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:
Nice forward motion, up on her toes
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!
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.
So much bigger than I’d realized!
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…
I’m 63, and I can’t do that anymore!
…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?
What do you think?
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.
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)
(image from Wikimedia Commons)
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…
like wedding decorations for the woods!
…and tea-colored water, colored, I understand, by the tannins in the bogs that dominate the center of the island (and the whole province).
Brown, but clear. And lovely.
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.
See any whales out there? Or moose?
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).
taiga…and tundra.
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:
The granite really is that pink!
And those brown creeks make such a contrast there!
This is my favorite picture from the whole trip.
Closeup of that granite:
Nova Scotia tartan?
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:
SURE there’s no moose out there?
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.”
Oh.
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…
Yep, that’s a citadel, all right.
…but we had had our fill of forts, so we just peeked over the fence, then spent our time walking from waterfront…
or “harbour,” as they spell it
…to public gardens…
Too cute! (no, I don’t just mean The Mate)
…enjoying Halifax’s many murals…
I’d like a butterfly on my house!
…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.
“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:
Pasture picnic!
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.
They still have trillium blooming!
On our last day, we walked up to Studio Hill, for which the farm is named…
You can see why.
…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.
which they do
Coastal Massachusetts spring was a little farther along than in Vermont: no more trillium, just this cute lil’ Jack-in-the-pulpit:
Preach on, Jack!
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.
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.
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)…
Age 37! And he can still canter!!
…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!)…
Good girl. Good boy.
…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.
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…
almost 90!
…my equally Amazing Dad…
…seen here doing his 3 laps with his walker & The Mate. Dad’s almost 95.
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…
Happy 3/14, and Go Heels!
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?”
Aquí
Granted, the NC woods are not THAT, especially before spring takes hold. But they hold a special, humble grip on my heart.
and on my…nostrils?
I’m undyingly grateful for our viaje Mexicano. But even more so to be able to come “home,” year after year, to this.
Somebody say spring?
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.
As I described last entry, we survived 40 degrees Celcius–that’s 102 for us!–in Jalpan by hiding out in its clear blue oases. But there weren’t enough of these within a reasonable drive (on unreasonable roads).
So we decided to spend out last 2 days (1 night) where we started, in Tamasopo.
Aquí
We had a couple of adventures getting back there–one on purpose, one not. The purposeful one was a visit to a tree Hijo Dos had found mention of online: a 1,000 year-old cypress, in a small town right off the main highway.
1,000 year old tree? Sí, por favor.
We were not disappointed.
If this thing looks big, please know the picture doesn’t come close to showing how MASSIVE this ancient goddess is. And since cypresses are deciduous, we got to enjoy the sight of this building-sized tree sporting tiny, fresh baby leaves. Circle of life!
El Arbol Milennario’s secret, I think, is this spring, right at its base. This part was fenced off (luckily), but I was able to sit in the clear water just downstream.
Adventure #2 was Google’s fault. Well, maybe it was ours…for taking the route as Google directed, even though the road appeared not to have a name. It started nice and paved, but when it abruptly turned to rutted dirt, it was too late to turn around.
At a maximum of 15 mph, I had plenty of opportunity to take cactus photos out the window.
Luckily we got through 45 minutes of potholes without damage to the car, and after regaining pavement, we were back in Tamasopo in no time, and back in that incredible river.
Miss you already
Early next morning, Hijo Dos y yo paid one last visit to the Puente de Diós we’d first met the week before. But there was a guide nearby, so no illegal swimming this time…plus it was a little chilly anyway.
Miss you too
Next morning, on our way back to the city of San Luis Potosí (as opposed to the state of the same name…it’s not that confusing; just thing New York, New York), we stopped at one more aquatic wonderland still on our list: El Trampolín. I’m still baffled why it’s called this, but…
…honestly, who cares? This photo is now my computer’s wallpaper.
A lazy part of the same blue river that starts at the Puente de Dios, El Trampolín has the added feature of being PUBLIC. No entrance fee, no guides, no nothing…just hop on in and float!
And look up at the Spanish moss while doing so.
The only disadvantage to the public part of this gorgeous oasis was…garbage. Not a ton, but enough to be noticeable. And disappointing. Sometimes people suck.
Back in the city of San Luis (or the outskirts; after all our beautiful blue-green experiences, we weren’t in the mood for touring a hot city), we took ourselves out to dinner at a place close by our airport hotel. Hijo Dos picked it out. “It’s famous for grilled meat,” he said.
If you’re thinking, “Wait–is The Mate eating a cheeseburger??” you are not wrong. What a gringo! (But he said it was one of the best cheeseburgers he ever had. The he helped me and Hijo Dos eat the big meatpile)
Next day we were up EARLY, flying back to Dallas. (My seatmates were two lovely women going on their own, Northern adventure; I had the pleasure of apologizing to them for my current wretched government.) In Dallas we said Adios to Hijo Dos, who flew back to Seattle, while we flew on to…
…guess where?
