Lisa Niver's Blog: We Said Go Travel, page 301
August 10, 2015
Finding Freedom in the Utah Desert
I remember thinking it was crazy to be driving 1971 miles for a job I might not even want nor be offered. My husband and I had loaded up our Saturn station wagon and were driving cross country from New York to Utah for a six day job interview. We were applying to be Wilderness Therapy Instructors.
Prior to applying and being invited out for the interview, I had never heard of wilderness therapy. I found myself heading into the Utah desert to sleep under a tarp for six nights in sub-zero temperatures. Although I did not know it at the time, this decision lead me to discover what freedom meant to me.
I had never been to Utah. I had no degree in therapy. I had no experience being a guide. Six days went by of little sleep, confusion, some fun, frustration and cold. My sleeping bag definitely was not warm enough for the negative 10 degree F temperatures and I shivered away each night. In the end we were each offered the job and accepted. I worked as a wilderness therapy instructor for a year and half and it changed my life. The job led me down a path to freedom in two ways. On one hand it allowed me to achieve financial independence as both my husband and I were able to pay off all our school loan debt. But more importantly, I learned that freedom is a state of mind.
In wilderness therapy we worked with youth who were at some of their lowest points in life, often battling addictions and extreme behavioral probles. One of the books most of the students and staff read was Viktor Frankol’s Man’s Search for Meaning. Viktor was in the Nazi concentration camps and survived unimaginable horrors. Throughout his stay he never gave up hope and scribbled away writing what became the basis for logotheraphy and his book which went on to become one of the ten most influential books in the United States selling over 10 million copies and was translated into over 24 languages. Viktor concluded that, “…the meaning of life is found in every moment of living…that psychological reactions are not solely the result of the conditions of his life, but also the freedom of choice he always had even in severe suffering.”
As I have worked and traveled around the world, I have seen those who seem to have it all be miserable and those who appear to have nothing be happy. What I have taken from these observations and Victor’s book is that it doesn’t necessarily matter your circumstances, it matters your attitude and how you choose to view the world around you. Your mind can be your worst enemy and hold you captive or your mind can free you. One always has the choice to focus on the positive and put forth good work into the world.
When I reflect on my life and the direction I want to take it, I rarely include thoughts of all the bad things that have happened to me. I include them only enough to recognize the situations that enabled them to exist in the first place and make sure I do everything in my power not to let them happen again. In my travel life this has looked like arriving to New Zealand and realizing I had no idea where the hostel was that I booked. This was my first big move abroad and I will never forget walking in circles carrying all my bags in the rain trying to find someone who knew where ‘Epsom’ was. Or when Chris and I waited until the last minute to buy train tickets in Paris and almost missed our international flight. Or when we never booked any lodging in advance during European holidays thinking, ‘Hey, let’s wing it!’
For reasons still revealing themselves, I find myself with the privilege of many freedoms. On a daily basis I strive to take this opportunity and grow my natural strengths and talents. I hope to find ways to inspire others to discover what drives them, even if it takes them the rest of their life to do so. As Viktor said, “For the world is in a bad state, but everything will become still worse unless each of us does his best.”
I will use my freedom to my best, always.
About Author: Tiffany Soukup is an adventurer, writer and photographer. In the spur of the moment she moved out to Wyoming to live on the floor next to a washer and dryer and has never looked back since. Her and her husband Chris have been moving around the world since 2004. You can follow their stories at www.vagabondway.net.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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August 9, 2015
Blessed in Israel
The people are everywhere. We pass each other and I nod my head in a “what’s up?” or “hey” kind of way. The nod is returned, along with a smile. My eyes are round and blue. Some have eyes that are mere slits. Others look back at me with oval, brown eyes. But the smiles. The smiles are the same.
Our skin is not the same color. Some are onyx black, deep and beautiful. Others are hues of olive tones, earthy and rich. I scan the crowds and see white skin too. Milky white like me. Our skin is not all the same color. But the smiles are the same.
I hear music. The tune is familiar but I do not understand the words as the olive skinned people sing. My lips hardly move and slight whispers escape; I sing along.
