Since reading Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption, by Bryan Stevenson, published in 2014, I became interested in his work as an attorney and social justice advocate, and as a result, a supporter of his Equal Justice Initiative in Montgomery. When he opened the National Memorial for Peace and Justice, and The Legacy Museum: From Enslavement to Mass Incarceration, I knew I wanted to visit. This pilgrimage includes those two sites as well as numerous other landmarks in the struggle for Black Civil Rights.

The Pilgrimage is a packed four-and-a-half days of immersion in the Civil Rights Movement beginning in Birmingham, historically a racially divided city. We know about the numerous restrictions imposed on the lives of Black Americans: students were prevented from attending high school; their parents did not have the right to vote; families could not live where they wanted; Black and white children were required to play separately, two blocks away from each other, to ensure there was no mixing of the races; Black people were prohibited from using the same toilets and water fountains as whites; they had to use separate entrances to public buildings; they could not be treated at white hospitals; they were required to sit in the backs of busses; Black men were only permitted to work at hard labor jobs like mining for long hours and terrible pay.

Beginning in 1953 at Bethel Baptist Church, the seeds of change were planted by Pastor Fred Shuttlesworth, an outspoken and fiery orator, who urged his congregants to fight segregation and advocate for civil rights, education, voting rights and employment. Toward that end, he organized the Alabama Christian Movement for Human Rights which spread to 60 Birmingham churches and later joined with the Southern Christian Leadership Conference under the leadership of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Reverend Shuttlesworth survived multiple bombings and beatings while practicing non-violence. The city was nicknamed “Bombingham.” We attend a Sunday church service at the new Bethel Baptist Church where the local congregation welcomes us kindly.

In Montgomery, the state’s capital, in 1955, Rosa Parks refused to give up her seat in the whites-only front of the bus. A planned one-day bus boycott lasted 13 months, Black workers walking miles every day to and from their places of employment, until a US Supreme Court decision in 1956 overturned segregated transportation. We visit the Rosa Parks Museum, dedicated to her contributions.

On September 15, 1963, at the First Baptist Church in downtown Birmingham, the Ku Klux Klan planted a bomb in the church basement killing 4 young black girls, a horrific event that finally gained the attention of people all over the United States. We spend time walking through Kelly Ingram Park, just across the street from the Church, where there are sculptures and signs dedicated to the struggles of Black Americans to gain their freedom.

On March 7, 1965, the Civil Rights March that became known as “Bloody Sunday,” Hosea Williams and John Lewis led 600 marchers, attempting to cross the Edmund Pettus bridge in Selma on their 54 mile march to Montgomery. They were violently stopped by state and local lawmen, who attacked the unarmed protesters with billy clubs and tear gas. This led to the passage of the Voting Rights Act of 1965 signed by President Lyndon Johnson. We walk across the bridge in silence contemplating what happened here.

We learn about four people who were martyred in the struggle for freedom: Jimmy Lee Jackson, a young Black man trying to protect his mother, murdered by police in the Marion Civil Rights March in February 1965. This event was the impetus for the Selma to Montgomery March; Viola Liuzzo, a 35-year-old white woman, mother of five, who supported the Civil Rights Movement and drove from her home in Detroit to help shuttle marchers to Selma, shot and killed by members of the Ku Klux Klan. The murderers were arrested and tried but not convicted; Jonathan Daniels, a white Seminarian, working on the Voting Rights campaign who picketed a white owner’s store and was arrested, held for 6 days, released and then shot; and Reverend James Reeb, a white social worker, father of four, who came from the Northeast to support the Civil Rights Movement, severely beaten in Selma by a white mob after Bloody Sunday, dying two days later.

We hear from some local people about their touching remembrances. In Montgomery, we visit the Parsonage where Dr. King was the resident Pastor of Dexter Baptist Church from 1954-1960. The docent, now a 75-year-old woman who had been a young girl at the time, spoke lovingly of her memories of a warm and kind Dr. King. In Selma, a local historian and school teacher of 38 years, who as a 15-year-old was called to join the 1965 March, remembered a long-ago kiss she received on her cheek from Dr. King.

The Legacy Museum founded by Bryan Stevenson, provides a remarkable and comprehensive history of Black Enslavement, Segregation, the Civil Rights Movement, and Mass Incarceration. We spend several hours there, not nearly enough time, to comprehend and digest the horrors and indignities Black American citizens suffered and still suffer, as a result of the laws and behavior of white American people. I am filled with admiration for the bravery, dignity, and commitment the activists demonstrated in sacrificing their safety and sometimes their lives to gain their Civil Rights. No photos are permitted inside the Museum.

The National Memorial for Peace and Justice commemorates four thousand Black Americans who were lynched in fourteen of the United States. Each martyr is represented by a hanging sculpture with names, dates, and locations of their murders. Nearby placards describe the circumstances in which the killings took place and often, the large crowds that observed. These are chilling.

Today, Selma is underserved. The population at 17,000, is diminished by half. Buildings and storefronts are empty. Selma has done so much for this country and America has abandoned it.

Every American should know the history of the Black Civil Rights Movement that continues to this day.

On August 11, Juliet, our friend Ellen, and I hike Mt. Madison, part of the Presidential range in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. It is 5,367’ high, 8 1/2 miles long and has an elevation gain of 4000’. We take the Airline Trail up. Covered with immense boulders, navigating is quite a challenge, especially for one so short. Those are mighty big steps I have to take, hoisting myself up one big rock after another. To complicate matters, due to the many brooks running over the trail, the rocks are wet and slippery, often interspersed with mud puddles. In addition to the boulders, there are many gnarled roots criss-crossing the path.

In this regard, hiking in the Whites is different from in most other mountains. It involves mental as well as physical exercise. One has to pay strict attention to every step in order to figure out where to put one’s feet, so as to avoid taking a tumble. One must also be very attentive to the weather. Even though the Presidentials are not tall, they are in the alpine zone where it can suddenly rain or hail with fierce wind, although the forecast may have been for sunshine. The predictions are notably unreliable and many have died in these mountains.

It takes us 4 1/2 hours to reach the Madison hut, and while the summit is only half a mile further up, I give up on using my poles and instead use my hands to scramble to the peak. After a brief stop and its spectacular view of the other Presidentials, we head back down on the Valley Way Trail which has fewer boulders but still an elevation loss of the same 4,000’. The entire hike takes 10 hours. I vow I am finished with 10 hour hikes!

Less than two weeks later, Juliet takes me to Yosemite NP to celebrate my 75th birthday and to hike Clouds Rest, an iconic overlook of Yosemite Valley. At 9,926’ in elevation, 14 1/2 miles long with an elevation gain of 2300’, it is quite an undertaking.

When we start the out-and-back Sunrise Trail beginning at Tenaya Lake on Highway 120, it is 46 degrees. The woods are thin and scrubby, the trail largely exposed. Unlike in the White Mountains where the trails are heavily forested until tree line, trails starting off Highway 120, are already close to or above tree line.

On the way out to Clouds Rest, the trail seems much tamer than Madison: boulders are smaller, less intimidating; fewer roots and other obstacles; level areas where one can take normal strides. That is, until we come to an enormous mountain of rocks, just like Madison, to get to the overlook. Again, I put away my poles and scramble the rocks by hand. It is a humbling experience.

When we arrive at Clouds Rest after 5 hours, the 360 degree view leaves me speechless. Layer upon layer of massive granite mountains as far as I can see. And just then, the clouds start rolling in, so appropriate given the name of the place, softening the views, enveloping us. It is 43 degrees.

The return seems much more challenging than the way out: the rocks bigger, the trail steeper and less navigable. And so ends another 10 hour hike. This time, I expect to keep my vow to stick to shorter hikes!

I had never been to the eastern side of the Sierras, the mighty mountains beyond the eastern gate of Yosemite. So, Juliet decided to take me there. She had recently summited Mt. Whitney (14,494’) and was keen to return to the vast stretch of mountains south of the small town of Lee Vining.

In our trips to Yosemite during the past year, I had become accustomed to the architecture of the park-that is, the huge granite massifs standing among thick forests of fir trees, waterfalls, and rivers. There seemed a certain softness and elegance to these vistas. These natural features soothed my eyes and raised my spirits.

What I saw on the eastern side was vastly different- giant walls of jagged, granite monoliths, jutting sharply upward, crowded together for miles, cold, unforgiving, unwelcoming.

We decided to tackle Kearsarge Pass, reportedly a stunning vista, ten miles out and back with a 2,560’ gain in elevation to 11,760’.

To be honest, I had trepidation about doing this hike. I anticipated it would take eight hours, longer than I usually hike, and I was concerned about the elevation gain. In other words, I was afraid I could no longer successfully do something like this. But Juliet cajoled, pushed, and encouraged me, and I finally agreed.

It was perfect! The weather was clear and calm, the temperature moderate; the trail well-graded and maintained. We climbed between the towering, angular peaks, among stunted, wind-blown trees, and frigid clear lakes. Juliet set a reasonable pace. We stopped often enough to catch our breath, drink water, and take in the views.

After four and a half hours, we reached Kearsarge Pass. It was as advertised. I sobbed with relief, gratitude, and awe. Juliet and I hugged tightly, joyful in the sharing of this moment and the beauty of nature surrounding us.

Juliet and I decide to revisit Pinnacles after a 10 year hiatus. Its status was changed from National Monument to National Park in 2013 and is located southeast of Oakland, a 2-3 hour drive depending upon traffic.

Pinnacles NP was formed many millions of years ago by volcanic activity on the San Andreas fault. The violent shaking created humongous and delightfully shaped terra cotta-colored boulders, that pile atop one another or jut straight up into the air. It is a great place to hike and explore the otherworldly scenery that includes cliffs and caves.

Pinnacles is also one of the few places where one can see the California Condor, the largest North American bird which has a 9-10 foot wingspan and weighs up to 26 pounds. To put that in perspective, the breadth of its wings can be 3 feet wider than an NBA basketball player is tall!

The species was threatened with extinction due to DDT, lead poisoning and habitat destruction. In 1987, scientists began a captive breeding program with the world’s 22 remaining condors. The program has been considered successful with more than 330 of them currently flying free in California, Arizona, Utah, and Mexico (with 200 more in captivity), although the condor is still listed as critically endangered. A type of vulture, they are scavengers and can live more than 60 years!

We spend two days hiking among the spires and caves. At the highest point in the park on High Peaks Trail, we are treated to a fabulous display of soaring and gliding California Condors, Turkey Vultures, and Ravens, as well as sensational views. The condors are readily identifiable by their wide wingspans, and the white crests under their feathered wings. We are fortunate to encounter a volunteer with the park’s Condor Conservation program who is monitoring the condors and identifying them by the color of their tags. He is very knowledgeable and answers our many questions.

The winter weather is clear and warm. The park is crowded with many families, hikers, and rock climbers. It is inspiring to see so very many people taking advantage of our wonderful National Parks.

Before departing Yosemite prematurely in July due to the Washburn fire, Juliet arranges for a wilderness permit to do the very same hike and camping in September, optimistic that all would be well in the park two months later. This, then, is our return.

Starting at the trailhead on Tioga Pass Road at an elevation of more than 8500’, we descend five miles to an overlook of Half Dome, one of the great features of Yosemite National Park. We have the entire overlook to ourselves. As you can see, it is stunning!

After enjoying the view from every corner of the overlook and basking in its beauty for a few hours, we reluctantly head back up the trail to set up our camp. We arrive at our chosen spot, a wide-open plateau, just before sunset and erect the tent, set up my cot, lay out the sleeping bags, and play cards until it is time to go to sleep.

During the course of the day, we drink liters of water. While the upside is that we stay well-hydrated, the downside is that we have to pee. A lot. We go twice before we retire at 10 pm. Unsurprisingly, I awaken three hours later feeling a great necessity to go again. The problem is, it is very cold (mid-high 30’s). I am snug in Juliet’s down sleeping bag wearing the following clothing: a wool shirt, long underwear, (tops and bottoms) a down jacket, hiking pants, a wool hat, and two pairs of socks. The thought of getting up and going out of the tent in the howling wind, tent sides flapping madly, is the last thing I want to do.

So I wait. I debate. Maybe I can suppress the need. You know, mind over matter. For the next three hours, I try to get up the gumption to go. Finally at 4 am, I can stand it no longer. By this time, Juliet has come to the same conclusion. We go outside. We can hardly stand up straight from the buffeting wind. Job done, we return to our sleeping bags in great relief. We fall back asleep for a few more hours and awaken again to the biting cold. There are definitely no mosquitos. We pile on the remaining clothes we have brought with us, break camp, and head out for another fine day.

Last summer while in New Hampshire, I learned about a botanical garden in Boothbay Harbor Maine that has an installation of enormous wooden trolls. Naturally, I wanted to see them! However, the drive is three and a half hours each way, too long for a day trip. So, in advance of my annual summer return to NH, I contacted my friend, Janet, who lives in Portland, and proposed that we visit the gardens this year. To my great delight, she agreed.

The Coastal Maine Botanical Gardens is comprised of 248 splendid acres, beautifully designed and lushly planted, alone worth the excursion. But the trolls– these are something else entirely.

Thomas Danbo, a Danish artist, is the creator of these incredible figures. A knowledgeable docent gave us the interesting and serendipitous background of how they came to be there. Thomas met a woman in Barcelona who was from Rye, NH. They married and lived in Copenhagen. Sometime later, the couple came to Rye to attend a wedding. On the way, they stopped to visit a friend of Thomas’ wife who worked at the Botanical Garden. Thomas, who has installed his giant trolls in locations all over the world, determined these gardens would be the perfect setting for his giant creatures.

He designed 5 of them. The heads, hands and feet were constructed at his studio in Denmark and shipped in containers to Maine, where the bodies were constructed. Due to Covid, Thomas’ own crews were unable to travel to the US and a search yielded ten skilled artisans and 100 volunteers to complete the installation in situ, which took two months.

Each of the trolls is 20-25 feet tall. They are constructed from local, recycled materials, the artist’s purpose being to bring attention to the importance of conservation. He is driven by concern about the extinction of trees and the loss of biodiversity.

Without further ado, then, here are Roskva, Lilia, Soren, Gro, and Birk.

Juliet and her friend Courtney went backpacking in Yosemite over the Independence Day weekend. They hiked 28 miles in 2 days under what I was told was a cloud of mosquitoes. So upon Juliet’s return, she suggested that she and I go camping in Yosemite just 4 days later. On the one hand, I was thrilled that she wanted to spend time with me and hike together in one of the most beautiful of our national parks. On the other hand, the thought of camping and mosquitoes wasn’t too appealing. As many of you know, I’m happy to hike all day long. But camping? I prefer a shower and a bed.

Nevertheless, I say yes. Juliet works a half day on Friday. I work a full day. That means we have to wait until about 6:00 pm to leave and avoid traffic. It’s a three-hour drive, at least. I suggest that since our arrival will be so late, perhaps it would be advisable for the first night, to find a place to stay other than the great outdoors. The campground near where we will be hiking is closed requiring us to pitch the tent somewhere out in the dark wilderness in bear country. Juliet isn’t at all fond of the idea of staying in a cabin but she humors me. One night on the hard ground should be plenty.

So on our way to Groveland where we plan to spend the night, I get a text from my friend Sue asking “wondering if you’re still doing Yosemite with the fire that broke out today?” I say out loud “what fire?” We stop and Juliet immediately goes to the CalFire website and learns that the fire is exactly where we plan to hike and sleep the next night. In the morning, she checks a number of webcams that provide air quality and clarity and the verdict is abysmal. The hike she planned for us was to get a spectacular view of Half Dome which she learns is now enshrouded in smoke. It looks as though there will have to be a plan B.

This photo courtesy of Juliet from July 2020 and the view we expect to see.

This is what we see. The arrow points to Half Dome.

Turns out there is no plan B or any other viable alternative. The smoke from the Washburn Fire compromises every view. We drive the entire Tioga Pass Road from one gate to the other searching in vain for a hike that offers a crisp outlook to Half Dome or another iconic viewpoint.

Instead, we content ourselves by taking photos of lovely wildflowers and a placid pond along the road.

Feeling disappointed, and not knowing if the next day will bring clear weather or more smoke, we decide to leave Yosemite a day early and go home. We arrive as the sky turns dark. Juliet sets up the tent and sleeping bags in the backyard and we go camping in Oakland. There are no mosquitoes!

With my recovery from hip replacement surgery finally behind me, I am venturing out on a short trip to Pittsburgh and a visit with Debby, my freshman year roommate at Chatham College. We have been friends since 1967 with a 35 year hiatus between 1971 and 2006 when we reconnected at a reunion. We picked up right where we’d left off and since then, see each other every couple of years.

In addition to spending time in Pittsburgh, we have two outings planned: one to Falling Water, the famously original home designed by Frank Lloyd Wright in rural Pennsylvania, about an hour’s drive east of Pittsburgh; the other, to Cleveland and the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Our visit to Falling Water is preceded by a worthwhile stop at Kentuck Knob, a Usonian home designed by Wright for the Hagen family 20 years subsequent to Falling Water. The Usonian concept was geared toward the middle class and came in three different versions. Kentuck Knob is of the Grand Usonian type.

Every detail was important to Wright: the type and grain of wood or stone that was used in the construction; the angles of the building and its features (he hated right angles); the orientation towards the sun; the integration of the building with the surrounding site and the natural world outside. He was brilliantly creative and notoriously demanding. For instance, Wright refused to make changes that clients wanted. If he visited a client’s home after it was finished and an item that he had placed was moved, he’d return it to its original position.

Falling Water was designed in 1935 for the Kaufmann family of Pittsburgh which owned the noted department store by the same name. It does not disappoint. I had longed to see it for many years. It is a stunning home, cantilevered and terraced dramatically over a waterfall and stream called Bear Run. The problem, though, is that it leaked and the interior was terribly damp. Being there on a rainy day, we experience this firsthand. The view from across the stream is iconic and spectacular.

The following day, we visit a third location where there are two Usonian homes, one very basic, the other Grand. The interesting fact about these was that they were disassembled piece-by-piece in Illinois and Minnesota, respectively, and then reassembled in Polymath Park. The process took two years for each of them. This Grand Usonian is particularly lovely, cozier and more inviting to my eye than the others we had seen.

After a day back in Pittsburgh, we drive to Cleveland, where I have never been. It had not occurred to me to visit the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame but when Debby suggested it, I immediately said yes. And what a trip! We spend four hours experiencing the greatest music of our generation, and to top it off, there is a Beatles exhibit that includes excerpts of Peter Jackson’s eight-hour documentary and the final Beatles concert on the roof of their Apple studio. There are also film clips of the remaining band members performing with other major musicians at various RRHF inductions. As we used to say, what a gas!

My friend, Sue, and I are off on another adventure, this time in Kauai. The weather forecast is grim, rainy.  Surprisingly, it turns out to be spectacularly sunny, allowing us to hike, kayak, and bike with joy.

Due to the fact that it rains a great deal in Kauai, trails are often muddy and slippery. This is something we experience on two successive hikes. This is the brief story about one of them.

We drive to Waimea Canyon on the western side of the island to hike the Pihea Trail. I have explored the Canyon on foot during previous trips but this trail is very different. It overlooks the breathtaking Kalalau Valley on the Na Pali Coast. The trail map warns that while it is scenic, “sections can be very dangerous due to slick mud.” Good shoes and walking sticks are recommended and “there are many sprained ankles due to the trail’s conditions.” The Pihea Overlook, the highest point on the rim of the Valley, is described as a “short but grueling climb.” Frankly, we expect the mud. But “grueling”? Good grief!

The description turns out to be entirely accurate. It is necessary to focus on my footing every step of the way, constantly having to figure out the least unsafe place to put my feet and my poles. The path undulates steeply up and down, and almost everywhere, there are deep gooey ruts to be avoided. This can only be done at times by leaping over the puddles, or clinging to tree roots or limbs to hoist oneself around or above them. This is exhausting, yet somehow exhilarating. 

The views are sublime.

Three hours later, we arrive safely back at the trailhead where we understand why there are a screw driver, a pick, and some brushes to dig out the accumulated mud from the treads of our boots. The only cure for the mud on our bodies and shorts, however, is a long shower and some strong detergent!

As many of you know, I have a love of New Hampshire that is long and deep. Starting as a camper on Newfound Lake in 1962, I have returned again and again over the many years since. The lake is wondrous with its ever-changing moods and vistas dictated by climate and season. So, at last, I own a little piece of this place. In late August, Juliet and I bought a condo in a very small development right on the lake. It is the unit I have been renting for three weeks each summer since 2016, so owning it is a dream come true.

It has been thirty eight years, however, since I last experienced the glory of high autumn in New Hampshire, and Juliet had never done so. It was with great enthusiasm, then, that we came to spend twelve days in our new home to see the fall foliage ablaze. It does not disappoint.

The daytime temperatures are surprisingly warm, the evenings unsurprisingly chilly. The colors around the lake are still muted, but elsewhere, as we visit other parts of the state and neighboring Vermont, we are awed over and over at the displays of red, yellow, and orange as we traverse the quiet country roads and hike in the mountains.

I am here on Cape Cod in the picturesque village of Chatham with eight friends. We were supposed to be here last year at this time, but you know what happened to those plans.

Beginning in 2008, this group began getting together every few years for a reunion in a different part of the United States. Previously, we’ve been to Park City, Utah; Boulder, Colorado; Ann Arbor, Michigan; Madison, Wisconsin. I’ve been the organizer and each time, I have been fortunate to find a small inn that we take over for three or four nights. It’s such fun to explore the environs, but mostly to catch up. We never stop talking and laughing (even without any artificial stimulants)!

We have known each other since 1967 when we were first year students at Chatham, then a women’s-only college located in Pittsburgh Pennsylvania, on the old and splendid Andrew Mellon Estate. (Hence the choice of Chatham on the Cape. It seemed rather fitting.)

The weather here is not at all what I anticipate. Coming from summer in the Bay Area with its copious amounts of fog and drizzle, I was looking forward to sunshine and warmth. So far, there has been a copious amount of fog and drizzle! That has not put a damper on our spirits or activities. Several of us go for a walk, two of us go for a nineteen mile bike ride on the exceptional bike trails that branch out all across the Cape.

One of the most spectacular features at this time of year are the hydrangeas that adorn gardens everywhere. Deep blue, purple, pink and white, the multitudinous flowers are in full bloom, perfectly formed and just bursting with good health and cheer.

The weather improves! Five of us go to a wildlife preserve run by the Audubon Society in Wellfleet and walk through a woodland forest and some grassy marshlands close to the ocean. The other four tour various beaches and towns by car.

On our last full day, the sun shines brightly, there’s a soft breeze, and I get to walk on the beach. How could I come to the Cape and not walk on the beach? The water is cool on my toes and I can’t imagine getting any additional parts of my body wet. Besides, Chatham Beach is known to attract Great White Sharks due to the presence of a thriving local seal population. A menacing sign makes that clear.

Old friends are special. We share a unique history born of a tumultuous time in our country, and in our own personal growth. And what I’ve found is that we’re still friends because of that solid foundation. We have more than memories and continue to listen to and learn from one another.

This time, wearing the face shield and KN95 mask, I fly knowing I’m Covid negative (that is a requirement in order to enter Hawaii and not have to quarantine for ten days), and partially protected from the virus having had my first Moderna shot two weeks ago. Who knew how thrilled one could be to get a shot in the arm?

So Juliet and I go to the Kona side of the big Island for a week. We arrive at the airport and have to prove that we have tested negative within the previous 72 hours by showing a QR code and presenting ID to an army of workers there for this purpose. We fill out some forms and then get Covid tested again! We’re told if we don’t hear anything in two hours, we’re fine. What an organized and efficacious way of controlling the pandemic in the islands.

The big island is huge and has many contrasting climates and landscapes. The Kona side of the island is dry and sunny most of the time. Thick black lava extends for miles, the result of continuous eruptions over the course of centuries from the very active Kilauea volcano, the most active volcano in the world. Much of the lava has little foliage growing on it and vast swaths are vacant and jumbled.

The Hilo side of the island is rainy and grey most of the time. The landscape is dense with vegetation, tangled and wild. Plants and trees grow to enormous dimensions.

Hawaii Volcanoes National Park is in the center of the island. The highest elevations get as much as one hundred fifty inches of rain per year and the temperature can be very chilly. The weather forecast during our stay is basically the same every day: scattered showers. We choose a day that appears to be slightly drier.

We depart Waikoloa on the sunny side at 8:30 am for the two hour drive. It is a glorious day and 78 degrees. However, we come prepared with several warm layers, rain jackets and gloves. We arrive at the visitor center in a downpour and it is 53 degrees. I spend time with a friendly park ranger and we discuss options for the day. He tells me it would probably be best for us to drive the Chain of Craters Road to its terminus at the Pacific Ocean about twenty miles away where it is warmer and drier, and work our way back up to the summit with the hope of improved weather later in the day.

At the ocean, it is 81, sunny and windy. We visit Petroglyphs National Monument, where Native Hawaiians carved symbols into the volcanic rock eight hundred years ago. On the drive back up to the summit, in intermittent rain showers and sun, we make a number of stops and hike to sites of previous eruptions marked by fissures, craters, and various lava formations left behind by the flows. I had very much hoped to see lava flowing into the sea but Kilauea suddenly stopped erupting two months ago. Instead, after sunset under driving rain, I see the eery red glow of the lava bed in the Kilauea crater reflected in the steam and clouds above it.

On a lighter note, we have an interesting encounter with wildlife in our hotel rooms. We enjoy leaving the terrace doors open to get the cool sea breeze and avoid using air conditioning. One evening, late, I am in my room reading. I hear Juliet calling me in a small, urgent voice “come here, right this minute.” I enter her room and she is standing on the bed hyperventilating, looking terrified. She points to the wall opposite where the biggest cockroach I have ever seen is moving rapidly, and then shockingly, it flies! We scream. I call the front desk. When I explain, the woman says, “we call that a B52.” She sends someone to take care of it. He enters the room and it flies again. He says “we call that a 747.” You get the picture. I know roaches live in the tropics, but still….

Once again I don an NK95 mask and face shield, this time to fly to Mexico for a week of snorkeling, kayaking, paddle boarding and hiking with a group of eleven on the Sea of Cortez.

The Sea of Cortez is a large inland body of salt water, eight hundred miles long and two hundred miles wide located between Baja and mainland Mexico. It empties into the Pacific Ocean at the southern tip of Baja. The surrounding mountains are desert terrain, mainly browns and oranges with a smattering of scrubby green brush adjacent to turquoise water of various shades.

For five days and nights we stay in tents on the beach at one of the nine hundred islands that populate the Sea. It is called Isla Espiritu Santo and is a national park and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. It feels like a sanctuary.  Nobody else is nearby. The only sound at night is the soft rolling of the waves against the sand; the only light from the millions of stars that crowd the sky.

We go by boat to a small island called Los Islotes where over eight hundred California sea lions live and breed.

They bark noisily as we approach; we are the first to arrive.  We have come to snorkel with the sea lions! We are told by our guides to avoid the huge males as they can be territorial and hope instead to encounter the pups which are curious and playful. And are they ever! One sees a life ring with a long rope and treats it like a toy, in and out of the ring it goes happily grabbing the rope in its mouth and tugging. At one point it comes right over and gives me a whiskery kiss!

The air temperature is very hot. The sun bakes our tents during the day and in mid-afternoon I stay away. The benefit however, is that everything dries almost instantly. The temperature of the water is surprisingly cool and I am happy to have taken our leader’s suggestion to use a thicker wetsuit than the one I have brought with me.

One afternoon I take a paddle-board out on the bay in front of our tents, the sea glassy and transparent below my feet. I see colorful fish darting in and around the bright coral as I glide smoothly over the water. Another afternoon, a group of us take the kayaks for a spin into an adjacent bay where the bird life is rich with herons, egrets, pelicans, ospreys, and others whose names I don’t recognize. Four different kinds of bright green mangroves line the shore in stark contrast to the dry earth behind them. The next day we kayak to a different bay and see quite a show put on by feeding pelicans, terns, and cormorants. The pelicans, spying fish from on high, dive-bomb their prey making a big splash into the water while scooping up the tasty morsels they have speared in their huge bills.

At nearly every meal we have local fish caught and delivered to our camp by two brothers who have fished these waters for eighty years. We’re told Mario is eighty-eight and Santiago is ninety-two, although apparently their ages vary with the telling. Their faces show a weathered history.

On Thanksgiving, we revisit Los Islotes and have an experience I will never forget. We are surrounded by at least three sea lion pups which this time, seem to think we are the toys. They climb all over us, nipping and grabbing at our snorkels, our caps, and our wetsuits. It is hilarious and joyful and a little scary– after all, they are wild animals! They stay with us for a long time, exploring each of us with wonder and what feels like love.

That afternoon we take a hike into an other-worldly landscape, seemingly sculpted in an alien universe. As we return, we face a splendid sunset—massive, rolling grey clouds infused with shards of the waning sun glowing on the sea below.

This is a Thanksgiving like no other. While I am unable to join my usual celebration with extended family and friends, I am exceedingly grateful to be healthy and to be able to spend this time in nature, an opportunity to restore the spirit.

It is the last one. Hike, that is. The day before, I had hiked 10 miles over eight hours on Mt. Carrigain; Juliet had hiked 12 miles over nine hours, Elwell to Mt. Oregon. We were pooped. But how could we not squeeze in one more on our last day in New Hampshire?

The alarm goes off at 5:30. The sun rising, creeping over the mountains across the lake, crystal clear.

Coincidentally, it also is my friend Sue’s last day in New Hampshire, and she has agreed to one more. At 7:00, we meet at the trailhead, none of us feeling especially energetic. Juliet, uncharacteristically, begins whinging about her sore feet, her banged up legs, how tired she is, how boring the terrain, and how she wishes she were at the beach. She implores that we skip the loop and summit just one of the two short mountains. But I am resolute. After all, it’s just going to be three and a half hours—a hike we have done many times before.

Following a mile or so of typical White Mountain hiking (lots of rocks and roots and some medium steep climbing), we are faced with a choice on Mt. Morgan: ladders or cliffs. This is news to me. I didn’t know there was a trail with ladders! Juliet perks up. She immediately chooses the ladders. I remonstrate weakly, but Sue, like Juliet, much bolder than I, is all in. The ladders, though, are just the beginning. Once I manage to climb these, there are huge boulders to contend with. I put aside my poles so that I can use my hands to hoist myself up and over. Surprisingly, I am having fun!

Then it was on to Mt. Percival, Juliet having given up on her demand to skip the second summit with its lovely view of Squam Lake.

Descending, we continue to follow the yellow blazes and come to another choice: cliffs or caves. Again I am puzzled, having been previously unaware of any caves. Now emboldened, I agree to the caves. Why not? We laugh hysterically, having to contort our bodies into pretzels to navigate the tiny spaces.

All of this strategizing takes a lot of time and the hike clocks in at five hours rather than the anticipated three and a half. But what an unexpected delight!

To go or not to go? Grappling with that dilemma for months, I get tested ten days before departure to assist with the decision-making but receive no results. To go or not to go? I have masks, a face shield, blue rubber gloves, wipes and sanitizer, for protection against the unknown, unseen, virus. Is it too risky? Too foolish? Too selfish? I long for a change of scenery, the draw of the mountains that I love, the lake that I know so well. To go or not to go?

I go. Everything seems foreign. On Wednesday, during what used to be the early morning commute, the BART parking lot has few cars. I take the train to the airport. Those on board are wearing masks. No one makes eye contact, all looking down at their phones. SFO is like a ghost town. No lines; no waits. The plane is empty. Juliet sits in the adjacent seat. The remainder of our row as well as rows behind and in front of us are vacant. I am masked and shielded, feeling confined and mute. With my wipe, I methodically scour every surface I might conceivably touch. There are no other aircraft waiting on the tarmac for takeoff. It is as though the traveling world as I have experienced it has vanished.

In advance, I vow not to eat or drink. Hungry, I reconsider and consume the pb&j sandwich I packed just in case. I pull down the mask and leave the shield in place. Each time I go to take a bite, I hit the shield instead of my mouth. In order to drink from my small bottle of water, a gift from the airline, I have to tip my head far back to get a sip. When I remove the shield briefly to relieve the headache it has caused, I notice the sticky smudges of peanut butter on the corners of the plastic.

I hold out as long as possible before deciding to make my way down the empty rows of seats to the bathroom. But just then, the seatbelt sign is suddenly illuminated, and I miss my chance. Sometime later, a flight attendant announces that there are thirty nine minutes left to the flight and the seat belt sign is turned off. I am happy to take advantage of this opportunity.

Was it worth it? We arrive in Boston in the late afternoon, the sun bright, the air cool. We take a walk beside the Garden, the Common, through Beacon Hill, the North End, Government Center. Sitting on a park bench at dusk, Juliet and I share a hearty and delicious lobster roll. Memories of the getting here recede amidst the joy of being here. Anticipation of three weeks in New Hampshire fills my heart. Yes, I believe it was worth it.

I expected to be in Ireland this month, visiting Belfast and Dublin, hiking the west coast north to south. Instead, I am in Oakland, closely observing details that I have often overlooked or didn’t stop to experience.

It is currently early morning on Memorial Day. The weather is fine, none of that heavy wet fog that sometimes plagues holiday weekends in the Bay Area, times when I envy those who live in places where instead, it feels like summer. I listen to the birdsong in the quiet. So sweet, such variety! I also hear the incessant and annoying gobble of the now-resident wild turkeys, fearless and aggressive.

At midnight, while reading in bed, windows wide open to enjoy the warm air, I heard goings-on in the garden. I grabbed my flashlight and rushed to see what was causing the ruckus. I was not surprised to see two playful raccoons. At first, they are lying in the birdbath, quite a hilarious sight as they are both quite rotund, and the birdbath is quite small. I imagine they are grateful for the cool water. Next, they are cavorting on the tiny lawn, running circles around each other, wrestling and playing like the youngsters they may be. Or perhaps they are not young but playful nonetheless, enjoying the garden, undisturbed.

Morning progresses, the light on the trees is soft. I move outdoors to take it all in. A bird skitters across the deck. A deer grazes just outside the fence. The smell of roses brings joy. I explore my garden anew, the spring growth, light green, fresh.

Back inside, the cat demands breakfast. Satiated, she sits guard by the screen door to the deck. Making chirping sounds, she watches intently as a squirrel runs across the deck railing after which she retires to her tent for a nap.

I land at the airport in Bozeman Montana. There is much snow on the ground, high up on buildings, covering parked cars. Visibility is poor due to very foggy conditions. I am told that last week, the weather was sunny and balmy (relatively speaking) until the day before I arrive when a huge storm brought lots of snow and frigid temperatures. And for the fourth time in two years, I am in an environment that makes me numb.

I haven’t been in Yellowstone, America’s first national park (dedicated March 1, 1872), since 1976 on a cross-country drive. Now nearly forty five years later, I figure I am long overdue for another visit. In three hours, I am transported by shuttle to the northeastern area of the park where I spend the next three days learning about wolves and biodiversity through the Yellowstone Institute’s Wolf Discovery program. I am here with a group of twelve and a naturalist guide. 

On our first day in the park, we are on the road at 6:30 am. It is freezing. I am wearing everything I’ve brought with me and still it’s not enough. We don’t see any wolves but we do see great herds of bison; bull elk crowned with huge antlers, sometimes weighing more than twenty pounds; coyotes (easily mistaken for wolves by certain city slickers), a beautiful red fox with a long bushy tail; and a very large otter eating the fish that it has caught in the icy river. We go snowshoeing in the afternoon when the sun finally appears making the landscape even lovelier, but sadly still doesn’t warm my toes.

I learn that 96% of the park is in Wyoming, 3% in Montana, and 1% in Idaho. Nevertheless, Montana claims it as its own! The park is twenty million acres in size and currently home to stable populations of wolves, elk, bison, mountain lions, bighorn sheep, mountain goats, coyote, red fox, moose, bear, eagles, beaver, among others. Yellowstone is a scientific research laboratory. We’re told three hundred fifty seven research permits have been issued in the last year for all sorts of projects.

Wolves were removed from Yellowstone by 1926 because then current science said eliminating these predators would be good for the elk, deer and bison populations. This turned out not to be the case when the entire ecosystem was disrupted. As a result, wolves were reintroduced from Canada in 1995 and again in 1996, a total of 31, with great success. The wolf population now numbers 101.

When we depart at 6:30 on the second day, it is 19 degrees below zero.  The sky is crystal clear. The sun has not yet risen. Wolves had been seen late the previous afternoon (unfortunately, not by us). So we return to the area where they had been seen and spend the next four hours (!) looking for them. Using a long distance scope, the guide shows us a wolf lying down in the snow two miles away. In my opinion, this doesn’t count. We decide not to snowshoe because it is too cold and continue to look for wildlife instead. We are rewarded with moose and bighorn sheep.  Before calling it a day, we return to the “wolf sighting spot” to check again for wolves and learn that just fifteen minutes before, fourteen of the pack had walked by. As proof, we are shown a video taken by the lucky observer.

Day three, same routine, same viewing spot. And the wolves are there! Well, they’re still two miles away. But, I can see them through the scope, eight or more, moving around. It’s snowing pretty hard though and visibility gets so bad that they can’t be seen anymore. The last afternoon, we go snowshoeing under falling snow in the silent, still majesty of midwinter in Yellowstone.

How lucky I am to be able to experience Yellowstone, its splendid scenery, and abundant wildlife in a variety of weather-grey skies, brilliant sunshine, and falling snow- and to learn about the complex ecosystem and the many flora and fauna that make it work.

And cold. Ever cold. I think I’m finally done with cold climate destinations. But I know I’ve said that before. I guess we’ll just see.

Today is my seventieth birthday. There, I’ve said it. I have to admit, it’s a number that has been difficult to embrace. I gave some thought to going somewhere special, and in the end, I did. Right here in California.

Juliet planned a surprise hike to a place neither of us had been before. We left the house at 6:15 this morning. With Juliet dictating directions, I drove two hours north from Oakland to the Sonoma Coast. We arrived in dense fog, just as the ranger opened the gate.

Juliet didn’t tell me how long the hike would be or how far. A good thing because had she done so, I undoubtably would have protested!

It was indeed long and far. We came out from under the fog into blazing sunshine, the earth parched, the grasses golden, typical California landscape at this time of year.

The goal was the summit of Mt. Pole, a rather uninspired name for a mountain, I must say, but the view was dazzling in every direction. There were many ups and downs, the elevation gain more than thirty-six hundred feet. After more than fifteen miles and almost eight hours, we happily returned to the car, took off our boots and drove home, admiring the coastline, tired and fulfilled. It was a birthday to remember.

The flight from Winnipeg to Churchill Manitoba is two and a half hours long, a distance of one thousand km, and a world away. Winnipeg is a vibrant, urban city of more than 750,000 people. Churchill, located on the western shore of Hudson Bay, has a population of eight hundred and is accessible only by air and rail. The population increases many fold during six weeks in October and November when the polar bears gather in and around Hudson Bay and visitors from all over the world come to see them.

Polar bears are marine mammals that live in the Arctic regions of five countries: Canada, the U.S., Greenland, Norway, and Russia. Currently, there are twenty to thirty thousand globally but they are at serious risk of decline due to loss of polar ice. While there are nineteen different polar bear populations in these five countries, sixty percent live in Canada, with more than one thousand in Churchill. Water conditions here cause ice to form first and melt last. Polar bears are not adapted to eat on land. The ice serves as platforms for the bears to hunt ring seals, their primary food source. Polar bears are uniquely suited to the extreme climate in the Arctic regions. In fact, they can’t easily survive in temperatures above freezing. They have two coats of dense fur and eleven centimeters of fat as insulation against the cold. Large furry paws keep them warm and claws help them walk over thin ice to reach their prey. They can live thirty years in the wild.

I am here in Mid-November, the fifth of the six-week season. It is very cold, below zero with a substantial wind chill. I’m told snow has been on the ground for the past three weeks or so. On our first day in Churchill as our group approaches town from the airport, we see a beautiful polar bear mom and cub also approaching town, something that is strongly disapproved of for safety reasons. The polar bear patrol shoots cracker shells in the air to discourage them and they run away in the opposite direction.

The next day, we head out to the tundra on a special vehicle called a polar rover designed to traverse the difficult terrain that is thick with tundra grass, rock, snow and ice.

Early on, we see a polar bear hunkered down in some scrubby willows apparently avoiding the harsh wind. Conditions rapidly deteriorate to blizzard white-out and we can no longer see anything. I go out on the back deck of the rover to experience twenty degrees below zero and feel my face get numb.

I have a conversation with the driver asking him how he can possibly navigate in zero visibility. He tells me about landmarks that he uses as well as the fact that he comes from Churchill and knows the contours of the land well. Then he promptly gets lost! It is quite hilarious. We stop a number of times waiting for the weather to clear. When it does late in the afternoon, we are at an overlook of Hudson Bay. To our surprise and delight, we see an Arctic Fox curled up in a ball and an Arctic Hare lying in some stunted willows, each as white as the snow in which they are camouflaged, sleeping peacefully.

Our second and last day on the rover, there is thankfully no blizzard. We’re shown a weather map that indicates how far the ice has grown in magnitude over the last few days, from just along the shore of Hudson Bay to four miles out. This means that in that period of time, most of the bears have gone from Churchill for the season and we’re likely to see only stragglers. And we do! For a long time we watch a bear quite far out on the ice as it moves back and forth, sniffing the air, it’s long neck stretched out, then lying down to rest and up again to explore.

In addition to our group guide who has told us a tremendous amount about polar bears, we are fortunate to have a polar bear scientist from the World Wildlife Fund on board who shares with us her extensive knowledge from years of study. And we’re not finished yet! We see ptarmigans resplendent in their winter white.

Then there is the polar bear jail. As I mentioned earlier, the polar bear authority wants to keep people and polar bears apart. When the bears get into Churchill, an emergency call goes out and the polar bear patrol gets to the location of the wayward bear, tranquilizes it and has it taken to jail where it is incarcerated a few days to a month depending upon the seriousness of the infraction. Once paroled, the bear is released onto the ice, perhaps deterred from future town incursions.

Halloween in Churchill is a unique production. Given the polar bear issue, trick-or-treaters must be protected. This involves a helicopter, police, northern rangers, fire fighters and conservation officers, twenty four men and two helicopter pilots in all. This to make sure that one hundred sixty Churchill kids get to fill their bags with candy and be safe from polar bears!

On the day of our return to Winnipeg, the weather in Churchill is the most extreme yet. Taking a photo requires glove removal. By the time that thirty-seconds has elapsed, my fingers burn with the cold. My toes are so painful that it takes hours indoors for them to thaw out. And it’s only November. It is quite apparent that Churchill is for far hardier folks than me!

Featured photo is courtesy of Amy McCawley.

After a week of challenging hikes in Alaska’s magnificent Denali National Park (the featured photo on this postcard is of Mount Denali reflected in Wonder Lake on a dazzling day), I change gears and head to Homer, a small town 123 miles (as the crow flies) southwest of Anchorage, to go on a bear excursion.

Our journey begins at the minuscule Homer airport where nine of us and two pilot guides don hip-high waders and board two six-passenger prop planes for the thirty minute flight to Lake Clark National Park located across Cook Inlet from the Kenai Peninsula. The planes land on the beach at low tide in a blustery wind. After alighting onto the sand, I add a fleece vest and a windbreaker to the wool shirt and down jacket I am already wearing, and also put on a hat and gloves. It is mighty cold.

Lake Clark National Park is home to two or three thousand coastal brown bears (known as grizzlies inland). Almost at once we spy a pair of siblings far away where the tide has gone out. We walk single file through the shallow muddy water a respectable distance from the bears and stand still while watching them dig energetically for razor clams,

one of the three foods they endlessly consume over the short Alaskan summer in order to bulk up for the long Alaskan winter. They saunter within a few feet of us with hardly a glance in our direction.

After awhile, we change venues, leaving the beach for a broad open meadow covered in sedge, a grasslike plant that is the second of the three foods* the bears devour ceaselessly for hours (and I know this because we watch for hours!). At first, we are entranced by a solitary bear munching the wet sedge,

when our attention is drawn to three bears grazing together, a mama and her two cubs. They likewise pay us no mind as they come very close to us.

No sooner do we settle in to gaze at this threesome than we become mesmerized by a mother and her two tiny four-month-old cubs

(cubs are born each year in February in the den during hibernation) that are cavorting at the other end of the meadow. They are just adorable.

All told, there are as many as eleven bears at once in our view, although the singletons do not interact with any of the others nor do the threesomes socialize with the different families. It is quite an afternoon!

*The third food is salmon which won’t be available until after spawning in early August.

It was quite an ordeal to get here. One flight cancelled, then a second. Blizzard in Boston closed down the airport. Will I make it? I’ve never been to Newfound Lake in the winter, and now my opportunity is being jeopardized.

I finally arrive at Logan but the buses to Concord, New Hampshire are canceled due to the weather. I stay at an airport hotel overnight and take a bus at 6:45 the next morning. My friend, Audrey, meets me at the bus depot and takes me to her condo on Newfound, just steps from the lake. The view, sparkling in summer, is now magnificent wrapped  in snow.

The temperature is 9 degrees with a substantial wind chill. We head over to Sugar Loaf, a low mountain across the lake, one I have hiked many times. We strap on snow shoes and begin to hike in the hushed, pristine woods. There is no other human or animal presence. We get to the outlook on Little Sugar Loaf. The view is perfectly clear and crisp, much of the lake frozen. The contrast between the blue of the partially frozen lake and the surrounding ice is dazzling.

After two hours, we are back down at the lake. It is dotted with fishing huts, such an unusual sight. I’m told they have heaters and even televisions for the fishermen who spend hours patiently waiting for a catch. I walk on the frozen surface of the lake. The wind is howling, blowing the snow off the surface in great white sheets. I clutch at my coat, fighting to keep the hood over my ears. This is joy to me.

The next day, we drive up to the Mt. Washington Hotel, an historic, elegant, and grand old hotel, distinctively white with a red roof, located at the base of the iconic mountain whose name it bears.

We rent skis, boots and poles and go cross-country skiing in the fresh, powdery snow. It is a winter wonderland, as we glide almost silently among the pine trees, hearing only the sound of the skis going swish in the snow.

My expectations of this winter visit are exceeded. Newfound in winter is stunning and peaceful, worth the wait.

​It’s good for me to go outside my comfort zone and try new things: a zip line in northern Thailand, crossing a raging river in Slovakia or Ecuador, teetering on the edge of a cliff in Montenegro. My adventure in a slot-canyon in Mecca Hills Painted Canyon was the most recent and definitely one of the scariest.

I’m not a daredevil. Frankly, I’m kind of a wuss. But I don’t like that about myself and try to press the envelope, at least occasionally, and challenge myself to do something I’d really rather not do. So it was when Juliet and I chose to go to a remote location about forty miles from Palm Springs, California, and hike in a slot canyon.

A slot canyon is a very narrow canyon that starts as a crack in the rock and, as a result of millions of years of rain, wind and erosion, is sculpted into a gorge considerably narrower than it is deep. I’d hiked in slot canyons in Death Valley and Zion, but this one was very different from them.

The one in Mecca Hills requires you to hoist yourself straight up several tall, smooth, rock faces using a rope tethered at the top and hanging free. There are occasional footholds, otherwise you’re walking up the slippery rock wall, pulling yourself up hand-over-hand as you go and then shimmying over the top on your belly, the rock crumbling beneath you as you move. Other spots involve contorting your body in ways you didn’t know possible so that you can squeeze through the smallest of spaces and come out dust-covered and bleeding on the other side.

When I saw that first vertical rock face with its free-swinging rope, I was shocked. The hike description hadn’t said a thing about this. I thought “I can’t do this.” My right shoulder has no more cartilage and doesn’t function like it used to. I walked up and grabbed the rope and said aloud “I can’t do this.” Juliet, an adept and graceful athlete and also a rock-climber, reconnoitered the situation by trying it out herself. She came back down and spotted me, giving me encouragement. I managed to do it but felt shaken, vulnerable, and frankly, terrified. Immediately after, there were two spots with no ropes and what appeared to be impossible configurations of rock requiring strength and coordination I thought I no longer had. With Juliet’s optimism and reassurance, I got through these as well, wondering all the while why I had subjected myself to what felt like torture. Further along, there was one more place similar to the first and then we were done, at least with that slot.

After exiting, we walked for what seemed like miles through rocky, barren terrain, unsure where to go due to a complete lack of signage and not encountering another person to ask for direction. We discussed turning back and retracing our steps if we didn’t reach a way soon that would lead us back to the trailhead. But the thought of having to redo the slot in reverse was so alarming to me that we kept plodding on against better judgment. Finally in desperation, Juliet climbed to a higher point to observe the situation. Relieved to see other people on the next ridge, we scrambled up the hill and caught up with them. Like us, they didn’t know where they were going, but we figured if we remained lost, at least we would have company. We found the slot we were looking for and descended through it by way of steep, vertical ladders which seemed easy after what we had already done.

So how did I feel at the end of the day? Exhilarated! Grateful that I had made it. Thrilled at sharing this with Juliet without whose confidence I most certainly would not have attempted it. But when she said to me “this was so much fun, I could do it again tomorrow”, I told her she would be doing it alone!

It is Election Day. I don’t know about you, but for me, the campaign has been too lengthy, too unpleasant, and not informative enough about meaningful issues.

So being in New York, I decided to spend this important day away from all the noise and visit Miss Liberty,

a beacon of hope, of strength, and of light to so many: Americans, soon-to-be/Americans, and visitors from all over the world.

The weather is warm, the blue sky cloudless. There are many people filling the ferry, the plaza, the pedestal. I am aware of the multitude of languages, of dress, of facial features, and of skin color. And nearly everyone is taking photographs of Lady Liberty, her copper robe brightly lit by the sun, her golden torch held high above her head, beaming brilliantly.

I feel emotional at the pleasure of her company, what she represents, a welcome symbol to all, irrespective of class, culture, religion, and race.

On this day especially, I want to work to be open-hearted and open-minded, to be respectful of others whose views are different from mine, and to try to gain a better understanding of their beliefs.

It began a long time ago. That is, an intense desire to see a moose. It’s not as if I had never seen one. Many years ago, I saw two off the Kancamagus Highway in New Hampshire. Before that, I spotted a few in a bog in rural Maine. I saw some in Alaska back in 1994. But all of that was ancient history. I wanted to see one now in the worst way.

In recent years, every time I visited New Hampshire, I looked and wished. My daughter, Juliet, told me that because I wanted to see one so desperately, I wouldn’t. Apparently, she was right. This last summer, some friends as well as Juliet and I went on a four-and-a-half-hour nighttime “moose tour” in northern NH. We had fleeting glimpses of two moose, hardly something to satisfy my moose craving. Sadly, we learned that thousands of moose there have been dying due to moose ticks. It was clear, then, that I should have gone on this tour years ago when chances were much better.

But all that changed near Piney Lake in Colorado. My friend Sue and I had come to the Vail area to hike for a few days. She, like me, had longed to see a moose, and likewise, had been sorely disappointed with our NH moose tour. So she asked someone in Avon where we were staying if there was any place local where we might see moose. The woman confidently told us to go to Piney Lake, a forty-minute drive from Vail on a narrow, rutted dirt road where, she informed us, 80% of the people she sent there had success. That sounded like our kind of odds. So we decided to go.

Instead of forty minutes, the drive took an hour and a half. The posted speed limit was 20; we were lucky to go 10. Of course the fact that it had snowed the night before and was thirty-three degrees when we started out at 4:00 in the afternoon probably didn’t help.

When we arrived at the lake, there wasn’t a soul around. The fresh snow was undisturbed.

The lake resort was all locked up. The moose must have left along with everyone else. We searched the lovely lake, our eyes straining for moose.

We felt crestfallen when none appeared. We had convinced ourselves that this would be our lucky day, that the lake would be teeming with moose just waiting for us. Disconsolate, we left for the long, cold, bumpy ride out.

But wait! Ahead, just alongside the road was a large dark brown animal. It had antlers. Could it be? We slowly approached. As we were admiring this handsome male moose,

another one ran out from the other side of the road right in front of our car and joined his friend.

We were beside ourselves with joy. Both moose slowly walked into the woods parallel to the road. We followed them, taking pictures and congratulating ourselves on our good fortune. After they disappeared, we whooped and high-fived as though something truly magical had happened. And for us, it had!

I had decided not to write about this hiking trip to Arches and Canyonlands National Parks. It was not that it wasn’t wonderful or beautiful, because it was both. I just didn’t feel inspired to write. Until something very unique and special happened.

We were a group of eight with two guides, Jeff and Tamara, both excellent and thoughtful leaders. They are also professional musicians: he on the saxophone, she on the violin. At our request, they had agreed to play for us. I had presumed it would be at the gorgeous lodge high up in the La Sal Mountains where we were staying. But they had something else in mind.

It was on our fifth and final hike. They carried their instruments deep into the region of Canyonlands called The Needles, a place of spires, turrets and fins carved by nature from sandstone of various colors and compounds. Jeff guided us to a naturally-formed amphitheater, expansive and magnificent. We sat down on the slickrock and he walked some distance away. Slowly, he began to play, just a few notes at first and then more. Every note echoed in the canyon. It was stunning.

After awhile, Tamara joined him, and they played together, the sound extraordinary in this physically and acoustically perfect setting.

Then he stopped and she played alone.

Their concert brought tears to my eyes as it reminded me how precious such moments are and how joy can be found in the most unexpected ways.

​It’s easy to see why Kauai is called The Garden Isle. On the north part of the island, Princeville, Hanalei, and all the way to the end of the road at Ke’e Beach, the flora is dense, green and lush. The leaves are huge, the foliage thick, impenetrable.

It rains a lot up here. A lot. The second wettest place on earth is nearby. Mount Waialeale gets an average of 450 inches a year. The day may start out sunny and warm but before you know it, it’s pouring. A few minutes later the sun is shining and there is a glorious rainbow.

This constantly changing weather happens all day long. While you are in your room slathering yourself with sunscreen, the fat gray clouds move in and the heavens open up.

The only way to avoid this is to go someplace else in Kauai. A good choice is the south of the island.

Poipu for example. While it is raining cats and dogs up north, it’s balmy and dry there. Everyone is on the beach or snorkeling in the temperate Pacific. Or you can go hiking in Waimea Canyon. Some say it’s more scenic than the Grand Canyon.

But the thing is, there’s something special about the north end with its narrow roads and one lane bridges, Hanalei and its hippie vibe, surf shops and muumuu stores. There’s a lot of wildlife too. Chickens are everywhere, strutting and crowing (well the roosters are). And the Nene, the state bird, stakes out its territory and chases you away with tongue sticking out, hissing all the while.

At the Kilauea Lighthouse, albatross, red-footed boobies, and frigate birds nest. And you’re in luck if you see an endangered Hawaiian Monk Seal or two.

I took a twentieth century architecture class in my senior year of college. There were some outstanding architects of that era: Le Corbusier, Mies van der Rohe, Antoni Gaudi, Louis Sullivan. My favorite was Frank Lloyd Wright. It was then that I learned about Taliesen, his home, studio and architecture school in Spring Green, Wisconsin, and decided I must visit one day.

Forty five years later, I did.

Every two years, I organize a get-together of college friends. This year, I lobbied for Madison, Wisconsin, thirty five miles from Spring Green, where a tour of Taliesen would be the focal point of the weekend (in addition, of course, to great conversation, good food, and lots of laughter with dear old friends).

We set out for Spring Green very early Saturday morning in splendid Indian Summer weather. We drove along two-lane country roads through wide-open pasture lands and farms, occasionally passing through tiny towns with their general stores and feed lots. It seemed there must be plenty of rainfall here as green was the primary color of the landscape.

When we arrived at Taliesen, we were greeted by our guide, Margaret, a beautiful and spry seventy-eight-year-old actress who shared with us her considerable knowledge and deep love for all things FLW. Although she had been giving these tours for seventeen years, her presentation was as fresh as though we were her very first tour group. Her enthusiasm was contagious. There wasn’t a question she couldn’t answer.

The four hours flew by as we visited the buildings that exemplified Wright’s meticulous design principles and his emphasis on air, light and space. We toured the School of Architecture; the dining hall with its Wright-designed furniture and lighting fixtures; the theater attached just behind it with its stage curtain representing many of his life stories; his home designed in the Prairie style for which he was so famous, every detail purposeful and beautiful to my eye.

Sometimes we long to see something over a great period of time and when we finally do, we are disappointed because the experience can’t possibly live up to the anticipation. For me, this was not the case with Taliesen. I felt rewarded after waiting so many years to visit and found my expectations exceeded.

As an additional pleasure, I recommend reading The Women, by T.C.Boyle and Loving Frank, by Nancy Horan.

Where to start? I really wasn’t going to write again this year about hiking in the High Sierra, but how could I not when what happened was so unexpected?

After driving from Oakland to Yosemite and taking a three mile hike to Dog Lake and back to acclimatize to the elevation, my friend and I arrived at Tuolumne Meadows Lodge just as it began to rain. More rain was predicted the following day, an 80% chance. However, when we set out early the next morning for Vogelsang, our first camp, the expansive blue sky was filled with dramatic white cumulus clouds, a beautiful day.

Until the thunderheads rolled in. Fast. We put on our rain gear and made haste to the camp as raindrops started to fall. No sooner had we walked into the reception tent when the downpour began. First heavy rain, then pea-sized hail. Lots of it. Pools of water flooded the tent floor, dripped from the roof. The noise was deafening; we couldn’t hear each other speak. Outside the door, four inches of hail accumulated and stuck.

The staff built a rock path for us hikers so that we could get to our tents. Inside our tent, my friend immediately started building a fire in the wood stove. The tent promptly filled with thick gray smoke setting off the fire alarm and a staccato voice repeating “fire, fire.”

It rained and hailed for hours. A staff member who had worked there for years said he had never experienced anything like this. But then, just after dinner, it stopped. The sky filled with light and the remaining sun found the tips of the mountains

.

Perhaps the next day would be different.

But this was not to be. Although the weather was initially fair, it quickly became evident that we were in for more precipitation. The sky grew dark and glowering.

We donned our rain gear once again and just in time. But being pelted with rain and hail was not what distinguished this hike from any other. What set this one apart was the amount of water surging down the mountains, engorging the once quiet creeks that crossed and recrossed the trail. And we had to cross these now swollen creeks again and again! Each time we came to a crossing, we had to examine the possibilities and find the least dangerous alternative. At the widest and most treacherous spot, the choices were bad and worse. My friend decided the best option was to walk across on a fallen tree that connected both banks. The distance between the banks was about twenty feet, the tree at least ten feet above the raging waters below. I thought this was a terrible idea and beseeched her not to do this. I couldn’t imagine even watching her do it and she wisely decided against it. We finally crossed on submerged rocks and parts of fallen trees, the water rushing over and around our feet, my heart in my mouth the entire time. We arrived at Merced Lake camp cold, tired and wet. What would the upcoming day bring?

Sunshine. Cool breezes. Fine weather brought us to Sunrise camp where the temperature was cold but our hike and our stay were remarkably free of any adversity or drama. Conditions were likewise favorable for our hike back to Tuolumne Meadows on our last day. The morning light was soft, the air filled with the musical sounds of song birds and the tinkling of the now tranquil creeks. Still, what I will long remember is the tumult of the storm and the thrill of this adventure.

We reach the Navajo Bridge built in 1928, four hundred and seventy feet above the Colorado River, the first bridge across the Grand Canyon. It remained the only bridge until the late 1960’s, when a new one was built just next to it to carry the increased vehicle traffic. The original then became designated for foot traffic only.

We drive along the Vermillion Cliffs to the North Rim of the Grand Canyon through scrubby desert and Ponderosa pine forest. The bark is the color of cinnamon and smells faintly of vanilla.

A practice hike of five miles along the northeastern-most rim of the Canyon warms up our muscles for what is to come.

The quaking aspens are just leafing out, citronelle and ethereal.

My alarm goes off at 4:30 am. After a quick breakfast, our hike on the North Kaibab Trail down to Phantom Ranch begins at 5:45. Our journey takes us fourteen miles into the Canyon (plus a one-mile detour to Ribbon Falls),

a drop in elevation of nearly six thousand feet. We hike at comparative break-neck speed through colorful layers of sedimentary rock formed over many millions of years.

We arrive at our destination ten and a half hours later. I am foot-sore and weary and yet thrilled that I could experience one of the worlds great hikes.

During our “rest day” at Phantom Ranch, we hike to an overlook one thousand feet above the Colorado, a magnificent viewpoint to the mighty River far below.

Two bridges close to Phantom Ranch cross the Colorado, one for the mule trains that carry supplies, the other for hikers. We cross both, experiencing the River from each side. Later, we put on water shoes and hike in a bracingly cold tributary of Bright Angel Creek to a cave where delicate angel hair ferns grow underneath a waterfall. We are told the normal temperature in the Canyon in May is one hundred degrees. Instead, it is in the fifties with thunderstorms.

As our guide told us, what goes down the Canyon must come up. So once again, we get a 4:30 am wake-up call and set out at 5:45 on the Bright Angel Trail to the South Rim of the Grand Canyon, a ten-mile hike from Phantom Ranch.

The elevation gain is nearly five thousand feet. The weather is cool and cloudy. As we ascend via steep switchbacks, the air becomes colder and heavy with moisture, a weak sun occasionally peaking through the clouds.

By the time we reach mile eight, it is pouring and the temperature is fifty-one degrees! We arrive at the South Rim seven hours after we began, soaking wet, and it is forty-six degrees! Not exactly as predicted. And yet I can’t imagine having done this hike under a scorching hundred-degree sun.

How bountiful our country is in stunning natural beauty. I am eager to explore more of it.

I am in Zion National Park, my first visit here since 1984. I thought it time to experience its abundance again after more than half a lifetime. It does not disappoint. In fact, its majesty is far greater than I remember. I am with my daughter, a great joy.

We hike to Observation Point, an eight-mile journey that is a visual feast, nourishment for the body and spirit. Fortresses of rust-colored Navajo sandstone rise from the desert in fascinating forms.

Jagged rocks jutting out angularly that put me in mind of great white shark teeth,

smoothly layered rocks with delicately scalloped curves,

boulders cut through as though sliced by a knife, a dizzying array of striations and crenellated formations. A profusion of wildflowers in fuchsia and violet sprouting from every cleft, softening the edges, prickly pear cacti blooming in shades of hot pink and pale yellow.

Trees with leaves of the brightest green to the deepest hunter, a multitude of textures and contours.

On another day we drive to a less touristed part of Zion, Kolob Canyon. There, we hike a more modest five miles along the lovely Taylor Creek to gigantic double arches that soar far above the trees and surrounding landscape dwarfing us humans by their size and grandeur.

We decide we could spend a week exploring the wonders of Zion, but it is time for us to meet up with a group of fellow travelers to hike the Grand Canyon.

Music. Architecture. Dancing. Cars. Heat. Rum. Lobster. Mountains. Forests. Beaches. These are just some of the things I experienced in Cuba.

In Trinidad, a beautifully preserved Spanish colonial town with cobbled streets, stunning architecture, and cotton-candy-colored buildings, we visit the Plaza Mayor, the main square. For lunch, we eat sublime lobster tails grilled in butter and garlic while the breeze moves softly through the huge open windows of the paladare. Afterwards, we listen to wonderful Cuban music and drink seven-year-old rum.

Next, it’s off to Topes de Collantes, a national park in the Sierra del Escambray mountains, where we hike in the dense forest and see the luscious local flora. Near the end of the hike, we come upon a pig roasting over an open fire.

Imagine my surprise when the pig is served for lunch a few minutes later!

During the next few days, we go to an environmental center, an elementary school, a neighborhood party, a farmers’ collective, a sugar cane plantation, and learn about Cuban culture, economy, and politics. We visit the Che memorial and museum

and watch a one-woman play written and performed by one of our group at an LGBT Center in the city of Santa Clara. We spend two nights at a resort on the Atlantic that is more like Miami Beach than Cuba (not so great), but has a white sand beach and clear, warm, turquoise water (pretty great).

In contrast, we visit Remedios, a fifteenth century colonial town that is authentic Cuba.

And then, finally, we arrive in Havana and it seems like all that went before was just a warm-up. What a breathtaking city it is! Colonial buildings, some in decay, others beautifully renovated.

Likewise the cars, so many Chevys, Fords, Oldsmobiles, and Buicks from the fifties and early sixties, some in dire need of body work, others in cherry condition, such fun to ride in either way.

Our education about Cuba continues with a thoughtful and informative lecture on where Cuba has been and what the future holds, especially in light of the recent easing of travel restrictions and a possible end to the embargo. We watch a pop-opera performed by a group of talented young singers and dancers and are lucky to attend a performance of the National Ballet of Cuba. We go to museums highlighting Cuban art and walk all over this most photogenic place. And what a privilege it is to hear music everywhere, in jazz clubs, in restaurants, and on street corners,

something that sets this country apart from all others I have visited. I look forward to returning.

I went to camp in New Hampshire, starting when I was 12 in 1962. It was an all-girls camp. Still is. Located on Newfound Lake in the Lakes Region in the foothills of the glorious White Mountains.

Wednesday was trip day. Often, that meant a hike. Mt. Cardigan. Mt. Mooselauke. Mt. Washington. I didn’t like it at all. We weren’t allowed to sit down or drink water. We campers believed it was possibly because the counselors thought if we sat down, we’d never get up to finish the hike. And if we drank too much water, we’d have to pee.

But somewhere along the line, I started to like hiking. Maybe it was the first time I climbed Mt. Washington. At 6288 feet, it is the tallest mountain in New England, not very tall by Rocky Mountain standards but challenging nonetheless in that the tree-line is at 4,000 feet, at which elevation the topography and weather become Arctic-like.

So, all my life, I have come back to New Hampshire to hike in the summer. To see the layers of mountains from a summit.

To explore the forests. To drive the billboard-less highways. To swim in the clear, clean water of Newfound.

To experience a place so different from my native New York City and my Bay Area home. To have my daughter grow up there and share my love of this special place.

New Hampshire is where my heart it.

I’m out on Dana Point. An estuary connects the harbor with the ocean. There are thousands of boats in their slips in the harbor. In the estuary, there are competitive canoers, kayakers, paddle boarders. Along the path, there are runners, walkers and many, many dogs. The sun is beginning to break through the overcast leading to what will undoubtedly be another glorious day.

On the way back to the hotel, I climb a steep set of stairs and come upon a yoga class of dozens practicing under some shade trees in Lantern Bay Park to the sound of drums.

As I get closer, I realize that the drumming has nothing to do with the yoga class but is from a Hindu wedding that is taking place at the hotel. There are hundreds of guests dressed in beautiful Indian saris and a horse decorated in finery. These are definitely not the things that I see on an early morning walk in Oakland!

How can it be that I had never been to the High Sierra? I have lived in California for 43 years. It brought to mind that I had never visited the Statue of Liberty until after moving to California although I had grown up in Brooklyn.

I had explored Yosemite Valley a few times many years ago but wasn’t really aware that there was a whole other aspect to Yosemite. Until I went. What a revelation! I was familiar with large-scale granite landscapes from hiking in New Hampshire (The Granite State) since I was a kid. But this was something else again. Giant slabs of grey and beige rock rolling into enormous cliffs or boulders, mountains or ledges.

Gorgeous grassy meadows filled with purple Lupine, Indian Paintbrush, yellow daisies and so many other wild flowers. Quiet forests majestic with redwoods. Placid rivers turning into roaring waterfalls.

And then there are the High Sierra camps, six of them, comprising a rough circle half above and half below Highway 120, each approximately a seven to nine mile hike from one another. With their rustic tents and community dining rooms, there is no internet. Conversation between strangers is animated and wide-ranging, sometimes turning into acquaintanceships or even friendships.

As day turns into evening, the sky darkens with dramatic cumulonimbus clouds. The last rays of the sun cast the high peaks in red and gold.

And I have found a place close to home to which I hope to return and explore soon again.

As day turns to night, the sky becomes menacing. The clouds are slate gray. Streaks of lightening slash the sky followed by great claps of thunder that fill the heavy air. The wind howls and the rain crashes against the windows.

The storm is short-lived. It passes quickly and a full moon lights up the lake. The water shimmers in its glow.

While lying in bed, I hear the waves on the lake lapping softly against the shore below the window. I hear the loons calling way in the distance, the breeze rustling the trees nearby.

In the morning, I awaken to sun shining on the mountains across the lake and I know this is a hiking day. I grab my day pack and drive up to the trailhead forty five minutes away. The weather is cool and clear, the ride north on Route 25 to Wentworth and then east on 25a is beautiful, the surrounding hillsides so green, the clapboard buildings charming. Today I will hike to the summit of Mt, Cube, a new one for me.

The trail is a bit muddy from the recent rain and I watch my footing. I climb steadily upward, gaining elevation, through thick fir trees. Along the way there are a few glimpses through the forest to the stunning mountains beyond.

I reach the summit shortly after 11:00 am. The sky is a deep blue unsullied by any pollutants and filled with New England’s signature gray and white cumulus clouds. I meet three young women and two dogs. I am invited to join them for some snacks. One of them offers to paint my face and I happily agree. I have seldom had my face painted and never before on a mountain top!

I return to the house, a lovely place right on the water. I sit on a rock that slopes into the lake. I contemplate this stunning day, this special place. And I am grateful.

I was born and raised in New York, Brooklyn to be specific. I grew up in a middle-class neighborhood in Flatbush that was surprisingly diverse given that it was in the 1950’s and 60’s. I remember playing stickball in the street and mumbly-peg with the neighborhood kids. In the summer, the Good Humor truck would come by every evening after dinner with it’s signature bells announcing its arrival. All of us kids would run down the street chasing after it to buy ice cream on a stick for fifteen cents when our parents allowed it. We would marvel at the lightening bugs flashing in front of our eyes and catch them, put them in jars.

In winter, when there was a snowstorm, my father and I would go out with our shovels and start clearing the sidewalk around our house. We would bring Reggie, our English Bulldog. It was one of the few times he was allowed out without a leash. I always told my father I thought it was pretty dumb to shovel since the snow would continue to fall all night and we’d just have to do it again in the morning. He responded that there would be less to shovel in the morning if we started when it did. What I think is that he just loved being outdoors in the beauty, in the hush, in the still of the night. And I loved being right there with him.

November 22,1963 is seared in my memory as it undoubtedly is for everyone who is old enough to remember that horrifying day. I was a freshman in high school. A classmate came running into homeroom and announced that President Kennedy had been assassinated. We were sent home. No one on the subway train was talking. Everyone seemed turned inward. Most of us were crying. My first experience with tragedy, I still grapple with feelings of loss and thoughts of how things might have been different had this awful thing never happened.

There was a famous (or maybe it was infamous) black-out in 1965. I was in the subway, the BMT line, (sadly now just a line with a number or a letter), coming home from school. A train was coming into the station when suddenly, all the lights went out, the train stopped. The sea of people formed a human chain, holding onto one another, the only safe way to climb the stairs and exit into the outside. A few if us friends from school gathered at the house of an acquaintance where her mother allowed us to roast tiny marshmallows over lighted candles. Later that night, my father came and drove me and a few friends home through the pitch-black streets lit softly by candles shining dimly in windows. It was magic.

My father bought an old wooden boat, a Chris-Craft. He named it the Del-Nor after me and my brother. How he loved that boat. In the winter, it was taken out of the water in Sheepshead Bay, and put in dry-dock. One year, my father determined it was too much work to strip and sand the mahogany and then stain and varnish it every year. So he decided to fiberglass and paint it instead. I was his assistant. What a chore that was. It took many weekends to accomplish. I had fiberglass particles embedded in my fingers for months after. And truth be told, the old boat never looked as good again.

The quiet bays are edged in turquoise. The sand is white, soft and sensual.

The water is immaculate, clear and warm. There is no airport here, no golf course. There are only two hotels on the island. All the beaches are public. Only 700 cars, 4700 residents, 20 square miles in area, smaller than Manhattan.

St. John in the American Virgin Islands is almost entirely National Park. One can hike, snorkel, dive, sail. In Cruz Bay where the ferries arrive from St. Thomas, one hears music and the lilting sound of Caribbean English.

And then the dark clouds roll in. The wind whips the palm trees and roils the once placid sea.

Tropical Storm Isaac dumps great squalls of rain, sheets of water streaming from the sky. Such a different look to this place. How interesting to experience the different moods.

My daughter studied in Chicago for five years earning undergraduate and masters degrees. This turned out to be wonderful for both of us. She loved the University of Chicago and I loved visiting her.

While she was there, I think I went fourteen times. Of course I never went in the winter. I did go in March one year. It was so cold and windy I decided thereafter to go no later than October and no earlier than April. Even then, you couldn’t be sure. One Memorial Day weekend, it was 80 degrees and, one evening, within five minutes, the temperature dropped thirty degrees and gale-force winds blew in off Lake Michigan. You just never knew.

The campus of the University is Gothic, gorgeous. Hyde Park, on the south side of Chicago, is elegant with its stately old homes and tree-lined streets. And the city is full of interesting things to do.  I’ll mention three.

First are the Chicago Architectural Foundation architecture tours. There are walking, biking and segway tours, but my favorite is the Chicago River tour. Many important and architecturally significant buildings are visible by boat. The knowledgeable guides inform and amaze with their stories of Louis Sullivan, Frank Lloyd Wright, Daniel Burnham, and others, who so beautifully designed many of the iconic edifices.

Second, on the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend, the City closes Lakeshore Drive to vehicular traffic from 5:00-10:00 am and opens Bike the Drive. Thousands come to ride their bikes on this most scenic roadway alongside Lake Michigan. Many ride in costume, some on what appear to be home-made or otherwise unorthodox looking bicycles. You can ride for miles right through downtown with its towering skyscrapers. It’s fantastic!

Third, is a tour of Wright-designed buildings. The Robie House is right on the U of C campus.

Many homes that Wright designed can be seen in his very own neighborhood of Oak Park, a close-in suburb. In addition you can visit his home and studio and learn a great deal about his life and work. You can also buy two excellent books: The Women and Loving Frank, both of which are fascinating.

I would be remiss not to mention Millennium Park downtown where you can gaze at the crowds (and yourself) in Cloud Gate (a sculpture locally known as the bean),

and see the Frank Gehry-designed bandshell, maybe even hear a concert.

The Park is located across the street from and accessible by a walking bridge to the Art Institute and also across Lakeshore Drive from the Lake where you can walk the attractive lakeside path.

Chicago is a world-class city, definitely worth a detour!

A few years ago, my husband and I went to spring training. We went specifically to see the Oakland A’s. This was when Yoenis Cespedes was a rookie, newly arrived from Cuba. He made quite an impression.

After a few days, we drove to Sedona, a few hours from Phoenix but a world away. Where Phoenix is largely flat and commercial, Sedona is stunning with its red mountains in various gigantic formations.

I signed us up for a pink jeep tour. It’s not unlike a roller-coaster in an amusement park. The jeep is indeed pink and hurtles up and down the steep red rocks throwing passengers here and there inside the spartan vehicle. No wonder management prohibits people with bad backs or who are pregnant!

The views are pretty fantastic, though. I remember commenting to our driver/guide how impressed I was with Sedona in March and wondered what other times of the year would be nice to visit. He told me October is good except for one thing: it’s tarantula mating season and tarantulas are copulating all over the sidewalks. I decided I probably wouldn’t visit in October.

Sedona attracts some odd-ball people. There’s quite a myth about experiencing the vortex. I’d read about it but didn’t quite understand. Something about a spiritual awakening. So one evening we went to a remote place to see the sunset. The night before we had gone to a not-at-all remote place and watched the sun set with what seemed like half the population of Sedona. But on this second evening, it was just Ken, myself, a woman with her dog and someone I can only describe as this hippie dude (boy, am I getting old). Anyway, this very sincere fellow starts telling me how I’d come to the right place to experience the vortex. As the sun was setting, leaving a golden hue over the very red mountains, he told me he was feeling the vortex and wondered if I was, too. Truth be told, I was not. But I sure found Sedona to be an interesting place.

Summer in Alaska is so short and full of light. Literally. In mid-July, it never really gets dark. There’s a seaside path in Anchorage where I went for a walk at eleven pm and there was a huge crowd of people walking, running, biking, skateboarding, enjoying the beautiful weather, the sun high in the sky. I guess when you live in a place that’s totally dark for three months, you want to spend as much time in the light as you can when you have it.

There are flowers everywhere. Juneau, surrounded with dramatic mountains rising straight up, has wooden flower boxes all over the city, planted with bright colorful annuals. Hot pink Fireweed grows wild and makes a wonderful contrast to the nearby glaciers, so broad and white.

We take a float plane to Pack Creek on Admiralty Island, to see brown bears. There they are in the river snapping up fish just like in a National Geographic movie. And there are so many eagles, talons entwined, flying upside down, in their unique mating dance.

We travel the Alaska Marine Highway from Juneau to Haines and on to Skagway. It is hot and sunny. I have not brought shorts because I expected it to be cold and rainy. I sit on the deck of the boat mesmerized by the snow-covered mountains that are everywhere I look. On the way to Sitka I see what passes for sunrise at four in the morning, the sky a brilliant red.

In Glacier Bay, we see pods of killer whales blowing, surfacing, breaching; icebergs with seals playfully jumping on and off. On the shoreline, there are mother bears supervising their cubs; in the treetops, eagles perched majestically on high seeming to survey their kingdom (we are told to look for golfballs in the trees).

And then to Denali National Park. We stay at a Bed and Breakfast that keeps sled dogs. There are lots of them. Each has his or her own dog-house to which it is tied. Most of them lie on the roofs. Several times each night as though in a symphony orchestra, the dogs begin howling in perfect unison and then stop on the same note, as if led by a conductor.

We take a bus sixteen miles into the Park. There are grizzly bears with their golden coats and caribou with their imposing antlers. Most fascinating, we see a lone wolf stalking a moose. It is early August and already the ground-cover on the tundra is telegraphing the coming autumn. I see red and orange and yellow foliage. There is a chill in the air. The glorious Alaskan summer is quickly coming to an end.