Here’s a hint.
But before this travel blog switches gears, can I just say this about the part of Mexico we saw? The people were LOVELY. The food was DELICIOUS. We felt SAFE. And we still feel humbled to have spent such happy time in a region that no one in the U.S. seems to have heard of.So…thank you, Aussie bloggers, for steering us there!
Next week: back down on the farm with the fam. Thanks for traveling with me!
Leaving the blue waters of La Huasteca Potosina would have been hard, except that we were looking forward to new wonders. Starting with the town of Xilitla, which is famous for the Surrealist Gardens built by an eccentric Englishman almost a century ago.
Eccentric enough for ya?
Since we don’t enjoy standing in line, we decided to view the Gardens from the outside, which was still pretty cool.
Very M.C. Escher. But you aren’t allowed to walk in it, so…I’m not sure we missed much.
Instead, we spent a happy hour meandering through the main town of Xilitla (pronounced Hee-leet-la), which was as colorful as Aquismon, with an even prettier hilltop aspect.
It was a market day–even more colorful!
I found myself wishing I’d brought a bigger suitcase.
That sandy-looking pile on the left is brown sugar, ground from that dark cone in the middle. Mmmm!
Since there were no hikes in Xilitla, we hadn’t made reservations there. So we pushed on, crossing over into the state of Queretaro. To my dismay, while the mountains grew taller, they also grew drier.
And browner. Oh dear.
The main town, Jalpan, looked pretty enough, but…where’s all the green I expected?
Anybody see any waterfalls?
This new landscape worried me, given the weather forecast. It was supposed to be in the 90s our first day, followed by 102. That’s too hot for hiking! And too hot for anything else. I began to wonder if I’d made a mistake, bringing us here.
Our only neighbors: hummingbirds, doves, and a group of camping high schoolers.
And walking into town that night, we were equally cheered by Jalpan itself: another well-named Pueblo Mágico.
town plaza
Jalpan went all-out for their “Magic Town” designation, seemed like. Not only was the plaza decorated…
Ay, que precioso
…but each side alley had its own colorful theme.
Why can’t we do this at home?
Oh, and the church wasn’t bad either:
The front is intricately carved. I really should’ve taken close-ups. But you get the idea.
So Jalpan itself stole our hearts. Still, I worried: are we really going hiking in 98 degrees? Turns out, I wasted a good worry. La Sierra Gorda is all about hidden mountain oases.
Ahhhhhh…
Our first hike, along this creek, featured all the blue water we’d been missing. And big ol’ sycamore trees…
And yes! a waterfall.
Let me zoom in a sec on that fan of rock…which, understand, is CREATED by the water itself–a fan-shaped stalactite.
I’m a fan of stalactites, myself!
One wasn’t allowed to swim in this pool, as it’s a habitat for highly endangered axolotls. (Which we didn’t find.) But at the end of the hike…
¡¡¡SÍ!!!
Oh–and another reward: highly cute piggies at the trail entrance.
Even cuter in the video.
Buoyed by our first oasis experience, we ventured out on Day 2…the 102-degree day…with high hopes for lower temps in another cool oasis: El Puente de Diós (Sierra Gorda version, not to be confused with the one in Tamasopo). This hike is famous and sensitive enough that we were required to hire a local guide. And this time, we were also rewarded beyond our wildest expectations.
The hike started similarly to the day before: clear stream, big trees.
Hola, Madre
But soon enough the canyon narrowed.
Keep an eye on that fluted-looking rock, above.
And narrowed further.
Notice that some of those stalactite fans have broken off.
We didn’t realize it at the time, but those rocky fans on either side of the canyon are growing closer to each other with each drop of water than pours down.
Closer…and closer…
Soon we would see just how close those rocky sides could grow. But first…fun with rock faces!
I see a baboon. What do you see?
Soon after this stretch, the canyon opened back up…
…and we started hearing a waterfall roar.
But not just any waterfall. This Bridge of God was…
…awe-striking.
Can you see what happened here? The two sides of the canyon “grew” together, millennium by millennium, drop by mineral-laden drop, to connect into this bridge.
But the most incredible view was from underneath. Here’s looking THROUGH the bridge…
Oh, did those drips feel good!
…but here is looking UP…into the bridge’s belly.
Or whatever body parts you want to call these.
Imagine a roar too loud for conversation.
Hijo Dos noticing that some of God’s pipes seem to be blocked. (You okay, Madre?)
Our guide assured us the water was safe to drink; we took him at his word.
