In the summer of 1977, my childhood friend Ramona and I set out on a cross-country adventure. As a parent of a daughter who is now the age I was then, I can’t imagine my child going off like that. It was, though, a different time, and whether true or not, things seemed far less dangerous than today.
Perhaps because it was 30 years ago, numbers come to mind when I think back on that trip. We set out on the 4th of July, were gone for 7 weeks, and drove 11,500 miles. We stayed in campgrounds for $5 a night, and paid 50 cents for a gallon of gas. I lost 10 pounds from weeks of hiking and horseback riding, and celebrated my 19th birthday roasting marshmallows over a campfire. By the end, we’d visited 15 national parks, passing through 20 states along the way.
We meticulously planned our trip, researching destinations, trip-ticking our route through AAA, packing critical camping gear—tent, Coleman stove, flashlights, sleeping bags, back packs, hiking boots. We raided our family’s pantries for staples like Oodles of Noodles soup, sardines, Spam, crackers, tuna, dried cereal and trail mix.
In spite of all the planning, there were problems. Hours from our Bethesda, Maryland home, our Toyota Corolla overheated. By the time we reached the Smoky Mountains in Tennessee, the campground was full and we were directed to the overflow area behind a rundown gas station. Though exhausted, I was up for hours peeking out the tent opening, clutching my flashlight like a club, reacting to every cough, beep and crunch as I imagined an ax-wielding overflow-camper-killer prowling outside our tent. Ramona, on the other hand, nodded right off to sleep.
After the car problems, we began all long excursions late in the day. To keep awake, the person in the passenger seat would lightly close her eyes, making quiet conversation with the driver while listening to tunes like “Nights in White Satin,” “Sweet Hitchhiker,” and “Light My Fire” from the 8-track tape player we’d set up in the glove box. On one such night while lying outside to rest, I opened my eyes to an incredible mass of stars blanketing the sky. It was like nothing I’d ever seen, and in fact, have never seen anything like it since.
We drove through Oklahoma and the Texas panhandle to Carlsbad Caverns, Mesa Verde, Arches National Park, Bryce Canyon, the Painted Desert and the Grand Canyon. After weeks of camping, we spent two nights in the Las Vegas Caesars Palace, lounging in our pink and purple-decorated hotel room. We had another break from camping in San Francisco when we stayed with my parents at the Fairmont Hotel. After weeks of tent-pitching, it was surreal riding in an elevator while a white-gloved operator graciously guided us to our floor. We then returned to camping and National Park-hopping—Yosemite, Sequoia, Crater Lake, Grand Teton, Yellowstone, and the last leg of our trip to Devils Tower, Mount Rushmore, and the plains across Iowa heading home.
I learned many things that summer. I learned I could live on noodle soup and Spam, at least for a while. I learned I could pitch a tent, change a tire, go on a ten mile hike, and fall asleep with a rock poking into my back. I learned it is great to camp out, but smart to sleep in a car during a thunderstorm or when wolves and bears are close by. I learned that instant coffee tastes amazing after a night sleeping out under the stars.
I learned it is good to have a road map, but important to embrace the possibilities discovered in a detour. I learned that no problem is insurmountable. And I learned that while it is exciting to explore new places, it feels really good to come home.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com June, 2007)
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vacation. Show all posts
Sunday, July 1, 2007
Saturday, March 3, 2007
The Pleasure and Pain of a Ski Vacation
Like many families, we went skiing over winter school vacation. My son took a friend, and other friends with their teenage sons also stayed in Waterville Valley, so it all worked out quite nicely. It had been a while since I’d skied. My husband, kids and I vacationed at Mount Snow three years ago, and we skied in Canada several times before that. I have fond memories of those ski trips—the thrill of winding down a trail, the invigorating coolness, the quiet beauty of the mountains. Memory, it seems, is a very peculiar thing.
