Tag: travel

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Out of the Basement and Into the Wild Sue and Ella See America

Joshua Tree

The single climber working his way to the top of the smooth, cloven, 80-foot boulder looks like an ant from where I’m standing. He is about half-way up, leveraging his way slowly and very carefully to the top where a few friends are waiting for him, basking in their success. I watch, amazed, as each foot and each hand work diligently to find purchase in the cleft of the sheer, a forbidding spot, to be sure. The amount of trust he has in himself, in his friends, and in his gear is unfathomable. Some people are crazy, I think to myself.

The high desert of Joshua Tree is filled with giant, smooth, rounded rocks – the kind the climber is testing himself on – in all different shapes and sizes, often stacked into unlikely shapes, very reminiscent of the Galaxy Quest rock monster. This area was formed by volcanic eruption ten or so million years ago, and over the eras it has been underwater several times. Erosion has shaped the earth into bulbous-looking mounds of rounded sandstone and limestone. Sometimes the rocks are piled, stacked, and cleaved into mountains. These apparently are too easy for the mountain climbers because I didn’t see any there. The rocks in this park are captivating.

But, oh, the Joshua trees! They are everywhere and stand tall and spiney, with their feathery trunks and spiky branches. Some only have a stalk or a few branches and some are covered with branches that have more branches. Some are sprawling wide and broad, while others are tall and narrow. Some have branches on only one side. They remind me of the saguaro cactus in their individuality. I am here in Spring, so the trees are in bloom with big, round clusters of small, white blossoms that look a bit like the hydrangeas of home. A type of yucca, these trees can grow as big as oaks, and their tiny white blossoms sprinkle to the sand in a flurry when there’s a slight breeze.

Traveling toward the desert from the mountains, you start to notice Joshua trees before ever reaching the park. They grow in the 2,000 to 6,000 elevation range, and the Joshua Tree area is very obviously their favorite and ideal habitat. They are huge, sprawling, and absolutely abundant. They are dominant features in the front yards of homes or clustered in city parks providing shade for playgrounds, on the side of the road, in open spaces, in shop yards – seemingly everywhere. I’ve covered a lot of southwestern territory now, and there are more of these trees here than anywhere else, creating more green than is usual in the desertscape.

The Joshua tree was named by Mormon settlers for its outreached limbs, as if it were in supplicative prayer, seeking protection for the sojourners. The trees are as tall as 40 feet and live for 150 years, some even reaching 1,000 years. The trunks are fibrous stalks, not wood, and have no growth rings, and the roots reach more than 30 feet down into the packed, dusty soil. Moths are responsible for their pollination.

Joshua Tree is not just a tree – it is a town, a community, a National Park, and a way of life.

For many it’s an ethos – a lifestyle that embodies rugged minimalism and daring self-sufficiency. This is late March and is the busiest time of year for the park before the temperatures start soaring, and hundreds of visitors are rock climbing, mountain biking, backpacking, and camping among the boulders. Many tarp canopies can be seen in the shade of the rock formations as groups of outdoorspeople enjoy their activities and each other’s company.

As part of the Mojave Desert, Joshua Tree receives around eight inches of rain per year, usually falling in torrential amounts, causing rapid flash flooding. The Rocky and Sierra Nevada Mountains block rain and moist air from reaching the desert, meaning strong, dry winds are sustained on the arid flats that create bitterly freezing winters and drought-stricken summers, as well as facilitating wildfires.

Some people are challenged by and love these extremes. Ella and I visited on a beautiful 80F-degree day, and there were hundreds of visitors biking, hiking, picnicking, and climbing in the park. Groups of young hikers set up day-use tents in common areas where they laze for hours with their dogs. Listening to music and taking in the scenery, they watch folks scale the relatively smooth rocks in shorts and with minimal gear. I consider myself adventurous, but these climbers take it to another level entirely. They thrive on living on the edge of life and death.  Similarly, against reason, the Joshua trees thrive in this climate.

