Why Yosemite is Your Birthright

Posted on March 29, 2014 by gretchenwing

Road Trip IV, Days 47-49: Fish Camp, California to Medford, Oregon

Wait, where does Yosemite come into it? Just give me a sec.

First of all, Fish Camp (unfortunately the mental images the name conjures up don’t really fit) is the final outpost of private land approaching Yosemite from the south, and we stayed there for three nights with some friends, spending our days in the park.

Second of all, since Medford, OR is only a (long) day’s drive from home, you’d think I’d be writing about that right now. Home. The place we’ve not seen for 49 days. Not to mention our poor dog…although she probably doesn’t miss us one bit since she’s being spoiled rotten by our wonderful friends on the mainland. She may even be a little bummed to see us.

“Oh, you guys? The ones who make me sleep outside at night? Yeah, hi. Welcome home. When do you hit the road again?”

But that will have to wait for my next post, because I need to write about Yosemite.

Have you been to Yosemite? Wonderful! Then you’ll know what I’m talking about. Have you not been yet? Give yourself this gift, sometime in your life: GO.

I believe there are three locales which every American should visit:
Washington, DC
The Grand Canyon
Yosemite

DC is pretty self-explanatory. It’s our Capitol, it contains the (arguably clogged) arteries of our unique-in-the-world form of government, and hell, we pay for the place, right? Every nook and cranny of DC, from the great and obvious Lincoln Memorial (I DARE you to read the Gettysburg Address out loud in front of that massive, sad figure and not choke up) to the innocent-looking curved facade of the Watergate Hotel, reeks with political history…the story of who we are.

OK, the ol’ history teacher’s getting a little fired up here. Down, girl.

But why do I list the Grand Canyon and Yosemite as American birthrights?

I’d like to say, “Just trust me on this.” But that’s too glib even for me. Both these parks are soul-stirring testaments to the power of geology, or the grace of God, or whichever mixture you prefer. Both stop you in your tracks on first view. Both will make you say, “I’ve seen it on calendars before, but I never thought…” and then either run out of words, or need to swallow to get some moisture back into your hanging-open mouth.

Neither need be out of reach for any American, either physical or financially. Both can be appreciated, in exactly the way I’ve just described, from a motor vehicle (although of course I would not recommend that if you can manage more). Busses go there. Both are possible as day-trips, though again, if you can find a way to stay…you will want to.

Yes, both are in the West, therefore harder to get to for Easterners. Too bad. Y’all can get to DC more easily than the rest of us.

Crowded? Yes, they are–and will be more so if everyone takes my advice. I don’t care. When you are standing at the base of Yosemite Falls, looking up to where the water begins its barely-conceivable 1,500-foot drop, thinking of the glacier that cleaved and carved and polished that endless granite wall…you are, in that moment, entirely alone.

If you can get to the Yosemite back country, or down in the canyon’s depths, on the Colorado River? You’ll never be the same.

But if you can’t–go anyway. If you’re an American, this is YOUR great gift. Give it to yourself. And remember to say thank you, and you’re welcome.

Folks who have been to these places, do you agree, or not? Would you add any other venues to my list of American Birthrights?

Counting the Sounds of Silence: How Low Can You Go?

Posted on March 26, 2014 by gretchenwing

Road Trip IV, Days 44-46: Great Basin National Park to Yosemite

Wait–Great Basin National Where, now?

I’ll give you a hint: you get there by driving what the atlas calls “America’s Loneliest Highway.”

Anyone? Anyone? Beuhler?

The answer is eastern Nevada. About the closest you can get to the middle of nowhere in the Lower 48. Except since the 1990s, there’s a something there: a national park. Where, as loyal citizens of Brown Sign Nation, The Mate and I HAD to go camp.

Needless to say, we did not have much company. First of all, it’s not most people’s first choice for Spring Break. Second of all…did I mention it’s in eastern Nevada?

So we were very happy. It’s not that we’re anti-social. We LOVE people. (Well, I do, anyway; The Mate is a bit more selective.) Just…not when we’re camping, ok? Let’s just say that the odds of ALL our fellow campers having the same noise standards for camping as we have are, well, low.

On our first hike, we met two other people. The next morning: none. In a national park? That never happens. It made me feel all the more fortunate to be able to be out hiking around on a mountain in the middle of a desert in the middle of a work week in the middle of March.

