you look UP–at Yosemite, Bridalveil, Nevada & Vernal Falls; Half Dome, El Capitan. All the beautiful, famous stuff is UP. But it also makes you look OUT: for buses, kids on bikes, tour groups on their phones, gift shop souvenirs…you get the picture.

At Tuolumne, the beautiful stuff may be less famous…but it’s EVERYWHERE. Up, down, all around…with about 1/6 the # of people competing to be in it.

(Not all potholes were this inviting.)

Not sure I’d be able to climb back out of this one…

Speaking of potholes, one of the best walks I took was right up a modest, 200-foot dome called…Pothole Dome. The view from up there captures the granite world better than words.

Those trees probably feel about as permanent there as I did! We’re all just guests of the stone.

Tuolumne’s famous for plenty besides granite, of course: its meadows, best seen in spring, thick with wildflowers…

…but it’s August, so Tuolumne Creek will have to do!

…and the famous John Muir Trail, the Sierra section of the Pacific Crest Trail.

But let’s face it: those granite faces are really what the place is all about.

Cloud Rest…on the way to Half Dome (I wish I were!)

One morning I got up, pre-cousins, and took myself for a stroll along the creek. Something grey caught my eye–a baby dome I hadn’t even noticed–appropriately named (I learned later) Puppy Dome.

On the way out, we stopped to visit a handful of giant Sequoias, where the high Yosemite slopes down toward the Valley.

Big trees are always inspiring; I was happy to meet Big Red.

But leaving Tuolumne, it was Big Grey I took with me. I hope it’s not decades till I see these rocks again…but I know they’ll wait for me.

The Pacific Crest Trail: The Ironwoman Goddaughter & I Repurpose “PCT”

Posted on August 12, 2025 by gretchenwing

You’ve probably heard of it, even if you haven’t read the memoir Wild, or seen the movie, or hiked part of the PCT yourself. 2,650 miles, it stretches from the Mexican border to the Canadian.

Think this is gorgeous? Wait till the larch trees turn golden and the shrubs turn red!

There’s so much to love about the PCT: it runs deliberately across the most dramatic stretches of western mountain (the “Crest”); it’s pretty accessible in places (like this, the Cutthroat Pass portion); and it’s blessed by a uniform “PCT grade” of 6%, meaning that it’s never too ridiculously steep (looking at YOU, Appalachian Trail!).

Imagine ALL the huckleberry leaves adopting the color of this influencer!

With only two nights, Ironwoman Goddaughter Allison & I opted for Cutthroat Pass, figuring we knew exactly what we’d be up for.

PCT: Perfectly Cute Tarn (i.e., snowmelt lake)

We were mistaken on most counts.

At first, we were thrilled to find ourselves all alone on a brilliant, sunny Tuesday: this enormous campsite, all for us???

And blueberries? Sure, we expected to find some, but…

We happily took advantage, stuffing our faces like bears…

…taking photos of campsite flowers…

…and marveling at the spruce cones, which are having themselves a season like I’ve never seen!

We couldn’t decide if they looked more like baby owls, or like glittery Christmas ornaments.

We enjoyed the sun all the more, knowing that the forecast called for “showers” the following afternoon.

But the rain started around 4 a.m. and continued to drizzle on and off all day.

It was a warm drizzle, not bad at all–but we did have hopes that the sun might reward us for our intrepidness and burst out at our Day 2 destination, a pair of high lakes.

Instead…exactly when we’d finished the climb and were sitting down for lunch and rest…THAT’s when the rain really let loose.

*Not pictured: rain letting loose. Because I didn’t want it letting loose on my phone.

*Also not pictured: Gretchen and Ironwoman Allison enjoying a mid-hike rest, because they didn’t get one.

Well…the forecast DID call for afternoon rain. We just didn’t think that meant morning rain plus afternoon downpour. And we did get that hoped-for sunbreak…after we’d already left the lakes behind, heading back…

…along a stretch of trail too sketchy to stop and rest on.

With the rain FINALLY relenting, we were able to enjoy some of the crags we’d hiked past that morning, when they were hidden by clouds.

…even though that blessed PCT Grade does make for a longer hike sometimes!

So, after 13 miles without much of a rest, we were pretty tired by the time we hiked back into camp. And pretty shocked to find our campsite looking like this:

Understand two things: 1) that olive-colored tent was pitched so close to ours you couldn’t walk between them

2) There were other sites available, just beyond ours! But when we pointed this out to the 4 hikers who’d pitched these, they shrugged us off–literally.

