Ray Foy's Blog, page 6

Fit

​My wife and I have made fitness a priority in recent months. We joined a local gym that offers a good program and been putting some serious effort into it, but it’s been a slow build. I think recently, however, we’ve turned a corner and gained some insight.

I was never athletic in my youth. In fact, I was a puny nerd, bully-bait and all that. Because I never learned to eat right, I started putting on weight as an adult. I did start working out at that time, but again, I had no one to show me the right way so I was pretty haphazard about it. Consequently, even when I started riding a bicycle, I developed some stamina, but never really got fit.

When I married, I found a partner who struggled with me on health issues. The pressures of kids and jobs made our efforts uneven but over the years we’ve come to a feel for what’s healthy eating and proper exercise. Modern life makes it tough to effect those good habits, though, and I really fell out of it in recent years.

By the start of this year, I was pretty much unexercised and sedentary again. I felt fat and slugguish. Then some books and movies inspired me to step out into the natural world again (I’ve written about this; see my earlier “hiking” posts). That effort was helpful in showing me, first, that I could do it, and secondly, showing me the current state of the natural world (an issue for another post). It also showed me how being out-of-shape and older requires some caution in getting physical. I was not cautious and wound up throwing out my back and taking an ambulance trip to the ER.

I recovered, and learned some good points from physical therapy. I’m now taking strength classes at my gym three times a week. My wife is doing that with me and working with a personal trainer as well. We also have shifted to a high-protein, low-carb, low-sugar diet that has promoted weight loss and increased strength. We feel generally stronger and more alert.

Another point I should mention is our shift to an early-morning schedule. Our weekly strength classes are at 5:30am, so we start our day at 4:30am. I do that even when I don’t work out, and use the time to write. I never thought I could so such a thing. Arising before dawn always struck me as vile. I’m used to it now and I swear I sleep better. I guess ole Ben Franklin had something with the “early to bed, early to rise” thing.

I tend to seek purpose in things and so I want to “get fit” for something beyond just good health (though that’s surely a worthy goal). I want to use my fitness for something. So I’m intending to hit the trails again next spring. That will give my wife and I the winter months to work on our fitness and so make hiking more possible and enjoyable. I’ll post on all that as we get into it.

So my suggestions for people looking to optimize their fitness in life’s last quarter: wake early, eat a diet that’s core paleo, exercise regularly (as part of a program or class is best), and find some positives that will keep you interested in life. And if you can be part of a loving family, that’s a huge help.

Newsletter Coming

The thing about writing is that it can be a means to wrap your head around something, squeeze the juice from a subject, find understanding, or even closure, for life’s many perturbations. It’s a cathartic activity, and a therapeutic one. Maybe that’s why therapists often prescribe journaling, and why blogs are so popular.

Writing is also a means of self-expression that can be taken beyond narcissism to art, and so feed the community soul. I’ve long aspired to the latter and to that end, am seeking to take this journal and site to the next level. I want to add some structure to my writings that will provide value to my readers and increase their community.

I have a number of projects in the pipeline that I intend to bring out within that structure. These are writings that include book/movie/series reviews, essays, short fiction, and novels. The primary product, however, will be:

                                                                 stories

That’s because I believe in truth-in-fiction. While I love memoir, political commentary, and investigative journalism (especially when a real mystery is explored), I think the most compelling insight is achieved when truth is averred and examined through fiction. Wisdom is then shared through demonstration and as a kind of “though experiment.” It can be very satisfying for the writer and the reader.

I want to share with you in this manner, and I’ve decided that my primary vehicle for that will be a newsletter. I’ve made abortive attempts at this in the past, but I feel like my vision and my projects have firmed since then. So I’ll try again, and the result will be a newsletter I’ll call:

                                                           Annotations

I’ll put it out monthly and subscription will be free. It’s main product will be short, speculative fiction. Then I’ll offer essays, reviews, commentary, and, of course, statuses on my projects and activities.

I’ll even offer a free gift as an incentive to sign up.

I’m working on content for Annotations and hope to have enough ready to begin taking subscriptions at the first of the year (2017). There’ll be a sign-up form on my website.

I’m very excited about Annotations and I hope you’ll make it a part of your online and intellectual life. I expect it to be an evolving platform that highlights the novels I want to produce, such as Power of the Ancients. 

Please watch for the sign-up form on my website. And may you find joy, peace, and enlightenment in the coming holiday season.

Unexpected Discovery

​My wife and I were in a mountainside bed-and-breakfast, a beautifully constructed retreat in the woods that breathed relaxation. After three hours of driving highways that steadily increased in elevation, we finally reached a narrow mountain road that took us over a winding route to the Bent Creek Lodge. 

After checking in, we left again to dine in town on the veranda of a Southwestern cafe. Our orders were taken at a bar over the clatter of pool tables, which only added to the ambiance; plus the food was good. A short time later, our appetites satisfied, we returned to the B&B. Now we were ready to settle into our long weekend. That’ when we realized there was no TV in the room. How could we settle without television?

That was the owners’ point, I think, and we came around to it. TV watching is more of a reflex for me, anyway—a simple distraction at the end of mind-numbing days. This B&B de-emphasized it. Rustic, with two levels, the place held the ambiance of a lodge with huge fireplaces in the great room, as well as in the common room of the lower level where we stayed. A TV sat in an alcove beside the fireplace there, but we decided against watching it. Other items caught our eyes.

A small buffet offered snacks, a mini-refrigerator, a computer-printer, hot water and an assortment of teas. And books. Many, many, books filled shelves, stacked around the TV, piled on the fireplace mantle, and overflowed end-tables. It seemed our B&B hosts shared our taste in literary decor. Books were everywhere, including the great room upstairs. Though mid-August, I imagined a cold winter’s day there, with guests gathered around a roaring fire, reading and conversing. The TV, out of the way on a shelf, would be off.

