When your brain gets fuzzy, and you don't know here from there, and you are knee deep in big questions, wondering if your life isn't going according to plan, or if it's going exactly to plan, or if there's no plan at all, here's what you do: book a flight, get out of town, go see your mom.
She'll meet you at the airport with a big hug, and then since it's her birthday, you'll take her to the new farm-to-table restaurant in downtown Boulder, and you'll order beet burgers and kale chips and hard ciders. You'll giggle when she elbows you to say that she thinks that fresh-faced waiter named Howie has eyes for you. Wander the stacks at the Boulder Bookstore, making notes of all the things you each like to put on upcoming birthday and Christmas lists. Buy a fancy chocolate bar with caramel and pink sea salt and split it into little squares to share as you walk up and down the thoroughfare, in and out of the shops.
Pull up vegetables from the garden, and marvel at the miracles the season has produced. Tall leafy kale, brussels sprouts growing like jingle bells on a thick stock, carrots twisted in funny ways. Put a leaf of mesclun lettuce right in your mouth and chomp down to a bite so peppery and fresh and delicious, it tastes exactly like dirt and sunshine. Clean out the herb gardens and be treated to the cheapest and purest aromatherapy session there is, inhaling mint, lemon balm, basil, sage, lavender.
Tune up your fiddle, and your momma will join you on guitar, your stepfather on mandolin, and play rounds of the few songs you know over and over, Bile Them Cabbage Down and Shortnin' Bread and You are My Sunshine.
Spend time in the kitchen, turning the garden abundance into simple, hearty and satisfying meals: carrot ginger soup, potato kale soup, pumpkin pie. Trout pizza made from fish they caught up north earlier in the summer. Homemade pickles and rye bread.
Let your mom beat you at Scrabble, every day.
Go see a romantic comedy at the movie theater, the one which you've already seen, and happily anticipate all the things that are going to make her laugh.
Sit in the hot tub each night and look up at the stars, glittering galaxy covering the sky. You never see them in the city. See your first falling star.
Greet the birds with your morning coffee, chickadees, juncos, bluejays, finches, and flickers, who drop in to feed and say hello.
Ask your mom what she felt at your age, if the restlessness and self-doubt ever go away.
Say your prayers, which you only ever do here. You may not believe as fervently as your stepfather does, but his heart is so pure and his words so well chosen, that it will soften you. It will teach you to remember how to say thank you, how to ask for help, how to have patience, how to let go.
Tuesday, November 5, 2013
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Detours for the faint of heart
In March of 2007, cognitive scientist Douglas Hofstadter published a book with the title, I am a Strange Loop. I have not read this book, and it's likely I will never get around to reading this book, but the title has intrigued and stuck with me for years. The phrase popped back into my consciousness this week as I was reflecting on some of my patterns over the last several years, scratching my head at what I'm sure has appeared as mystifying and idiotic behavior to anyone close to me. "I am a strange loop," I kept saying to myself this week. "Sometimes a silly loop, sometimes a sad floppy loop, but undoubtedly a loop, and undoubtedly strange."
And when the loop of my mind needs a new track, I know the best thing I can do for myself is take a walk in the woods.
After I made myself a good hiker's breakfast of coffee, scrambled eggs with kale and breakfast sausage on harvest bread, I jumped into my car and headed north to the Hudson Valley. The October days in New York have been magnificent and crisp, the fall colors are prime, and just being in my quiet car space traveling out of the city gave my mind and heart some rest. I pulled off I-87 at the New Paltz exit, to a major traffic backup - this is THE destination for rock climbers, mountain bikers, hikers, and apple pickers, and with a day like today, no one wanted to miss out. I slowly drove through funky New Paltz, and wound my way up past the Mohonk Mountain House to arrive at the Spring Farm trailhead for the Mohonk Preserve, intending to hike the Bonticou Crag trail.
I hadn't been on a trail since my last hike in North Carolina back in late August, and it was hugely gratifying to set out with my trail map, my backpack, and the freedom that comes with being one's own company. The trail ascended gently through a field lined with juniper trees sporting berries and then into the woods of the Mohonk Preserve. I had to rely on the blazes on the trees to show me the way, as the trail was covered in places with a thick layer of fallen leaves, which, while providing a satisfying crunch underfoot, also proved to be rather slippery.
About a mile in, I arrived at the Bonticou Ascent trail, which my guidebook had described as a "strenuous rock scramble", only about .3 mile in length, but fully vertical. Recalling at how I'd surprised myself with my courage and strength on Old Rag mountain in Virginia, I thought I'd have this climb in the bag. I tackled the first few boulders enthusiastically, remembering how good it felt to engage my whole body in the task of climbing the mountain. I kept my center of gravity low and looked carefully for rock holds, but as I moved upward something felt off-kilter in my body. I felt not quite balanced, not quite sure of myself. About a third of the way up the rock face, I found myself with limbs stretched across a deep crevice in the rock, and my confidence crumbled. I sat on the edge of a boulder contemplating a different way around, trying to give myself a pep talk to push forward. But looking up and down the trail, I saw no one, and I felt alone and scared. I needed a hand to help pull me up the tough spots, and I had no helping hand. I acknowledged defeat and slid my way back down the trail, taking the gentler, more circuitous path to the top.