I was too pissed off to speak to them after that, thinking, Who DOES this?? But Allison engaged them in conversation, and that’s how we quickly came to understand: Ah. These are through-hikers, or at least they think of themselves that way. These folks–my age, seemingly–WERE doing the whole PCT, but they were doing it one section at a time–maybe a 10-day trip. Not the 5 months’ journey that would have caused us to feel a little more generous toward their entitled attitude…

…which showed up big time at 5:30 next morning when they all woke up and started using their outdoor voices.

This guy would’ve been a FAR preferable neighbor.

Allison’s winning submission for PCT: Pretentious Campsite Terrorizers!

So we learned a few things. PCT through-hikers seem to think the trail belongs to them, so next time, camp as far away from the trail as possible. And bring earplugs.

Because, otherwise? It was a Pretty Cool Trip.

Alabama Shade: My Mini-Civil Rights Pilgrimage

Posted on July 29, 2025 by gretchenwing

“Throwing shade” on someone is bad. So is calling something “shady.”

But in July in Alabama, the shade is where you want to be.

Once my Amazing Mom had finished her track meet and we’d all gone out to brunch (at Waffle House, where else?), the five of us–me, parents, sister, brother-in-law–found ourselves with several hours of free time before their flight back to North Carolina, and nowhere in Huntsville’s 95-degree humidity that we wanted to be.

We’d already gone to see the big rockets. The local botanical garden looked pretty online, but most of its pathways were out in full sun. No thanks.

Then my sister found us Monte Sano State Park–a little mountain just outside downtown Huntsville.

There’s nothing like a mature hardwood forest for real shade, and this one was up a thousand feet or so–easily 10 degrees cooler than town. The park even boasted those wonderful New Deal-era CCC cabins The Mate and I always loved to discover on our Road Trips.

Not pictured: all the birdsong in these woods

We strolled; we lingered. We sweated a LOT less than we would have, anywhere else in Alabama that day…

…thanks to the shade.

Mid-afternoon, well satisfied, I dropped my fam off at the Huntsville airport and continued on an errand of my own. Yes, I could have booked my flight from there, but the connection via Birmingham worked better for me. And Birmingham carries a weight of history that I wanted to feel again.

Except it was Sunday: all museums closed. So I made another plan. I decided to take a 90-minute detour through the small town of Anniston, where I knew the Freedom Riders Memorial would still be accessible, Sunday or no.

Not pictured: the beautiful, green, rolling lushness of the Alabama hills I drove through alone, wishing I could take photos with my eyes.

Also not pictured: the Sisters in Law podcast I was listening to, in honor of Professor Joyce Vance, my favorite legal explainer, who lives and teaches in Birmingham. (Click her name to follow her “Civil Discourse” Substack!)

My first view of Anniston reminded me of the narration in To Kill a Mockingbird: “an old town…a tired old town.”

Hopefully the emptiness was mostly due to it being Sunday…but I wasn’t so sure.

The memorial was tucked into an inconsequential alley, next to what had once been the bus station.

Note my giant rental car parked across the street.

Inside the alley, the exhibit came to life.

Each panel of the bus explained the events leading up to that spring day in 1961. I read them all, but for purposes of brevity, didn’t include the whole background to the event, which you can read about here.

I’ll let the panels speak for themselves, assuming you can expand them on your device.

Did I learn anything new from this exhibit? Only the small fact that the actual firebombing of the bus had occurred a few miles outside of town–after the local cops made the KKK mob let the bus leave, only to abandon driver and passengers to their fate as the KKK followed.

They had already slashed the bus’s tires. They knew it wouldn’t get far.

I still can’t comprehend how no one died that day.

But what I DID get from standing in that (shady) alley: chills. Thinking of the bravery of those young volunteers, Black and white, sitting in that Greyhound as the mob surrounded them. Yes, they were all well trained. Yes, they knew what they were signing up for, what they were up against.

But who, in the moment, is really ready to die by violence?

I drove off into the Alabama evening, shaken by its past…and by the shade that past still casts on our present.

I needed a walk in the woods.

Such beauty. Such peace. Such irony in these Iron Hills.

I want to thank the foot soldiers of the Movement, and the people who keep their story alive. We’re going to need all your grit in the shady days ahead.

“This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine…”

Sweat Home, Alabama: My 90 Year-Old Mom Demonstrates Staying (Literally) on Track Into Your 6th Decade

Posted on July 23, 2025 by gretchenwing

Look carefully at the number on my mom’s back.