We began to peruse the stacks like library patrons. The subjects were diverse, as if collected at random. Well, maybe not quite so random. Romances and mysteries predominated over other fiction. There were a good number of nonfiction works and even a few short story collections. With no ordering by subject (or anything else), we just examined every title until something struck us. Donna found several novels that caught her fancy. I had trouble finding something to suit me until a title grabbed my attention: Fumbling by Kerry Egan.

I pulled the little hardback from the shelf and immediately connected with the cover photograph of an expansive wheat field surrounded by misty mountains. The earth colors contrasted with small inset images that struck me as familiar. The subtitle confirmed them as such:

A Pilgrimage Tale of Love, Grief, and Spiritual Renewal on the Camino de Santiago

Wow. Serendipity. How apropos. In this congenial place at a time of celebration and honoring of a life milestone (our 26th anniversary), I find this memoir on a subject that had captured my imagination of late—pilgrimage, especially of the Camino de Santiago. The pictures were of places along the Camino, similar to those I had seen in other books and on the Internet.

We carried our literary finds to the veranda that wrapped around the B&B. Painted chairs around tables with ceramic tops filled the porch. Potted plants and antique farmhouse items provided a homey ambiance. The porch overlooked a garden on a hillside that quickly descended into woods. Through the trees, we could see a winding path that crossed a bridge over a meandering creek. We sat with our books, mugs of tea, and chocolates.

This was not just relaxation; it was spiritual renewal. In that moment, in the gathering dusk that mirrored the start of our lives’ final acts, we reaffirmed our bond in mutual communion over stories and cups of tea while birds and butterflies played before us in a rustic garden.

A mellow peace invigorated me like an Old World wine, as did the unexpected literary slant our stay had taken. I could imagine writing there. Sitting on that porch, pecking at my notebook computer, cup of coffee at hand, with my wife reading beside me amid bird songs and pine scents, I would construct ripping tales and expound on eternal truths for discriminating readers.

Yeah, dreaming. 

Or maybe I was writing—filling my subconscious with themes and images that would balance out in future works. All of it, underscored by the chance find of an account of one pilgrim’s journey to balance her life by more classic means.

We were soon captured by our engrossing reads: Fumbling for me, and Sanctuary, by Nora Roberts, for Donna. We made good starts but didn’t have the time to finish them on the trip. We couldn’t take them home, of course. I would not mar the hospitality or peace of that place with petty theft, so when we returned home, I ordered copies from Amazon-dot-com.

I spent many weeks with Fumbling, savoring the author’s story of her enlightening journey. It impressed me as a worthy addition to the Camino literature and I wrote a review of it. I considered such a literary act a fitting benediction for our trip.

Isaac Asimov, the noted science fiction writer, once said: “The thrill of unexpected discovery can’t help but stir the blood.” It can also feed the soul. Especially when it’s part of a melding of impressions and energies that highlight where you are in life, what you’re doing and why. It can help you make re-connections where you need to, and inspire you to continue the journey that’s yours to travel.

* * *
You can find my review of Fumbling [here].

A Moment's Pause

​Ever so often, I just have to pause in my frenzy of living, trying to just keep up, take stock of where I am, and think out what I want to accomplish next. Today’s one of those times.

If you’re a following of this journal, you know I’ve been writing about my forays into hiking. I’ve gathered some gear and hiked several trails in proximity to where I live. My inspirations for this are many, though the latest is the work of travel writer, Robyn Davidson, and especially her memoir, Tracks (see my review of her book here ). I have long admired people who can experience enlightenment and then write about it. When that enlightenment comes from a journey, or other challenging endeavor, so much the better. It’s like a pilgrim seeking insight and then sharing what they find with the world.

I recently watched the 2013 movie version of Tracks. I did enjoy it, and thought it captured the spirit of Ms Davidson’s book pretty well. It suffered from the constraint of trying to express the fullness of the book within two hours. I give it 4 stars for trying, though. It did show the grittiness of the 1700 mile Australian desert journey. I thought it expressed well Ms Davidson’s relationship to the photographer, Rick Smolan. It was brief on her two years learning about camel-handling, but it did touch on the highlights—the psychopath who taught her the basics, the old Afghan who finished her education, her strained relation with her father, and how her uncertainty about life was reflected in her uncertainty about Rick. I did like the scenes between her and the old Aborigine, Mr. Eddy, and I thought the filmmaker was wise to quote Ms Davidson’s words at points. Overall, it was a good movie, but I think it’s better appreciated if you’ve read the book.

So that’s some background to my baby-steps at hiking. I’ve planned out a few more hikes that I hope to be prelude to some camping and, later, some backpacking.

All-the-while, I’m still working on my Power of the Ancients novel. I have a plan for finishing that manuscript and getting it published by the end of this year. I’ve presented excerpts to my writing group and gotten some helpful feedback. I’m also entering a blurb and page from it in a contest sponsored by my old correspondence school, the Long Ridge Writer’s Group. I’ll let you know if anything comes of that.

I know there’s much happening in the news, but I’ve found it hard to follow it like I used to. It’s just too depressing. For instance, this week’s crash of the Egyptian airliner into the Mediterranean is being described as a “terrorist” act. I take it, that the crash was from an explosion, likely from a bomb, but to describe it as a “terrorist” act is meaningless. If it was a planted bomb, of course it was an act of terror. The question is, by whom and why. There’ll be plenty of spinning commentary and ad nausem coverage, but little information provided. That’s how I saw it this week from the dentist’s chair, anyway.

Finding enlightenment has always been done under the pall of politics and the ambitions of madmen, but these days, it’s also done under the pall of geoengineering. Nature’s inspirations are dulled when viewed through an atmosphere saturated with particulates of coal ash, aluminum, barium, and strontium (and spirits-only-know what else). I did find a guy doing some good work on pointing out the weather-control captured in GOES satellite photos. A good example of his work is here.