I’d forgotten all the work connected with skiing, which is much like camping in that respect. There’s the pre-trip task of finding things—long underwear and ski socks and goggles and mittens. There’s the renting of the ski equipment, and the schlepping around in those clunky ski boots, the ones that press painfully into shins. There’s the cold and the wind and the frost-bitten fingers and toes. And there’s the difficult mission of making it down the mountain, suffering quiet humiliation as kids whiz past, no problem.
There’s the long, arduous walk to the car at the end of the day—back straining, quads aching, shins bruising, skis and poles perched precariously on sloping shoulders. Since it’s only been a week since our trip, these are my memories. In time, I know I will recall the fond ones.
As a kid, I was an excellent skier. During my high school years, my family went to Utah every Christmas where we skied down the majestic slopes at Snowbird and Alta and Park City. The conditions were perfect—ankle-deep powder, no lift lines and weather so mild we’d often ski in our sweaters. We’d hit the slopes as soon as they opened, skiing all day on intermediate and expert trails with barely a break. We never thought of taking a day off to rest. Not a chance.
I had several things going for me back then that I don’t have now—limber legs, infinite stamina, agility and, most important, no fear. The trepidation I’ve developed since my youth led me to choose the No Grit intermediate trail over the True Grit double black diamond trail at Waterville Valley.
When I think about it, my pleasant memories from our recent trip have little to do with skiing. My most idyllic moments include sipping coffee with a splash of hot chocolate while reading my Pushcart Prize collection of short stories (during one of my many ski breaks), kicking off the shin-bruising boots at the end of the day and lingering in the hot shower back at the lodge. Mostly I loved sitting around in the evening with friends, talking about our day and our children.
If I try a little harder, I can recall some ski-related good times, like the thrill of making my way down Oblivion, Tippecanoe, And Tyler Too before the pain in my quads became unbearable, and my success getting on and off chairlifts without falling, or worse, wiping out a stranger. And I will never forget the beautiful sight of the snow-capped peaks from the top of Sunnyside.
Some not-so-great memories, though, are still on the surface. Like the panic we felt at the top of White Peak, when after stopping for coffee we were hit with winds gusting at close to 60 miles per hour. Skis and poles (thankfully not ours) were blown clear off the mountain as I crawled on my hands and knees to retrieve mine. The winds had blown most of the snow from the trails leaving huge patches of ice. In the midst of the blinding snow-swirling wind I thought, “This is about as far from fun as it gets.” I wondered how I’d ever make it down alive, and just how bad conditions had to get before they closed the lifts. After two more wind-whipped runs, all but one lift was closed for the remainder of the day.
For the most part, the bad memories are starting to fade. It seems there is a direct correlation between the level of pain in my legs and my recollection of what caused it; as the aches subside, so too does my memory. Like childbirth, in time I’ll forget—or at least repress—the pain, remembering only the good parts before eagerly choosing to go through it all again. Who knows? Next time I may even try True Grit.
I’d forgotten all the work connected with skiing, which is much like camping in that respect. There’s the pre-trip task of finding things—long underwear and ski socks and goggles and mittens. There’s the renting of the ski equipment, and the schlepping around in those clunky ski boots, the ones that press painfully into shins. There’s the cold and the wind and the frost-bitten fingers and toes. And there’s the difficult mission of making it down the mountain, suffering quiet humiliation as kids whiz past, no problem.
There’s the long, arduous walk to the car at the end of the day—back straining, quads aching, shins bruising, skis and poles perched precariously on sloping shoulders. Since it’s only been a week since our trip, these are my memories. In time, I know I will recall the fond ones.
As a kid, I was an excellent skier. During my high school years, my family went to Utah every Christmas where we skied down the majestic slopes at Snowbird and Alta and Park City. The conditions were perfect—ankle-deep powder, no lift lines and weather so mild we’d often ski in our sweaters. We’d hit the slopes as soon as they opened, skiing all day on intermediate and expert trails with barely a break. We never thought of taking a day off to rest. Not a chance.