Ella and I traveled from one end of the park to the other and back again. Part of the park is a washboard dirt road popular with mountain bikers. The sheer number of trees in this area guarantees sighting of a broad variety of ages, sizes, styles, statures, and shapes. No two are alike, and it never gets old. We pass a forest of Joshua trees, mostly low to the ground, but clustered together for miles on flat, low, dusty, buff-colored land. Here and there are tufts of long, pale green grasses and smaller yuccas. A few other cactuses make an appearance, some in bloom with their various colors, happily adding dimension to the tawny palette.

We pass Skull Rock, Keys View, and 49 Palms, as we head toward the Cholla Garden at the far end of the park. The drive from one end to the other reveals changes in vegetation as the elevation drops. Joshua trees give way to yuccas of various sizes, an almost imperceptible change since they are both so similar. The yuccas are of many varieties, some taller and some shorter, and are in various stages of gorgeous bloom. Yucca blooms are like those of the Joshua trees but are more elongated and are various shades of pink, purple, or white. Intermixed with the yucca are cholla, until you reach the Cholla Garden.

Here there are only cholla. A sea of cholla. This broad, flat, dusty vista filled with the leggy cactus looks much like a miniaturized version of the Joshua tree forest a little farther north. These cholla are a bit different from the green and brown ones I’ve encountered on our trip so far. These are black and yellow, looking like they were charred by fire though they are unscathed, making them a real fascination. In the far distance is a broad horizon of purple mountains and blue sky.

Driving back through the park, traffic stopped causing a backup of 45 minutes or more. Curious and grumpy drivers turned off their engines and got out to socialize with others and investigate the reason for the delay. Word is there is a medical emergency ahead, and a helicopter and first responders are on the scene. Respecting the gravity of the situation, the grumblers stopped grumbling, and we all waited patiently, contemplatively, sympathetically.

The extremes that created this park habitat, coaxing evolutions of lifeforms in order to survive harsh conditions, enigmatically call to humans for recreation. We want to push the boundaries, see how far we can challenge our mortal bodies and minds, pressing them forward to the limit. Some people prefer safety. Others prefer living on the edge between life and death, believing full-well that dying is preferable to an ordinary, dull existence. They find purpose and beauty in the extremes and on the edge, taking chances that most would not dare – chances on life.

On this day, a woman climber fell to her death after reaching the top of her climb. She tied off using an existing rope, left by a previous climber, that had weathered beyond its utility. As tragic and horrific as this event is, I think this woman athlete would not have wanted her life to end any other way. She was exhilarated by the challenges the extremes offered by this environment, and she conquered this climb. She left this world doing what brought her delight and satisfaction. Bliss in the moment. Peace for eternity.

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Out of the Basement and Into the Wild Sue and Ella See America

The Smokies

Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tennessee

The snow was melting from the trees, dropping in small clumps all around us from the bowed branches, making it look like snow was falling from the clear, blue sky. The ground and bare trees were still flocked with white from the previous day’s snowfall, but the temperatures were slowly rising. I don’t know if Ella had ever seen snow before, but she was delighted. She would march ahead on her leash, imploring me to keep up, sticking her nose into little snowy pockets created by visible tree roots. Trampling under the low hanging branches of shrubs and saplings, Ella produced a mini snowstorm wherever she went, then vigorously shook her cold, wet coat.

Most of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park is not dog-friendly, despite having numerous trails of varying abilities, because of the bears and other predatory wildlife and because of the changes dogs bring to the local ecosystem. This is such a completely reasonable and common-sense rule, I never resent it. There are many other beautiful wilderness areas outside the park we can enjoy exploring if we want to.

This National Park seemingly does not have the marked boundaries of other parks, and there are several visitor centers at different entry points because the park borders Tennessee and North Carolina. Ella was only allowed on two trails inside the park boundary, and they were each at different entry points. Since we were arriving late the previous evening after driving from Mammoth Cave, and because the night temperatures were still well below freezing with snow on the ground, we stayed in a hotel in Pigeon Forge near Gatlinburg. Not only would this afford us some warmth, but it would give me a chance to shower and do laundry. After a good night’s rest and completing our ablutions, we headed out to the Gatlinburg Trail.

