No matter the weather when we get to Tierreich Farm, where I grew up in the Piedmont of North Carolina, we always go find the trout lilies.
Who, me?
Warm as this year is, they were past their peak, though we still found plenty down at New Hope Creek. And, as with almost every constant-seeming aspect of our stay here, they got me musing on how much continues, 6 decades on…and how that background throws into relief anything new.
Constant: my folks’ ridiculous driveway, which never bothered me before I drove a 22-foot-long van.
Vanna sez, “I’m driving over THAT?”
Don’t worry, Vanna. We’re parking you on this side and walking across. Because of…
…this drop. Yep.
Constant: my 93-year-old dad’s enthusiastic curiosity about ALL new gadgets, including Vanna herself. New: these days he needs a golf cart to go see things.
Dad & Mom, meet Vanna.
Actually, Dad’s a perfect combo of constancy and novelty. The fact that he had a stair-elevator installed in our basement stairs = a surprise. The fact that he really enjoys it = not at all a surprise.
I tried it. It is kind of fun.
Another example: he was one of the first I know to avail himself of the amazing technology in electric-assist tricycles (new). And he uses his just as he used to use his legs when he was marathon training: 20+ mile loop, with stop for a treat along the way.
I had to work hard to keep up with this guy!
My 88 year-old mom’s constancy exhibits itself in her physical fitness, her dedication to the woodsy life, and, I have to say, her beauty.
These tiny bluets, also known as Quaker Ladies, always reminded me of Mom, for their simplicity and lack of ego. (Though “Women” would work better than “Ladies.”)
Hi Mom!
Speaking of Quakers, something new at the farm is this track, built into what used to be our back pasture. Slowly, my folks are donating the remainder of their land to Carolina Friends School; this track is just the latest piece of that evolution.
If you’d like to understand why this land is going to a Quaker school instead of to me and my sisters, click here for a little history.
But Stevie, World’s Cutest Ass, remains as constant (and cute) as ever–thank goodness!
Pushing 40! There’s a reason people say “donkeys’ years”. (Unless they mean donkeys’ ears?)
I adore the ability to know a stretch of woods so well, I can look up into a huge old oak and know that the thick-looking middle part used to be a hole…which, over the decades, I have seen grow in, and close up.
You’ll have to trust me on this one.
Off course, the most constant part of The Mate’s and my Road Trips is their raison d’etre: worshipping at the altar of watching Tarheel basketball with our fellow Tarheel fanatics. Again, for those of you new to Wing’s World, click here for a brief recap.
Some food is also involved. (NC-style BBQ; collards; slaw; hush puppies & fried okra.)
One new thing I noticed, in DURHAM, of all places–home of arch-enemy -rival Duke: this supermarket display, featuring Carolina’s AND Duke’s colors.
How open-minded! Maybe this diversity stuff is taking hold after all. Or maybe they just want to sell more soda.
Another new thing, on the disturbing end of the scale: the heat here. 70-degree weather in March is quite common in this part of the state (as is snow and ice storms…click here on that topic). But 80 degrees? When the woods haven’t leafed out yet? That just feels WEIRD.
Pictured here: Gretchen trying to make the most out of too much sun in trees.
Unsettling as climate change is for all of us, I still take heart in this single tiny flower I met down at the creek. Not only is it persevering in the heat…it’s also just about the right shade of blue.
The Mate and I know already what fortunate folks we are. But when we come back to the Blueridge of NC, we REALLY know it.
Our friends’ big blue backyard
Thanks to accidents of history and confluence of taste, we have an embarrassment of dear friends in these mountains, and this year we were able to spend time with most of them.
Vanna, not so much. Our first set of friends live up at 3,500 feet; the drive up was only half as terrifying as the drive down. And their driveway?
fugeddaboutit
Because they’re wonderful people, our friends were able to secure a parking spot for Vanna at the edge of a neighbor’s property. We left her there for 3 days, schlepping our stuff the remaining 1/4 mile up the mountain on foot.
What happened to dancing w/ her what brung ya?!
This mountaintop neighborhood is a wealthy one. Some of the houses are, in my opinion, ridiculously large–especially when I learned that this one is empty more often than not.
But I have to admit, it’s pretty enough that I took its picture.
The lots up there are large enough to protect the sense of mountain-ness, and care was clearly taken in building the road.
Shouldn’t all roads be like this?
Aside from the fact that we adore our friends and they spoil us rotten, this was simply a very peaceful spot to hang out. It’s always hard to leave Butler Mountain.
Yes, that is the moon hanging out, waiting to say Good Morning to the sun. Honestly.