I had several things going for me back then that I don’t have now—limber legs, infinite stamina, agility and, most important, no fear. The trepidation I’ve developed since my youth led me to choose the No Grit intermediate trail over the True Grit double black diamond trail at Waterville Valley.
When I think about it, my pleasant memories from our recent trip have little to do with skiing. My most idyllic moments include sipping coffee with a splash of hot chocolate while reading my Pushcart Prize collection of short stories (during one of my many ski breaks), kicking off the shin-bruising boots at the end of the day and lingering in the hot shower back at the lodge. Mostly I loved sitting around in the evening with friends, talking about our day and our children.
If I try a little harder, I can recall some ski-related good times, like the thrill of making my way down Oblivion, Tippecanoe, And Tyler Too before the pain in my quads became unbearable, and my success getting on and off chairlifts without falling, or worse, wiping out a stranger. And I will never forget the beautiful sight of the snow-capped peaks from the top of Sunnyside.
Some not-so-great memories, though, are still on the surface. Like the panic we felt at the top of White Peak, when after stopping for coffee we were hit with winds gusting at close to 60 miles per hour. Skis and poles (thankfully not ours) were blown clear off the mountain as I crawled on my hands and knees to retrieve mine. The winds had blown most of the snow from the trails leaving huge patches of ice. In the midst of the blinding snow-swirling wind I thought, “This is about as far from fun as it gets.” I wondered how I’d ever make it down alive, and just how bad conditions had to get before they closed the lifts. After two more wind-whipped runs, all but one lift was closed for the remainder of the day.
For the most part, the bad memories are starting to fade. It seems there is a direct correlation between the level of pain in my legs and my recollection of what caused it; as the aches subside, so too does my memory. Like childbirth, in time I’ll forget—or at least repress—the pain, remembering only the good parts before eagerly choosing to go through it all again. Who knows? Next time I may even try True Grit.
Monday, January 8, 2007
A Trip, A Fall and a Shot in the Arm
It couldn’t have been a nicer morning—clear, crisp, not a cloud in the sky. I was out for a solo-run through a little town in the Catskills on the last day of my vacation with my husband. And then suddenly, out of nowhere, I slammed onto the road, cutting knees and elbows, scraping the palms of my hands. It was not a pretty sight.
As I cursed myself for my careless stupidity, I tried to assess what had happened, desperately looking for evidence to justify such a fall. There must have been something—a pothole, a crack in the road, a random rock or tree branch? But no, nothing. I came to the only conclusion I could—that a mass of sinister air had morphed into the shape of a leg, sticking out and tripping me as I jogged by, just for the fun of it. What else could possibly explain such a thing?
Out of respect for the queasy souls of the world (like me) who can’t stomach graphic images, I will abstain from providing a detailed description of the damage. Suffice it to say my fall was followed by dizziness, nausea, a black out and a trip to the ER. I was as white as a ghost, further evidence, I told myself, of the sinister leg-shaped air apparition that had so cruelly tripped me up. After the oxygen tubes, IV’s and blood tests, I was given a Tetanus shot (a precautionary measure to deal with whatever foreign substances had embedded in my knees) and released to spend the last day of my vacation propped in bed.
It had been a while since I’d stumbled while running, in fact, in the days before this latest episode I’d just been thinking how long it had been since something like that had happened. Maybe that explains it. I’d fallen twice in two separate road races many years ago, and sprained my ankle on an acorn in another incident while just steps from my house. The weirdest fall I remember was about five years ago when I suddenly wiped out coming down Moose Hill Parkway. When I got up to survey the area I saw it—a brown-spotted banana peel strategically placed on the side of the road.
In the days after my latest mishap I hobbled along, taking it all in stride. In fact—and my husband and I got a laugh or two out of this—my biggest complaint and primary reason for taking Advil was the throbbing pain in my upper arm from that darn Tetanus shot.