We followed the trail along and across the Little Pigeon River, and Ella dragged me down to the water’s edge to dip her toes and nose in and take a drink. At one point, we passed some rapids that were flowing over and around rocks, causing a mist, and we inched our way to the river’s bank. It was getting rather muddy, and we did our fair share of slipping and sliding to get this view. The spray rising into the air hovered over the water like fog. The sound of the whitewater rushing and roiling up through the mist while the snow was falling out of the trees all around us was spectacular. We stood for a spell and took it in.

After this satisfying walk, since we couldn’t do much more hiking in the Smokies, I decided to take a scenic drive. Most of the scenic drives were closed, however, because of high water and flooding, but some of the lookouts gave us the classic Smoky Mountain views I was hoping for. Ripples of white clouds were high in the blue sky, and the mountains, covered in evergreens and still spotted with snow, looked gray and purple in the distance, as if they went on forever.

Great Smokies view from Gatlinburg

From there we began our trek south to Congaree to stick with the above freezing temperatures. Driving out of Tennessee was not as picturesque as Kentucky! One of the roads on our route was closed because of flooding, so the GPS redirected us through a small town of old, battered farmhouses and rusted trailers. More and more the town appeared to be filled with old cars – 1970s models with no wheels and missing doors, tractors on cinder blocks, wrecked trucks abandoned in fields. Although it made no sense, at one point I really thought we were in the middle of a junkyard, lost. There were tires and heaps of parts from cars that were half a century old on both sides of the street, and the road was winding in such a way that I couldn’t see ahead. We were the only ones on the road, which was further unsettling. What snapped me into reality was a sign that read, “Slow, school bus ahead.” I felt immediate relief that I was indeed on a road through a normal, small, rural, American town but also dispirited by its dystopian air.

My downheartedness quickly turned to awe as I began the passage through TN into NC, with the Smokies rising up majestically on both sides of us. The road winds through the middle of the range, and the mountains are giant, formidable, and breathtaking. I felt strangely and wonderfully humbled in their midst.

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Travel

Italy Part 3: The old and the new

Italy is an amazing mixture of then and now, of history and the present. It feels surreal walking through the ruins of an ancient civilization that still stand in the midst of a very modern city. It was a poignant reminder of the continuity of life and of change, of progress and history.

I went to Italy with four other women, one of whom was my roommate in college. We had a lot of history ourselves, as well as a lot present, if you know what I mean. We stayed in Rome (Roma), Manciano, and Naples (Napoli). We visited the Amalfi coast, the Isle of Capri, Pitigliano, Sorrento, and many other small towns in between. We made pizzas at a cheese farm, rode Vespas to a winery, and snorkeled in the Mediterranean.

It was a magical trip.

The villa where we stayed was a three-bedroom apartment on the third floor in the heart of a small town, with beautifully well-appointed living and dining areas and a small kitchen. We slept with the floor-length, balcony windows open – no screens – shutters completely open to the street below. It was beautiful. We could hear neighbors talking to each other from balcony to balcony and friends enjoying a glass of wine at café tables in the street below.

We were in a quaint and beautiful mountain villa high up in the country overlooking miles and miles of rolling vineyards and small groves, a tapestry of colors and textures. Clouds settled over the distant sea, just beyond. All the colors of green and brown contrasted with the blue and gray mountains on the horizon. We were facing west, so the sunsets were exquisite.

Our first monring, by some good fortune, I was the first one up and had coffee on the tiny balcony off the kitchen overlooking the town. A woman was walking from the market with a rolling cart up the winding street, probably with the day’s groceries. Being up before my flat mates was so peaceful and gave me time for this morning reflection before the bustle started. I was lost in thought that in Italy some parts of life have not been tainted by modernity. Every person in this village was capable of sitting in isolation with all the modern conveniences we have in the US. They could close their windows and doors, text and email all their communications in efficient solitude, order from Amazon, and screen surf all day long. But they chose to be out with each other, to connect, to be present in person all day every day. The sense of community was profound. The scent of freshly baked bread rose up to the balcony, enticing me out of my reflections, reminding me it’s time for breakfast. I head out for a walk to explore the town.