But our next stop was a picnic date with one of my VERY oldest friends (from Middle School) + husband + sister, down a few thousand feet at the French Broad River, which flows through Asheville. We chose this spot because we knew we couldn’t get Vanna into our friends’ driveway either. (slightly embarrassed eyeroll)
Lucky for us, the French Broad boasts a terrific bike path! And it was a gorgeous day. All this plus good friends & a picnic too.
Asheville is super trendy right now, and expensive, but I did find myself intrigued by this row of what I take to be “Tiny houses” down by the river.
Cute, right? But probably not a Tiny Price Tag.
From there we journeyed an hour to the northeast, to the South Toe River valley, home of the Celo Community and the Arthur Morgan School. I wrote about my Celo history two years ago; you can read about it here if you’d like some background (or just to learn more about this cool place).
South Toe River
THIS friend’s driveway was, finally, fully Vanna-accessible…as long as we took it slowly.
Also magically mossy. Believe it or not, our friend is not an Elf.
The sunny blue of Asheville departed at Celo, but the wintry woods are just as beautiful in fog.
The Mate doing his best impression of a rhododendron
To know these woods with such intimacy…to stare at them from a kitchen window or a sofa, to walk right out the door, to say the names of the creeks and the peaks…this, to me, is a privilege far beyond the simple joy of SEEING this place. That is our greatest gratitude, to the friends who have sunk roots here, allowing us to return again and again.
Till next time, White Oak Creek! Don’t you change.
Campering may be different from camping, but in one respect, road-tripping in Vanna Grey is no different than in any other vehicle. When it comes to route, THE WEATHER IS IN CHARGE.
And thanks to climate change, late-February weather has tricks up its sleeve we’d never have dreamed of when we started this road-tripping business a dozen years ago.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. We left Albuquerque on Thursday in bright, innocent sunshine. If my Adventure Buddy Beth hadn’t been leaving too, we’d have been mighty tempted to stay.
‘Bye, Albu-quirky! Miss you already.
Drawing us forward, though, was a reservation that night for one of our favorite road-trip discoveries: gorgeous Palo Duro Canyon.
Pictured: Palo Duro in 2017. Not pictured: Palo Duro in 2024.
Imagine the prettiest little cousin of Grand Canyon, only 30 minutes from Amarillo (the big ugly child of a cattle feedlot and a monster truck rally).
But I shouldn’t be saying mean things about Amarillo. Right now it’s an endangered oasis in a hot desert of suffering, thanks to the million-plus-square-mile fire that was burning out of control just north of there. Just when we wanted to drive on through.
[Not pictured: The Smokehouse Creek Fire. Nor all the fires in Oklahoma, along the length of I-40…the route we’d planned to take.]
Weirdly enough, the top of the Texas Panhandle was also getting SNOW that morning—good for the fires, I guess, but one more reason for us to keep ourselves and Vanna out of trouble.
[Not pictured: “Some say the world will end in fire/Some say in ice.”]
So we ditched all plans, and our camping reservation (sob) and headed SSE to Roswell (not pictured: aliens), then straight east into…big sigh…West Texas. Which, as it happened, was delightfully snow-free, and NOT ON FIRE.
[Not pictured: West Texas, or the motel we defaulted to when we couldn’t find a campground that felt like it catered to—well, folks with discretionary funds and time. Vacationers, not those planted by necessity. I’m glad those campgrounds are there for those who need them. I just didn’t want to stay there.]
[Not pictured: those campgrounds.]
Our second day driving through Texas, we did score a decent bike path on the outskirts of Dallas…
(Not pictured: the stench from either a dump or a sewage plant—or both)But at least there were turtles!
…and a pleasant campground at a state park near the Louisiana border. We got there as darkness fell, and next morning I forgot to take a picture, so…
[Not pictured: Eastern Texas’s Martin Creek Lake State Park]
Next day we got another nice bike ride in Shreveport, Louisiana.
It’s the Red River, but it’s doing a pretty good Mississippi impression.
Along the way, I noticed that the clover we were zooming past all seemed to have spotted leaves. On closer examination…
Happy St. Pattentines Day? St. Valentrick’s Day? “I love you; good luck!”
It was a Tarheel Men’s Basketball Day, and since we’ve been missing a lot of games due to travel, we decided to treat ourselves to a motel in Clinton, Mississippi with a TV. Afterward, I took myself on a walk around the nearby campus of Mississippi College and made the acquaintance of some attractive trees.
when it’s such a relief just to have something to photograph#treenerd (Doesn’t it seem like this one needs a swamp instead of a lawn?)
The trees didn’t care about the Heels’ victory as much as I did.