Though achy and a bit stiff, a few days after the incident I was feeling well enough to go out to a movie. As I hobbled across the street to the Dedham Community Theatre, I turned to my husband, joking how I felt like Ratso Rizzo before doing my best Dustin Hoffman imitation, limping and wobbling along. My husband chimed right in—“we’re walking here, we’re walking here!” as I continued my exaggerated left leg-dragging jerky movement performance. It was then that I saw him, a guy coming the other way, leg wrapped in a knee brace, limping along. Mortified that he presumed I was mocking him (there was no evidence of my injury, my wounds covered by capris), I scurried along as fast as I could, struggling to stifle my laughter.
As with many things, there was a plus side to all of this. With a pass on doing anything remotely physical that last day of our trip, I got to finish the books I’d picked up at the little flea market on our way—“Zuckerman Unbound” (Philip Roth) and “The Stranger” (Camus). And, as I often do when I’ve read books by authors I like, I went to the library upon my return home to pick up others—“Zuckerman Bound,” which included the prequel and sequel to the Roth story I’d read, and Camus’s “The Fall.” It wasn’t until I began writing of my experience that I realized the aptness of that last title.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
As I cursed myself for my careless stupidity, I tried to assess what had happened, desperately looking for evidence to justify such a fall. There must have been something—a pothole, a crack in the road, a random rock or tree branch? But no, nothing. I came to the only conclusion I could—that a mass of sinister air had morphed into the shape of a leg, sticking out and tripping me as I jogged by, just for the fun of it. What else could possibly explain such a thing?
Out of respect for the queasy souls of the world (like me) who can’t stomach graphic images, I will abstain from providing a detailed description of the damage. Suffice it to say my fall was followed by dizziness, nausea, a black out and a trip to the ER. I was as white as a ghost, further evidence, I told myself, of the sinister leg-shaped air apparition that had so cruelly tripped me up. After the oxygen tubes, IV’s and blood tests, I was given a Tetanus shot (a precautionary measure to deal with whatever foreign substances had embedded in my knees) and released to spend the last day of my vacation propped in bed.
It had been a while since I’d stumbled while running, in fact, in the days before this latest episode I’d just been thinking how long it had been since something like that had happened. Maybe that explains it. I’d fallen twice in two separate road races many years ago, and sprained my ankle on an acorn in another incident while just steps from my house. The weirdest fall I remember was about five years ago when I suddenly wiped out coming down Moose Hill Parkway. When I got up to survey the area I saw it—a brown-spotted banana peel strategically placed on the side of the road.
In the days after my latest mishap I hobbled along, taking it all in stride. In fact—and my husband and I got a laugh or two out of this—my biggest complaint and primary reason for taking Advil was the throbbing pain in my upper arm from that darn Tetanus shot.
Though achy and a bit stiff, a few days after the incident I was feeling well enough to go out to a movie. As I hobbled across the street to the Dedham Community Theatre, I turned to my husband, joking how I felt like Ratso Rizzo before doing my best Dustin Hoffman imitation, limping and wobbling along. My husband chimed right in—“we’re walking here, we’re walking here!” as I continued my exaggerated left leg-dragging jerky movement performance. It was then that I saw him, a guy coming the other way, leg wrapped in a knee brace, limping along. Mortified that he presumed I was mocking him (there was no evidence of my injury, my wounds covered by capris), I scurried along as fast as I could, struggling to stifle my laughter.
As with many things, there was a plus side to all of this. With a pass on doing anything remotely physical that last day of our trip, I got to finish the books I’d picked up at the little flea market on our way—“Zuckerman Unbound” (Philip Roth) and “The Stranger” (Camus). And, as I often do when I’ve read books by authors I like, I went to the library upon my return home to pick up others—“Zuckerman Bound,” which included the prequel and sequel to the Roth story I’d read, and Camus’s “The Fall.” It wasn’t until I began writing of my experience that I realized the aptness of that last title.
(This column was originally published on townonline.com August, 2006)
Friday, January 5, 2007
A Thrilling Time at the Beach
This year's family vacation was quite different from a year ago. Last spring we were visiting colleges up and down the East Coast, traipsing across tree-lined campuses.
With the college search process thankfully behind us, this time we had no agenda. There were no Fiske or Princeton Review guide books to read and toss in the trunk. There were no brochures and college course catalogues to scan and collect at each stop. No, this year was nothing like that. The only things to read were beach books. Lots of them.
As in times past, this year we read and relaxed at my in-law's place in Luquillo, Puerto Rico. My in-laws are big readers too. Their shelves are filled with an assortment of books accumulated from vacations over the years - literary stuff like John Updike, Zadie Smith and Margaret Atwood - and rows and rows of suspense-filled thrillers.
I know I don't need an excuse to read a thriller. Any time, anywhere, I could pick up a Robert Ludlum or Ken Follett and be drawn into the world of assassins and political intrigue. The thing is, books like these just aren't as good when read in the comfort of one's home.
They need sand, waves and sun-block smudges on pages to complete the experience. Like hotdogs at a ball park, some things just have to be consumed in the environment in which they were intended.
I know this is true, because more than once I've tried to finish a thriller in non-beach surroundings. I can get away with it on the plane ride home. While there's no sun, sand or ocean at 32,000 feet, those things are still close enough in time and memory that I can trick myself into thinking I'm still on vacation. But after I get home? Forget it. Just can't seem to finish the book. Even a good one.
Our family has the thriller-reading compulsion down to a science. We read and pass, read and pass, exchanging books - one or two a day - with a quick review to the next person. "Riveting"... "A page turner" ... "You won't be able to put this one down." Or sometimes, "Don't bother," saving a family member from a time-wasting dud.
It was in Puerto Rico a few years ago I read Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code," followed quickly by the (far inferior) "Angels and Demons." This year, my husband read Dan Brown's "Deception Point," before passing it along to my daughter.
She passed John Grisham's "The Last Juror" to me, as I handed Grisham's "The Broker" to her. The passing thing is like musical chairs - there's a mad grab for a just-finished book, especially when given a thumbs-up from the last reader. My son hasn't gotten into thriller-reading so much, preferring the active side of beach vacations - boogie boarding, playing paddle ball, body surfing. He did, though, finish off "Animal Farm"- required reading for his English class.
Thrillers are perfect beach books. With dialogue like, "nice try" "wanna bet?" and "no lie," they can be easily consumed while lathering on sun-block and munching on a potato chip. This year I especially enjoyed Brad Meltzer's "The Zero Game." Set on Capitol Hill, it had all the right elements - murder, politics, shocking twists and turns.
Having been a Capitol Hill intern during the summer of '79, I was familiar with the world of Appropriations Committee meetings and creepy underground tunnels. Like the Congressional page character in the book, I too, ran errands, bringing sealed envelopes to VIPs in the Dirksen and Russell Senate office buildings. I'm sure, though, the messages in the envelopes I delivered contained nothing as intriguing as those in "The Zero Game." Or did they?
My fascination with political thrillers was no doubt rooted in my childhood, where I grew up in the DC area with a father who was completely immersed in politics. In addition to being a political junkie, my dad was an avid reader. And he loved thrillers. He was the first to get the new Robert Ludlum or John de LaCarre.
He always read from a hardback; he could never wait for the paperback version. It was my dad who urged me to read "The Day of the Jackal" and "The Eye of the Needle" while on a family beach vacation back when I was in high school. They are without a doubt the best thrillers I've ever read.
In addition to Grisham and the political thriller, I read the crime drama "Lost Light" by Michael Connelly. This story had everything - an unsolved murder, the disappearance of an FBI agent, stolen millions, a terrorist connection. And an appealing and very human hard-luck ex-cop named Harry Bosch, determined to solve a murder that had haunted him for years.