USATF Master’s Nationals, Huntsville, Alabama, July 19 2025

That “W 90” means what you think it means: the person wearing that number is a woman at least 90. I only saw one other “90” at the meet, and that was a man.

All weekend, people kept approaching my mom, Martha Klopfer, to tell her how inspirational she is. Her response was generally something along the lines of a shrug and an “All I do is keep going.”

Waving at her fans? No, probably just loosening up before the start of the 800.

Exactly.

Here she is, “keeping going” in the 800, at one p.m. in July in what felt like a caricature of a steamy Southern summer day:

And here are the results:

As you can see, she just nipped under the 6-minute mark. This was almost 30 seconds slower than a year ago. Just as she’d kept reminding us, Mom hadn’t been training as much; COVID, then the chaos of the death of their farm’s last two equines (the Brown Boys) had pulled her off her schedule.

That race earned her the rest of the afternoon off. The younger part of her support team–me, my oldest sister & her husband–took our GIANT rental car…

Couldn’t resist this picture of the hood, which a storm decorated with a tiny snippet of pink crepe myrtle!

…to Huntsville’s main tourist attraction, the U.S. Space and Rocket Center.

My brother-in-law kept coaching me: “Not a ‘rocket,’ Gretch–it’s a Saturn V!”

Even for a non-space-geek like me, it was pretty cool.

Next morning, the 1500 was blessedly scheduled before the heat took hold. Since I’m my mother’s daughter when it comes to competitiveness, I had to give myself quite the talking-to, not to hope for a national record in this longer distance either. (After all, she ran a 10:55 last year, and the record is 11:30!)

The 15 starts around the turn, so we had to watch them line up via Jumbotron.

Sure enough…she ran her hardest…every step an inspiration…

…and finished strong, at 11:59.

And I do mean strong! She beat at least two women–maybe 3?–in younger age groups.

Was she happy and proud? Were we all, especially her coach, my dad?

Go ahead and call her “inspirational,” as I did–reminding her that simply seeing her out there was the inspiration–records, shmrecords.

She’ll laugh and shrug.

Next week: Wait, did you say ALABAMA??? Tell me more.

Mamma Mia, Here She Goes Again, Again…Again! When You’re 90, a World Record’s Beside the Point

Posted on July 14, 2025 by gretchenwing

Here’s what my mom, Martha Klopfer, said about the upcoming USA Track & Field Masters meet in Huntsville, Alabama:

“My intention is to show up and run my best on that day.”

This time a year ago, at 89, she set an American record in the 1500m: 10:55.45.

Now she’s 90. New age group.

Will that mean a world record, in the 800m? In the 1500?

Does it matter?

Here are three moments to take:

Right now, think about what Martha’s race means to women athletes of all kinds.

2. Next weekend, take a moment to cheer: Marth-A! Marth-A!

3. After next weekend, take a moment to tune back in and see what Martha has to say this time.

New England to New Scotland, Part II: “A Moose and a Whale at the Same Time”

Posted on June 14, 2025 by gretchenwing

That’s what we were told we might see, driving the Cabot Trail around Cape Breton. As it happened, we saw neither. But in our week up there, we never stopped believing we might.

Here’s why:

To left: whale habitat. Center: moose habitat (and The Mate). To right: the road.

For this part of the journey, having said goodbye to Son One and our New England cuzzies, we flew to Halifax, rented a campervan, and drove to Cape Breton Highlands National Park.

For those who followed my saga about Vanna Grey–this is a touch ironic

Here are a few nutshell things we learned about Cape Breton:

It’s actually an island above the lower half of Nova Scotia (where Halifax is)

2. One crosses onto that island via (sadly undramatic) causeway, not–as I’d expected–a bridge.

3. It’s home to more fiddlers, per capita, than anywhere in the world (unverified, but I enjoy thinking this!)

4. The authorities there have decided that the moose population has grown too large, threatening to eat down the forests, thus they have culled them…making moose sightings much rarer than they used to be. (sad for us, and the locals we spoke to weren’t very happy about it either)

Closest we got to a moose was this huge, fresh print in the mud. (We also saw some poop, but you don’t need to)

The coastline is quite different on the west side than the east, and the center is also quite distinct. So let me break it down photographically. Two things we did see everywhere: blooming serviceberry…

…and tea-colored water, colored, I understand, by the tannins in the bogs that dominate the center of the island (and the whole province).

That combination really struck us on our first west-side hikes.