I’ve almost finished watching the four seasons of Prison Break on Netflix. It’s an outstanding series with some very good writing that deserves more attention that it apparently received. It’s a 2008 series, so it’s not all that old, but I think it must have found it’s audience via streaming since a sequel series is planned for release in 2017. The series is unique in that it almost describes the reality of the world. As the title suggests, the plot centers around a break out of prison by two brothers. Normally, a series like this would not last beyond the prison break of the first season, but this one evolved and maintained the suspense and development of the characters through three more. The characters are 3 dimensional and nuanced. And the world described is a soup of moral ambiguities where justice is very hard to find. I highly recommend this one.

OK. I had to get all that off my chest. Thanks for indulging me and I hope I’ve offered you some food for thought. Now, let’s get back to it.

The Stewardship Trail

​Saturday Morning

Set off today on another day-hike at the Harbison State Forest. My intention was to hike the Stewardship Trail. At 3.5 miles long, it’s rated in the Trail Guide as “moderately difficult.” My intention was to hike to it over the west end of the Firebreak Trail and then up the Connecting Trail, make the loop, and then return the way I came in. Altogether, I figured that would make a hike of about 4.5 miles, and that I should complete it in about 2.5 hours.

Saturday broke sunny with low chem-trailing (the jets were high and not noticeable unless you looked for them). After a week of spraying, it appeared the geoengineers were going to let us have a “nice” weekend with only glarey, hazy, light-blue skies. That’s the best we can hope for these days.

So I left to hit the trail at 09:30 and didn’t bother to take a lunch, just some trail snacks, an apple, and water. I also had a new North Face rain shell in my pack, though I didn’t expect to use it today. At least having it, I can be a little less circumspect about hiking only on days with no rain scheduled.

I started with the same feelings I began my other hikes. It was great to just be out doing something inspiring and challenging. It’s a great mental salve for me to be out of an office and away from computers. Meeting the physical challenge makes me think I’m not completely decrepit yet. 

The first leg was over the Firebreak Trail I hiked last week. It was as I remembered it—moderate difficulty with changing elevations, and the trail itself clear and easy to follow.

When I reached the Connecting Trail that led to the Stewardship, I was covering new ground. From there and over the Stewardship it was rougher going, changing elevation with rock-and-root strewn ground. This made for the “moderately difficult” designation in the Trail Guide and I can agree with that. I was fortunate to find a fallen tree limb that was just the right size and strength to serve as a walking staff. It was very helpful when I was tired and covering the rougher stretches.

At one point, the trail skirted the edge of a neighborhood of big houses. I would guess they are all over-priced for being next to a State Forest. Then the trail reached the Broad River, and I hiked an extra 100 yards to a point where I could see it (photo accompanies this journal entry). 

The trail was generally easy to follow, but there was a place where it definitely split with no indication of where each leg was going. I made a guess and the next sign-post I came too indicated I was on the Midlands Mountain Trail. I wanted to save that one for another day, so I checked my location on my iPhone AllTrails app and back-tracked. I wasn’t too far off as it turned out, and there were signs indicating the connection between the Midlands Trail and Stewardship, but the rangers really need to mark that initial split.

For the rest of the hike, I followed my plan. Along the way, I passed a number of people. No dog-walkers, but a few joggers and mostly mountain bikers. Apparently, mountain biking is popular around here. What really struck me, though, was that a lot of these bikers were seniors (as in “senior citizens” not High School seniors). Most of these looked older than me. One woman looked like your typical image of a grandmother, but riding a bike through the woods with tatts on her arms!

When I was finally on the last leg of the hike, back on the Firebreak, I had been nearly four hours on the trail and obviously had hiked a lot further than I anticipated. I had eaten all my trail snacks and drank two bottles of water. I had made few rest stops, no lunch stop, and kept a pretty good pace. I felt like I must have put in 6 miles or so. I didn’t want to stop to check AllTrails, though (my phone was in my pack).

Back at my car, at last, I pulled out my iPhone and checked AllTrails. It showed that I had hiked 9.3 miles. When I stopped the recorder and saved it, however, it showed 8 miles. I think the second figure is closer to correct judging from my time and general pace.

So this hike was an unexpected personal best.

Sunday

And I paid for that personal best the next day, in sore muscles that I’m sure will carry on into the week. It’s not too bad, though, and I expect it’s more from my previous years being so sedentary rather than so many. Still, I think my walks around the neighborhood have allowed me to do this much. I’ll keep up that training since I want to continue to challenge myself, and there’s enough trail mileage at Harbison to do that.

So why am I even doing this? Is it more than just weekend fun and distraction? Spirits only know. I have plenty of other projects to work on, but I have to do something I consider engaging reality and this is what I’ve come up with. Maybe over time, I’ll discover more of an answer. I’m sure it will be an on-going answer, just as life is on-going.

Following that thread...

Saturday morning

It had been a couple of weeks since I had made a hike. I’ve held off mostly owing to the weather (geoengineered rain) and from just having other stuff to to. I was intending to hike a trail that had gotten good reviews on the AllTrails website and had a difficulty level rated as “moderate.” It is part of the trail system at the Harbison State Forest in Columbia.

So I awoke Saturday with the intention of making that hike (about 4.4 miles). The rain had cleared out and the temperature was in the upper sixties (F), so it was a good time to do it. But I found myself facing my usual inertia, thinking of reasons I needed to put it off—things to do, didn’t “feel like it,” etc.

I knew I couldn’t give in to such defeating thoughts, however. After all, I had picked up my training walks around the neighborhood and I had just finished reading Robyn Davidson’s classic memoir of wilderness self-discovery, Tracks . I thought of a poignant observation she made in that book:

The two most important things I did learn were that you are as powerful and strong as you allow yourself to be, and that the most difficult part of any endeavor is taking the first step, making the first decision.

Yes, I’ve made a number of important “first steps” lately. Just getting out of the house to walk the neighborhood was a seminal ice-breaking for me. Then hiking the trails at the nearby State Park. Now I needed to take the next step and hike a more difficult trail in a State Forest, carrying a backpack. 