And it gave me plenty of silence in which to think. At one point during the morning hike I started counting the sounds I could hear.

Footsteps.
Hiking poles.
Twittering birds.*
Wind.

Four sounds: that was it. Had we quit using our poles: three. Had we sat down: two. (It was a little too cold for sitting.)

(*I like birds, but not enough to have learned to distinguish their twitters.)

That got me wondering, when else have I ever had the chance to hear such few sounds? Well, the night before, in our tent, all I could hear was the creek we were camped next to. Nights can be quiet. But days?

It’s not that I generally USE silence all that well when I get it. You’d think someone raised in the Quaker tradition of silent Meeting for Worship would be better at it, but here’s what my brain was doing on that hike:

Am I hungry?
Song lyrics song lyrics song lyrics…**
What was I doing a week ago today?
Song lyrics…
Where are we staying tonight?
Song lyrics song lyrics…

(**these days those lyrics are ones I’ve written; still annoying)

But then I started thinking about the silence itself, and I realized that I was feeling more alive than I usually do. Not just happy (though I was), but ALIVE. Why?

The simplicity of sound seemed to parallel the simplicity of the landscape. I don’t mean lack of diversity–I counted three kinds of pine along with fir, spruce and cedar, plus those amazing aspens. But all those trees were native, as was the sagebrush and the scruffy little wild rose bushes and the creek willows with skin like copper. Nothing had been introduced from outside. Everything belonged. The way Nature or God intended.

So I think that’s what silence does for me, even when it takes me awhile to use it well: it allows me to see what is “native” in my life, what is supposed to grow there. What belongs.

And you? What does silence do for you? Where do you find it–indoors, outdoors? In church, or the Church of the Great Outdoors? Do you need it in great chunks, or do small portions suffice?

Are Subarus a Political Indicator? Observations from the Interstates

Posted on March 23, 2014 by gretchenwing

Road Trip IV, Days 41-43: Des Moines, Iowa to Provo, Utah

Since Wing’s World continues to be hijacked by a travel blogger for the duration of her road trip, I figure it’s time to focus some attention on…the road. Or more specifically, the vehicles and landscapes we’ve been looking at for the past couple thousand miles. For The Mate and me, the two coasts are all about visiting family, friends, and national parks, but in the middle of the country (with the exception of one newly-discovered cousin) it’s just us and the road.

And no Subarus. Our little Red Rover is feeling kinda alienated. Where’d all the Subarus go?

I’ll tell you where: Subaru Nation. A.k.a. Northern California to western Washington; New England; and the university-dominated sections of the Southeast, including my home state, North Carolina.

Outside of Subaru Nation, it’s all about trucks and SUVs. (Except in LA, where sports cars compete with Prius for Highest Degree of Cool.)

I’m telling you: I’ve driven across the country four years in a row, and I see a political pattern. Blue States? Subarus. Red states? No Subarus. (With the exception, again, of SoCal, and the Tarheel State, which seems to be backing away from its 2008 blueness at the speed of light.)

I don’t know if Democrats are more likely to buy Subarus, or if owning a Subaru exerts a subconscious pressure to buy Obama stickers. (It’s POSSIBLE, I suppose, that the issue is more complicated than this.) But if there are any Republican Subaru owners out there, I’d like to meet ’em.

Some other road observations:

Iowa gets a bad rap. Iowa is NOT flat. It’s beautifully rolling. Kansas, on the other hand? Pancake City. There’s a reason we’re taking I-80 instead of I-70.

Washington, my adopted, till-death-do-us-part state, has the best rest areas in the country.

It’s true. New England states, West Virginia and maybe a couple others in the northeast, have these “travel plazas” where you can pee, then refuel with Starbucks, McDonalds, or Dunkin Donuts. Most other states just have bathrooms, maybe a picnic area. (Half of Texas’s rest areas seemed closed, but then, everything in Texas is bigger, so maybe bladders are too.)

But Washington’s rest areas, at least on I-5? They have sweet little church ladies serving you coffee and cookies. For free. Well, you’re supposed to leave a donation, and everybody does, so those church ladies (or Elks, or Rotarians) probably earn a tidy little sum, which is why they do it, of course. But it doesn’t feel like that. When I wander over for a cup of tea, I feel like someone’s grandma has come out to the freeway to make sure I’m comfy. Thanks, Grandma! I miss you. I sure wish more states allowed you out on the road.