On our last day that doesn’t include my home state of North Carolina, we managed to combine both recreation and camping by stopping at Oak Mountain State Park, just outside of Birmingham, Alabama. We’ve stayed here twice before and I’ve recorded our admiration for the park’s trails both times.
The place rocks. #geopun
Spring was busting out…
Sometimes this is all you need. Which is good, because this is all you get.
…including my favorite southern treat, the redbud:
Rather than swim with Black folks, white folks all over the country FILLED IN AND DESTROYED THEIR PUBLIC SWIMMING POOLS. The largest such public pool in the U.S. at the time? According to Dr. McGhee, it was right here at Oak Mountain, and it’s now an equestrian field. Next to which we camped.
(Not pictured: a huge public swimming pool filled with multi-racial families.)
Talk about erasure! We’d enjoyed the place twice and would have continued to blithely enjoy it without knowledge of this despicable history, had it not been for Dr. McGhee’s scholarship. I highly recommend her book; it will actually fill you with more zeal than despair.
But for now? It’s on to North Carolina, and all the friends and family and fried chicken and Tarheels that entails. I can just picture it. See you there!
Oh, so you finally remembered to take a picture of ME? This whole NC thing better be worth it…
When it comes to vehicles–hell, when it comes to MOST things except politics–The Mate and I are pretty conservative. Comfy with routine. Change-averse. Sure, we have our “ooh, shiny!” moments…but they’re mostly about stuff like new rain gear or boots. Maybe lawn mowers and nice casserole dishes.
But not cars.
“Who, me? Your devoted Red Rover who just got passed from Son One to Son Two?”
We’ve owned a good number in our nearly 45 years as a couple, and we’ve usually hated every minute of buying them. Our favorite moments come when our car hits that comfy-old-shoe phase. That’s our sweet spot.
Pictured: a sweet spot (Road Trip VIII, Great Basin NP, Nevada)
Since 2011, when we began our annual Road Trips from Lopez Island, WA to Durham/Chapel Hill, N.C. (where I grew up and where The Mate and I met), any car we buy becomes our official Road Trip vehicle. Starting with our then-car, Kiwi the Ford Escape hybrid:
R.T. I, hangin’ out at Jumbo Rocks in Joshua Tree NP…
She served us well.
It was cold enough in Zion NP, back in 2012, we considered sleeping inside Kiwi!
At the end of 2012, Son One’s hand-me-down car broke down once too often, so he inherited Kiwi, and we treated ourselves to the first-model Subaru Crosstrek. Who knew what trendsetters we were! You’ve already met Red Rover, but here’s one more look at her doing her Road Trip thing:
“Road-tripping to Vermont in March, REALLY? Who ARE these people?”
Lil’ Red drove us faithfully every year from 2013 to 2020–the year we headed home super-quick, in the middle of the first wave of COVID lockdowns, fearing our island might be quarantined by the time we got home. Later that year, Son One had to leave Costa Rica and refugeed on Lopez near us, so we used him as an excuse to hand-me-down Red Rover to him…and told ourselves we were doing our part to boost the economy by buying a Toyota RAV4 hybrid.
In 2021, of course, RAVie didn’t get out much. Vaccinations were just beginning. Her first road trip had to wait till 2022. But she got there!
RAVie in the Badlands: “So THAT’s what this road-trip gig is all about. I’m in!”
Today, RAVie is a sprightly four years old, roomy, running great–the perfect road-trip car. What’s NOT perfect: my back. Even after surgery, sitting hour after hour has proven to be…a challenge. Add to that the fact that, road-tripping in February and March, our camping gear only gets used a handful of days despite being lugged around the country for 6-7 weeks, and you get…
...the great Camper Search. Yes. Once The Mate and I decided a campervan would be the best solution to keeping cross-country road trips in our life, and once we’d gotten over our sticker shock of even USED vans (forget new ones!), I started looking at vans. So many vans. Van porn, it felt like. Facebook Marketplace and TheVanCamper.com never had such a faithful viewer.
And that’s how we met Vanna Grey. But! Before I introduce you, I just want to underscore how incredibly off-brand she is for The Mate and me. I don’t mean brand as in Chevy Roadtrek–which she is. I mean “brand” as in habit.
Example. Here’s the pair of new slippers The Mate got me for my birthday, because I specifically asked for them:
They’re Tevas, and they’re amazing.
But now go ahead and ask me: “Gretchen, for WHICH birthday did you receive those slippers?” I will tell you: “2021.” And if you follow up with, “So WHY haven’t you worn them yet???” I’ll respond:
“Because my old ones haven’t actually worn out yet.” Yep–over 2 years after I thought I’d need new ones, these are still going strong.