The trees are full of birds of every feather yet it seems they all sing the same song. I am free to walk the grounds and nod at strangers. I am free to take pictures of the thousands of flowers lining the walkway and filling the gardens. The flowers, every color in the palette, rest in beds of green. The sun turns its face towards them and the dew glimmers like diamonds on velvet. Their beauty is surpassed only by their fragrance.
I have traveled half way around the world for this walk. For this day. I find my place on a large rock on the hillside. The breeze blows past my face. I close my eyes and feel the warmth of the sun kiss my face.
There is a lake nestled at the bottom of the mountain. I watch the water as waves gently lap the shore. Tranquility. Beauty.
I have been here before. This is my fourth visit in 30 years. I am comfortable on “my” rock. The crystal blue sky meets the sparkling sapphire water; there is perfect peace.
I am free to cry. Free to exhale and weep with no fear of judgment.
I am free to rest. Free to put pain aside, forget stress, and simply rest.
I am free to dream. Free to envision all that is possible.
I am free to trust. Free to cast doubt over the side of the mountain, tumbling into the sea below.
I live in a glass house. My husband is a pastor; through good times and not so good times our family is on display. At home, I carefully guard my emotions around others. But here, in this place, the walls come down and I can just be.
In my heart, I hear blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God. Blessed are they who mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God. Blessed are the peacemakers, they shall be called children of God.
This place is the Mount of the Beatitudes. The water nearby is the Sea of Galilee. Pilgrims from all over the world travel by the hundreds of thousands each year to walk where Jesus walked. They come here to sing hymns. They are here to meditate. Their Bibles are opened to study the words Jesus spoke, words we know as The Sermon on the Mount.
There’s something amazing about feeling an incredibly safe aloneness while surrounded by many. In that safe aloneness I am content. What a glorious feeling! Contentment.
I have to wonder as I walk toward my car. The brown eyes, blue and green. The black skin, olive and white. The smiles that are all the same. Do all the people behind the smiles feel the same freedom here that is mine?
Author Bio
Shelley Pierce is a pastor’s wife, mother and grandmother. She is a speaker and freelance writer as well as a Director of Preschool and Children’s Ministries. She loves to encourage others and use her writing to make a positive impact in the lives of her readers.
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August 8, 2015
St Kitts Nevis Restaurant Week 2015: Day 1 Arrival at St Kitts Marriott
St. Kitts Nevis first ever Restaurant Week was this July 2015! I loved being invited and have many photos, videos and articles to share from our adventures on the island. This was my very first visit to the beautiful island of St. Kitts. I did spend years floating around the Caribbean with Princess Cruises, and I loved seeing one of the islands that I had missed!
KelleeSetGo and I left Los Angeles by American Airlines and met up with Cathy Preece and Breanna J Wilson of Scoot Scoot Luggage in Miami.
Upon arrival in St. Kitts, we were whisked away by Porsche Cayenne to the YU Lounge where we relaxed in air conditioning on comfortable couches and sipped champagne. Our arrival treats included pumpkin spinach fritters, meatballs and chicken pate. Our luggage was collected and both customs and immigration were handled for us. This service costs $150 in either direction and is amazing. It seems like it would be for private jet clients only but you can fly commercial and take advantage of this luxurious first class treat.
At the St. Kitts Marriott, we were welcomed with Ting without the Sting (a local grapefruit soda drink). My room was very comfortable with plenty of room not only to relax but also hula hoop in the mornings. From the balcony, I could see the welcoming pool and went for a stroll on the beach. After flying all night, I had to pass on the happy hour by the pool or I might have slept through our musical evening events.
Sprat Net is a jamming jumping lively dinner choice. On Wednesdays, there is live music and it is the place to be on the island. I loved my fresh fish and everyone else was thrilled with the recently caught lobster.
All the photos and video from this trip were taken on my LGG4. I am thrilled with the media quality of this phone. I highly recommend it! Let me know what you think of our adventures and the phone photos and video!