So I made myself.

It was only a short drive to Harbison and the first parking area was right off the highway. There was a good number of cars but it wasn’t overly crowded. I parked and checked my new backpack (an Angstrom 28 day-pack from North Face). It contained a small first-aid kit, a utility knife, water bottles (packed for even weight distribution), trail snacks, and my lunch. I had a few other items that are considered essential for day-hikes, including sunscreen and insect repellent, though insects weren’t a problem yet and I would be walking through mostly shaded areas. I’m slowly building my gear as I challenge myself.

The pack felt fine when I strapped it on. It was well-balanced and no problem to carry, the pack itself being lightweight. 

I also pulled up the AllTrails app on my iPhone and “checked in.” I wasn’t sure what this app would actually do. I thought it would record my hike and show statistics. So I put the phone in my pack and started my hike at the Firebreak Trail-head.

It was immediately apparent that this was a far more forested area than the Sesqui State Park. It wasn’t wilderness, I never lost the sound of the highway (though it did grow faint). The trail, though cleared, wasn’t paved. It narrowed and was often rocky and broken up with roots from the surrounding pines and pin oaks. The grade changed a good bit over terrain that was quite hilly, and that is the apparent reason for the trail’s “moderate” rating. I could feel the difference, though it never became too much for me.

I noticed right off a couple of “teepee” structures made from pine limbs that looked like someone tried to create some kind of crude shelter. Maybe it was Boy Scout projects. They didn’t look recent, nor actually like they would provide much shelter.

At numerous stretches along the trail, there were out-croppings of marble-looking granite rocks. Some of them were fairly large (about softball sized) and they roughened the trail a bit (they may have been intentionally placed with that intent). It was an interesting phenomenon and I picked up a small one as a souvenir.

The trail was blazed with white paint splotches on trees and a couple of white metal diamonds. It was a sparse blaze, but enough to verify I was staying on the right trail (nine are listed in the Trail Guide). The trail intersections were well-marked, though, and I was never confused over where I was at. 

In fact, when I stopped for lunch, I checked the AllTrails app on my phone and saw that it was displaying a map of the trail and noting my current position on it. That struck me as neat and helpful (maybe a bit scary too). 

Overall, there was much more topography on this trail than at the Sesqui Park. I felt like I was “in the woods.” About a third of the way through, I stopped at a “historic grove” of trees that was on the edge of a large hollow. At another point, I had to cross a stream (my first hiking “obstacle”!), and then I came upon a large meadow that just popped up in the middle of the woods. A bench had been placed there and I could have just sat and gazed at it all, but I kept moving.

I passed a number of people on the trail. There were a few “exercisers” who were running over the rough trail. Several people were walking dogs (all ignored the Forest rule about pets being on leashes), and a few were fellow-hikers (with walking staffs and backpacks). Most, however, were mountain bikers.

There seemed to be a lot of bikers, though I think most were accounted for by a group of Boy Scouts). I would be walking along and hear a shout behind me of “To your left!”) and I would hop to the side of the trail and soon see the biker(s) pass. Most waved, said “Good Morning,” or “There’s more coming.”

I noted in my previous journal entry that a few of the hikers I had seen were older people—older than me. They were obviously serious enough to be carrying backpacks and staffs, and I found some inspiration in that. On this hike, I was passed by a guy who struck me (from my glimpse of him) as pushing 70 years old and he was booking it on a mountain bike. I mean, he was going faster than any other biker I’ve seen, and over a rough, hilly trail! I suppose he’s been doing it for years and retains his strength and conditioning. There may be hope for me.

Overall, this was a really nice hike. I covered about 4.5 miles all together in about 2.5 hours time (including my stop for lunch; I didn’t stop to rest otherwise). The weather was temperate, and the insects few.

The sky was as blue as the geoengineers allow it to get anymore. There were no chemtrails, just the usual haze that makes the sun glarey. So I was spared the usual overhead horror.

Robyn Davidson noted that at the end of her epic trek through the Australian Outback, she had reached a point of such absorption into the desert, that she really didn’t want to return to “normal” life. I get just the faintest of glimpses of that in these hikes. Following that thread is really what I’m trying to do. It infuses my writing, which I’m also pursuing with involvement in a local writer’s group and in trying to finish my Power of the Ancients novel. I intend to keep it up.

I’ll keep you posted here.

The Mountain Bike Trail

​Sunday

Inspired by a rewatching of Ben Stiller’s The Secret Life of Walter Mitty and by temperate weather, I set out on another hike early Sunday morning. I wasn’t as trepidatious about setting out as I was last week. I new better what to expect this time, though I intended to hike a different trail at the State Park.

The park’s trail map showed the Loop Trail as following parts of the Mountain Bike Trail and the Sandhills Trail before taking off on its own to finish, from the opposite direction, back at the trail head. The map noted that the trail wasn’t marked with signage (blazes), which I thought odd, but it was only 3.5 miles in length, so I thought it would make a good “second foray.”

I reached the trail head earlier than I had last week. Once again, the weather was cool (about 57 degrees F) but I was warm enough in long-johns, hiking pants, and long-sleeved (cotton) shirt. The sky was clearer than I’ve seen it in a while, though there were still the ubiquitous jets flying at high altitudes in crazy patterns spraying their poisons. Their chem-trails weren’t persistent this day, however, and if I didn’t watch the sky too much, things felt almost normal.

The Loop began with the Mountain Bike Trail, so I found that trail head a couple of miles or so from my previous week’s start. It was in a copse of pine trees next to a small parking area beside the park’s Retreat Center.  I paused to snap a photo of the big wood-and-glass sign marking the hike’s start, then headed down the trail behind it.

The trail, at this point, was wider than the start of the Sandhills. It was not paved, but once out of the woods, it was covered with white sand. I figured that was to accommodate mountain bikes, but I was to find that the sand stretches were intermittent over the course of the trail.