See what I mean about that serviceberry?

The western coastline is STEEP, with few roads down to the water. So we mostly viewed it from above.

If you’re wondering about the brown, keep in mind: end of May is still VERY early spring up there. The hardwoods were just beginning to leaf out.

Ditto the ferns. You can tell this area was under snow pretty recently.

Oh, and did I mention the fog?

Here, BTW, you can see an example of a moose-munched forest. Not much there!

Speaking of fog…

looking back down on our road, from the Skyline Trail

The inland part of Cape Breton looked, to me, like Alaskan taiga (stunted forest) or tundra (no forest at all).

When I’ve shown folks this picture, their response has been, “Wow–it looks so dry!” Nope. Very wet. Just not leafed out yet.

blueberry plants growing in thick reindeer lichen

On to the east coast of the island. If the center is Alaska-esque, we thought the east coast looked like Maine:

And those brown creeks make such a contrast there!

This is my favorite picture from the whole trip.

Closeup of that granite:

We also explored some beautiful inland lakes on the east side…

…starting with this sweet little crossing of the headwaters.

This one shows off the best combo: pink sand, strong-tea water, and a great grey giant from the past:

Speaking of the moose we didn’t see…I’ve been totally remiss in discussing the wildlife we DID see! Like this black bear (don’t get too excited–it was mostly visible through binocs):

That black dot in the very center of the shot? Bear. (I did warn you it wasn’t close.)

We also encountered a couple of bunnies, which, we realized by their coloring, were actually Arctic Hares still transitioning from their winter whites.

Our favorite hike followed this skinny spit sticking out into the big blue Atlantic:

Ok, not blue yet…wait till the sun comes out…

That’s a little better. But keep your eye on that boat…

The lobster fishermen were busy while we were there, and they got so close we were job-shadowing them from shore!

Literally. I was counting their catch as they hauled it up.

Our last day on Cape Breton Island, we spent on the detached, southeastern part (see map above, near the town of Sydney), which is an island itself…attached by the briefest ferry ride we’ve ever been on:

Any decent ballplayer could throw across this gap! It took less than a minute to cross. Must be cheaper to maintain than a bridge…?

Over there, as the weather chilled down, The Mate & I did something we do very rarely on our trips together: we visited a museum. Make that a LIVING museum, Fort Louisborg.

Did I mention it’s still late May? Apparently nothing much gets going in Nova Scotia till June. We had the place mostly to ourselves.

Built by the French in 1713. Captured by the English. Recaptured by the French. Then finally destroyed by the Brits…all in about 50 years! Oh–and then rebuilt by the Canadian Government in the 1960s. The WHOLE thing.

This lady used the word “we” when describing the French. Good job, Madame.

I commented on how commodious these bunks looked…and was told by a chap in a soldier costume, “We’re three to a bed, you know.”

After a week of leisurely wandering–the whole Cape being smaller than I’d expected, so we never had far to drive–we headed back to “mainland” Nova Scotia. First, we enjoyed this rare east-coast sunset over the ocean, from Cape Canso:

Wait–how’d the ocean get onto the west side???

Then, the obligatory lighthouse, in Antigonish:

pronounced Auntie-gon-ISH, we learned…very Scots!

On our last day, we explored Halifax. They have their own Citadel there, in the center of the city…

…but we had had our fill of forts, so we just peeked over the fence, then spent our time walking from waterfront…

…to public gardens…

Too cute! (no, I don’t just mean The Mate)

…enjoying Halifax’s many murals…

…and back to our hotel, which was full of Europeans.

On our ride to the airport next morning, our cab driver told us he never picked up Americans from that hotel, which made us oddly happy.

We headed home with mixed emotions. On the one hand: Canada has NEVER felt as safe and alluring as it does now, and I’m sure I needn’t explain that statement.

On the other: HOME!

I’m sure I needn’t explain that statement either.

New England to New Scotland, Part I: Sheep, Cousins, and Great Big Rocks

Posted on June 5, 2025 by gretchenwing

“I have a week’s vacation, use it or lose it,” said Son One from Costa Rica. “But getting to Lopez Island and back would take 2 days out of that. Wanna meet somewhere else?”

“Way too long since we’ve seen our New England cousins,” I mused.

Next thing you know…

NOT an actual cousin…but cousin-adjacent!