NOW you’re ready to meet Vanna Grey. NOW you’ll understand just what a momentous life change this is for me & The Mate.
Vanna Grey: more than a new car. SO much more.
To say we are a little intimidated is putting it mildly. We’ve never been RVers; our learning curve is STEEP. Bring on that comfy-shoe feeling!
“Just remember, if Vanna’s too much for you…you can always come back to me! Unless one of the Sons gets there first…”
But we’re also conscious of our incredible good fortune to be taking this step, and so very grateful to all the help we’ve had along the way. See you on the road!
“That’s amazing!” said most folks, hearing of my sisters and I road-tripping to cheer on our mother as she raced the 800 meters and the 1500 at the international Masters meet.
I disagree with that assessment. Admirable? Definitely. Humbling? Yes. Pride-inducing? Hugely. But amazing…no. If you know my mom, Martha Klopfer, you would not be at all AMAZED at her racing. You would EXPECT it.
True to form (finishing the 1500)
Martha’s been running since the late 1960s. So have I, for that matter; our whole family formed early part of that first big Fitness Wave. But MY knees called for retirement about four years ago, in my late 50s. Hers still work just fine. My mom has literally outrun me.
Since COVID interfered with my 60th Birthday Sisters Weekend a couple of years ago, I lit on the idea of turning Mom’s race into a way to spend quality time with my sisters. So my Texas sister & I both flew to my Michigan sister, and from there we three “girls” drove down to North Carolina…
Did someone say ROAD TRIP?? Quick stop in the lovely Hocking Hills of southern Ohio
…via Ohio, West Virginia and Virginia…
Another quick stop: New River Gorge in WV (& highest suspension bridge in the western hemisphere, we learned)
…for 48 hours of family…
Family always includes dogs
…and track. While Martha did her stretches in the shade…
her fans braved a sweaty July afternoon to cheer her…
Carolina Friends School Principal Karen Cumberbatch (in CFS tee) brought family members, showing their support for one of CFS’s founders!
through the 800 meters (2 laps)…
They combined all the age groups from 70 up. The woman second from left set a world record for 75 y/o’s in the 5k the day before, 22:41!!!
When she finished (in 5:49), I was so proud I did something I almost never do: took a selfie.
But Mom? She and Dad watched the video I took of her race, then watched it again, like coach and player, and both agreed: Not enough up on my toes. Better try a different pair of shoes.
Believe me, this man would be out there too if his legs would let him.
The result, for a race less than 18 hours later and nearly twice as long: a 1500 meters in 11:06, which translates to a proportionately faster pace than the 800.
I didn’t need to take a selfie for pride this time. I had Mom with Medals.
Can I get some pancakes now?
If this were a different blog post, I might write more about my first-ever Sisters Road Trip. I might even mention the buffets we hit in West Virginia, both south- and northbound.
Or the bath I gave my hot feet in the Huron River in Ann Arbor
But this blog is about how our Amazing Mom isn’t really that amazing, in the sense that she’s trained us not to be amazed at the things she’s still able to do.
I interrupt this blog-pause to bring you delightful literary news: Mimi Herman, one of my longest besties (’cause we’re not OLD), has just published a lively, authentic, and moving novel, set in our home state, North Carolina: The Kudzu Queen.
Oh, and that quote above? That’s from NYT best-selling novelist Lee Smith (once my 9th grade English teacher at Carolina Friends School, where Mimi & I met). You get your book blurbed by Lee Smith, you have arrived.
Got my copy! Get your own.
Some of you familiar with Southern landscapes might be thinking, “Whoa there! Kudzu? That awful introduced plant that tried to eat the South?”
Yes. That. And it’s still trying. (Photo courtesy Wikipedia)
But the dramatic irony of knowing what kudzu will become makes Mimi’s story all the more poignant, because her characters are present in kudzu’s Genesis moment, back in 1941. Why don’t I let the book’s flyleaf tell it?
Fifteen-year-old Mattie Lee Watson dreams of men, not boys. So when James T. Cullowee, the Kudzu King, arrives in Cooper County, North Carolina in 1941 to spread the gospel of kudzu—claiming that it will improve the soil, feed cattle at almost no cost, even cure headaches—Mattie is ready. Mr. Cullowee is determined to sell the entire county on the future of kudzu, and organizes a kudzu festival, complete with a beauty pageant. Mattie is determined to be crowned Kudzu Queen and capture the attentions of the Kudzu King. As she learns more about Cullowee, however, she discovers that he, like the kudzu he promotes, has a dark and predatory side. When Mattie finds she is not the only one threatened, she devises a plan to bring him down. Based on historical facts, The Kudzu Queen unravels a tangle of sexuality, power, race, and kudzu through the voice of an irresistibly delightful (and mostly honest) narrator.