As I hiked and contemplated my failure to pull myself to the top of Bonticou Crag, I thought about how taking the path of least resistance seems the necessary course of action in my life right now as well. In short: there's a man in my life who I've loved fiercely for nearly a decade. Together we make a strange, dysfunctional loop. Every year we connect - full of promises and hope and dreams of a life together, and every year we dissolve - confused, sad, and angry. I thought I let it go earlier this year, but call me a slow learner or a glutton for punishment or an eternal optimist, but I tried again recently, working my heart into a swooning, dreaming frenzy, and to nobody's surprise, the relationship failed, again.
A brilliant friend of mine said to me, "KJ, you have been playing with a Rubik's cube wrapped in barbed wire. It's time to put it down and walk away." And she's right. I have been rearranging and reconfiguring my approach year after year, trying to solve the puzzle and win this guy's companionship and commitment. I've never figured it out, and now my hands are all scratched up from trying so hard. And even though in my loopy heart of hearts, the idealist in me believes that there IS some configuration that would ultimately align me and this man, I'm finally ready to admit that I'm not going to find it this year, or next year, or likely even in this lifetime. It's time to concede defeat, slide down the mountain and take the gentler, more circuitous path.
The top of Bonticou Crag was an open white rock slab jutting out from the mountain, dotted with dwarf pines, with views of the Hudson Valley in all directions, a blanket of autumnal color. Without the shelter of the trees, the chilly wind whipped me in all directions, and I stayed only briefly to snap a few photos before retreating back into the woods to find a calmer place to enjoy my lunch.
The hike back down was easy and uneventful, a peaceful and solitary meander disrupted only by a totally welcome and affectionate kiss from a 3 year old Labrador mix with soulful eyes who reminded me of my dog from growing up.
On my way out of town I stopped at Stone Ridge Orchards and bought cider, and a few apples, Macouns and Honeycrisps, which I'll send to my sister in Los Angeles who says that she misses the seasons. I ate a Honeycrisp in the car, juice dripping down my arm, as I turned my way back home, tired, humbled, and resolved.
And when the loop of my mind needs a new track, I know the best thing I can do for myself is take a walk in the woods.
After I made myself a good hiker's breakfast of coffee, scrambled eggs with kale and breakfast sausage on harvest bread, I jumped into my car and headed north to the Hudson Valley. The October days in New York have been magnificent and crisp, the fall colors are prime, and just being in my quiet car space traveling out of the city gave my mind and heart some rest. I pulled off I-87 at the New Paltz exit, to a major traffic backup - this is THE destination for rock climbers, mountain bikers, hikers, and apple pickers, and with a day like today, no one wanted to miss out. I slowly drove through funky New Paltz, and wound my way up past the Mohonk Mountain House to arrive at the Spring Farm trailhead for the Mohonk Preserve, intending to hike the Bonticou Crag trail.
I hadn't been on a trail since my last hike in North Carolina back in late August, and it was hugely gratifying to set out with my trail map, my backpack, and the freedom that comes with being one's own company. The trail ascended gently through a field lined with juniper trees sporting berries and then into the woods of the Mohonk Preserve. I had to rely on the blazes on the trees to show me the way, as the trail was covered in places with a thick layer of fallen leaves, which, while providing a satisfying crunch underfoot, also proved to be rather slippery.
About a mile in, I arrived at the Bonticou Ascent trail, which my guidebook had described as a "strenuous rock scramble", only about .3 mile in length, but fully vertical. Recalling at how I'd surprised myself with my courage and strength on Old Rag mountain in Virginia, I thought I'd have this climb in the bag. I tackled the first few boulders enthusiastically, remembering how good it felt to engage my whole body in the task of climbing the mountain. I kept my center of gravity low and looked carefully for rock holds, but as I moved upward something felt off-kilter in my body. I felt not quite balanced, not quite sure of myself. About a third of the way up the rock face, I found myself with limbs stretched across a deep crevice in the rock, and my confidence crumbled. I sat on the edge of a boulder contemplating a different way around, trying to give myself a pep talk to push forward. But looking up and down the trail, I saw no one, and I felt alone and scared. I needed a hand to help pull me up the tough spots, and I had no helping hand. I acknowledged defeat and slid my way back down the trail, taking the gentler, more circuitous path to the top.
As I hiked and contemplated my failure to pull myself to the top of Bonticou Crag, I thought about how taking the path of least resistance seems the necessary course of action in my life right now as well. In short: there's a man in my life who I've loved fiercely for nearly a decade. Together we make a strange, dysfunctional loop. Every year we connect - full of promises and hope and dreams of a life together, and every year we dissolve - confused, sad, and angry. I thought I let it go earlier this year, but call me a slow learner or a glutton for punishment or an eternal optimist, but I tried again recently, working my heart into a swooning, dreaming frenzy, and to nobody's surprise, the relationship failed, again.
A brilliant friend of mine said to me, "KJ, you have been playing with a Rubik's cube wrapped in barbed wire. It's time to put it down and walk away." And she's right. I have been rearranging and reconfiguring my approach year after year, trying to solve the puzzle and win this guy's companionship and commitment. I've never figured it out, and now my hands are all scratched up from trying so hard. And even though in my loopy heart of hearts, the idealist in me believes that there IS some configuration that would ultimately align me and this man, I'm finally ready to admit that I'm not going to find it this year, or next year, or likely even in this lifetime. It's time to concede defeat, slide down the mountain and take the gentler, more circuitous path.