The town was made up of kilometers of small, narrow, winding roads and alleys, all stone paved and built on hilly terrain. There were no yards or even spaces between homes. The doors were open, so I could see inside. Most had a washer but no dryer. Laundry was hung on almost every balcony to dry. Tiny cars were nestled in tiny garages. A continuous frontage of warm-colored stone and stucco, dotted with lush potted plants and geraniums in hanging baskets, lined the cobblestone alleyways, and kept ascending, climbing up and up. The clay roof tiles created a continuous line that followed the path of the winding roadway.

The people were out and about, puttering in their garages or working on community projects together. They were staining furniture, having coffee, chatting. Beautiful young, Italian women with no makeup and hair under their arms worked the shops and cafes. I passed a group of neighbors painting neon green lines on the pavement for what looked like an upcoming competition.

I return to our villa and my flat mates are all up and ready for the day. While they head to a spa for massages and facials, I hike several miles into town past vineyards and orchards and stop in a little, out-of-the-way osteria for lunch. I got the feeling this was not a café that catered to non-Italian speakers often. I was not unwelcomed, but the customary pleasantness that accompanies the tourism industry was not employed here. Meals in Italy are broken into many parts including small plates, salads, main course, dessert, and coffee. It’s bad form to skip any of them, and it’s customary to spend hours at the table. I had the good fortune to sit for a long time and observe. I watched people order their meals, eat slowly and leisurely, then spend hours talking, laughing, and having café together. It was not at all like an American restaurant, set to serve you quickly and run you out so the next table can be served. I marveled again at the sociability and sense of community among Italians.

That night, back in our villa, was a wine festival. The whole village was out, listening to live music, drinking, feasting, and participating in a wine barrel rolling competition. Apparently, this is an annual tradition, and the villagers roll full barrels of wine through the streets and up the hills. We met some local sheep farmers who bring their sheep cheese every year. All had a strong connection to the agrarian past in stark contrast to the modern world right at their fingertips.

On days when my group of girlfriends had nothing planned, we planned to get lost. My college roomie would get in the driver’s seat and say, “Let’s go this way until we find something!” One of the first places we discovered was Pitigliano, a city built into the cliffs. We walked through the town streets and gazed out the turret windows at the countryside below. The people who lived in the town were all out talking to each other, warmly greeting each other, and gossiping or catching up on family news. It was absolutely remarkable how a city that old, built into rock, had the infrastructure to support modern lifestyles. The wiring was mostly external, threaded through holes drilled in the stone that was twelve-inches thick or more. The whole city lights up spectacularly at night, so when you’re driving past, you see the illuminated city in relief against the cliff face. The confluence of old of new was as apparent here as it was everywhere else.

We visited a lemon and cheese farm in Massa Lubrense, outside of Naples. The owner was born there, married there, and raised his family there. His recipes for provolone, mozzarella, and ricotta, for infused olive oils, lemonade and limoncello were all handed down for generations. We visited the cows and watched the cheese makers. Then we were invited to make our own Margarita pizzas, tossing the crust, adding the red tomato sauce, the green basil, and the white mozzarella – the colors of the Italian flag and named for Queen Margarita. Delicioso!

From there we spent our last night in Naples. Never was I more impressed with the confluence of past and present, history and future, as I was there. It is a fascinating city! In Rome, the ruins are hallowed, preserved, and most of the time off-limits to hands-on exploration, and for good reason. In Naples, there was almost an irreverence toward its ancient past. There is a mix of solemn respect for the past and of flagrantly taking their history for granted. Graffiti was everywhere. On statues, ancient castle walls, new structures, it really didn’t seem to matter. It took me aback at first until I remembered stories I learned in the fifth grade about graffiti unearthed from ancient Roman times that gave glimpses into life as they perceived it way back in the day. I realized the graffiti of Napoli was continuing a long tradition of free expression that has endured and thrived. It made me smile at the continuation of society and its mores.

Another impression of Naples that stands out is the amount of scaffolding everywhere, as far as the eye can see. You really can’t tell if it’s a city on its way up or on its way down! What stood out to me again is the melding of the old and new. The old structures would always stand but would continually be upgraded and updated to keep up with society in its most useful and efficient iterations.