I quickly noted that this trail was marked with blue blazes (I.e., black arrows on a blue field of diamond-shaped tags nailed to trees). Like the Sandhills trail, this one was well-blazed. It would be easy to follow to the point where it joined the Sandhills, then to where it split off into the Loop (which the trail map indicated was not marked; I wasn’t sure how that would work).

The trail was wide at this point, and surrounded by pine woods. It was pleasant, walking through the cool morning amongst green trees under the bluest skies I’ve seen in two years. I didn’t quite have the feeling of breaking new ground that I did last week. I wasn’t anticipating what I’d find around the next bend as I was before. Maybe one trip was all I needed to develop a sense of familiarity. This hike would reveal it’s own sense of ice-breaking, however.

The sun peeking through the trees to the northeast of me was inspiring. It prompted thoughts of the “Life magazine motto” from the Walter Mitty movie: “To see the world…to see behind walls.” I snapped a photo, but it didn’t do the moment justice. My little digital camera is easy to hike with, but it has it’s limitations with regard to lighting, and feelings. 

I soon found the point where the Sandhills Trail joined the Mountain Bike. From there I carried on over ground I had hiked (twice) last week. A little further and I noted where the Sandhills turned away from the Mountain Bike and towards the lake. This time, though, I followed the blue blazes rather than the white ones.

Somewhere up ahead, should be the split of the Loop from the Bike, and I looked for indications of that split. I never found any, just the blue blazes. After a while, it became evident that I was simply following the Bike Trail to the eastern extremities of the park. I didn’t mind. I would just have a longer hike than I had planned.

I was well into the woods now, though I never lost the sound of the Interstate traffic. The trail narrowed quite a bit and there were far fewer stretches of sand. Lots of little splits, though, and a lot of steep inclines that I imagined would be rough going for a mountain bike. Actually, I would only see four people on bicycles this day (two were together) and I had to wonder at their perseverance over this terrain. I don’t think I would have done it, even in my youth (and I was a bicycler then).

After about an hour and a half on the trail and my back was complaining. I had to stop for a water-and-trail-mix-bar break. I was in a clearing filled with what looked like clumps of moss growing on the ground. The moss was like, dried out, and it crunched as I walked over it as if I was walking on corn flakes. This area was very sunny and I wondered if the historically high UV in the sunlight coming through geoengineered holes in the ozone was burning these moss clumps to crisps. It sure looked that way.

After I had been on the trail over two hours, having hiked some four miles, I was tired, aching in my back, and feeling the need for lunch. I was still in the woods and it didn’t seem I would pass any picnic areas, so I stopped at a fallen tree. I sat on the trunk, and ate my cajun-turkey sandwich. That ten minute break gave me a second wind and I started again in good spirits.

I soon reached a “4 mi” marker and felt the vindication of my distance guestimate. Just a couple of more miles. I could handle that. Should just take another hour. I kept walking.

I passed a few people on the trail. Not many. The four I saw on bikes, I saw at this point. One yelled at me from behind as he approached on a narrow space of the trail: “Behind you!” and I leaped to the trail’s shoulder. Another time, I passed a couple of guys with some well-behaved dogs that looked to be some kind of large terriers.

When I reached the “5 mi” marker, I felt I had done it. Just another mile. I could do that. I passed a few other people at this point, coming from the way. Late starters, but some had backpacks and I thought, “Yeah!”

That last mile was the toughest. I was going to make six miles which is my personal best, and about a mile-and-a-half longer than I anticipated making this day. The last mile was up-hill and over more stretches of white sand. I stayed to the side of the trail where the footing was firmer. 

I was approaching the trail head, so this hike, though it made a big loop in the northside woods, was really an out-and-back one. As I entered the copse that held the trail head sign, I passed an older couple just starting out. The woman was older, and carrying a daypack.

I was feeling good about my accomplishment when I reached my car. I was tired, but not devastated. I thought again about the Life motto from the Walter Mitty movie:

To see the world, things dangerous to come to…

At this point, I feel I can keep going. It may be that whatever I see of the world, may often be from a backpacking trail. Perhaps I’ll even dare those “things dangerous to come to.” 

If I do, I’ll write about it.

Hitting the Sandhills Trail

​Sunday

After some weeks of preparation to break into backpacking, I was finally ready to hit the trail.

The day broke cold under sun shining through aerosol-sprayed skies. It was unexpectedly cold, actually. About 37 degrees Fahrenheit outside in mid-April. It seemed I had read the chem-skies right and they were spraying for cold. For a moment, I thought I might have to cancel my hike. 

Then I thought, no. If I’m going to do this, I can’t just wait for ideal conditions before I take to the trail. I’ll wait for the day to warm up a bit, but I’m going.

So I collected my gear while I waited—my boots, socks, North Face hiking pants, polyester long-johns, heavy T-shirt, flannel shirt, and bush hat. I made a Black Forest ham sandwich for my lunch and packed it in my canvas fanny-pack along with 3 bottles of water and three trail-mix bars. With my large-faced, water-proof, Expedition watch and newly-sharpened Swiss Army Knife, I was ready.

I faced a little trepidation that morning. I was thinking: I’ll be alone and it’s been a very long time since I’ve done anything like this. And I’m older. Can I do it? Should I do it?

In the face of doubts, just push on through. So around 11:00am, I loaded my gear into the car, left my sons at the house studying, and made the short drive to the Sesquicentennial State Park.

Being Sunday before Noon, the park was far from crowded. I had no problem finding the Sandhills trail head, which was right by the parking lot. It was marked by a big, wood-framed and glass-covered sign that read:

                                                               Sesquicentennial State Park

                                                                    Sandhills Hiking Trail

Looking at the sign and the trail’s start beyond, I thought there must be similar signs at hiking trails—real hiking trails—all over. The Pacific Crest Trail, The Appalachian Trail, The Inca Trail; maybe even the Camino. Though I realized this little trail was light-years from the status of those, still, I was standing at the edge of the start of something real. I wasn't just a Sunday stroller, I was wanting to test myself.