The top of Bonticou Crag was an open white rock slab jutting out from the mountain, dotted with dwarf pines, with views of the Hudson Valley in all directions, a blanket of autumnal color. Without the shelter of the trees, the chilly wind whipped me in all directions, and I stayed only briefly to snap a few photos before retreating back into the woods to find a calmer place to enjoy my lunch.
The hike back down was easy and uneventful, a peaceful and solitary meander disrupted only by a totally welcome and affectionate kiss from a 3 year old Labrador mix with soulful eyes who reminded me of my dog from growing up.
On my way out of town I stopped at Stone Ridge Orchards and bought cider, and a few apples, Macouns and Honeycrisps, which I'll send to my sister in Los Angeles who says that she misses the seasons. I ate a Honeycrisp in the car, juice dripping down my arm, as I turned my way back home, tired, humbled, and resolved.
Monday, September 2, 2013
Then we came to the end
I awoke in the treehouse this morning, and lie in bed, imagining that if I stayed inert, I could make my vacation last just a few moments longer. The roosters started their crowing outside, and knowing I had many hours of road time ahead of me and the threat of holiday traffic looming if I waited too long, I put my feet on the floor, turned the coffee pot on, took a shower and packed my things.
After I got dressed, I took my coffee out to the treehouse porch and read a few Wendell Berry poems. The rooster crowing gave way to the rap of woodpeckers. A couple of squirrels jumped from branch to branch in a nearby tree, dropping acorns onto the wooden deck with a loud plunk. The spider web was gone, by her own undoing or swept away by another guest since I last stayed here, I do not know.
I said goodbye to the treehouse, the mountains, the farmland, the days of no alarm clocks and optional showers, and hit the road for the last leg of my journey.
I finished listening to Flight Behavior and teared up at the end when the main character comes to terms with a truth about herself and makes a decision to say goodbye to someone she loves.
I stopped in Bethlehem, PA in hopes of finding good food, but had to settle for an unsatisfying veggie omelet at an unremarkable diner.
I replayed some Edward Sharpe tunes, recalling that happy night in Louisville. I arrived at home, unpacked my things, smiling at each new keepsake and remembering that moment, that place.
It was a trip of a lifetime, and I thank everyone who followed me on this journey. It certainly made the time less lonely to know you all were reading. But I do hope that I've inspired at least of few of you to take a solo journey of your own. It's an incredible way to get to know yourself, and really see and interact with the world, without distraction.
Here are a few highlights and trip stats:
Miles traveled: 2766
Number of states passed through: 11 (Indiana by accident)
Number of parking tickets, speeding tickets, flat tires: 0
Number of times I nearly peed my pants between gas stations: innumerable
Number of times I cried: 4
Number of times I felt joy: daily
Best cup of coffee: the treehouse in Virginia
Best meal: Hammerhead's in Louisville
Best bookstore: Malaprop's in Asheville
Best music: Asheville
Biggest splurge: Shoji Spa package in Asheville
Best deal: $5 Lifetime membership to Bywater in Asheville
Prettiest place: Catawba Falls in Asheville & New River Gorge in West Virginia
Prettiest people: Louisville
Nicest park: Cherokee Park in Louisville
Nicest people: Everywhere
There's a Jiffy Lube sticker in my car that says "I have chosen to return at 52,885 miles" to remind me when Ingrid needs to be serviced. I wish someone would put a sticker on me that tells me when I will return to these places so that I can look forward to that date. Regardless, I know I'll be back.
After I got dressed, I took my coffee out to the treehouse porch and read a few Wendell Berry poems. The rooster crowing gave way to the rap of woodpeckers. A couple of squirrels jumped from branch to branch in a nearby tree, dropping acorns onto the wooden deck with a loud plunk. The spider web was gone, by her own undoing or swept away by another guest since I last stayed here, I do not know.
I said goodbye to the treehouse, the mountains, the farmland, the days of no alarm clocks and optional showers, and hit the road for the last leg of my journey.
I finished listening to Flight Behavior and teared up at the end when the main character comes to terms with a truth about herself and makes a decision to say goodbye to someone she loves.
I stopped in Bethlehem, PA in hopes of finding good food, but had to settle for an unsatisfying veggie omelet at an unremarkable diner.
I replayed some Edward Sharpe tunes, recalling that happy night in Louisville. I arrived at home, unpacked my things, smiling at each new keepsake and remembering that moment, that place.
It was a trip of a lifetime, and I thank everyone who followed me on this journey. It certainly made the time less lonely to know you all were reading. But I do hope that I've inspired at least of few of you to take a solo journey of your own. It's an incredible way to get to know yourself, and really see and interact with the world, without distraction.
Here are a few highlights and trip stats:
Miles traveled: 2766
Number of states passed through: 11 (Indiana by accident)
Number of parking tickets, speeding tickets, flat tires: 0
Number of times I nearly peed my pants between gas stations: innumerable
Number of times I cried: 4
Number of times I felt joy: daily
Best cup of coffee: the treehouse in Virginia
Best meal: Hammerhead's in Louisville
Best bookstore: Malaprop's in Asheville
Best music: Asheville
Biggest splurge: Shoji Spa package in Asheville
Best deal: $5 Lifetime membership to Bywater in Asheville
Prettiest place: Catawba Falls in Asheville & New River Gorge in West Virginia
Prettiest people: Louisville
Nicest park: Cherokee Park in Louisville
Nicest people: Everywhere
There's a Jiffy Lube sticker in my car that says "I have chosen to return at 52,885 miles" to remind me when Ingrid needs to be serviced. I wish someone would put a sticker on me that tells me when I will return to these places so that I can look forward to that date. Regardless, I know I'll be back.