(image courtesy Wikimedia Commons)
The choice of 1941 is not accidental. Mere months before Pearl Harbor, Mattie Watson, her family, her community, and her country are all aligned on the cusp of transformation: Mattie into womanhood; her family (and, more dramatically, that of her best friend) into a new configuration; her community into the brave new world of cultural and economic change; and her country into its 20th-century world leadership. While kudzu is a very real part of this change–Mimi’s book is thoroughly researched–it is also a perfect metaphor for the way “growth” does not automatically entail “improvement”–or at least, not without cost.
But can I step away from theme for a moment to trumpet some sweet, sweet prose? For a taste:
“The afternoon’s brightness had traveled with me, infusing the white clapboard of our house with its own light. My mother’s azaleas were enjoying their brief moment of pink glory before they subsided into wilted blossoms the color of old newspapers.” (p.88)
“…brief moment of pink glory” (image courtesy Wikimedia Commons)
“Sometimes a rain will start so quietly that after a while you realize it’s been raining for some time and you dadn’t even noticed. By the time I grapsed the fact that I was crying, I’d progressed to wet hiccups.” (p. 216)
Much as I enjoy The Kudzu Queen’s active prose, I think I admire its dialogue most.
“‘How many fish are we going to catch, Aggs?’ Danny asked.
‘A million?’ she ventured.
‘At least,’ he told her. ‘I was thinking more like two million.’
She laughed, a sound I heard so rarely that I almost didn’t recognize it.
‘How many can you eat?’ he asked.
‘Six,’ she announced.
‘Excellent. That means six for you and one million, nine hundred ninety-nie thousand, nine hundred and nine-four for me me.’ Danny tugged her sleeve. ‘This your fishing outfit?'” (p. 190)
It’s hard to write too much without spoilers, so I’ll stop with this recommendation: if you want to delve deep into a time of relative innocense without a drop of mawkishness; if you want to give yourself over to that narrator Lee Smith calls “the most appealing young heroine since Scout;” if you’d read anything David Sedaris–yes, David Sedaris!–calls “funny, sad and tender,” then–ask your local bookstore to order The Kudzu Queen, or order it yourself, here.
Mimi autographing a copy for moi! (Image courtesy Cris Wiley)
Oh–I almost forgot this part! Mimi’s “day job,” while producing her own writing, is to be a Teaching Artist. She’s taught gazillion classes and workshops over the years, to writers in every decade of life. Currently, she and partner John Yewell offer tantalizing Writeaways–extended workshops in exotic European castles and other inspiring places. Take a look at the link!
Who could resist?! (Image courtesy writeaways.com)
Congratulations, buddy. And Happy Reading, everyone!
Hyperbole alert: my parents have given me and my sisters uncountable great gifts over the past 6 and a half decades, starting with, y’know…life. Nurturing. Education. That ol’ stuff.
But this one? This one’s right up there, beyond bicycles and maybe even musical instruments. It’s a slow-mo gift, for sure, but it…has…begun: my parents are starting to divest themselves of Things.
Exhibit A: the basement of my childhood home, a few years ago
I can’t call it “de-cluttering,” because most of it is great stuff: sports equipment, books…more books, more sports equipment…OK, that’s pretty much my family in a nutshell. They also have a lot of art, but I don’t think they’re giving that away just yet.
Most specifically, my mom startled me this week by mentioning the “bare shelves in the living room.” Now, I knew of my dad’s plan to donate all his science books to the Duke Bio-Sci Building’s Student Reading Lounge–a place dedicated to the delicious art of book-browsing, a practice that’s gone the way of the card catalogue. But I didn’t realize he meant to donate them, like…now! So I got my mom to send me some pictures.
Here’s the “before”:
You can’t tell, but take it from me–those books go floor to ceiling, two full walls’ worth.
And here’s, well–now:
Books gone. Dog still there.
Clearly, there’s still one shelf to go…but I kind of hope it stays there as a reminder of all those decades.
Still more, off to the right of the frame…Also, still a dog. Some things don’t change.
To give a sense of the history of our house’s book-walls, here’s me and my mom and sisters with our grandparents back in…let’s say 1964.
The books…the books are coming…!
So. Let this be a lesson to me. What lesson? Pick one: Never too late to divest yourself. Never too old to surprise your children (my parents are about to be a combined 179 years old). Never too old to make a difference in this world. Or just to finally do what they made us girls do, and Clean Your Room!