So, am I right about Subarus, or am I crazy? Or am I missing some rest area gems from a non-Washington state? Or have I offended any Kansans? Let me hear your own Interstate Observations.

Leaving NC, Where Barbecue’s a Noun and Fish Are Flowers

Posted on March 17, 2014 by gretchenwing

Road Trip IV, Days 35-37: Still in Durham, my hometown.

We were supposed to be on the road again today, headed back west. But Ma Nature had other plans (sound familiar?). So we’re hanging out an extra day with my folks. Car-camping in West Virginia is one thing; doing it in frozen rain is another. The Mate and I are outdoorsy, but we’re not IDIOTS.

So this extra time in the Tarheel State gives me the chance to talk about two phenomena we contemplate annually: barbecue and trout lilies.

First, ‘cue. Here’s what you need to know.

In the Upper Midwest and West, barbecue is a verb. “Gonna barbecue that salmon dad caught, wanna come over?” “Ooh, have you tried marinating the ribs in vodka before you barbecue ’em?” Basically, it’s a synonym for “grilling.”

In Texas and most of the South, barbecue is an adjective: barbecued ribs. Barbecued chicken. Sometimes the “d” is left off, as in “barbecue potato chips,” but everyone understands, you’re pretty much referring to a sticky, spicy, tomato-based sauce, or at least that flavor.

In North Carolina, BARBECUE IS A NOUN.

Take a pig. Kill it. Dress it. Put the whole animal in an iron cooker with hickory chips for a couple-few days. Towards the end, when the meat is falling off the bone, chop it up with a secret mixture of vinegar, red pepper, and heaven. Let that cook awhile longer. Serve it up with sweet tea, fried okra, hush puppies and slaw. That’s barbecue.

(In the eastern part of the state, and in South Carolina, they put mustard in the sauce, but I refuse to address such a travesty.)

The best barbecue in the state–and yes, I will fight you over this–is Allen and Son’s, which just happens to be four miles from my folks’ house. In the old days, when The Mate used to fly back to NC to watch the ACC Tournament, he’d stop at Allen and Son’s first. When my folks fly out to visit us in Washington, they bring quarts of ‘cue, hard-frozen, in their luggage. That stuff is GOLD.

You can’t, or shouldn’t, eat it very often. Luckily, you don’t need to. And since we only come back here once a year, we feel free to pig out–pun intended–on ‘cue till we can’t stand up. (Then there’s Mama Dip’s fried chicken, but I’ll save that for next year’s posts.)

The antidote to all that grease (and, this year, to our Heels going out in the first game of the tournament) is the Wildflower Walk.

The Mate started this tradition way back when. The ACC Tourney finals air at 1 pm. That gives you hours and hours to while away and try to make room for more BBQ. So he got his basketball-watching friends, plus several of their non-basketball-watching spouses, to meet out on some land we owned and take a walk through the woods to look for trout lilies.

When you think “lily,” you picture something showy, right? Tiger lilies, or Easter? Trout lilies are their shy, modest, sweet little country cousins. They grown in the dead leaves of hardwood forests. Their leaves are speckled like trout, their pretty, mild-yellow faces hang down. They are among the first flowers of spring, and they are HARD to spot. Until you find one, and then, of course, they’re everywhere.

So, yes: these same crazy Tarheel fans who’ve been watching game after game and screaming at the tv for three days are now squealing with delight over…a flower. It’s a beautiful thing. They wander. They marvel. They breathe the quiet forest air.

And then, of course, it’s back to basketball and BBQ. The noun.

We’re heading west tomorrow, rain or shine. But in my mind, and stomach, I’ll still be gone, for a few more days, to Carolina.

Tell me: what is BBQ to you? Verb, adjective, noun? And do you have any traditions like our Wildflower Walk?

Wing’s World Welcomes a New Arrival: The Flying Burgowski

Posted on February 26, 2014 by gretchenwing

Road Trip IV, Days 14-16 : Dallas to Natchez Trace State Park, Tennessee.

We interrupt this travel blog to bring you an important announcement:

The Flying Burgowski is launched!