How could you NOT?
No need to swim at God’s Bridge; we were fully cooled by our own awe, all the way back down the trail. Oh, and our guide pointed out this tree, which he said was 800 years old.
Again: we saw no reason not to believe him. Gracias, Ricardo.
On the drive back to Jalpan, as coda to a perfect day, we stopped at the tiniest little lunch spot off the road, run by the tiniest little woman, Doña Mary.
Her kitchen was about the size of this table.
No menus; our host simply narrated what she’d cooked that day. Something she mentioned sounded to me like “little mushrooms” (honguitos), so I asked Hijo Dos to inquire. Turns out she served something called Huitlacoche, which Google told us later is “a fungus that grows on corn kernels, forming a blue-gray, tumor-like growth,” which is considered a delicacy.
It looked as disgusting as it tasted delicious.
You had me at blue-gray. Gracias, Doña Mary.
Approaching Jalpan, we watched the temp guage in our rental car climb and climb. I’d never seen 40 degrees Centigrade before! Let’s hear it for oases.
Next day, we decided to say goodbye to La Sierra Gorda. Most of it, we found, is inaccessible–a wonderful, thriving natural habitat, but not offering many more hikes than those we’d enjoyed. Not wishing to drive long distances on some INCREDIBLY twisty roads, we opted to spend our next night back in Tamasopo.
We ate brunch before leaving Jalpan next morning, where I tried one more ingredient new to me: prickly-pear fruit (in a burrito), which they call tuna or tunita.
Fresh, pretty…tastes a bit like okra, without the sliminess!
I just gotta say, Jalpan–you grew on us, big time.
“Oh, alright…I’ll get back in the car…”
Next up: last days in the blue waters, and giant Meatpile! Thanks for keeping me company.
I’ll be honest: I’d never heard of a Pueblo Mágico. Apparently it’s a special designation conferred in Mexico by the government–though state or federal, we never learned.
All I can say is: Aquismón fits the bill of Magical Town.
You could quibble with the colorlessness of their sign…but the rest of the place made up for that.
Word of warning. You know those really talky blog posts I sometimes do? This one isn’t that. I have pics to share!
Like this one, showing how picturesquely steep the village streets are.
Our first day there, all I really did was walk around and revel in the beauties of the place.
If my neighbor HERE painted their house like this, I’d hate it. But here? Fits right in.Ditto. And you gotta love that hillside behind.
Not only the houses, but the yards themselves spoke of people who loved color and design.
Yes, that is a “bush” made of deep blue glass bottles! (Ukrainians would love this backyard.)
Oh, and the gardens???
Nothin’ much…just your average 4-colored bouganvillea vines…
Carved out of the base of the jungly cliffs of the region, the village still hosted what looked like some magnificent old growth.
Hola, Guapo Viejo.
We stayed one night in one teensy little hotel, directly above an alley bustling with vendors…
…and two more in another small place, even more modest, with a very sweet courtyard. Pretty sure we were the only guests in both.
Again with the color!
The tree shading El Esposo in this picture was bursting with blossoms. Hijo Dos assured me that, yes–that’s a mango tree, meaning that these…
…are actually the TEENSIEST baby mangoes ever!
You could tell that the citizens of Aquismon had a lot of pride in their village. I saw zero trash, and this sign on a public wall explained why:
“If you have culture and pride, don’t litter”
We made two excursions from Aquismon. The first involved getting up before daybreak, and driving up, up, up a twisty road into the mountains behind town…in order to walk down, down, down 600 steps to a giant hole in the ground.
This.
Not just any hole, though. This is El Sotano de Los Golondrinas, literally, Cellar of the Swallows.
Photo courtesy of Hijo Dos, who got himself roped up to peer into the depths from the edge. Eek.
Gazillion birds spend the night there, and at daybreak, come swirling out again. If you’re lucky. Sometimes, if it’s cloudy, they decide to sleep in, and you’re left just staring at their giant hole. Which is, admittedly, pretty cool: 1600 feet deep (512 m); the deepest cave shaft in the world, and the second-largest cave in Mexico.
Fellow tourists waiting to photograph the birds. Not a very comfy seat, that limestone.
We were semi-lucky: enough birds swirled out for us to be able to ooh and ahh and call it a swirl (though not exactly sky-blackening).
And now…back up those 600 steps!
Next day’s excursion was a little further afield: Cascada Tamul, the highest waterfall in the region. We learned we could either hike to it–with instructions that sounded a bit iffy for folks like us with rental cars and bad knees–or rent a spot in a lancha and paddle up toward it.
We chose the lancha, with a half-dozen fellow tourists, from Mexico City.
The trip wasn’t far, maybe 30 minutes of paddling, but it started spectacular and stayed that way.