What’s next? Stay tuned. My Amazing Parents continue to amaze me.
When it comes to the state of the world, be it locally, nationally or globally, everyone I know–and probably most I don’t–has felt like this a good deal of the past five and a half years:
I…give…up.
Most folks I know–and even more I don’t–have also found sources of inspiration to get themselves up off the floor and stay positive, or at least productive. Staying within my immediate circle of control is my go-to: cooking a meal for someone; spending time with an elder or a child; sometimes just contributing money.
But for me, real hope takes larger-scale action, and I would like to share my personal “hope-workout” of the last few years: Common Power.
Originally named Common Purpose and founded by UW Communications professor David Domke, “CP”s goal is “to foster, support and amplify a democracy that is just and inclusive.”
Even better, in my book, is the way CP goes about their work. I was first introduced to their three-part mindset when I attended a standing-room-only (obviously pre-pandemic) meeting in Seattle back in…2018, I think. This image speaks for itself:
Since joining, most of my “work” has been calling elected officials or phone-banking in “red” or “purple” states, which, no, I do not love. (Who does?) But most of that calling hasn’t been about trying to convince people to vote a certain way. It’s simply been working with in-state, non-partisan organizations (like NC’s You Can Vote) to give folks information they need to register, or to get their ballot accepted, or find their polling place. Do we target traditionally sidelined or disadvantaged voters? Of course. That’s the point. And as a result, those folks we do reach are, often as not, more grateful than grouchy.
My recent tally sheets from NC calls. GOTV = Get Out The Vote
Besides providing me with an escape ladder from the Pits of Helplessness, CP has also become a source of inspiration, learning, and even joy.
Close to home, when I can, I attend AJ Musewe’s Lunch and Learn series midweek, where the delightful AJ explores themes like the history of redlining, or little-known democracy pioneers. (When I can’t attend live, I listen to them recorded.)
the delightful & wise AJ Musewe (photo by CP)
The monthly meetings (fully accessible now–no more trips to Seattle!) begin with music and good news, and always leave me pumped up about the next event, like…the inauguration of the newly-expanded Institute for Common Power, coming up June 4! That one’s in-person, so I don’t know if I can go, but maybe you can go, and personally mingle with some civil rights heroes, compatriots of the late Rep. John Lewis, who survived the campaigns of the 1960s.
Dr. Terry Scott will be the new Director of the Institute for Common Power in Seattle (photo by CP)
CP enthusiasts are also encouraged to join state “Teams” to focus their energy on one of seven states where democracy is both imperiled but also salvageable. Of course I chose Team North Carolina. And while I’ve limited my participation to online and phone work so far, I intend to travel next fall with Team NC to my home state to do the most effective GOTV work of all: knocking on doors, connecting with people. I CAN’T WAIT.
I’m coming, NC!
Best of all, for my teacherly soul, CP’s emphasis on next-generation leadership means that my NC fieldwork will be directed by leaders younger than my own kids. They’ve all been through CP’s Action Academy–a completely rad organization in itself; maybe you’d like to contribute, or recommend a youth to attend?–and I also CANNOT WAIT TO WORK WITH THEM.
Can you hear that hope-muscle working? Does your own hope need a workout? I invite you to check out Common Power.
Road Trip XI …by the numbers: 8 weeks. 10,000 miles (best guess). 26 states. 62 far-and-dear friends and family members. 14 national parks/monuments. 20 state parks. 6 post-season Tarheel men’s basketball games (5 victories + 1 almost!)
One of these was waiting for us in our pile of mail. Order yours at johnnytshirt.com 🙂
…and by the category:
Best hike: Custer State Park, South Dakota, Needles region
My kind of needles
Best bike ride: Colorado National Monument rim road
Wheeeee!
(Honorable mention: Bizz Johnson trail in Susanville, CA …but it doesn’t win because it gave The Mate a flat tire)
The tunnels are part of its charm.
Best waterfall: Sioux Falls…even though conflicted feelings arose when I read about its blasted, quarried history
So it used to be MORE beautiful???
Best trees: California redwoods
I mean…c’mon. What’s going to beat a redwood?
Best wildflowers: Rogue River National Recreation Trail, near Merlin, Oregon
I didn’t even know larkspurs came in scarlet!Mariposa Lily!!
Best wildlife: tie between javelinas in Arizona…
piggie!!!
…and [not pictured] wild burros spotted in Utah off I-70 (a first for us)
Best sunset: outside our Virginia motel on our loversary
When God says, “Happy anniversary, y’all!”