One branch of our family (on The Mate’s side) runs a sheep farm in southwestern Vermont. We love these people dearly. So after meeting Son One at Logan Airport in Boston, we headed over to Shaftsbury, and this:

Cousins Jesse & Cally were deep in lambing season. Lots of triplets this year (sheep usually have twins), and Jesse was concerned about this lil’ brown one who needed help nursing.

“Pretty wobbly,” Jesse said. Meaning: Probably won’t make it.

After two days of sunshine, the weather slid sideways, and our youngest cousin got strep so we couldn’t hang out in a big group. But we helped out as much as possible (I was Lamb Camp Cook), in between soaking up the pure gorgeousness of that part of New England.

Not to mention the pure Vermontness! Like the neighbors’ sugar shack.

Spring’s later there than here on the North-wet Coast.

On our last day, we walked up to Studio Hill, for which the farm is named…

…and stopped to say goodbye to the flock, now more than doubled in size, 130 lambs and counting. Our cousins were hosting a (literal) field trip for their son’s 5th grade class, so we listened in. You gotta love hearing 11 year-olds warning each other, “Look out, don’t step in the placenta.”

Oh, and I learned a neat trick about telling the gender of the lambs! Right ear tag = ram lamb. Left = ewe…

Like our lil’ brown gal! She made it after all!!!!

Next up: Gloucester, MA, the home of Cousin Cally’s parents–or more specifically, the village of Annisquam. This place was a second home to me as a college student, back in the early 80s.

I used to sunbathe on Lighthouse Beach. But not today!

I don’t know if “Annis” or “Squam” means Big Honkin’ Rocks, but it should.

Son One and I deciding we’re fine with posing at the bottom instead of the top.

Rocks define the place. Even in the middle of the woods, giant boulders rise like whales, casually, like they own the place.

Coastal Massachusetts spring was a little farther along than in Vermont: no more trillium, just this cute lil’ Jack-in-the-pulpit:

Annisquam is also defined by its AGE. Here’s the (former) home of the Mate’s Aunt Erma (really a cousin, but REALLY more like his adopted mom), built around 1700:

Many’s the bowl of fish chowder served in that blessed kitchen!

Walking around the neighborhood, I couldn’t help but capture the “official” oldest dwelling:

1690, the sign says. But I still love Erma’s house best.

Son One had to get on back to his beloved jungle, but after dropping him at the airport, we took a last visit of Lobster Cove…

…remembering various leaps off that bridge from the past. Not today, thanks!

Speaking of cold water: from Massachusetts, the Mate & I hopped an eastward-bound plane for Nova Scotia. Call it a bucket list thing. Which I’ll save for the next post.

Join me!

Still Quake(r)ly After All These Years

Posted on May 12, 2025 by gretchenwing

I know–Quakely isn’t a word, but it fits the Paul Simon reference better than the actual word, which is Quakerly. Which is what My Sister The School is.

My lil’ sis, Carolina Friends School, turned 60 this year!

Happy Birthday! (Photo by Taki Scoville)

I can’t possibly capture the entire, joyous 3-day anniversary celebration in one blog post, and I won’t try. What I do want to capture, briefly: how true that rag-tag ol’ Quaker school, started 60 years ago by 6 people (two of them my parents) in order to prove to the State of North Carolina that yes, people of all colors and backgrounds could learn and grow together with more happiness and grace than those who were separated by race…

My folks–Peter & Martha Klopfer, in the middle–kicking off a Founders’ Panel with some quiet “settling in”

…that school abides, true to its roots. If you don’t know what I mean by “roots,” take another look at that panel of 4 folks up there. Longtime influential Principal Don Wells (left) and longtime influential teacher Thomas Patterson (right) are dressed as one might expect from panelists, as is my mom. But Dad? He’s dressed for a track workout. Because that’s just who he is. And the school is what it is.

This creek separates Middle School from Upper. And I was overjoyed to see it still hold balls and frisbees, just as it did back in the early 1970s.

Like a number of my fellow “oldies,” I’d worried, in recent years, that CFS was getting too big for its britches. It has sports teams now–with uniforms and everything! And tennis courts. And a performing arts center. At our humble old school?

But throughout my weekend, spending days with decades-old friends and going back to my folks’ farm across the pond every night, I rejoiced in the hanging-in-there-ness of the whole place.

Like Raj, the Last Equine Standing at my folks’ Tierreich Farm…(which will one day go to the school)…

…and my dad, who uses the golf cart to get to his walking workout at the new CFS track, but makes his dog get her workout on the way there (just as me & my sisters used to get ours–OK, minus the leash!)…

…and Mom, still getting hers by running, at age ALMOST-90!