VIDEO: Day One Restaurant Week 2015
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 22, 2015 at 5:39am PDT
Arriving in St. Kitts at the private airport lounge, YU. Perfect for private jets or people looking for more luxury. #sknrestaurantwk #lgg4 A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 22, 2015 at 12:19pm PDT
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 22, 2015 at 12:43pm PDT
Listening to reaggae tunes at Sprat net #sknrestaurantwk with @kelleesetgo @breannajwilson #lgg4 a great vibe locals and tourists and shipwreck @brinleygoldrum spiced rum and fresh fish #stkitts #stkittstourism A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 22, 2015 at 4:47pm PDT
Poolside and on the beach #StKitts @Marriott this afternoon @breannajwilson #lgg4
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 22, 2015 at 5:25pm PDT
Incredible food @SpratNet #St Kitts and fantastic music. I loved the fresh
Closing Time in the USA
It’s mid-afternoon and you’re exiting Woolsey Hall. Maybe you’ve just had a late lunch at Commons or maybe, like me, you’re coming out of a mandatory student safety lecture on your third day of college. You exit Woolsey the ugly way—away from the libraries and sculptures—and cross the street. Walk a block to your left and you’ll end up at the great entrance to the Grove Street Cemetery. You can’t miss it: the monolithic columns connected at a top by a slab bearing the epigraph “THE DEAD SHALL BE RAISED.”
Here I spent one peaceful hour when the living had gotten a little loud for my taste. I basked in the vastness, the silence, the solitude. Or the near-solitude: at one point, when I had reached the back of the cemetery, I made eye contact with a woman in a bathrobe staring out the window of a nearby apartment building. But mostly there was only the dead and I.
Perhaps I tend to romanticize. At the cemetery, I listened start-to-finish to my favorite baroque album. I looked around and imagined the cemetery’s residents were my nonjudgmental friends. But the dead are no better than us. I mean, towards the center of the cemetery were grandiose graves featuring spires and sculptures and even, in one particularly questionable case, sphinxes. At the cemetery’s periphery were mostly short and modest graves with sparse ornamentation. I wonder if the latter roll their empty eye sockets at the old money men entombed in great shrines? Even the dead have to deal with economic inequality.
I’m sure if you do the math it works out, but I can never quite believe that an hour is made of sixty minutes, nor that a day is made of twenty-four hours. Time is much too elusive for all that. After all, days when I have nothing to do stretch out far beyond my grasp and days when I have all too much to do are over as soon as they begin. And when I go home, months haven’t passed since I was last there: time just picks up where I left it. So, when I see people in britches and saddle shoes crossing the of Grove and Prospect Streets in front of the corner of the cemetery, rushing to get to class on time in spite of the blustering winds, the photograph[1] may be labeled as a Monday morning in January of 1922, but I promise you it was taken yesterday, just hours before I crossed the street myself. Only the car and street lamp parts of the picture were taken ninety-two years ago.
Okay, you’re onto me. Maybe I am a little bit afraid of time, given my denial of its passage. And shouldn’t I be? Time carries all sorts of unpleasant things: deadlines, bills, so many trivial distresses. And those responsibilities will just keep coming, taking away from the things I love—reflection, beauty, and so forth—until we’re dead. So what is fear of time, then, but a repressive compartmentalizer’s fear of death?
Here’s another treacherous little thing time can do: Let’s say you’ve been having an overwhelming few days. Perhaps you’ve been urged into countless micromanaged social mixers and ushered from mandatory lecture to mandatory lecture. Perhaps, in those first three days of college, balancing all the activity with the already noisy expectations in your head is getting a bit much. And let’s say you finally get a moment to yourself. You find a quiet cemetery, stroll around, listen to your favorite album, and revel in feeling more mental clarity than you have in weeks. And let’s say this moment is so incredibly peaceful, perhaps because you are romanticizing again, that you feel it could go on forever. But then, amidst your reverie, a man on a bicycle passes by and says something that at first you can’t make out, but it sounds directive. You take your earbuds out. It’s closing time. Apparently the cemetery closes at four o’clock. You’re thrust, insufficiently resurfaced, back into your world. Being a girl, I’ve never had to contend with blue balls, but this must be the spiritual equivalent.
The moment had ended. I sought beauty in ephemerality, but could find none.
In the cemetery, I kept to the walkways for fear of disturbing my quiescent companions with the thunder of my footsteps. Yet, upon leaving I noticed the epigraph above the columns of the gate. I translated it to myself: No rest for the weary. And so, while we’re young—and, mind you, so long as I’m alive I will consider myself young by disjunctive syllogism—let’s appreciate the beauty right now.