Folks, I have so much I want to talk about. The metaphor of birth that keeps surfacing as I bring my “baby” forth into the world. The gratitude I feel toward all the friends who have helped me turn a manuscript into a Book, and toward my wonderful husband for putting up with my distraction as we travel. The ~~difficulty challenge~~ joy of bringing a book to publication via iPad while on the road. And then there’s all this lovely scenery we’re passing through, and the fact that we camped last night in an Arkansas campground that was so deserted even the rangers abandoned us. (The Mate and I were TOTALLY tempted to take off all our clothes and camp in the nude just for the novelty of it, but it was too cold.)

But today is Jocelyn Burgowski’s day. So I’m going to close here with the link where you can check my book out further.

https://www.createspace.com/4615462

And this question: do you think a book IS like a baby? Why/why not?

Till Mileage Do Us Part: Hunting Down, I Mean Keeping Up With, Former Neighbors

Posted on February 20, 2014 by gretchenwing

Road Trip IV, Days 10-13, LA to Scottsdale, AZ

Warning to all my current neighbors: don’t move away from the Wings. Or if you do, make sure you have a big fight with us first. Otherwise we’re more than likely to come stay with you on one of our road trips…and in the process, become closer friends than we ever were when we lived, well, closer.

Right now we’re ~~inflicting ourselves~~ staying with our former neighbors from Tacoma. Looking for a sunnier climate (than Tacoma? Come on!), they moved to the Phoenix area, 1,500 miles away. Not far enough. During our first year of retirement/graduation (The Mate is retired, but I am NOT!), on Road Trip I, we stopped and spent the night with them.

Not long enough, they said. Next time, stay two nights! We’ll go hiking.

~~Suckers~~! Oh, okay, we said innocently.

Did I mention that these folks had only lived in Tacoma for a couple of years, and during that whole time we had only had dinner with them twice? But they are super-nice and super-hospitable. And so we did stay two nights again the next year. And the year after. By now, on our fourth visit, we’ve shared all those life stories. Since our hosts grew up in Czechoslovakia and Ecuador, respectively, their stories are more exotic than ours, but then there are all those commonalities: how we met our spouse. Becoming parents. Worst Jobs Ever. I have a feeling we’ll be moving into Most Embarrassing Moments on one of these trips.

They’ve visited us back on Lopez, even though we keep threatening to ~~steal kidnap~~ adopt their ADORABLE daughter. So they must like us OK. But with our road trip habit, they are MILES ahead in hospitality points.

Our favorite thing to do with our friends is hike in the desert, where I have become dangerously addicted to taking photos of cactus. To wit:

OK, OK, I’ll stop.

Our next trip leg takes us to Dallas, where we’ll be staying with…you guessed it. Current neighbors, you have been warned. There is one bright spot, however: I always make our hosts a pie.

What about y’all? Do you have any ongoing former-neighbor friendship stories to tell? Or are you hiding from those former neighbors in a witness protection program?

When California is Even Better than the Dreamin’: America’s Incredible Backyard and the joy of hanging with your adult kids

Posted on February 17, 2014 by gretchenwing

Road Trip IV, Days 5-9: Oakland to Los Angeles, via Santa Cruz and Big Sur.

I have only two points to make, then I’ll let the pictures do the talking.

#1: Even with all the movies and car ads and calendars I’ve seen in my life, I was not expecting Big Sur.

We spent 10 days biking around islands in Greece last fall and never saw anything this beautiful. It is RIGHT HERE. It costs almost nothing to get to. There is no admission fee (ok, a $10 day use, but we saw plenty of cars avoiding that by parking on the road). There is no platinum class that gets to cut ahead in line. Everyone can walk and look, or just drive and look.
It is beauty on a huge, American, democratic scale.

#2: Even though they were great guys growing up and everyone says nice things about them as young adults, The Mate and I are still overwhelmed by how wonderful it is to camp with our adult sons.

All we’ve done is walk or drive or sit around the picnic table together, eating and drinking, playing guitar, playing Farkle, and we’ve been about to bust into tears of joy the entire time.

My conclusion: family love is like the scenery at Big Sur. Sometimes just being there is enough. More than enough.

I would love to hear from you. What place of simple, accessible beauty has taken you by surprise? What simple, accessible joy has done the same?