So I started out.

I immediately came to a fork with no blazes and had to make a decision. The lake was to my right and I thought the trail made a big sweep away from it, even though it then turned to trace a loop around. It seemed more sensible to go left, so I did. I soon came to a large oak tree with a white, diamond-shaped emblem nailed to it, printed with a black arrow. I had made the right choice.

The trail itself was asphalt, but was mostly covered by dirt, sand, and overgrowth. At this point, it was quite wide, but for the most part it was much narrower. And on this, the north side of the lake, the trail passed through the thick of a pine forest. The trail blazes were pretty frequent, so there was no chance of getting off track.

The air was quite cool at this point, but I had left my jacket in the car. It isn't a jacket for hiking and I was comfortable in my layered clothing, anyway. Only my hands felt cold, even a little numb, as I stopped periodically to work my camera. The hike warmed me up pretty quickly, however.

The trail was well-kept, and I noticed only one discarded plastic bottle. A number of bridges crossed shallow creeks and even a little bayou. There was a good variety of grades that climbed and fell gently, but enough to test my boots and they passed wonderfully.

I passed a few people, all coming from the other direction. Most were people my age or older, and many of them were walking dogs (which are allowed on the trail, but they must be on-leash). In my two hours on the trail, I saw only two other apparent hikers wearing backpacks. The rest were strollers.

I reached Shelter #4 when I was about 2/3 around the trail. This was an area of covered picnic tables, a couple of grills, garbage cans, and restroom facilities. I paused to take advantage of the facilities and eat a tail-mix bar. I was feeling good. 

From here, the trail looped around the south side of the lake. The map indicated that the Jackson Creek Nature Trail was in this area, so I looked for the trail head. I found it marked by another big, wooden-and-glass sign next to a bridge under construction. A yellow tape stretched through the trees blocked the way to the bridge and indicated the trail to be closed. I though maybe just the trail head was closed off and set off to find another entrance. 

I crossed a wide field to woods that struck me as possibly containing another entrance to the nature trail. This seemed to be part of the primitive camping area, with fire-pits, picnic benches, and areas that looked to be suitable for pitching tents. There was a trail and I followed it to point deeper in the woods where more yellow tape indicated the nature trail was closed. So I back-tracked to the Sandhills trail and followed it on to the parking lot.

This completed the Sandhills Trail and I stopped at a picnic table on an overlook of the lake to rest and lunch. My excursion looking for the nature trail had spent roughly an extra half mile, but I was OK with that. I was tired, but felt all right. Invigorated, even.

After eating my sandwich, I considered whether to go or do the trail again. I was tired, but not worn out. And I really didn't want to return home without feeling I had truly met a personal challenge, so I hit the trail again.

It was about Noon now, and I passed more people, many of them younger and walking dogs. I kept a good pace and concentrated on lifting my feet and “staying in the moment.” I did not want to fall into a numb stupor, just trying to get back to the car. And I didn't.

I enjoyed my second circuit as much as the first, though I was really feeling the workout by the time I finished. I spent a little over two hours on the trail, including the time for rest stops and lunch.

So I had broken the ice. I had gone outside and “done something.” I especially liked my first circuit of the trail, where I didn't know where it would lead, or what was around the next turn. I was buoyed by all the tales of trail-hikers I had read—Cheryl Strayed, Paulo Coelho, Shirley MacLaine, Robyn Davidson—and enthused to think I was following, in my own small way, their lead.

The only mar was the usual spraying going on overhead. And it was horrific. Parts of the spray-trails were even multi-colored, indicating their chemical composition. Mercifully, the forest canopy hid it from me much of the time, but the wide-angle photos I took made it obvious that even personal adventures must be carried out under the auspices of unspeakable evil.

Still, I’m happy to have made this hike, and am motivated to keep it up. I expect I’ll hit the Sesqui very often. Next, I’ll probably hike the longer, Loop trail that cuts through more woods and is about 1.5 miles longer than the Sandhills. The trails in this park are good for practice and testing gear, since they are so convenient for me. I take them as confidence builders, to transition me to “real trails.”

For me, though, this was a real trail, and another “first step.” How far can I go? I want to find out.

* * *

To see why I say that we live “under the auspices of unspeakable evil,” go here.

Taking a Hike: My Latest Beginning

​A few weeks ago, I started walking a mile-and-a-half or so after coming home from the day job. I've mapped out a circuit of my neighborhood that is roughly .3 miles, so four times around gives me about a 1.25 mile walk. Five gives me about 1.5 miles, and so on. This has built up my strength and staying power a bit, considering my age and that I’m going from doing nothing to doing something.

The walks have done me good. I feel much better after each one and even enjoy the process of making the hike. I keep to the turf as much as I can. I like walking on dirt and grass; it’s more like hiking. And I’m considering myself in training for the Santiago de Compostela Camino (smile). I’ll start, though, with some shorter trips (another smile), like the loop trail at the nearby state park.

My big motivation is to just challenge my comfort, get out, do something physical, deliberately take action. So every hike, every training walk, is a kind of pilgrimage for me. I’m putting myself out there, in God’s hands if you will, looking to learn something from the journey. And knowing that I have, and will always have, far to go.

I have long been inspired by tales of transforming journeys, and I've written about this. The Lord of the Rings and The Hobbit were inspirational for me as much for the protags’ journey and the change it wrought in them, as for the action-fantasy parts. Regarding real-life journeys,  I learned about the Camino from Shirley MacLaine’s book, The Camino . It recounts the spiritual journey she made along that ancient way when she was 65 years old. Then I read Paulo Coelho’s fantastical account of making the same trek ( The Pilgrimage ), and then was moved by Martin’s Sheen’s truth-in-fiction telling of a grieved father’s walk along The Way .

And then I was greatly moved by Cherl Strayed’s story of hiking her way through grief and self-doubt that she tells in Wild . Now I want to read about Robyn Davidson’s telling of a similar journey in her book, Tracks .

Yes, I can imagine myself doing something like these authors, pushing myself to find myself, and realizing that the enlightenment found is a recurring thing.

So with these inspirations, I again made the circuit around my neighborhood this week. It was more difficult this time, though; difficult because it was colder, and there was something in the air. It was a “clear” evening, at least as clear as it gets anymore. The sky was a pale blue behind a milky white haze. For the jets were flying and spraying whatever they spray to make it cold. They were flying at their maximum altitudes and their trails were not as persistant as usual. That seems to be the case when they want to make it cold.

The effect on the ground was one of a chill in the air, as from a cold mist, while the sun shining through was hot, like the coils of a hot electric stove in a cold kitchen. It was an unpleasant extreme. And when I walked through a shaded stretch beside a stand of trees, I could see the very fine mist in the air. Or maybe the motion of it rather than the mist itself, I don’t know. But I felt it was the source of the cold; I could feel it on my skin, but not like a rainy mist. It was more like when you spray an aerosol, like a can of Lysol, in a small room enough to saturate the air. It felt that way. And the air had a chemical smell to it. I coughed and my sinuses ran.

It was so uncomfortable, that I had to cut my walk short.

Observing this horror overhead and feeling its effects is what gives me pause about most everything, and I sink into a “What’s the use?” attitude. It casts a shadow over all my ambitions and hopes.  But then I consider the lessons of Viktor Frankl’s work , and I push ahead anyway.

The Next Day

The evening was mostly overcast, that is, the jets had laid down patterns of X’s and parallel trails during the day that resulted in an evening haze. They weren't spraying for cold anymore (I guess) and their trails were persistent. At least the walking was more pleasant with much less “mist” in the air, and I completed my mile-and-a-half.

I felt good afterwards—stronger, and able to walk and recover faster. I’ll keep pushing and make the 1.5 my new minimum (unless heavy spraying forces me in).

Since I’m being serious, at this point, about easing into backpacking, I bought a beginner’s book on the subject: The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Backpacking and Hiking by Jason Stevenson. It seems to have all the beginner info I need and suggests an “ease in” program such as I had envisioned—training walks followed by day-hikes, followed by an overnight. Maybe some gym-work. I’ll see.

The book includes equipment lists for both day-hikes and backpacking. I've copied the day-hike list to guide my outfitting at the local Mast General store. Mostly, I need light hiking boots, and maybe a day pack. More beyond that will depend on how much I want to spend and how serious I feel about all this.

Friday

The day was sunny with ragged, “pulled cotton” clouds racing overhead. Between them, very high-flying jets sprayed more of their coolant and the persistent winds were quite chilly. The jets were fewer than on Tuesday, however, and the “mist” in the air was much lighter. Regardless, I was determined to make another training walk.

I did my 1.5 around the neighborhood, wearing synthetic workout pants and a thick T-shirt. I kept a good pace and it was not an unpleasant walk, other than the usual dreadful sight of the sprayers. I kept to the turf, as much as I could, and saw few other people about. I passed one old guy walking his dog, and saw two or three people get out just long enough to get into, or out of, their cars. Some days, I don’t see even that much activity.

As I neared the end of my fifth lap, I decided to make a little extra excursion and followed a trail around the end of a house at the neighborhood perimeter. It took me over raised ground that formed a kind of “bridge” over a shallow ditch and skirted a road and passed through a sparse treeline. I took it as my first “trail” and it added maybe an extra tenth of a mile to my walk.

Tomorrow, I want to get some light hiker boots for sure, and maybe another bit of equipment or so. The weather is scheduled to be sunny through the weekend, so I may try to tackle the Sandhills Hiking trail on Sunday at the Sesquicentenniel state park. Maybe include the Jackson Creek Nature Trail as well. They make about 2.5 miles all together. I could even walk them twice, if I’m feeling enthused.

Saturday

About mid-morning I drove downtown to check out the hiking boots at the Mast General store. I remembered them having a good outdoor section in the basement and even on previous visits I had felt a desire to outfit myself for some sort of outdoor adventure.

Downtown had its regular weekend flea market and farmer’s mart going on closed off sections of Main Street, so I checked that out first. The morning was “clear,” with the usual high-flying spraying going on, and it sickened me once again to see a day full of promise be so marred.

Anyway, I stood in line for a breakfast of arepa at one of the food stands. At times, the wind gusts were so high that two of cook’s children had to hold their tent-booth on the ground while she cooked. Some others had their tents blown right from over them. Such strong winds are a common occurrence with some of the spraying modes. At least I often make that connection from observing such winds when the jets are flying high and in such numbers that there’s no patch of sky without their obscene trails. And today they were leaving those trails horizon-to-horizon (in big X’s and such). 

I got my arepa and ate it as I walked towards Mast, ignoring the spraying like everyone else.

At Mast, I headed straight for the basement and found the section of wall covered with racks of men’s shoes. The hikers’ boots covered the wall space around a storage room door. I spotted some Oboz light boots and looked them over. Backpacker Magazine had good things to say about Oboz, so I asked a clerk to show me a pair. He recommended the Sawtooth Low BDry light hiker. He said it was sturdy and comfortable and would last through many hikes. It’s low-cut style was popular with hikers and it was also water-proof.

I was instantly pleased with the fit. I walked around the store in them and  was very pleased with the fit. At the clerk’s suggestion, I stood on a wooden incline and shuffled up and down it to make sure the boots didn't slip on my heels or jam my toes on the down-slope. They did neither. They were perfect.

So I went with the Sawtooths. I also picked up a pair of Northface hiking pants that had the zip-off legs to convert them to shorts. As my Idiot’s guidebook had said, they were synthetic and porous so as to not collect sweat. If worn on a cold day, they should be layered with synthetic underwear to collect body heat. For today, I just went with the pants. And a pair of hiking socks.

I didn't get a pack, though I had considered a daypack. Nothing they had spoke to me, and I thought I should see how things go with my day-hike forays before I make such an investment. In the meantime, I have a large, canvas, fanny-pack with a strap that should do for my “practice” hikes on the Sandhills Trail in Sesquicentennial. 

So with boots, socks, and pants, plus my old fanny-pack, I can improvise the rest and feel outfitted for a little expedition tomorrow.

I have not done such a thing in very many years. While this will be, literally, just a Sunday walk in the park, still, it’s a park with a legitimate hiking trail, with a trail head, map, and signage. It will be an icebreaker, and practice.

* * *

NOTE: When I refer to the weather as “sunny” or “clear,” it is always relative. I have not seen brilliantly blue skies since 2013, and it was rare event then. And since then, the spraying has greatly intensified and the skies now are, at best, ever only a pale blue behind a hazy, milky, toxic, mist. It is the shame, and the horror, of our times. You can face the truth here.

Break of Poop Stories

I tend to shy away from writing contests. There’s such a quality of judgment about them that’s hard for a self-effacing, introverted, soul like mine to deal with. It’s even worse than submitting a story or article for publication where there’s at least some comfort of mitigating circumstances if my work is rejected. Maybe the editor was having a bad day, or maybe my piece, though good, just didn’t suit the editorial calendar. But with contests, there’s no mitigation. If my submission doesn’t win, then it just wasn’t good enough. It sucked!

Still, I have entered some contests in the past. I’ve even paid fees, only to not win. So this has made me hesitant about entering writing contests. Until recently, I had won only one contest.

Back when I was a youngish IT tech working for a state agency, I entered a short story contest they held as part of their Christmas celebrations. There were few other entries, but I won it, nonetheless. The prize was a gift certificate to a local restaurant. The story was My Christmas Carol which is the first story in my collection of short stories I call, The Wider World.

That experience was a nice prompt for my writing ambitions, but I didn’t see it as winning a legitimate contest. I did like the story I produced, though, and what I published in the collection was a revised version.

Recently, I came upon a little contest sponsored by the owners of the “writer’s helper” company, WriteByNight. It was announced in a blog post and it caught my eye because it was a contest of short stories that could be no greater than 25 words in length (micro-fiction).

25 words? Could that really be considered a story?

Such were my first thoughts. Then I remembered a short story noted by my old writing teacher. It went something like:

    For sale: infant’s shoes. Unused.

That’s a jarring story in 5 words. It speaks volumes of mystery in what it doesn’t say. So I thought, well jeepers, maybe I could do something similar with 25 words. So I gave the matter some thought.

Now, the assignment was complicated by the requirement that the story must contain a specific phrase. That phrase was: “Break of Poop.” You could use the phrase however you wished, but it had to be there.

Dictionarily speaking, “Break of Poop” is an old term that refers to the part of a sailing ship where the poop deck (the elevated part in the stern) meets the lower deck (technically, the “mizzen,” I believe).  So a sailor could be swabbing the deck at the break of poop. Or the captain could exit his quarters and step onto the break of poop.

It was not a requirement to use the phrase in that nautical context, but I felt compelled to do so. And I wanted to at least imply a story within the 25 words—enough so to evoke mystery or greater implications.

So I considered the works of Melville, Verne, and Dana, and I thought and thought. I centered on a Moby Dick ambiance because it would be readily recognizable and prompt readers to fill in the blanks like I wanted. I didn’t mention a white whale or giant squid, just a “monster” with a “tail.” The story would be in implying what the monster does, and its consequence for the narrator.

After a number of rewrites and editing (yes, even for 25 words!), I came up with something I was satisfied with, and submitted it.

I have to admit that I was as motivated by the proffered prize as by the writing challenge. It was a copy of Yann Martel’s latest novel, The High Mountains of Portugal. I had become a fan of Mr. Martel from reading Life of Pi, so I thought I’d take a shot at getting a free copy of his latest.

A lot of other people must have been similarly motivated by the small scope of the contest and its prize, because the response was considerable. There were more responses than I’ve seen on that blog. Because the stories were so short, they were submitted as blog comments.

I’ve posted the contest/blog link below so you can see all the submissions. Most were clever plays on the required phrase, and most (maybe all but mine) were comical. Yeah, this was a bunch of writers and Yann Martel fans!

The contest went on for not quite a week, and then the winner was announced. Actually, “winners” because there were two. And I was very pleased to be one of them. It seems the WriteByNight folks appreciated my attempt at story within their constraints. They also appreciated the sort of “Animal House” cleverness of my co-winner’s entry, and I have to agree.

With two winners they had to give away two prizes, but they had only one copy of  The High Mountains of Portugal. The other winner responded faster and got dibs on it (the shortcomings of having a day job). They offered me a few other books as prizes and I selected Georgia by Dawn Tripp. It’s a historical novel about Georgia O’Keefe. I thought I might relate to a tale of a struggling artist.

I won’t reprint my winning story here. You’ll have to check out the WriteByNight site to find it. I post there under the name of “Raymundo.” That’s my name for the “most interesting man in the world” character of the beer commercials (”I don’t drink beer often, but when I do…”). I don’t submit to contests often, but when I do…

So what’s my take-away here? Well, it was fun. Even if I had not won, it was a neat exercise in creative writing with a quirky twist that suits me. It makes me think that maybe I can “do it.” Heck, I might just submit to another writing contest or two.

OK, I’ll post a link to the contest blog below. You can check out what all the respondents did with the “break of poop” phrase, and find the winning entries in their midst.

And while you’re there, check out the WriteByNight website. David and Justine Duhr have put together a company of working writers and authors to offer help to their aspiring literary brothers and sisters. They can help you at whatever stage of the writing process you are in (no, they didn’t pay me to say that).

To check out the “Break of Poop” contest and the WriteByNight website, go here.

Stay thirsty my friends…and write good stuff.