[1] Sheffield Hall, Sterling Tower, and Strathcona Hall, Yale University, Photographs (RU 614).
Manuscripts and Archives, Yale University Library.
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August 7, 2015
Finding a place to rest in Tanzania
Looking down into the crater of an ancient volcano, vast enough to hold a small town, brings a sense of euphoric freedom. My feet perched on the crater rim, it felt as if I could take off like a bird whenever my heart desired. The thin air on Mount Kilimanjaro makes one feel light headed, and near Uhuru peak the ecstasy of summiting can be almost tipsy. Thank God I am a teetotaller. The cold in the early morning climb can make one crave a little brandy- I might have attempted to fly in that case.
In 1991, I was 18 years old and knew my mind pretty firmly. Volcanoes were my calling. Nothing inspired me more than pictures of red flaming lava spilling into the air, nothing made me live like the touch of rocks- all textures, colours and shapes; nothing intrigued me as much as stories of earthquakes and eruptions from history. I would give my right arm to study geology and volcanoes- yet that was not enough.
Two university places came my way- one in exploration geophysics, the other in medical college. My parents holding the purse strings had the final say. Medical college it was- albeit kicking and screaming.
Geophysics was no career for a woman with soft feet and small hands according to my parents. They laughed themselves silly to think of me trying to complete field tasks in the wild. My father’s stock phrase of sarcasm for years to come would be ‘My daughter’s going to climb Mount Kilimanjaro!’
Years passed and teenage anger mellowed into adult resignation and perhaps a little pity at my parents’ safe and cloistered views on life. Medical college gave me my wonderful husband and a daughter to die for- no mean thing but somewhere during my night shifts or a busy clinic, a chain rankled, the volcano called.
Fast forward to 2013. I would turn 40 that year. I decided to choose a gift for myself- a trek to Uhuru Peak. When I told my parents, they thought I was joking. When I mentioned dates and tour organizers, the message sunk in. My father’s voice held a touchingly helpless plea when he said, ‘You are really going? You mean to say you are really going?’
It was me and an adventurous friend. We trekked up the Rongai route soaking up every minute, every sight, the changing topography and vegetation with every step. On the fourth day we reached the camp at Kibo Hut. The summit rose powerful, steep and challenging before us- snow crowning the peak like a sparkling tiara.
We started in darkness, the next morning. The trail lit up ahead of us by a series of head torches, undulating up the volcanic slope, like a giant glow worm. We saw dawn break and the sky turn rosy. Two hours into our hike and we could see ahead, a group of fellow travellers who had started an hour or two before us, starting to flag. Mount Kili was throwing out its most challenging day.
My friend had started to slow down. Our guide took a tough decision and sent me ahead with the assistant guide while he stayed on with my friend, helping her to continue at her own pace. We ploughed ahead.
Suddenly the crater rim loomed temptingly close. A gap in the rock wall showed a beckoning glimpse of glaciers and frozen waterfalls. We were almost there.
Cheers erupted from enthusiastic, joyful co-travellers as we scrambled on to Gilman’s point. A few energy bars and it was onto Uhuru Peak, its flag fluttering at the top of Africa.
I sat on the rim of the crater, my dusty walking shoes dangling over the edge, the crater floor hundreds of feet below. I had summited Mt Kili. I had seen a volcano in sombre glory. I had touched a crater rim. It was time to put the simmering anger to rest, once and for all. A time to break the chains. It was time to make peace and unburden the soul to stretch like a soaring eagle.
One day my daughter will bring my ashes up here and scatter them to the winds over the crater. I will fly over the crater like a bird. Till then I will let my heart soar above Kilimanjaro, unfettered at last.
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Red O Restaurant: Scrumptious in Santa Monica
Red O Restaurant opened last week at 1541 Ocean Avenue in Santa Monica and is ready for you! The distinguished and delightful Mexican cuisine by Chef Rick Bayless was outstanding. It was a marvelous meal with stellar service and fantastic friends.
You may be familiar with the restaurant’s other locations on Melrose Avenue in West Hollywood and Fashion Island in Newport Beach. The menu has authentic sauces from the southern Mexican states of Oaxaca, Yucatan, and Baja. Master Chef Rick Bayless is a James Beard Chef of the year, part of PBS Mexico one plate at a time and one of Bravo’s Top Chef Masters.
I feel grateful that I was invited to try out this new restaurant in a gorgeous location and was able to do it with wonderful people. I wanted to share this week’s message from Stephen Wise Temple which happens to be about food and gratitude from Rabbi Joshua Knobel.
You will eat and be satisfied, and bless Adonai your God for the good land that God has given to you…
This week’s Torah portion introduces the mitzvah of enjoying and giving thanks for our sustenance. Our sages took this message quite literally, using it as inspiration for the birkat hamazon, the blessing after meals. Less common in practice than the hamotzi, a blessing that precedes meals, the birkat hamazon reflects an ideology that places satisfaction and gratitude ahead of anticipation. Rather than focus upon what comes next, the blessing challenges us to consider what has already transpired and give thanks.
Such a practice seems at odds with the frenetic pace of our 21st century lives. After all, how often do we halt our hectic schedules to acknowledge our daily blessings? Rather, our invigorating experiences often seem to merely whet our appetite for the next, as we spend so much of our lives in anticipation that we have little or no time for satisfaction and the gratitude that accompanies it.
The Torah reminds us of our responsibility to pause and remember: that milk does not come from supermarkets, that phones do not come from the Apple store, that every material and spiritual morsel that nourishes our daily lives, whether large or small, is the result of a grand labor of Divine and human hands.
As such, we are not simply encouraged – but commanded – to pause… to enjoy and express gratitude for the vast multitude of wonders that sustain us.
– Rabbi Joshua Knobel
I cannot wait to go back to Red O Restaurant to enjoy the stunning views of the Pacific Ocean as well as the lovely ambiance, service and food. I am glad to have this moment to pause and appreciate all that I have been given to enjoy and share. Enjoy this video from our meal August 6, 2015 and photos from our night at Red O Restaurant.
VIDEO: Red O Restaurant on Ocean Ave in Santa Monica
Excited to dine @redorestaurant tonight! #santamonica #lgg4
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Aug 6, 2015 at 6:26pm PDT
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Aug 6, 2015 at 6:53pm PDT
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Aug 6, 2015 at 7:29pm PDT
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Aug 6, 2015 at 8:29pm PDT
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Aug 6, 2015 at 8:58pm PDT
Live entertainment @redorestaurant Thursday, Friday and Saturday! Amazing food, service and music
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Aug 6, 2015 at 9:22pm PDT
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August 6, 2015
Culver City: Eating at Sāmbār is like traveling to India
I loved dining at Sāmbār in Culver City. Eating here reminded me of my three months of travel in India–see the 57 videos below from my 130+ hours of travel on the public bus all over the subcontinent. The tastes and smells brought back memories of incredible meals because the food here is authentic and tasty. It opened this summer in June and is run by Akasha Richmond (who also runs AKASHA down the street for the last seven years.)
On the site of Ford’s Filling Station, Akasha’s love and affinity for the Indian culture is based on her travels to this rich and diverse country and the food is fantastic. The menu included small plates and snacks like Pakoras and Papadoms, and housemade Turmeric Naan as well as Sevpuri Chaat, Black Quinoa Uttapam and Sāmbār.
I loved everything we tried and we ate cheese thali, sevpuri chaat, coastal organic zucchini kofta, basmati rice, turmeric naan, Kachumber salad, Uttapam (quinoa pancake) and sambar (like dal) with red onion &tomato chutney. The truck stop goat curry was my favorite dish! The Ora king salmon curry was great and try the Punjabi mama greens too! The makki ki roti is gluten free. And then there is dessert including coffee ice cream pie, vanilla soft serve sundae and homemade cookie plate. I was impressed with the range of flavors and the variety on the menu.
As for cocktails, Mixologist Clare Ward oversees the cocktail program introducing spice-forward drinks using exotic ingredients such as Kokum (sour fruit from Southern India), Indian cardamom bitters, as well as fermented ingredients to name a few. Stand-out cocktails on the menu include: The Maharaja, Smuggling Monk with coffee infused scotch, Vegetable Wallah or Bangalore Blues using a turmeric infused gin.