The Power of Tree-hugging (Seriously)

Posted on February 13, 2014 by gretchenwing

Road Trip IV, Days 1-5: Lopez Island to Oakland, CA

You’re going to hear me say this a lot: I love road trips. But I’d also better confess right off the bat: these days road trips induce almost as much guilt as joy. Across the U.S.? All that fossil fuel! A carbon footprint the size of Missouri. And for what?

Well, for love of friends and family and America the Beautiful. OK, we do have good reasons. But until I fall into the rhythm of the trip, my mind roils a bit. With those thoughts…and, these days, others, like…

Where are the proofs of my poor novel? I paid extra to have them shipped “expedited” last week. They said they’d be here Friday, so I figured Saturday was safe. Well, I gambled and lost. The Mate and I left Lopez Sunday, proofless. Next day my buddy Steve collected them from our mailbox and sent them on…to my son’s house in California. I’ll get them this weekend. But what if I don’t? What if my proofs just keep chasing me across the country? How will The Flying Burgowski ever get launched?

Or…

When am I going to get time to practice my guitar? I’ve set myself some ambitious musical goals, but our evenings on this trip are pretty social. Can I practice in the car without bashing The Mate’s shoulder, or driving him nuts with scales?

Or…

Is Duke going to ~~cream destroy~~ beat Carolina tonight? Will we be able to hang onto our good moods if they do? (Answer: the game was postponed due to snow, so stay tuned!)

Anyway, you get the idea. Apparently I’m a pretty shallow person, and road trips don’t seem to deepen me any.

Cue my favorite Transcendentalist, Ralph Waldo Emerson: “In the woods we return to reason and faith.”

Yessss. Trees. I need trees. Big trees. I need to walk among them, gaze up at them, and yes, hug them. So The Mate and I stopped to hike at Prairie Creek State Park, north of Eureka, one of our favorite stands of redwoods. It was POURING, but hey–what’s a better umbrella than a bunch of 200+-foot trees?

Sorry, I’m not much of a photographer…

Have you ever had the chance walk among redwoods? Oh, I hope you have, or you will. Redwoods aren’t only grand, they’re grandly impervious. They heal themselves.

But at least you know I didn’t just pull these pics off the internet!

And in healing themselves, they heal my thoughts back to quiet wholesomeness. Like church, without the fidgeting. I walked, I gazed, I hugged.

So, if your thoughts are dwelling in the shallows and you just want to get back to reason & faith, my advice? Go find the nearest, biggest tree, and…well, you know what to do.

…and when I get to North Carolina, I’ll hug an oak! (Especially if the Tarheels lose)

Link

It’s OK. No one’s been hurt. She made it quick and clean. But for the next few weeks, there’s gonna be a new sheriff in town…

GRETCHEN WING, TRAVEL BLOGGER

You have three people to blame for this disaster: my husband, my writer friend Iris Graville, and Social Media Maven Kristen Lamb.

I’ll start with my husband. Former professor at the University of North Carolina, therefore HUGE Tarheel basketball fan. When we moved to the Pacific Northwest 23 years ago, he continued to fly back every March to watch the ACC tournament with his ~~fellow crazed fans~~ friends.

During our sabbatical in New Zealand…yup. You got it. He still flew back. And when the underdog Tarheels WON that year, my husband became a legend among fans.

But he always hated the hassle of flying. So when he retired in 2010, he declared, “That’s it. From now on, I’m driving to Chapel Hill.” Then he uttered the fateful words: “You’ll come too, won’t you?”

And thus was born the Great Annual Cross-Country Road Trip. We are now about to begin our fourth. Along the way to NC and back, we’ll catch up with family members and long-lost friends, visit some national parks, and discover byways we never knew existed in places like, I don’t know, Oklahoma.

So, where does my friend Iris Graville come in? She talked me into attending the January Residency of the Northwest Institute of Literary Arts. I got so much out of it, I attended a second year. And that’s when I took Kristen Lamb’s class on blogging for writers. Not only did she teach me to enjoy blogging, she convinced me that good bloggers blog REGULARLY. I.e., no excuses.

Road trip? Get out that iPad, girl, and tap away.

So I figure…if I’m blogging from the road…and I really do mean from the ROAD…I might as well make the road part of the blog. OK? Fair warning, though. I’m still getting the hang of this ~~Device~~ iPad. So I can’t blog in pretty colors, and you’ll probably notice a few more typooooos than usual.

But hey, I’ve learned to do this: