Adventures – My Truant Pen

The Moon in the Sahara

I was flying at full gallop over vast black stone desert on a white stallion named Ayyur – moon in Berber. The red dunes of Erg Chebbi rose over the horizon, and as we drew closer the minarets of Merzouga rose above the heat shimmer like a mirage. “Zir” I murmured, and the already fast strides of the stallion lengthened until the hoofbeats behind me started to fade.

This is not the opening line of a romance novel. It is, in fact, a moment that I lived through on Friday, in the life I actually live. It was also one of the most remarkable journeys of my life.

A white couple standing in front of an old yellow brick structure with a bulue sky above — The Chellah Necropolis in Rabat

My husband and I celebrated 25 years of loving marriage this summer. We’d thought of going to Italy, but couldn’t quite settle on what or where – the possibilities seemed too endless. But I read an article about camping and riding in the Sahara and I thought of the brief and brilliant glimpse I’d gotten a few years prior. I’ve never worked with a travel agent before, but I just felt overwhelmed by trying to find the thing I wanted that would be safe. (I was originally thinking of Algeria, but the terrorism warnings daunted me.) So I knew of a travel agent – specializing in adventurous crazy trips – and I reached out to her to see if she had some ideas. Jane totally came through for us! She put together a brilliant trip for us, finding some amazing options I would never have found in a month of boring-meeting Googling. (And amazingly the trip was much less expensive than when I had planned a similar one a few years ago – cooler stuff AND less $$!)

A black man in a white robe pouring mint tea from high up, with a strip of red light cutting across him like a sash — Lunch at the Cafe Alla where we encountered “Berber Pizza”

We had a great time in Rabat, but the adventure really began when we stepped out of the Jardin des Marzouga to an alley with three horses in it. We have ridden horses a few times before – but I’m not sure I’d ever galloped (at least on purpose). We’d taken a single lesson ahead of time. We packed our bike helmets and gel saddle seats (brilliant addition), but here we mounted our horses, abandoned our luggage, and started our adventure. It was tentative at first. How do I make this thing go left? Right? Faster? Slower? We tried our first gallop and the ground seemed to move very fast, very far below me. After our first lunch, a multi hour affair while our horses rested and were cared for in the heat of the desert day, there was a horse swap. I’m not sure what was up with my first horse, but it was scratched and I was give Ayyur. (My husband was taken from Ayyur and this is a great sacrifice of love that he barely complained about.)

A woman in green pants and a green shirt on a white horse in a red desert — Ayyur and me

Ayyur is an Arabian/Barb stallion, and an absolute dream. He loves to run, and to go straight and fast. He was an easy horse to ride with a fast walking pace and faster gallop. I never had to tell him to go fast or go faster – my husband behind me would say “Zir!” to his stallion and Ayyur would break into a trot (which… Adam’s horse Sultan required a lot more cajoling to go fast and had a slower walk, so it wasn’t uncommon that he’d be trying to catch up).

Red sand dunes with stark evening shadows, and the neck and ears of a white horse — The best view in the house

My friends. I have read fantasy novels all my life. I love historical fiction and fiction fiction and historical history. All these things involve horses. Much of the history of the last 3000 years horses have played critical roles. The very first chapter book I ever read was called “First To Ride” and was about the first person to tame a horse. Horses are in the Iliad (extensively). They play a role in almost every major battle, exploration, or journey. How many times have I read about horses, and riding horses, and horsemanship? But it’s all been theoretical. In America, they don’t let folks like me with little experience gallop across deserts (I’m sure for good reason). But to be on the back of a horse that loves to run, in the middle of a trackless desert (we started galloping only on soft sand where a fall was much less likely to end in tragedy). It was like seeing the sea for the first time, or actually touching snow after a lifetime spent reading about it. The power and speed and connection is unlike anything I do in my regular life. I am still not a horsey person, per se, but I get it now.

While I can and will wax rhapsodic about my mount, there were a couple other really high points of our journey. We spent 4 days with our horses and guide, Yassine. One of the lunch siesta breaks we spent under a nomad tent on a plateau between the dunes and the closed and highly monitored Algerian border. There were a number of nomad camps we passed that day – they were all very neat and orderly, but looked so hot and comfortless. I can’t help but think there are some stories there.

Amazigh graveyard – for a mining town that was vanishing into the sands

A low tent with only two walls, with sticks of wood and a roof of canvas. An American man sits in it and looks to the camera. — Siesta in a nomad camp

One of the afternoons we abandoned our guide and went with a geologist on a quest for fossils. The amount and variety of the landscapes in the Erg Chebbi is astonishing. And we were treated to seams of Ordovician, Devonian and Silurian fossils. You didn’t have too look too hard to find them. They’re being actively mined by hand with folks deep down in holes. We got to see a bunch of different kinds of fossil fields, and I hiked a small mountain.

A woman holding a mining hammer on a very steep portion of a desert mountain — Getting up was the easy part. Getting down… I was half tempted to use that hammer as an ice axe.

A black fossil with incredibly dimensionality embedded in a rock in a plastic bin — I have never seen such a dimensional fossil. This one was in process of being liberated from its surrounding rock

After one brother (Hamid) finished teaching us about geology and fossils and showing us some of the incredible natural history of Morocco, he brought us to the most remarkable desert camp we’d seen: Andromeda Astro Camp. This entire camp is constructed around the stars and the need for dark skies. The meal was carefully planned around the arrival of real dark and the moonrise. All the lights were pointed down, and dimmed as we were walked by brother Moha through the constellations and stars – both the traditional western versions and some of the Amazigh legends and sky-scenes. The camp was so incredibly amazing and comfortable that Adam and I were bummed that we weren’t staying there. I would HIGHLY recommend to anyone who values quiet and dark and learning.

A couple on the top of a dune, with a long expanse of desert and the setting sun — Watching the sun set from the Andromeda camp

A view of the desert with a huge telescope and pathways — Andromeda Camp

That night, though, we were slated to spend camping wild (instead of glamping). Hamid drove us through the dark night across trackless deserts, with the moon chasing behind us. As we got closer he started slowing down, being guided in to the spot by a blinking flashlight wielded by Yassine, our guide from Merzouga Horse Riding. He’d set up our tent and a table in the interstitial dunes between desert and oasis. It was amazing. We sat in the dark of the night, drinking Moroccan mint tea (or as the joke we heard in nearly establishment named it, Berber Whiskey), and marveling at what our lives were in that quiet moment. Truly, it’s hard to express the peace and contentment from being honestly tired, greeted as a welcome guest wherever you go, climbing mountains, riding horses and listening to the desert winds. I never wanted to leave. To fall asleep in true quiet and dark, with the only sound being the nickering of the horse you’ve started to love picketed nearby. Well. It’s hard to explain how incredible that was.

A night scene with a few tents and horses picketed nearby — The campsite

A brightly lit green tent in a desert setting, with stars shining above — It was even more peaceful than it looks

There is so much more to be told, and felt. But I do not wish to bore you. I do want to remember every bit of this trip. And I do want to commend to you the wonderful things we found there –
* Our travel agent, Jane, who put this all together
* Merzouga Horse Riding – the kindest guide, the most incredible experiences, and possibly the best horse out there
* Andromeda Star Camp – doing cool stuff that is different from the standard and requires courage and conviction. To value darkness and silence in a brightly lit, noisy world is precious and rare.

A woman standing under a lone acacia tree. In the shade of the tree, a table has been set. — Our lunch spot the last day

Drop me a note if you want more details! And if you want to see what I mean by a gallop – here is one (I’m the one way ahead).

A woman hugging a horses neck from the saddle — I did not want to give Ayyur back!

Why would they DO that?

I woke up this morning to the snow falling softly onto the frozen Vermont lake outside the cabin window. There’s a certain satisfaction one gets in the snowfall when you don’t have to go anywhere anytime soon, and my sense of well-being was enhanced by a Thanksgiving spent in stillness, in this remote and lovely place, with two full days of going-nowhere and doing-nothing planned.

It’s also the perfect setup for the horror movie/novel where you spend half the time yelling at the protagonist. WHY would you hide in the root cellar from the zombie attack when your car is RIGHT THERE? The key to a good locked room or horror scenario is when you can neither get in nor out. This is a vanishingly rare circumstance in real life. Perhaps a cruise? Although most of them stop places all the time and there’s Coast Guard etc. etc. It’s even harder to do a proper locked room/horror scenario now in the cell phone era. People either have to have the towers go down, be SO remote that you’re out of cell range or (I’m seeing this more and more which just makes me feel OLD) set it in the 90s before the ubiquitous arrival of cell phones.

Sure, I flirt with this kind of scenario a few times a year. There’s the backpacking and hiking. Sometimes we’re truly on our own in those circumstances, but honestly on most of the trails in New Hampshire’s White Mountains you’ll meet a whole posse of friendly people with satellite phones. Every once in a while I go rent a cabin in the woods by myself for a few days. One time I even managed to kind of get myself snowed in at one. But it was nothing a shovel and some salt couldn’t actually fix. Plus I had heat, wifi and cell coverage the whole time. We go camping of course, but most of the campgrounds are small mobile town with very thin walls and that one guy who thinks we all want to listen to his music. Heck, White Lake State Park is in easy walk of a Dunkin’ Donuts.

It’s gradually been made evident to me that my perfect vacation getaway is actually the horror movie scenario. But it’s only half of one. I mean, this Vermont lake is great, but there’s way too many other houses in view. And I can hear the plows working on the road on the other side. Pffft. 3/10 can’t get out in case of zombie apocalypse. For a very long time, I had a daydream about being a fire lookout. Now THERE is a great horror movie setup! Miles up on top of a mountain, watching what’s coming with no way out that doesn’t involve a 5 mile hike, abandoning your post, and hoping someone will pick you up at the trailhead. Of course, my daydreams of this vocation failed to understand that I’m an obligate extrovert who cannot go 48 hours without human contact. But still, the purity of the scenario pulls at me. Why? I don’t know. I think it has to do with being truly alone, independent, and ruggedly capable. Which sounds great as long as I have good wifi and snacks and I’m toasty warm.

The snow is slackened tonight, the plows are out, and tomorrow will dawn bright, clear and cold. There was no reverse 911 call. The tv was not on in the background talking about the escaped terrorist/madman/murderer. There were no mysterious footprints outside the door. The wolves were not baying to the full moon. Instead, I watched the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade on the couch with my sons on either side and husband across from me, all of us fully pajama’d, caffeinated and snarky. Then we sat around the table for a few hours and played “The Zone” – a horror RPG where survival is not the goal but collaborative storytelling is. (My sons are very capable of creepy imaginings – make me proud they do.) I worked on my Christmas cards. We made a steak dinner from Hello Fresh. The fire has been going all day, and the balsam fir Yankee Candle is burning on the table. It’s the time of year when the sun is fully set by 4:15 and 9 pm feels like 2 am. Christmas music is playing quietly.

It’s not the excitement of a vampire attack, but it will do for now.

Malta

January hit hard this year. We had locked down from Thanksgiving onward, due to the high transmissibility of the Omicron variant, which looked like a hockey stick in the charts – erasing previously visible peaks and trough with it’s through-the-roofness. So the holidays were lonely and quiet. In January, we had to even stop seeing the one family we’ve been able to spend time with through the whole pandemic. And the dark cold of New England winter – always a challenging time – felt downright impossibly claustrophobic. But a ray of light beckoned: if we could thread the needs of infection, we planned on doing something so impossible in the COVID era it seems beyond the realm of fantasy: travel to the Mediterranean island of Malta.

A view out a plane window of sunset over the Maine coast — The view out the window

Drawing/painting of view out the window — My view of the view

A thousand things had to go right for this to work. We couldn’t get COVID. My parents couldn’t get COVID. No one could get a close exposure. The days leading up to my folks arrival and our departure felt impossibly fraught. I was terrified to take a test and have all hopes dashed, but the uncertainty begged for the reassurance of a negative test. But through a miracle, I found myself on a Friday night lifting into the oncoming night, sunset scattered behind us. I had bought an absolutely ridiculous journal for the trip – leather bound, and closed with a long strap and a charm, with extremely heavy watercolor paper. It’s the kind of journal that’s too nice to write in – and it came with a gorgeous box and amusingly a perfectly sized tiny backpack. Through the trip I journaled and drew on alternating pages.

A beautiful island as seen from an airplane, with blue waters surrounding it and blue skies above with a few puffy white clouds — Our first view of the Maltese archipelago

It was not as bad as I feared, flying transcontinental in a mask. We were tired, pulling the redeye, and it was so strange to find ourselves amidst other people and in places we’d never seen before. We found ourselves finally at the three room apartment we had rented, which was in the old city of Valetta and dated back an unkonwn number of centuries, but was likely at least 500 years old. The sandstone steps were well worn in the middle, and each room, though small, occupied an entire floor. The mandatory balcony looked out onto a street of stairs, and every morning at 9 am an old woman would lean outside her balcony and smoke a cigarette above the day’s drying laundry.

A picture from inside a dark room of the balcony across the street, with an old woman hanging out the window smoking above a line of clothes drying — The 9 am view

What we wanted from Malta was novelty and change. Having looked so often at the same four walls, I yearned for something new to think about, to talk about, to imagine. I wanted to unlock doors of the mind that did not spring from the hallways of my everyday life. And so we did – carefully. We ate outside all but one meal, despite the cold, and did few things indoors. Masks and vaccines were rigorously enforced. But they did not inhibit our enjoyment a bit! Mostly what we did was appreciate the history and culture of the island. We didn’t see EVERY museum in Malta, but we did go to: The Archaeological Museum, the neolithic Hypogeum, the War Museum at St. Elmo, the medieval walled city of M’Dina (with the cathedral museum and a preserved ducal palace) and the catacombs of Rabat, the upper and lower Bukkarra gardens, the best Turkish hammam (only?) in Malta, the neolithic Tarxien temples, the Citadel in Gozo and the old prison and smaller Archaeological museum, the cliffs of the northern coast, the Roman era salt flats, Ġgantija (the oldest freestanding building in the world – older than the pyramids), the armory museum, a boat tour of the harbor, a horseback ride at sunset, the astonishingly ornate Co-Cathedral and the firing of the signal cannon.

An incredibly ornate interior of a vast church — This was so incredibly ornate that it was almost impossible to take it all in. Even the floor was comprised of detailed worked stone in pictures – mostly of sailing ships and skeletons.

A picture inside the catacombs. You can see tombs, and the light through multiple arches. — The catacombs were labyrinthine and there were stories about how people got lost in them when they were used as WW2 bomb shelters – which felt very believable

Grey stones piled into tall walls, with a gorgeous blue sky and green grass - very lush. — We were there to look at neolithic ruins, but the glory of green and blue and warm sun was equally captivating

We also attended a baroque concert and TWO amazing jazz trumpet sets in alleyway bars that made me feel MUCH cooler than I actually am. And everywhere we went there was emblazoned – in ironwork, or masonry, or marquetry, or paint – the Maltese cross.

A woman painting a concert scene - you can see her drawing and the harpischold — I loved the live drawing of the concert.

As I wrote in many post cards: I have good news. The rest of the world did not disappear while we were all responsibly locked down. The sun has not hidden itself forever from a cold and weary world. There are new things to be seen, foods to be tasted, experiences yet to be had. Welcome back to the world.

A woman at sunset with a spiky plant and an old walled city behind her — Sunset in Valetta

If you really want to, you can see all 1000+ of our photos here.

Hot Air Ballooning

There was a moment where Thane was born when I had an epiphany. It’s funny, I know when it happened and what it did in my life, but I don’t remember the actual epiphany at all. Maybe it was a gradual realization. Maybe I was doing dishes. Adam and I had spent our 20s trying to be grownups – being reliable, showing up on time, gardening, learning how to cook, reading books, staying at home. We didn’t make big money, but we lived thriftily. I started my 401k with my first professional job when I was 21 years old – before I even graduated college. We were dead set on Being Grownups (because of course, we didn’t feel like it). But then I had Thane and I turned 30 and I realized that this was my one and only precious life, and my life would only include the things that I did in it. Moreover, I really only remembered the things that I photographed and/or wrote about. I bought a digital camera. I bought a book on photography. I started this blog. And I started planning to do things that were important and memorable.

First camping trip – Thane is only 9 months old.

We started camping. I ramped up the picture taking. We began to travel more, to visit more places and go on excursions. And I took more and more pictures of all of it (of course, the improvements in digital photography helped – taking pictures when you actually used film was a pain in the rear).

I suspect sometimes I now overdo it. Hundreds of pictures on a memorable day is not unusual. Last year, going through my pictures to put together a “Best of” album, I had over 10k pictures to review. And during precovid times we were exhausted and strapped by my insistence on constantly *doing things*. But then life hit the biggest collective pause button our generation has ever seen. In the year in which Adam and I celebrate 20 years of marriage (and 24 of sharing our lives), we were supposed to go on a romantic trip to Italy in April, which clearly didn’t happen. And as our anniversary approached, I was jolted by the realization that this really rather tremendous milestone was on its way to being lost in the sameness of these quarantine days (nice meal and dressing up aside). So I cast my mind for something truly memorable, something that wouldn’t erode with the currents of time, and was appropriate for a pandemic. One of those sorts of things you never have a good enough reason to justify the cost for doing.

Despite a widespread fear of heights among the assembled family (not me!) I got very little pushback for my crazy scheme. Even the 4:30 am wakeup call was handled with grace, fortitude and coffee. (It turns out balloon rides are almost always at dawn, when the winds are calmest. One of our co-fliers had tried 4 times to get in a balloon ride to be stymied by high winds the previous three). We got to the site at 5:30 and watched as they unrolled the balloon, tested the gear and started inflating the vast room-sized, rainbow balloon. We first had to hold down the basket, and then we climbed in. As gently as an escalator, the balloon started taking off next to its competitor compatriot, and ascended into the quiet of the New England dawn.

For some reason, the heights in a balloon are much less scary than other heights. The basket is firm beneath you. The rates feel human-scale. The margins feel large. We skimmed across the tops of trees – close enough to grab a handful of needles from a pine. We swooped low over the water of a lake, catching our reflection. Then we rose up high high high until the cars were smaller than Matchbox cars. Differences in height changed our direction. Our pilot Andre, who appears to have trained every other hot air balloonist in New England, told a series of well practiced jokes and tales, his persistent love of his aeronautical craft seeping through his customer facing banter. He was like a magician, seeing things in the future. It takes a long time to make a hot air balloon change where it is (heat is not the world’s most efficient method of steering), but he was somehow always seeing ahead and moving us to these invisible air currents made somehow visible to him.

The balloon face of the other balloon only got creepier as it landed

The landing was rather exciting. They really only control up and down in a balloon, and to land they need quite a bit of cleared space, without power lines. New England is rather on the wooded side (Andre was vehemently anti-tree). So the cul-de-sac we landed in had seen balloons land there before, although the neighbors still turned out in delighted appreciation of the gem landing in their street. Except for one person, who was _BESIDE HIMSELF_ with anger that we would land there. He was hopping up and down with rage and cursing and generally making a scene, which shouldn’t have been funny, but absolutely was. The capper was when one of his long suffering and patient neighbors, in the midst of his profanity laden tirade against the balloon, greeted him with a very phlegmatic, “Morning Lenny”. Landing a hot air balloon does require a certain amount of diplomacy, and a canny and quick ground crew to literally sprint to catch the landing lines.

We ended our adventure with a glass of champagne (I looked up only to realize my Very Tall son had one as well – ah well! Good time for a first glass of champagne, I suppose!) in balloon cups with good wishes (including “friendly landowers) and a history lesson on the first aeronautical adventurers. And Andre gave us this toast, in his muted French accent:

May the winds welcome you with softness.
May the sun bless you with its warm hands.
May you fly so high and so well that God
joins you in laughter and sets you gently
back into the loving arms of Mother Earth.

It was a lovely, beautiful moment my friends. Much has been abandoned, or prevented, or cancelled. There is fear everywhere, and grief and anger. Many traditions have been broken, and others forever lost. But we are humans. We are at our greatest when what is called for is stamina, forbearance, patience, humor, creativity and wonder. If the old is no longer possible, we can ask ourselves – what new things has that created space for? When we account for our lives, what will we – in the end – remember?

If you want to see all the pictures of our adventure, I’ve put them into this album for your enjoyment! I would definitely recommend A&A Balloon Rides in NH!

Measureless Mountain Days

Oh, these vast, calm, measureless mountain days, days in whose light everything seems equally divine, opening a thousand windows to show us God. -John Muir

I spent about 12 hours over the last week or so going through the pictures I took in 2019. I believe the tally is about 10,000 pictures, give or take. I’m deeply lamenting that Google stopped automatically syncing drive and photos, since now backing up my collection requires actual effort. But at the end of each year, I create a “Best of” album that I use for creating calendars, making physical prints (so that some hacker can’t erase my children’s childhoods), and as the background scenes for my screensaver at work.

I’m always struck at how the photographs work. In the moment, my kids start groaning when I take my camera out. There’s a fake-feeling when you arrange them artistically and cajole them to smile. When it’s just me, sometimes I wonder if I’m really seeing things when I have my phone out, or if I’m just postponing the seeing to some later date which may or may not ever come. The moments that surround those pictures have all sorts of feelings: annoyance, exhaustion, aggravation, anger, humor, relaxation, exasperation. But by the time I’ve picked my favorite photos, the entire year looks beautiful, joyful, peaceful and full of familial bonding.

This transformation of life from banal aggravation to beautiful memories is a miracle of modern alchemy. The best part is that, as you pull out your memories along with these pictures, they start to conform to what the photos say. It was a great day. We all had fun. We get along wonderfully. We spend most of our time doing meaningful things together as a family. Memories are not the truth of what happened, or of what we felt at that time. They are changed by, and even created by, what we do with them after they are first born. I work hard to make those memories largely lovely (although I do save a few less beautiful ones for authenticity’s sake, and because given enough time they usually become funny).

During this marathon session of photographic goodness, I couldn’t help noticing something about my year. There were a LOT more mountain scenes than in past years. My memories of those moments don’t include aching knee-muscles (impossible to photograph) or the pounding heat on Chocorua. But they instead evoke moments of peace, majesty, and a bigger and more lovely world. I’ve recently begun hiking a lot with an old friend who is the same kind of crazy I am about hiking mountains. On grim, cold days we sometimes text each other pictures of where we wish we were. With his not-so-great example, I was recently talked into doing my first ever winter hike, which required a massive re-kitting for appropriate gear. (OK, by talked into, I mean I said “Hey, want to go hiking on Wednesday?” and he said, “Sure!”.)

New pants, new gaiters, new boots, new microspikes.

It was a beautifully soul-clearing hike, starting in the dark of the morning before dawn. We climbed to beat the weather, due in at some uncertain time of the afternoon (the forecasts were wildly inconsistent). The skies at times darkened ominously and scarves of white clouds wrapped themselves tightly around the necks of Lafayette and Lincoln, across the valley. But there were glorious moments, too. A perfect boulder, covered in pebbly ice. A southern exposure with bright moss shining through the white snow. The expanse of Lonesome Lake perfect below us. The sound of bitter winds whipping above our heads, with short summit-pines protecting us from the greatest heat-stealing wrath of winter’s icy breath.

The moss was shockingly vibrant amid all the monochrome of snow and sky

As Boston braces for our first real snow of the winter on Monday, the experienced yankee might feel a mild claustrophobia setting in, as the world begins its process of shrinking to the size of the shoveled path. But perhaps this year will be different. Perhaps this year, I’ll be able to brave snow and ice, and meet my mountains again before spring.

The waning of summer

This summer was a remarkable one. I can think of few periods in my life where I crammed as much in (mostly great, fun stuff) as I have done the last four or so months. I’m honestly a bit daunted by the attempt to even summarize it all. Let’s see.

Hiking
This summer I hiked. A lot. I did four four-thousand footers (Osceola, Osceola East, Eisenhower and Pierce). I hiked Chocorua. I hiked Monadnock. I hiked Welch-Dickey. I hiked small trails centered around Tamworth New Hampshire, like the Big Pines trail, Mt. Major, the Boulder Loop Trail and the Castle in the Clouds. I bought a new hiking backpack and new poles. I did several long, full days hiking morning to evening. I was a founding member of the “Stoneham Mountaineering and Libation Society” (it started as the Stoneham Hiking and Drinking club, but these things tend to evolve over time). And this might have been my favorite part of the summer. I loved being in the woods, strapping on my boots, and heading towards the sky.

Travels
We went camping three times this summer, as is our custom. Nearly two weeks of the summer was spent in tents. We also journeyed back to near our family’s (and democracy’s) foundations in our trip to Greece. It was so glorious – the history, the food, the cool clear waters of the Aegean. I also sent my sons on a rather ill-fortuned RV trip to Canada, cut short due to mechanical failures. Grey spent four weeks at Camp Wilmot, Thane spent two. I took a week to myself in New Hampshire (wherein I mostly hiked…). Adam went to Gencon. It felt a little like a French Farce, where someone was always entering one door as someone else left through another.

Home Improvements
I’ve been deeply remiss in the whole blogging as autobiography thing. I think you’ll understand when I tell you that the week before we left for Greece, we finally got a contractor to come in and replace the (awful) carpet in our hallway and stairway with hardwood. There was a lot of panicked last minute moving, and since then has been a lot of painting etc. This was the first step on a long journey to built in bookshelves!

Friends
I’m just now coming back from a weekend spent with friends. While we were gone a lot this summer, looking at my pictures I see us at the newly opened restaurants in town, at BBQs and rock band nights, whitewater river rafting, tubing the Saco, catching live music, celebrating birthdays, watching the (incredible!) Women’s World Cup or running into each other in the climbing gym.

My selfie form leaves much to be desired

Exercise
My abysmal time in the Camp Wilmot 5k notwithstanding, I may be in some of the best shape of my life. I didn’t run a great race on Saturday (although I ran the race!) in large part because I’d hike 13 miles over ~10 hours with several thousand feet of elevation change the day before. Then slept in a puppy pile of air mattresses in a cabin with a bunch of my friends. This might not be considered optimal race preparation. But I have run, climbed, hiked, and biked to such a degree that I’m feeling stronger and more capable. That’s an awesome feeling.

Ask yourself: are you in top physical condition?

Filling in the corners
And in between all these bigger things were other things… like going to work every day. I’m engaged in some of the most interesting, difficult work it’s ever been my privilege to undertake. Even returning to the home sphere, there was jam to make (I didn’t manage to find any plums this year, alas!), spending time with my beloved husband, going to the beach with the boys and catching the book signing for the latest Randall Monroe masterpiece.

I was once told that “Life is rich and full”. Life is so rich and so full, and I am so very grateful.

Camp Wilmot behind and before

Last night, I drove to Camp Wilmot for what seemed like the umpteenth time this year. I was picking Grey up from his fourth week of camp, and he’d just returned from a remote Maine island where he’d spent time in a tent right near the beach with a small group of campers and counselors. The pictures looked amazing.

I’m incredibly impressed with what Camp Wilmot does. When I first dropped Grey off as a shy 8 year old (only five years ago? surely more!) I knew nothing of the camp, other than that it was the Presbyterian camp serving our Presbytery – and that summer camp was super important to me. In every year since, I have seen and understood more of what the camp does and offers than I did the year before. That first year, there were only about 10 kids in the second youth week of summer camp. The first week was bigger, with over 40 kids. We sent him to the smaller camp, to break him in.

This year, there were over 60 kids in both two youth camp weeks, as well as Adventure Camp teen weeks on either side. “How” you ask me “Did a middle Protestant Christian camp go from a faithful few to a packed, month-long hive of kids buzzing with energy?” It really feels like an old-school, Hollywood-type miracle. We Presbyterians are not growing. The summer camp I attended as a kid has been shut down, as have many others. But here’s Camp Wilmot, thriving!

I haven’t fully gotten to the bottom of the secret. I think it might have something to do with the energy and dedication of the new generation of directors. They’re former campers who were passionate about the camp, enough to put their time and their youth behind the work of running the thing. I heard a story of them asking Presbytery not to give up on the camp – but to give them enough time to graduate and give back to the camp they loved. That love, I swear, runs through every board and blade of the buildings and grounds. I can feel it now, when I walk there.

But that wasn’t all. They also realized that there was a tremendous need for high quality summer activities for kids who may not have as many options for how to spend their summers. So along with a very generous donor, they set up a campership fund and started working with the guidance counselors in local school districts to identify kids who would especially benefit, and make sure those kids were able to come. It turns out that almost half the kids who come to Camp Wilmot do not regularly go to another church. This is not a camp designed only to appeal to the Sunday School crowd, but to kids from city Boston and rural New Hampshire who have never sat in a pew before.

And I’m watching it play out with my kids. That first year, Grey was alone. By the next year, he’d talked no fewer than four of his buddies into joining him. This year, our town sent 10 kids. I’m pretty sure that Grey would also fight, work, and commit to keep the camp where his heart lives open.

Grey’s second year. Thane didn’t actually get to join Grey for several years yet.

Are you excited by this camp? I am. In a world that seems full of bad news, watching scrappy young people fight for something they love and make it a haven of welcome for a whole new generation of children is exactly what my soul needs. I really want to support it, and I invite you to as well. So how can you support the camp?

They’re hosting their second 5k Funderaiser in September, and I’m going to be running it! (It’s a hilly course – this 5k is no joke!) I invite you to:

Sponsor the 5k! This kindness, wholesomeness and good old fashioned exercise are all amazing assets to your brand!

Volunteer at the 5k, for the running disinclined!

Sponsor my run! You can donate directly at Paypal, or if you give me money, I’ll make sure it goes to the camp.

Spread the word! Share my post, or the Camp Wilmot 5k page. Mention it to your runner friends, your outdoorsy friends or your faithful friends.

Playing hookie

I made a huge mistake in scheduling this year. Despite finally having enough tenure to have breathing room in the “vacation time” arena, when I planned the end of last year and the start of this year, I put all the fun stuff in the summer. I’d had a plan for a trip during April break, but when that didn’t quite work out I ended up not taking more than one day off at a time … between August of 2018 and June of 2019. This is what we call “a big mistake”. There’s no denying that I’ve been pretty crunchy-fried lately. So much to do at work. Lots to do at home. My obligations to my community… it all gets harder when you don’t give yourself periodic breaks.

When I realized this, in an exhausted fog, I immediately did the only sensible thing: I booked a getaway on the next weekend where it was plausible. This was still nearly two months ago, but finally the date came! The leaves are budding, the birds are singing and the vacation time is coming!

Our destination was Provincetown. I was there for an afternoon in September and found myself thinking what a lovely getaway spot it was – and nicely close to Boston! Going so early in May, we found that not everything was open yet (sadly, including the fast ferry). But it also meant the prices for a lovely tiny apartment were low, and everywhere we went all weekend, we could hear the locals and the seasonal crews all greeting each other and catching up after a winter apart.

We walked a lot, ate a lot of food, and did some mostly window shopping. The boys and Adam roleplayed for hours. There was reading time and puzzle time. And we watched The Matrix (Grey didn’t like it). It was absolutely perfect.

My boys in a stone tower — We climbed to the very top of the Pilgrim tower! It was a gorgeous view, and the day was unexpectedly lovely.

Me hugging my sons — I’m still not accepting that Grey is taller than me

Boy looking with binoculars under nautical bell with blue skies — Any blue sky we saw was an unexpected blessing. We’d expected all rain, all weekend

Me, on a stone breakwater — I walked most of the way down this breakwater. I got to watch seagulls breaking clams on the rocks!

Two boys and their dad playing roleplaying games at a small table — This was the only window where you could see the water, and the boys played a role playing game there the whole weekend

A boy and a very difficult puzzle — Why do I let Thane talk me into these puzzles? I stayed up until 12:30 last night to get it finished enough that he could put in the last pieces this morning

Me and my sons in front of a Cape Cod beach — We visited a few spots on the National Seashore, but it was pretty rainy and cold

Frozen Echo

This Martin Luther King Jr. weekend, my family and I are holed up in a very scenic mountain lodge for a few days. I really like getting away on this weekend. The weeks after the beginning of the new year can be very dreary, with dark gray skies, the coldest weather of the year, and little to look forward to. Some years I have arranged it so poorly that I didn’t have a day off between Christmas and Memorial Day. But with a long, fun weekend in the snow planned mid January, it helps.

Last year, Adam took the boys skiing and snow-boarding. But we had this run where both kids ended up in the ER in a couple week period from snow sports. Thane broke his wrist, which really bummed out the rest of the winter and halted his nascent basketball career. This year, we planned to arrive right before a major winter storm broke (and leave after it does). So while we toyed with snow sports, we didn’t actually buy any lift tickets.

Yesterday, we lounged around the hotel, swam in the heated outdoor pool, and played lots of role-playing games. We took a midday trip on still clear roads to North Conway, where Adam and I enjoyed some time in some art galleries looking for pieces for our attic, while Grey enjoyed the practical joke section of the Five and Dime store there. He fell in love with a coffee shop that specialized in coffee, art, sarcastic sayings and jazz.

Today, after the epic brunch the hotel is famous for, the boys played their role playing game for several hours. They’re deep into an adventure. With all this unexpected time on my hands, I started live-tweeting my reading of Steven’s “A History of Stoneham, Mass” from a beautiful copy given to me by a friend. I also – and this is epic – finished my draft of the book I’ve been working on for over three years. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the finished draft is about 44k words. Apparently that’s not really novel length. So either I’ve written a novelette (no market) a teen novel (not really) or I need to find more story to tell. Or it’s just unpublishable, which is the most likely outcome, but one likes to pretend there’s hope.

In the bright light of afternoon, with 17 degree weather, we all put on our warmest layers and buckled on our snowshoes (thanks mom!) for a walking adventure. Although I’ve seen Echo Lake many times and know exactly where it is and it’s very near this resort I’ve stayed in often… I’ve never been. There’s a trail down from the resort, and we broke new snow. It felt like a foot of new powder, although it had switched over to ice pellets by that time. The lake itself was frozen hard – hard enough even for the most cautious of parents to be unafraid of their beloved children walking on it. And from the lake, perhaps no surprise, there is a remarkable echo.

If I didn’t know this was a lake, it would be hard to tell

Snow shoeing is quite a tiring activity. Right now Adam’s asleep, Thane is bopping around and Grey is working on a school project (theoretically). The snow continues to fall outside, and we have nowhere we need to be and nothing we need to do. Bliss indeed!

Awaiting the storm

This morning the skies were blue and the mountains clear. Over morning coffee, the horizons were bounded only by mountains with snowy feet and bare crowns.

By noon, the clouds had covered the sun.

Here at the twilight of the day, the nearest mountains are nearly only memories, or abstract reminders as slightly darker parts of the undifferentiated horizon.

At any moment now, the first of the flakes will begin to fall. Well over a foot will fall before these falling clouds rise again, having dropped the burdens of their great snow-hordes. The vaults of heaven will open and grant us a full share of winter.

We are safe at the footsteps of a mighty cliff, overlooking the Greek-inspired Diana’s Bath and Echo Lake. We have nowhere we need to go in the time before the clouds lift – although if we’re feeling adventurous the best of snow will be available on Attitash & Wildcat. The snow shoes are in the car. The outdoor pool is steaming in the chill. We are fully stocked with books and snacks, and the lodge has a full restaurant (and bar). The role-playing games are in full swing.

Let the snow fall.