Sunday, September 1, 2013
I go among trees and sit still
I do admit: I cried a little bit when I turned the lock on the door of my mountain studio this morning, packed up my car, and drove away from Asheville. While I'm feeling completely spoiled and grateful that I got to enjoy an 11 day vacation, I am greedy for more time in these places. This trip was a bit like speed dating 5 different cities, and I want to go out on a second date with all of them.
Wanting to take my leaving slow, I opted to drive north on the Blue Ridge Parkway for a bit rather than the interstate out of Asheville. I drove for 200 miles on the parkway at 45mph, through fog and sun and torrential rain. And it was sublime. Driving that road is like a meditation, a mesmerizing journey through verdant green mountains. I listened to bluegrass hymns and Barbara Kingsolver's captivating audiobook Flight Behavior, with the windows rolled down and butterflies and birds flitting all around me, and those hours were the best kind of Sunday morning worship I know.
I stopped in at the Blue Ridge Music Center along the way for "Midday Music", a daily afternoon jam for traditional Appalachian Music. (Mom and Aunts Linda, Becky, Naomi, and Jody, you know this one!)
My meandering route along the Blue Ridge Parkway stretched my travel time to nearly 11 hours, so I arrived wearily back at the treehouse in Virginia, where I spent the first night of my trip. It is the coziest place, sweet refuge for a tired traveler, and I want to stay in it forever.
I've settled in for the night with my newly purchased Wendell Berry poetry collection and a glass of wine.
Here's a selection that seems apt, on this Labor Day eve:
Wanting to take my leaving slow, I opted to drive north on the Blue Ridge Parkway for a bit rather than the interstate out of Asheville. I drove for 200 miles on the parkway at 45mph, through fog and sun and torrential rain. And it was sublime. Driving that road is like a meditation, a mesmerizing journey through verdant green mountains. I listened to bluegrass hymns and Barbara Kingsolver's captivating audiobook Flight Behavior, with the windows rolled down and butterflies and birds flitting all around me, and those hours were the best kind of Sunday morning worship I know.
 |
| Ingrid loves the Blue Ridge Parkway! |
I stopped in at the Blue Ridge Music Center along the way for "Midday Music", a daily afternoon jam for traditional Appalachian Music. (Mom and Aunts Linda, Becky, Naomi, and Jody, you know this one!)
My meandering route along the Blue Ridge Parkway stretched my travel time to nearly 11 hours, so I arrived wearily back at the treehouse in Virginia, where I spent the first night of my trip. It is the coziest place, sweet refuge for a tired traveler, and I want to stay in it forever.
I've settled in for the night with my newly purchased Wendell Berry poetry collection and a glass of wine.
Here's a selection that seems apt, on this Labor Day eve:
I go among trees and sit still.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
Where I left them, asleep like cattle.
All my stirring becomes quiet
around me like circles on water.
My tasks lie in their places
Where I left them, asleep like cattle.
Then what is afraid of me comes
and lives awhile in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.
and lives awhile in my sight.
What it fears in me leaves me,
and the fear of me leaves it.
It sings, and I hear its song.
Then what I am afraid of comes.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings and I hear its song.
I live for a while in its sight.
What I fear in it leaves it,
and the fear of it leaves me.
It sings and I hear its song.
After days of labor,
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.
mute in my consternations,
I hear my song at last,
and I sing it. As we sing,
the day turns, the trees move.
Over 2200 miles behind me, and about 400 to go tomorrow. One last Shenandoah sunset.
Saturday, August 31, 2013
Just slow your sweet self down
A couple days ago my friend Lexi posted this list of words from other languages that are untranslatable to English.
My favorite, of course, was this one:
The weather this morning was more hiker-friendly today than yesterday, so I got a good dose of Waldeinsamkeit. But it came with a few other feelings, ones that I'm not able to translate into a single word. What is the word for "knowing your vacation is coming to an end" or "the feeling of already missing a place you haven't left yet"? I think the word is simply "blues", but I tried to shake it, knowing I still had one full day of Asheville ahead of me.
I had planned to take a Nia class at 11am, so I chose a short 3 mile trail where I could get in and out quickly and be on my way to dance. But as I started on the Catawba Falls trail, I knew that this wasn't the kind of hike that should be under any time constraints. The trail was easy going, but so beautiful that it required many stops for photos and pure awe. Just slow your sweet self down, I told myself, and don't miss this.
The trail had many river crossings, so instead of trying to navigate the slippery rocks in my hiking shoes, I changed out to my sandals, and sloshed my way through the water.
I reached the Lower Falls in short time, and met up with a hiker from Raleigh there. He'd done this trail many times and said, "Well, if you're up for a challenge, you can go up a little further. If these falls are a '5', the Upper Falls are a '10'." He said it was another half mile up, and involved a strenuous climb. Feeling emboldened by my rock scramble up Old Rag last weekend, I thought I could manage.
The first part of the climb involved hauling myself up a steep rock face with the help of a rope, followed by additional climb, with the help of only rock slabs and rhododendron roots. I took the climb slow and steady. It was physically demanding and hard work, but when I reached the Upper Falls, I was richly rewarded.
I arrived about the same time as a local hiker and field guide for a wilderness therapy company named Brennan, and we swam in the ice cold pool below the waterfall and chatted on a sunny rock for a bit. At one point in the conversation, Brennan abruptly stopped mid-sentence, his eyes darting all around. "Sorry", he said after his pause, "I like to watch the butterflies."
After a snack and a nice rest at the falls, I carefully made my way down the steep rock face again, only falling on my ass twice. A delicate rain started on the hike out, tickling my skin, and nicely cooling me off.
I hit Native Kitchen again for a lunch stop, and as I walked in, the bartender said, "Hey, welcome back!" I gave her a startled look - she had been working last night but hadn't served me, and must have just remembered my face. "Oh, wow," I said, "I'm not used to being recognized. I'm from New York and we all feel kind of anonymous there." She laughed. "Of course I remember you," she said.
I ordered a chicken club sandwich with German potato salad and a glass of Cheerwine (a Southern cola similar to a Cherry Coke), and it was just the thing.
Feeling good and tired from the hike, I headed back to the mountain studio and laid out a blanket on the back porch, read a couple more Ron Rash stories and took a long nap.
I had planned to visit the Biltmore Estate today, but after my nap, I realized I hadn't left myself enough time, so I changed course and wandered the River Arts District instead, where dozens of local artists have open studio and gallery spaces in former warehouses and factories.
For dinner, I made my way to Tupelo Honey, recommended to me both by my New Yorker friends who'd visited the area, and by locals. At 6pm, there was a 90 minute wait for a table for 4, but as a solo diner, I was able to walk right in and sit at the "Chef's Table" - bar seating that overlooks the kitchen. The chefs fed me little samples of food they were preparing and entertained me with lots of good jokes. I started with a rosemary-peach lemonade and a biscuit with blueberry jam and tupelo honey. For dinner, I had a smoked jalapeno-glazed pork ribeye with mac and cheese and asparagus spears, along with a flight of local microbrews.
After dinner, I walked a few blocks over to Pack Square, where the concert series Shindig on the Green was wrapping up its summer season. The "Shindig" is a showcase of Carolina heritage and features cloggers, bluegrass, old time music, and square dance. A few years ago, I read in the book Geography of Bliss that Asheville is the happiest city in the US, and at this Shindig, this cheer was on full display. People genuinely love to have a wholesome, happy, good time here.
Finally, so many locals had recommended Bywater to me, that I had to stop in for one drink before heading back up the mountain for the night. It's a truly special place, and along with Hammerhead's in Louisville, is now among my favorite places on earth. It's technically a social club, so I paid a $5 lifetime membership fee to get in, but now I can bring you all as guests. Bywater is an off-the-beaten-path bar up the river and just off the railroad tracks, popular with rafters and tubers. They like to take a break from floating down the French Broad river and stop here to hang out for a while, and I can see why. There's a cute bar with a patio, where a killer bluesy rock band was playing tonight, along with a massive yard, featuring a Vietnamese food truck, a fire pit, tons of picnic tables, outdoor games, and just a really sweet summertime happy vibe. I sampled the locally brewed Green Man Thai Basil Wheat beer, and sat enjoying the cool evening and the fantastic band.
Tomorrow, Ingrid and I turn our wheels north and begin our journey home.
What's the word for "the feeling of being a visitor in the happiest place and knowing you have to leave"?
My favorite, of course, was this one:
The weather this morning was more hiker-friendly today than yesterday, so I got a good dose of Waldeinsamkeit. But it came with a few other feelings, ones that I'm not able to translate into a single word. What is the word for "knowing your vacation is coming to an end" or "the feeling of already missing a place you haven't left yet"? I think the word is simply "blues", but I tried to shake it, knowing I still had one full day of Asheville ahead of me.
I had planned to take a Nia class at 11am, so I chose a short 3 mile trail where I could get in and out quickly and be on my way to dance. But as I started on the Catawba Falls trail, I knew that this wasn't the kind of hike that should be under any time constraints. The trail was easy going, but so beautiful that it required many stops for photos and pure awe. Just slow your sweet self down, I told myself, and don't miss this.
The trail had many river crossings, so instead of trying to navigate the slippery rocks in my hiking shoes, I changed out to my sandals, and sloshed my way through the water.
 |
| Check that giant millipede! |
I reached the Lower Falls in short time, and met up with a hiker from Raleigh there. He'd done this trail many times and said, "Well, if you're up for a challenge, you can go up a little further. If these falls are a '5', the Upper Falls are a '10'." He said it was another half mile up, and involved a strenuous climb. Feeling emboldened by my rock scramble up Old Rag last weekend, I thought I could manage.
The first part of the climb involved hauling myself up a steep rock face with the help of a rope, followed by additional climb, with the help of only rock slabs and rhododendron roots. I took the climb slow and steady. It was physically demanding and hard work, but when I reached the Upper Falls, I was richly rewarded.
 |
| Brennan at the Upper Falls |
After a snack and a nice rest at the falls, I carefully made my way down the steep rock face again, only falling on my ass twice. A delicate rain started on the hike out, tickling my skin, and nicely cooling me off.
I hit Native Kitchen again for a lunch stop, and as I walked in, the bartender said, "Hey, welcome back!" I gave her a startled look - she had been working last night but hadn't served me, and must have just remembered my face. "Oh, wow," I said, "I'm not used to being recognized. I'm from New York and we all feel kind of anonymous there." She laughed. "Of course I remember you," she said.
I ordered a chicken club sandwich with German potato salad and a glass of Cheerwine (a Southern cola similar to a Cherry Coke), and it was just the thing.
Feeling good and tired from the hike, I headed back to the mountain studio and laid out a blanket on the back porch, read a couple more Ron Rash stories and took a long nap.
I had planned to visit the Biltmore Estate today, but after my nap, I realized I hadn't left myself enough time, so I changed course and wandered the River Arts District instead, where dozens of local artists have open studio and gallery spaces in former warehouses and factories.
For dinner, I made my way to Tupelo Honey, recommended to me both by my New Yorker friends who'd visited the area, and by locals. At 6pm, there was a 90 minute wait for a table for 4, but as a solo diner, I was able to walk right in and sit at the "Chef's Table" - bar seating that overlooks the kitchen. The chefs fed me little samples of food they were preparing and entertained me with lots of good jokes. I started with a rosemary-peach lemonade and a biscuit with blueberry jam and tupelo honey. For dinner, I had a smoked jalapeno-glazed pork ribeye with mac and cheese and asparagus spears, along with a flight of local microbrews.
 |
| Chef's Table |
After dinner, I walked a few blocks over to Pack Square, where the concert series Shindig on the Green was wrapping up its summer season. The "Shindig" is a showcase of Carolina heritage and features cloggers, bluegrass, old time music, and square dance. A few years ago, I read in the book Geography of Bliss that Asheville is the happiest city in the US, and at this Shindig, this cheer was on full display. People genuinely love to have a wholesome, happy, good time here.
Finally, so many locals had recommended Bywater to me, that I had to stop in for one drink before heading back up the mountain for the night. It's a truly special place, and along with Hammerhead's in Louisville, is now among my favorite places on earth. It's technically a social club, so I paid a $5 lifetime membership fee to get in, but now I can bring you all as guests. Bywater is an off-the-beaten-path bar up the river and just off the railroad tracks, popular with rafters and tubers. They like to take a break from floating down the French Broad river and stop here to hang out for a while, and I can see why. There's a cute bar with a patio, where a killer bluesy rock band was playing tonight, along with a massive yard, featuring a Vietnamese food truck, a fire pit, tons of picnic tables, outdoor games, and just a really sweet summertime happy vibe. I sampled the locally brewed Green Man Thai Basil Wheat beer, and sat enjoying the cool evening and the fantastic band.
Tomorrow, Ingrid and I turn our wheels north and begin our journey home.
What's the word for "the feeling of being a visitor in the happiest place and knowing you have to leave"?
Friday, August 30, 2013
I am so nice to me
Here are a few select things I love about Asheville so far:
1) A pint of fancy local microbrew will set you back about $4.
2) There is a higher concentration of quality street musicians here than any other city I've ever been in (sorry, New Orleans, I still love you).
3) Cell phone addiction is almost non-existent. Though I think I'm a moderate/average cell phone user in NYC, I have been conspicuously the heaviest texter/time-checker/Facebook scroller everywhere I go here. There are no cell phones out on bars or restaurant tables, no one texting while walking, no one talking into a Bluetooth. People here - wonder of wonders - seem to talk.... to each other.
4) When people give you their card, they are not trying to network or sell you something. They just want to be your friend. Last night at the contra dance, I met a nice lady named Kaye. We chatted for a bit, and she said, "Hey, let me give you my card." The card had her personal contact information and the phrase "Life abundant - Today is the Day!" I said, "Oh cool, so are you a like life coach or something?" "Nope," she said, "I'm just a person, and I like to make new friends." Whelp, I'm just a jaded city slicker.
This morning I set out for a hike I had picked out just off the Blue Ridge Parkway. The skies were overcast, but I hoped it would pass. As I drove up the mountain, though, the fog got so thick I could only see about 10 feet in front of me and it felt like a thunderstorm moving in. Not good hiking conditions, unfortunately, so I wound my way back down the mountain and into town. I did get a couple snapshots out the car window before the rain started though. No filter on these, folks.
Happily, it's easy to kill many hours in downtown Asheville. I started with a visit to Battery Book Exchange, a beautiful bookshop that doubles as a champagne bar and coffee shop. I sat with a cafe au lait and began reading the short story collection "Nothing Gold Can Stay" by local author Ron Rash.
I wandered the shops a bit more, and when it came time for lunch, I decided to go for a healthy option, giving my body a break from the heavy greasy stuff I'd slammed down in Nashville and Louisville earlier this week. The skies had cleared so I grabbed a sunny seat at the outdoor patio of the vegetarian restaurant, Laughing Seed Cafe. A jazz trumpeter played across the street, and he was quite good, giving the whole street a romantic ambiance. I had a hibiscus tea and a "Dragon Bowl", which was a bowl full of nourishing raw vegan bliss (avocado, beet pate, arugula, cabbage, kimchi, etc).
Next up was a visit to Malaprop's, one of the coolest independent bookstores I've ever been to. They are really a great model for what an innovative, vibrant, essential community bookstore can be. At every turn it feels as if you are making a discovery, and you want to pile your arms high with books and tchotchkes and gifts. My favorite thing was this table at the front called "Blind Date with a Bookseller". The concept was that the staff wrapped a few of their favorites in brown packaging with a few descriptive words written on the front. Trusting and brave shoppers could take a flyer and purchase a book unseen. I was so charmed by this idea that I had to play along and selected one that sounded intriguing.
I hit a few more shops including the historic Mast General Store, and the factory and tasting room for French Broad Chocolates. The guys at French Broad told me that if I could find a shop in Brooklyn to carry their product, they would supply me with free chocolate. That sounds like a challenge I should probably take on...
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| Kudzu Blossom and Scuppernong... what is this stuff? I do not know, but I will put it on toast and tell you. |
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| Ingrid's first blog appearance! Isn't she pretty? |
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| I am so nice to me. |
At 3:30, I had scheduled an appointment at Shoji Retreat, a Japanese-style woodland spa. My treatment package included private access to a little hut, with three walls and an open view into the forest canopy, with my own hot tub. I soaked and napped in the hut, and basked in the divine tranquility of this place. After an hour to myself, I had an 80 minute aromatherapy massage and facial. It was blissfully indulgent and I left Shoji feeling relaxed and radiant.
On the way back to the mountain studio, I made one stop at Native Kitchen, a sweet bar with a huge outdoor patio and backyard. They were featuring a singer-songwriter who played a mean harmonica and covered artists like Gillian Welch, along with playing some of her original music.
I retreated early to the mountain studio for an evening writing and reading on the balcony with the crickets.
To Haven or not to Haven
I woke early in Nashville and got myself on the road before 6:30am, knowing I had a 4.5-5 hr drive to Asheville ahead of me, plus a time zone change. The drive through Eastern Tennessee and the Smoky Mountains was stunningly picturesque, and the drive was relaxed and easy, a nice contrast from trafficky Nashville.
I had wanted to do some volunteer work on this trip, and reached out to the Ashevillage Institute, which runs an urban farming program and natural building school. I do frequent volunteer work at an urban farm in Brooklyn, and I wanted to get a glimpse of what was going on in this movement in other parts of the country. The urban farm program at Ashevillage is in its inaugural year, so the garden is still small, but there are eventual plans to acquire more space and expand into a neighborhood CSA when there is enough produce to harvest. This summer, the garden (and many farmers in the region) lost their seasonal tomato and squash crop due to heavy rains and blight.
I helped a farm apprentice named Joey shovel manure compost and dirt into wheelbarrows to transport to new garden beds for herbs and fall greens. It was hard work and a hot day, but it felt good to get my hands dirty and break a sweat after long hours in the car. Joey also keeps goats on his property and sadly told me that one of them had mysteriously passed away that morning. Also, earlier that week, a tree had fallen on one area of the garden in the front of the Ashevillage property, taking out much of what they had planted there and smashing two cars. Joey and I agreed that if you're a farmer, you have to learn over and over again that so matter how much you nurture and tend and prepare, there will always be those factors which you cannot control.
After we wrapped up our work in the garden, I drove out of Asheville a bit, to a town called Swannanoa, where I'd be staying in this mountain studio for the next three nights. The road to the studio is steep and narrow, and I had to give Ingrid a few pep talks to give her the confidence to make the climb. But we arrived to a place of simple beauty and complete solitude. This is by far the most remote and quiet place I've stayed in yet. The place comes with an emphatic warning, "Please do not throw anything, anything, anything outside, or you WILL be visited by bears." Ok, got it.
I was tempted to settle in to the studio and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening just hanging out, but Joey had given me a recommendation that piqued my interest. Just 15 min from my studio is the campus of Warren Wilson College, a wonderfully unique school that I wish would have been on my radar when I was doing my college search years ago. It's a liberal arts school where all of the students have a campus job (many of them farming, or in some kind of sustainability practice or outdoor leadership), and where volunteering is a requirement. It's a beautiful place, with humble yet idealistic intentions for its students.
Every Thursday night, Warren Wilson hosts a contra dance called The Old Farmer's Ball in its Bryson Gymnasium. At 7:30, beginners can gather for a quick lesson before the dancing kicks off at 8pm. In contra dance, there's a "caller" who calls out the moves, and the dances are designed so that you are dancing with people across from you in a line, next to you, and moving down the chain. The result is a kaleidoscopic swirl of geometric patterns, and a whole lot of people twirling and having a great time.
I tried the first dance and got so dizzy and overwhelmed that I sat down to watch. Quickly thereafter, one of the experienced dancers, an older gentleman named David, came up to me and said, "Oh, no you don't missy. You gotta try this. I'll help ya out." And he patiently guided me through the patterns.
With a bunch of repetition and lots of guidance and forgiveness from my partners, the moves finally clicked, and I discovered myself having the most most fun. I danced with 10 year olds and 80 year olds, did the do-se-do and promenade and laughed and spun in this joyful place.
At the end of the dance, David came up to me and asked, "So, how'd ya do?"
"I had the best time!" I said.
"I knew you would," he said. "You got that sparkle."
Driving back to the mountain studio, a thunderstorm had started and as I wound my way up the mountain road, I came up on a fire truck stopped in the middle of the road. I suppose when you live on mountain, mountain things happen. A tree had fallen on a transformer, causing an explosion of sparks and cutting off power to all the homes on the mountain. Summer Haven Road, where I was staying was blocked, and there was no access, and no estimate to when the road might be cleared and power restored other than "It's gonna be a while."
It was 11pm and I assessed my options. I could a) sleep in my car in the Warren Wilson College parking lot, b) try to stay out all night at a bar until the sun came up, or c) check myself into a hotel.
I knew a) would be safe but uncomfortable and send my mom and all you concerned readers out there into a fit. I tried b) but all the bars in Swannanoa were closed and I didn't have the energy for that anyway. So, I went with c) and checked myself into the Holiday Inn, begrudgingly spending too much money for a few hours of rest. But the bed was comfortable, the place was clean, and hey, I got free continental breakfast.
Back at the mountain studio now, the road has been cleared, power restored, and I'm ready to get out for a hike.
I had wanted to do some volunteer work on this trip, and reached out to the Ashevillage Institute, which runs an urban farming program and natural building school. I do frequent volunteer work at an urban farm in Brooklyn, and I wanted to get a glimpse of what was going on in this movement in other parts of the country. The urban farm program at Ashevillage is in its inaugural year, so the garden is still small, but there are eventual plans to acquire more space and expand into a neighborhood CSA when there is enough produce to harvest. This summer, the garden (and many farmers in the region) lost their seasonal tomato and squash crop due to heavy rains and blight.
I helped a farm apprentice named Joey shovel manure compost and dirt into wheelbarrows to transport to new garden beds for herbs and fall greens. It was hard work and a hot day, but it felt good to get my hands dirty and break a sweat after long hours in the car. Joey also keeps goats on his property and sadly told me that one of them had mysteriously passed away that morning. Also, earlier that week, a tree had fallen on one area of the garden in the front of the Ashevillage property, taking out much of what they had planted there and smashing two cars. Joey and I agreed that if you're a farmer, you have to learn over and over again that so matter how much you nurture and tend and prepare, there will always be those factors which you cannot control.
After we wrapped up our work in the garden, I drove out of Asheville a bit, to a town called Swannanoa, where I'd be staying in this mountain studio for the next three nights. The road to the studio is steep and narrow, and I had to give Ingrid a few pep talks to give her the confidence to make the climb. But we arrived to a place of simple beauty and complete solitude. This is by far the most remote and quiet place I've stayed in yet. The place comes with an emphatic warning, "Please do not throw anything, anything, anything outside, or you WILL be visited by bears." Ok, got it.
I was tempted to settle in to the studio and spend the rest of the afternoon and evening just hanging out, but Joey had given me a recommendation that piqued my interest. Just 15 min from my studio is the campus of Warren Wilson College, a wonderfully unique school that I wish would have been on my radar when I was doing my college search years ago. It's a liberal arts school where all of the students have a campus job (many of them farming, or in some kind of sustainability practice or outdoor leadership), and where volunteering is a requirement. It's a beautiful place, with humble yet idealistic intentions for its students.
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| The College Press |
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| Bryson Gymnasium |
Every Thursday night, Warren Wilson hosts a contra dance called The Old Farmer's Ball in its Bryson Gymnasium. At 7:30, beginners can gather for a quick lesson before the dancing kicks off at 8pm. In contra dance, there's a "caller" who calls out the moves, and the dances are designed so that you are dancing with people across from you in a line, next to you, and moving down the chain. The result is a kaleidoscopic swirl of geometric patterns, and a whole lot of people twirling and having a great time.
I tried the first dance and got so dizzy and overwhelmed that I sat down to watch. Quickly thereafter, one of the experienced dancers, an older gentleman named David, came up to me and said, "Oh, no you don't missy. You gotta try this. I'll help ya out." And he patiently guided me through the patterns.
With a bunch of repetition and lots of guidance and forgiveness from my partners, the moves finally clicked, and I discovered myself having the most most fun. I danced with 10 year olds and 80 year olds, did the do-se-do and promenade and laughed and spun in this joyful place.
At the end of the dance, David came up to me and asked, "So, how'd ya do?"
"I had the best time!" I said.
"I knew you would," he said. "You got that sparkle."
Driving back to the mountain studio, a thunderstorm had started and as I wound my way up the mountain road, I came up on a fire truck stopped in the middle of the road. I suppose when you live on mountain, mountain things happen. A tree had fallen on a transformer, causing an explosion of sparks and cutting off power to all the homes on the mountain. Summer Haven Road, where I was staying was blocked, and there was no access, and no estimate to when the road might be cleared and power restored other than "It's gonna be a while."
It was 11pm and I assessed my options. I could a) sleep in my car in the Warren Wilson College parking lot, b) try to stay out all night at a bar until the sun came up, or c) check myself into a hotel.
I knew a) would be safe but uncomfortable and send my mom and all you concerned readers out there into a fit. I tried b) but all the bars in Swannanoa were closed and I didn't have the energy for that anyway. So, I went with c) and checked myself into the Holiday Inn, begrudgingly spending too much money for a few hours of rest. But the bed was comfortable, the place was clean, and hey, I got free continental breakfast.
Back at the mountain studio now, the road has been cleared, power restored, and I'm ready to get out for a hike.
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