Best restaurant meal: sushi in Chapel Hill with my parents
Mom, in her natural habitat [not pictured: sushi]
Best home-cooked dinner: our friend Ben’s roast lamb with chimichurri
Our friends Lynn & Ben in the Blue Ridge [not pictured: lamb w/ chimichurri]
Best gift from our hosts: kumquats/avocados/oranges from our Hollywood cousins’ trees
Best car snack ever! Thanks, Cuzzies!
Biggest detour: dropping south all the way to Las Vegas in order to avoid dangerous, truck-toppling winds
The sand-filled sky, seen from our motel room, blotting out the mountains [not pictured: 2 toppled semi trucks we passed on Rt. 395 when we finally escaped the winds]
Best silver lining: getting to hike & clamber in Red Rocks National Preservation Area (or whatever it’s called) just outside of Vegas, just before the winds hit
Some people like casinos. I prefer rocks.
additional bonus to silver lining: the desert in bloom!
Yucca? Should be called yumma!
Longest day’s drive: Moab to Las Vegas (460 miles)
good excuse for one more Canyonlands picture!
Scariest drive: crossing the Cascades on snowy lil’ Rt. 89 past Mt. Lassen in California
The cute lil’ motel we stayed in at Old Station, CA [not pictured: next morning’s snow; too busy helping The Mate watch for ice patches]]
And now for a couple of less-traditional categories.
Best basketball game: UNC vs. Duke in the national semifinal (81-77)
South Dakota Black Hills, I’ll always associate you with that game!
Best dog: Ramses in Olympia
Also best-DRESSED dog–thanks to Dia Tornatore for the photo & the hospitality!
And finally, the Grand Travel Blog Award for Best New Discovery goes to…Oregon’s Rogue River Trail!
I never could catch my breath on this hike–just too much beauty!
We’re already talking about how to get back there.
See what I mean?Waterfall over the trail? Eh…time for a photo.New favorite place, old favorite person
…but for now, oh my goodness–it’s good to be home, safe and sound and grateful as all get-out for this long, LONG getting-out.And now, as Wing’s World morphs back into its non-travel mode…thanks for traveling with me anyway!
What camping enthusiast wouldn’t enthuse to camp near this?
Meet Canyonlands National Park!
That’s exactly the problem, as The Mate and I began to learn a few years ago, and now, in the post-COVID travel boom, multiplied by ever more active Boomers actively booming around the same places we like, we’ve discovered a basic flaw with our mode of road trippin’: it doesn’t work any more.
But let me back up to where I left off a week ago. Knowing we were in for some dangerous winds, we veered south from the Black Hills and holed up in one of our favorite mountain towns, Estes Park, CO.
I took this photo entering town because I knew the Rockies would soon disappear in the winter storm. They did.
Estes Park is uber-cute, and probably a complete zoo in high season, which we vowed always to miss.
Riverwalk, with a lil’ snow still…but hardly any people. Score!
EP is so cool, it has its own elk herd!
I biked right past; they never stopped grazing.
While the trails of Rocky Mt. National Park (just up the road) remained inaccessible to folks without snowshoes, we were able to traipse up to my favorite Gem Lake with only a little bit of scary ice & blow-you-down wind.
a gem indeed
After two days in Estes–which included watching our beloved Carolina Tarheels come within inches and seconds of winning a national championship they were never supposed to be in the running for, taking the game down to the wire and giving it their full hearts and ankles (so proud of those guys, can you tell?)–we decided to move our trip a little further on, while still waiting one more day for the winds to abate before crossing the Rockies.
Luckily for us, we have friends in Denver (one of whom had just returned from watching the Final Four in New Orleans!). They invited us to stay. We enjoyed them nearly as much as we enjoyed their charismatic dogs.
Meet Sherlock.
Thursday, when it finally felt safe, we joined the semis crossing the 11,000-foot pass on I-70, marveling as ever at the peaks and wishing that downhill skiing had less of an impact on them. [Not pictured: marvelous Rocky peaks]
After dropping down, down, down, down, we aimed for Colorado National Monument, a gorgeous hunk of sculpted rock erupting above the town of Grand Junction. Knowing we had no reservation for a campsite, I kept my fingers crossed: Please let there be one! Please let there be one!
There was.
We got lucky that time–thanks to having a tent, not an RV, and arriving on a Thursday, and, oh yeah–it’s the Colorado National Monument, NOT National Park. Huge difference.
Still completely stunning–especially riding the Rim Road, which goes right along this cliff. I adore cliffs.
It’s always hard to stop taking pictures of rock formations; bear with me.
They call these “The Coke Ovens.”
Of course you can’t put railings around an entire canyon, but this particular railing seemed designed just for me…because OF COURSE all I wanted to do was crawl out onto that ledge, a.k.a. that flat-topped, nearly free-standing pillar of red stone.