People were pouring into the streets after riposo, ready for the night’s social activities, for connection with their neighbors and friends. At 9:00 in the evening, the shopkeepers were just putting out the café tables for the evening’s meal, as if to remind the world that the day shouldn’t end without associating and relating with your people. It’s what has built true stability and permanence here in the modern, ancient society of Italy.

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Positivity Travel

Italy: Part 2 – An ode to things we carry unnecessarily

When women travel, they carry luggage. So much luggage. On a trip to Italy a few years ago, my group of five women (only one of which did I know) traveling together for two weeks brought eight huge suitcases and numerous carry-ons, which did not include shopping bags or purses. Oh my gosh. I have never seen so many bags all together in one place.  

On arrival, we went to pick up our rental car. My friend had reserved a Land Rover, big enough to seat all five of us. It was not, however, big enough to hold our luggage, too. The attendant gave us a van – still not big enough. We ended up with the most American looking SUV they had on the lot.

Major props to my friend who was the driver of that SUV. It is nigh impossible to drive a large vehicle in Italy. The roads are narrow and traffic laws are merely suggestions. Most drivers there are in compacts and minis. We looked so very out of place in our 5-door, 8-seat gas guzzler. We and our baggage barely fit into it. Loading it was like a game of Tetris.

My goal is to travel light: One carryon, no matter where I go, no matter for how long. I pack just enough clothes, made from wrinkle-free fabrics that roll up tight, and one pair of very cute but practical shoes. I pack light, so I can remain flexible and fancy-free.

These women brought snacks, jewelry, shoes, cameras, pillows, I don’t even know what else. So many things! Problem is, it is really hard to carry so many bags everywhere you go, and you’re liable to start losing things because it’s hard to keep track of them.

Our villa was on the third floor, and we arrived late at night in the dark. I can lift my suitcase easily, so carrying it up the stairs was no problem. Not so much the other girls. It took them many trips to carry their bags one at a time up the stairs, stopping on each stair. It struck me, not for the first time, how easy life can be when you just don’t carry much around. My heart went out to these weary travelers – but not quite enough to offer to carry their bags for them.

Our stay in the villa was beautiful, sleeping with the windows and shudders wide open. I had a room to myself, which was glorious. Only my things to look after – no clutter, no commingling of other travelers’ dirty socks or facial products. The peacefulness was sweet and exhilarating.

Our trip was magical! We visited Rome, toured castle ruins, rode Vespas to a private vineyard tour, soaked in a sulphury spring-fed pool, made pizzas and limoncello at a lemon farm, tasted wine and olive oils, and watched cheesemakers twist and pull mozzarella into perfect, glossy, white wreaths. We lay on the beach, took a private boat ride to Capri, toured the Amalfi coast, and were serenaded and entertained by a troubadour. I pocketed a few small rocks and seashells from the Mediterranean shore as mementos.

We ended our trip in Naples, where my travel companions – I kid you not – bought additional luggage to carry back all the items they purchased along the way. They had bought wine, oil, leather goods, clothes, jewelry, knick-knacks, and lots and lots of things. On our way to the airport, we had to get two taxis, one for the luggage and one for us. And then the kicker – my friends ended up paying an additional $600 in fines for the airline luggage transfer.

Why so much stuff?  

Seriously, you are cute enough as it is without having to have three outfits per day, plus shoes, plus jewelry and accessories, including scarves, bags, and belts.

The problem with baggage, is it is just that. Stuff you carry around that weighs you down. Constantly looking after your things, being held back at the airport, at the hotel, in the cab, not being able to go where you want when you want.

Then when you get home you have to find a place for it all. You have to unpack it, wash it, and put it away. Is it worth it to carry all that baggage? It may sound like I’m being judgmental but hear me out.

Carrying too many bags full of unnecessary things that we think we need is a living metaphor for how we carry around our very own fears, anxieties, emotional turmoil, and self-inflicted stress. That kind of baggage weighs us down and keeps us from enjoying life as it is happening. And apparently, the more we have of it, the more we accumulate.

Pare down, fellow sojourners. Travel light, figuratively and literally. Be ready to go, ready to see, ready to do. You definitely already look cute enough.