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 14, 2015 at 7:10pm PDT
Seriously stupendous @sambar_cc Samosa Kachumber salad Uttapam (quinoa pancake) and sambar (like dal) red onion &tomato chutney A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 14, 2015 at 7:43pm PDT
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 14, 2015 at 9:04pm PDT
The truck stop goat curry @sambar_cc was my favorite dish! The Ora king salmon curry was great and try the Punjabi mama greens too! The makki ki roti is #glutenfree. A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 14, 2015 at 9:07pm PDT
A photo posted by Lisa Niver (@wesaidgotravel) on Jul 14, 2015 at 9:11pm PDT
VIDEOS: 57 Videos from 3 months in India
The post Culver City: Eating at Sāmbār is like traveling to India appeared first on We Said Go Travel.
August 5, 2015
The Trapeze Artist in Canada
On a recent trip I was forced to wait for paving work partway across the eight-mile bridge connecting my birthplace, Prince Edward Island, to Canada’s mainland.
Perhaps the Travel Gods had a purpose. I needed to slow down after driving over the speed limit since crossing the border in Maine three hours earlier. My red-streaked eyes took in the panoramic view. A rust colored ribbon of low sandstone cliffs outlined my Island home. Like sandwich filling, the soil oozed from a grassy green top layer and the shifting black water lapping at its feet. The sight renewed me after driving 800 miles and I thought of visits with family and friends and the laughter, stories and fresh-from-the-ocean lobster we would share.
Even though I’ve been gone over 15 years being back here feels like putting on my favorite jeans, the ones that stretch where I need them to and are the most comfortable thing I own. The language, the pace, the lifestyle here all have their own unique rhythm and I slip into it as soon as I step on the sandy red soil.
In the last few years conversation often turns to the young people leaving for Alberta, following the oil industry’s boom and bust cycle. Growing up in a province having fishing, farming and too many summer tourists as its main businesses limits career choices. Like this generation of young people I made career choices too, beginning when I left in 1991. Returning each year is my essential refueling. After toiling in the business world the sound of waves rolling ashore and vistas of green and red strips of fields quilting the landscape rebalances me in a way no amount of yoga, meditation or zen practices can achieve.
Perhaps “rebalance” isn’t the right word, though I struggle for a better one. Am I rebalanced when I head back to the Maine border, always trying to outrun the turmoil of emotions triggered when each visit ends? My husband and I have a great life in the United States. Five of my six siblings and their 16 children live in Prince Edward Island. I’m lucky enough to slip between both worlds. Yet the emotional toll of leaving the island again is far greater than the Confederation Bridge toll charged for departing vehicles.
Making a different career choice is easy. Living with the choice is harder. Phone calls about sick friends or relatives have sent me into tailspins of guilt and helplessness. Even though I was raised on a farm, knowledge gained since about different ways of cultivating the land or protecting the oceans often conflict with Island ways, so I worry about the livelihoods depending on those critical resources. More than anything, there are hold-your-breath feelings of suspension while hovering between Island time and the rest-of-the-year-time. It feels like letting go of one trapeze while waiting to grab hold of another, all without a net below.
This year I will arrive back in Connecticut on Independence Day. I’ll attend fireworks with my husband and we’ll hug friends and swap stories as we catch up on each other’s lives since we last met. It will be like slipping into jeans again, the Connecticut pair, but they won’t feel comfortable right away. We’ll stand with hands on hearts and join in singing “The Star-Spangled Banner,” under a star-filled sky beside a peaceful lake. And every few minutes my thoughts will travel 800 miles northeast, to the other trapeze, to my Island life.
My freedom allowed me to leave Prince Edward Island. Now I am blessed to enjoy life on both sides of the Canadian and US border. I’ve become a trapeze artist. It was not a deliberate choice. It was a necessity.
Thank you for reading and commenting. Please enter the Independence Travel Writing competition and tell your story.
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Big Bend National Park — Big Country, Big Surprises in the Lone Star State
The last thing we expected to see on the lonely two lane black top in the heart of SW Texas was a Prada store. 
Upon close inspection, we realized we were looking at an art installation, the first sign of the quirky avant garde art community in nearby Marfa. This was only the first of several surprises on our recent exploration of the wonders of — get this — Brewster County, TX, in a remote corner of a state better known for oil, BBQ, and cowboys.
The main draw was Big Bend NP, the best national park most people have never heard of. It’s remote, almost 300 miles from El Paso, and huge, over 800,000 acres. The few people who make the effort to visit have its rugged beauty largely to themselves.
For the first two nights we stayed at the Chisos Mountain Lodge, a sprawling collection of low-slung wooden buildings in a basin surrounded by sharp peaks and broad monoliths of red rock. On our first full day in Big Bend we drove to Santa Elena Canyon at the far western edge of the park on an empty ribbon of road. Along the way, my gaze wandered from the road to long, sweeping vistas in all directions and a lunar landscape of desert, canyons, mountains and wind- and rain-sculpted rocks.
We reached the Santa Elena Canyon parking lot at about 9:30 a.m. It was empty, and no one else was in sight. A short walk across a sandy beach took us to the edge of the Rio Grande. This shallow and narrow rio is not so grande by the time it trickles through Santa Elena Canyon. If we wanted, we could have waded across the 20 to 30 yards of knee-deep water to Mexico.
A steep narrow path winds into the canyon up from the beach. In just a few minutes we were surrounded by rock walls and silence except for the burble of the water. 
We didn’t run into any one else until we headed back down the path to the beach. The total length of the hike from the parking lot and back is less than two miles.
After lunch at the lodge, we went on the 5.6 mile round trip hike to the Window, a notch in a cliff at the end of a streambed high above the desert floor. The steep trail descends about a 1000’ alongside the dry streambed, then funnels through a narrow tree-shaded canyon to the Window. I inched up as close to the Window as I dared on the slick rock and could see the desert many miles away and almost 2000 feet below.
The next day featured a horseback ride on state park lands adjacent to the national park. The horses, lunch, and Armando, our guide, were provided by Big Bend Stables. The scenery was provided by God, god, Yaweh, Allah, Vishnu, dharma, the forces of the universe, or whatever, depending on your beliefs. I didn’t bother with that. I just gawked and hung onto the saddle horn for dear life.
Later that day we eased our sore butts onto bar stools at the Starlight Theater Restaurant in the ghost town of Terlingua for tequila, chili, roast quail and Texas BBQ. Terlingua is an interesting town, if you can call it that. It was a thriving mining town in the early part of the 1900s, then fell on hard times and abandoned in the 1940s. In recent years it has turned into a refuge for artists, hippies, bikers, survivalists, itinerant river guides, 9-11 conspiracy theorists, snow birds, tourists and other free spirits, many of them living off the grid. 
Terlingua is just down the road from the Big Bend Casitas, where we stayed for the next two nights, a definite advantage after an evening at the Starlight.
On our last day in the park we canoed down the Rio Grande on a trip run by the Far Flung Outdoor Center. It was a mellow, leisurely paddle down the shallow, slow moving river through canyons and desert. 
The several hours on the river were broken up by lunch, a two-mile hike, and a long soak in the historic hot springs on the river bank.[image error]
One of the canoes did get hung up in an especially shallow stretch of the river and overturned. The occupants walked a few feet to shore in shin deep water while the guides emptied the water out of the canoe. If they had walked the 10-20 yards to the opposite shore they would have been in Mexico — illegally, of course, but it didn’t seem like it would have been a big deal if they did. It was that kind of trip.
I usually travel far for adventure – e.g., Asia, Africa, Antarctica, and Australia. What a pleasure to discover someplace new, remote, quirky, and scenic in my own metaphorical back yard. No sleepless nights from jet lag or gastric distress from unfamiliar cuisines (the chili, on the other hand…).
As a Californian, I’m not a fan of Texas politics. But to quote another Californian in a much different context and with a very different accent, “I’ll be back.”
(For more information on Big Bend National Park check out their website. For more information and photos from Don and Katherine’s trip, check out the blog on Don’s website)
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August 4, 2015
St. Francis and Me in Israel
There is a quote by St. Francis of Assisi sitting smack dab on the very same page in the journal where I began scribbling the happy and illegible notes for this submission. What I call a “paper sandwich,” my journal has sat before me as a confidante for as long as I can remember, most of the writing being legible only to myself. There is poor rhyme and suspect reason clinging to each page. I sometimes write sideways or in gibberish because if I do not get “it” out, like now, it will make me sick. Like a pile of laundry, these words build up inside me, and if there were not regular washing going on, I would surely perish under a load of colors. Ew. That is why I burn these diaries during the season changes. Tossed into crackling dry fires, appropriate colors jump from a particularly high content of chemicals. The memories on those treated pages become nothing short of spectral.
Thankfully, the charming saintly quote give clear direction: “Start by doing what’s necessary, then do what’s possible, and suddenly you are doing the impossible.” Right on, Franky boy. I really had no desire to write anything of value and yet, here I sit with the needs spilling out like beans begging planting on the hill. It reminds me of another time I had brushed up against some force larger than myself, this time, though, it was in a much smaller garden in London, England.
Westminster Abbey in the late 80s was as popular as ever, I guess. It attracted throngs of churchgoers and like-minded, open-mouthed individuals, overly gawking and as impressed as I was by Lord Byron’s name in mosaic floor tile. Even though you knew his body laid at rest far from the Abbey, you still had the exaggerated sense that you belonged with this dead bard somehow, there, in the marble columns and perfect lines of English history. Incidentally, a similar experience happened in the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. I knew Jesus’ bones were not there, but the magic of the residue that his imagery causes surely is present and sits enfolded in myself. Still, Tennyson is no slouch and I could feel his straight posture there in the Poet’s Corner of the Abbey, supporting my step with the other dead writers.
I have made it a point to discover the local church or temple everywhere I travel and, in so doing, I get a general sense of well-being. Traveling along those impersonal foreign roads, eating the unusual foods yet always aware of that one undeniable string links us all together; this keeps me calm. Praying is a serious interest of mine, the “how-to” of it. Because praying is a quest, it consistently tests in many different ways. One day I hope to stumble on real humility, personified.
I stood around with my mouth open in wonder for long enough and brass stenciled an odd twelfth-century figure on to black crate paper. Then I escaped to an outdoor courtyard to catch a breather from the Anglo hum of high culture. Along the way, I saw a small gate about the size of a card table with a sign written on it—in a clear and keep-out calligraphy—something to the effect of “Do not enter.” Yet the gate that stood between this sanctuary’s bowels and me was wide open. Natural dilemma! Portent portent portent! I, the natural explorer described also as a delicately inclined disobedient, saw this paradox as an opportunity to hang out with God. I was not a “believer” because I had known His presence always and therefore had no need for belief per se. I understood this as a direct invitation for investigation and by allowing the word “invite” to tumble from my mind I knew this was a greater gift than I ever could have expected that morning. Walking through those open doors, so grandly studded like huge dappled moth wings, secretly blessed me I think, and seemed only outwardly to be a simple entrance into a church.
Investigating is one of my favorite things to do. Be sure. There’s no mistake in following your heart, and just know that you will always be rewarded with the same like when you reach your destination. My present arrival, into a small garden I had found immediately chiming to my left as I passed through the gate, was in perfect rhythm with the smile in my heart, which I had dutifully followed. There was a space just big enough for a lichened stone bench, a bit of well-tended grass and a bust of some cardinal or other chiseled into an immortalized honor of rock. I sat down on the bench, deep in wonder at how much history had passed before me and how the aeon will pass ever long after I am gone. In other words, I came to a clear state of recognizing my own mortality. Ugh. In exaggerated contemplation, I heard a rushing sound swishing closer and closer. The swish drew in at a latitudinal distance crossing me. I saw a row of eleven priests who silently, except for their long, jet-black robes brushing against the pavement, walked quickly yet without haste to another class or prayer or lunch or whatever Westminster Abbey priests do.
Well, the last priest looked my way. With a barely perceptible facial comment, he suggested I was trespassing (with a notable amount of delivery on the esses in “trespassing”). I had forgotten that fact and was even about to take a small nap when it occurred to me that yes, I was trespassing. With that, I stood up and returned to my place of wandering tourists, wishing all the while that I could move as gracefully as any one of those priests. I do know we have our place, and although we may never discover it, it is surely clear when we do find ourselves out of place.
This is an interesting subject to confer on, finding one’s place. This has always been my immediate goal in life and it was only recently I understood that if the conditions for our inner study are always correct, just as they are, then I am in my place already and always have been.
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