You’ve outrun me, Mom. I had to give up running for my knees 6 years ago!

Quakers don’t tend to live by tenets, but if they did, #1 would be Simplicity. What you see is what you get. But keep striving for truth, which is constantly revealed. Don’t rest on your laurels. Don’t assume you have it all sewn up because you’ve operated successfully for 60 year. Sit down, be quiet, listen…

These are (mountain) laurels. Don’t rest on them. But do smell them & take their picture!

…and who knows? You might age as gracefully and thoughtfully as my sister the school. That’s what I’m aiming for!

Next up on Wing’s World: New England and New Scotland (Nova Scotia)! Thanks for ridin’ along.

Be it Ever So Humble: From Bright Blue Waterfalls to the Grey Girls and the Brown Boys

Posted on April 20, 2025 by gretchenwing

To be clear, these are the Brown Boys:

That’s Fino on the left, Raj on the right. They’re all that remains of the small herd that’s resided at Tierreich Farm in Durham, NC–a.k.a., the place where I was born & raised–for the last 60+ years.

In fact, “they” aren’t even “they” any more. Since I took that photo last month, Fino passed away, at 28. That’s a good age for a horse. Amazingly, surviving Brown Boy Raj is still kickin’ at AGE 37.

Who would’ve guessed such a nondescript, scrawny little guy could endure into what are usually known as Donkey’s Years?

Especially since Stevie, World’s Cutest Ass, passed away last fall–at 37!

My point is, you DON’T expect superlatives from scrawny little horses. Nor from Durham, North Carolina. It’s a humble kind of place. This was especially noticeable after flying there directly from our sojourn amidst the bright blue waterfalls of La Huasteca, in Mexico.

The Mate and I go back to visit our old lives (the place where we met in 1977 and fell in love a couple of years later) every March. To see my Amazing Mom…

…my equally Amazing Dad…

…seen here doing his 3 laps with his walker & The Mate. Dad’s almost 95.

Of course if you’ve been following Wing’s World long enough, you also know the story of our Tarheel Pilgrimage to watch the ACC Tournament…so I won’t repeat it here. I’ll just show what we crazy Heels fans eat while we cheer:

NC-style BBQ, hushpuppies, slaw, greens, okra…you get the picture!

Oh, and since the semi-finals (which Carolina made it to before falling to ~~That Team That Shall Not Be Named~~ Duke) were on Pi Day…

But I realize I haven’t explained about the Grey Girls. Here they are, resting up with Dad after his walk.

That’s Bela on the left, Senta on the right. Norwegian Elkhounds, with a German-American.

During our 9 days in NC, The Mate and I helped romp the Grey Girls, patted the Brown Boys, cheered for the Heels, and hung out with my folks, eating (humble) pie.

Including this: what you get when you use purple potatoes for a Shepherd’s Pie!

Note: those potholders, above, came from La Huasteca. Using them in my mom’s kitchen felt surreal, like…”Where we really just there?”

Granted, the NC woods are not THAT, especially before spring takes hold. But they hold a special, humble grip on my heart.

I’m undyingly grateful for our viaje Mexicano. But even more so to be able to come “home,” year after year, to this.

Extra note: you may have noticed many of these photos are weirdly small. WordPress suddenly started doing this, and none of the articles I’ve read to fix it have helped. If you understand WordPress and think you can help me keep my photos large, please email me at gretchen.wing@gmail.com.

Like I said: humble. Ain’t too proud to beg.

Next time: back in NC, again????!!

Wing's World

Will Backpack For Chocolate

Author Archives: gretchenwing

About gretchenwing

BC x 3: Bella Coola in British Columbia in Beautiful Canada

Go Ahead, Take Tuolumne for Granite

The Pacific Crest Trail: The Ironwoman Goddaughter & I Repurpose “PCT”

Alabama Shade: My Mini-Civil Rights Pilgrimage

Sweat Home, Alabama: My 90 Year-Old Mom Demonstrates Staying (Literally) on Track Into Your 6th Decade

Mamma Mia, Here She Goes Again, Again…Again! When You’re 90, a World Record’s Beside the Point

New England to New Scotland, Part II: “A Moose and a Whale at the Same Time”

New England to New Scotland, Part I: Sheep, Cousins, and Great Big Rocks

Still Quake(r)ly After All These Years

Be it Ever So Humble: From Bright Blue Waterfalls to the Grey Girls and the Brown Boys

About gretchenwing

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