We all got out and walked around as our boat captain hauled the boat over the only rapids on this stretch.
When we got to the actual falls themselves, so many other boats were there, full of people taking photos, it was actually an anticlimax.
A very pretty one–don’t get me wrong. And imagine what it looks like at high water season!
Truly, though, I was more captivated by the journey than the destination. Especially the fluted limestone…
…which I couldn’t stop taking photos of. Even though I was supposed to be paddling.
Such shapes! Such colors! OK, you get the idea.
But probably THE COOLEST part of the excursion was the Cueva de Agua (Water Cave) we stopped at on the way back downstream. Our captain pulled the boat over to let us all troop up some rough steps, then even more steps, up the bank…
This isn’t the river. Where’s all this water coming from??
…to this. Exactly as advertised: it’s a cave full of water sprung straight up from the earth. And warm.
Just don’t think about any of those giant stalactites dropping on your head.
I wish, oh how I wish, we could’ve seen it without anyone else there, as we did the Puente de Dios at Tamasopo. But being part of a group, we didn’t have a choice. Luckily folks were nice, and gave each other plenty of space in there.
Afterwards, waiting for everyone to have their swim, we enjoyed sitting in the cascading creek from that magical cave.
I am LITERALLY sitting in this waterfall pool to take this photo of Hijo 2.
This photo of that creek pouring into the river captures the whole experience better than I can describe.
But, lest you can’t quite believe what that photo is showing, here’s the same waterfall, looking up from the river.
(with El Esposo’s hat in the lower corner)
And one more:
(I did warn you about the pics)
Back in Aquismon, I walked around some more, soaking up that cute little town. I even found a few ugly things, like these drying intestines at a carniceria (butcher’s):
…but for intestines, they’re still pretty cool-looking.
But the sunset from our hotel balcony was right on brand.
Buenas noches…
Next up: Jalpan (another Magic Town) and La Sierra Gorda. Thanks for traveling with me!
Let’s take a break from waterfalls for just a sec.
That’s what El Esposo, Hijo Dos, y yo did on our fourth day in La Huasteca Potosina. Because sometimes you just need to stare a jaguar in the face.
Or a tamandua: an anteater–with the coat of a skunk, the charm of a sloth, and the agility of a monkey
After reading about Selva Teenek Ecopark in the blog I consulted for our itinerary, Sallysees.com, I immediately booked us a night there. Turns out Sally knows her way around wildlife rehab facilities endowed with gracious hospitality, as well as she knows waterfalls.
The whole place was built in traditional-looking Huastec (or Teenek) style
As soon as we arrived, our host (and co-owner) Eduardo met us in a structure like this to go over expectations–stuff like no wandering off trail; nighttime feeding of the carnivores happens at 8:30 pm; oh, and coffee or tea for breakfast? We learned we were the only tourists staying there at the moment (ooh, a private tour!), but that there was a large contingent of conservation biologists on site for classes. Turns out Selva Teenek (pronounced Teneck, meaning Jungle of the Huastec people) is no cheesy “come pet a creature” place, but a beacon of true wildlife rehab and conservation.
They just happen to be very good at taking care of people there too.
Before the special nighttime tour, we were given one in daylight, featuring some VERY cute rescued margays.
Basically a teeeeeensy little leopard! (Fun fact: my aunt once kept a pet one. Don’t tell.)
The focus on the Teenek/Huastec people was as striking as the animals. This mural in the open-air dining area, for example, which cracked me up because…
…can you see it? My Mate’s legs almost look like they go with the girl on the wall! (who looks like she’s spray-painting my head)
But no lie–we were there for the animals, especially the two big cats on the nighttime feeding tour. The puma (who’d been raised as a pet till that idea went sideways) greeted her keeper by walking back and forth, tail high, purring like…well, like a big cat. I didn’t bother with a picture because, honestly, it was the purring part that was really striking.
But the jaguar? That girl was NOT tame. She appeared out of the darkness, into the keeper’s red light…and CROUCHED. I’d never felt like prey before, but those huge eyes glaring from a few feet away…they made me very grateful for that fence.
What’s really missing from this photo: the CRUNCHING sound as she chomps bones
We did, in fact, visit a nearby waterfall on our way in, Cascada Micos. I couldn’t take a very close-up photo because we had to SWIM to this one.
Believe me, those falls are farther away than they look! Hijo 2 & yo swam to that little island which, yes, somebody had actually decorated with a heart for Valentines Day (sigh)
I don’t know if anyone reading this will ever actually get to La Huasteca Potosina, a region toured mostly by folks from Mexico City. But if you do…definitely spend the night here! And tell Eduardo (and his jaguar) we said Hola.
Next post: More blue water…and caves! And caves full of blue water!
Wing's World 