Did I mention that I love cliffs? It’s not an entirely healthy affection, I’m afraid.
After a happy camping night–first time since early March that we’ve been able to camp on this trip!–we continued on down toward the town of Moab. Again: no reservations, so we had no hope of camping in either Arches or Canyonlands N.P. BUT we knew there were several BLM campgrounds strung along the Colorado River, which operate on a first-come, first-served basis. It was Friday; we didn’t love our chances. But once more…
SCORE!!!
We got the very last one, at 10:45 in the morning. (Then we spent the afternoon & evening hours watching disappointed would-be campers like ourselves drive by, turn around, and move sadly on. We felt for them; we were them. There are so many of us now!) [Not pictured: dust from cars of disappointed would-be campers.]
Because who doesn’t want to cuddle up to this???
Since we only had a half-day to recreate, we opted for Moab’s famous bike trails, saving the hiking for next day.
I imagine this is what the Ten Commandments would have looked like had God given Thirty instead of Ten.
We celebrated our special spot that night by sharing an enormous microbrew from the Black Hills.
First come, first served all right!
We could have opted to stay another night. One of the curses of the BLM system is also its blessing: once you’ve pitched your tent, you can stay up to two weeks, $20/night or $10 for seniors with passes. (Two more years till I get mine!) No wonder there are never any spots during high season.
By “high season” I mean spring. June-August, this place is WAY too hot.
But the winds were picking up again, and we wanted wifi & showers (BLM sites are pit-toilet only, and BYO water). So we reserved ourselves a basic cabin in town, and took ourselves to Canyonlands–the 30-miles-distant part, not the 85-miles-distant; Canyonlands is VERY spread out!–for a day of hiking.
Because there are too many types of rock to choose from, we opted for several shorter hikes. First up: Aztez Mesa. Yep–right up to the tippy-top…
…looks easy-peasy from here…
I love cliffs, remember? And ledges? Turns out I DON’T love ledges that look like they could crumble beneath your feet. This trail sent me scrambling to the left.
Seriously??!!
Next up: smooth red slickrock.
They call this one The Whale.How many blowholes does a whale need? And shouldn’t they be up top?
From the up-close to the faraway, this view of the Green River’s work, etching itself through layers of time:
Same theme, different view:
Totally happy to stand on that cliff! (Just don’t ask me to CLIMB it. I’m unhealthy, not completely nuts.)
One last look…just not quite believing it’s real:
The Mate would not hear of me hopping onto those flat, tempting red tower-tops. Can’t blame him; I actually don’t care to look at OTHER people on cliffs, even while I enjoy being there myself. Weird.
And just to throw one other rock formation into the mix, here’s Upheaval Dome, a mysterious , rainbow-colored pile inside a crater that geologists are still arguing over.
Slow uprising, or meteor crater? I like the latter hypothesis. Wish the colors had come out better; some of that sand is actually GREEN. Much of it, we learned, is salt.
Need a break from all the red rock? How about some red Paintbrush?
Go guys, go–you can do it!
We left Moab feeling both grateful and a bit deflated. Now we know that, if we want to nestle into that amazing habitat anywhere closer than a commercial room, we’re going to have to do the P-word: PLAN. Plan WAY ahead, like 6 months at least. One of the best parts of our road-trippin’ is its haphazardness, but that luxury seems to be evaporating.
But we found a silver lining.
Next morning, hopping back onto Interstate 70 West, The Mate & I were treated to three and a half hours of almost nonstop geological wonder. Starting with…
Wait–who put THESE here?
We kept turning to each other in confusion: Hold on. Have we not driven this stretch before? Wouldn’t we remember this if we had?
Yes. Yes we would.
The above photo I took at a viewpoint, where we parked. All the following, I simply snapped as we drove past.
Not a park. Just a bunch of roadside rocks.
The colors changed with every curve or hill.
Raspberry mint? What would you call this?
I think we saw every color except blue. Even black got into the mix.
Not my fault the black rock was on The Mate’s side! So yep, that’s his schnozz.
The colors and formations simply Did. Not. Stop…till eventually we bumped into I-15, and that, my friends, is where I-70 ends (after starting in Baltimore; we looked it up).
Mint raspberry? Give yourself a hand, I-70. I’m sorry I ever dissed you as boring!
So my takeaway from the past week is this: if you find yourself one of those disappointed, non-planning-ahead would-be campers…don’t whine; find your blessings where you can. Take a hike, and then go drive the interstate! #silverlinings #redrocks #istilladorecliffs
Wing's World 