My daughter and husband were fighting over this one after my "this was great" review.
The last book I picked up was a literary suspense-type novel, "Samaritan," by Richard Price. I got about half-way through it on the beach, and read more on the plane ride home. It's sitting on my kitchen table now, still smelling of sea-salt, a few specks of sand stuck between the pages. I hope I can finish this one - it was quite good. And also, I really, really, want to know "who did it?"
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)
With the college search process thankfully behind us, this time we had no agenda. There were no Fiske or Princeton Review guide books to read and toss in the trunk. There were no brochures and college course catalogues to scan and collect at each stop. No, this year was nothing like that. The only things to read were beach books. Lots of them.
As in times past, this year we read and relaxed at my in-law's place in Luquillo, Puerto Rico. My in-laws are big readers too. Their shelves are filled with an assortment of books accumulated from vacations over the years - literary stuff like John Updike, Zadie Smith and Margaret Atwood - and rows and rows of suspense-filled thrillers.
I know I don't need an excuse to read a thriller. Any time, anywhere, I could pick up a Robert Ludlum or Ken Follett and be drawn into the world of assassins and political intrigue. The thing is, books like these just aren't as good when read in the comfort of one's home.
They need sand, waves and sun-block smudges on pages to complete the experience. Like hotdogs at a ball park, some things just have to be consumed in the environment in which they were intended.
I know this is true, because more than once I've tried to finish a thriller in non-beach surroundings. I can get away with it on the plane ride home. While there's no sun, sand or ocean at 32,000 feet, those things are still close enough in time and memory that I can trick myself into thinking I'm still on vacation. But after I get home? Forget it. Just can't seem to finish the book. Even a good one.
Our family has the thriller-reading compulsion down to a science. We read and pass, read and pass, exchanging books - one or two a day - with a quick review to the next person. "Riveting"... "A page turner" ... "You won't be able to put this one down." Or sometimes, "Don't bother," saving a family member from a time-wasting dud.
It was in Puerto Rico a few years ago I read Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code," followed quickly by the (far inferior) "Angels and Demons." This year, my husband read Dan Brown's "Deception Point," before passing it along to my daughter.
She passed John Grisham's "The Last Juror" to me, as I handed Grisham's "The Broker" to her. The passing thing is like musical chairs - there's a mad grab for a just-finished book, especially when given a thumbs-up from the last reader. My son hasn't gotten into thriller-reading so much, preferring the active side of beach vacations - boogie boarding, playing paddle ball, body surfing. He did, though, finish off "Animal Farm"- required reading for his English class.
Thrillers are perfect beach books. With dialogue like, "nice try" "wanna bet?" and "no lie," they can be easily consumed while lathering on sun-block and munching on a potato chip. This year I especially enjoyed Brad Meltzer's "The Zero Game." Set on Capitol Hill, it had all the right elements - murder, politics, shocking twists and turns.
Having been a Capitol Hill intern during the summer of '79, I was familiar with the world of Appropriations Committee meetings and creepy underground tunnels. Like the Congressional page character in the book, I too, ran errands, bringing sealed envelopes to VIPs in the Dirksen and Russell Senate office buildings. I'm sure, though, the messages in the envelopes I delivered contained nothing as intriguing as those in "The Zero Game." Or did they?
My fascination with political thrillers was no doubt rooted in my childhood, where I grew up in the DC area with a father who was completely immersed in politics. In addition to being a political junkie, my dad was an avid reader. And he loved thrillers. He was the first to get the new Robert Ludlum or John de LaCarre.
He always read from a hardback; he could never wait for the paperback version. It was my dad who urged me to read "The Day of the Jackal" and "The Eye of the Needle" while on a family beach vacation back when I was in high school. They are without a doubt the best thrillers I've ever read.
In addition to Grisham and the political thriller, I read the crime drama "Lost Light" by Michael Connelly. This story had everything - an unsolved murder, the disappearance of an FBI agent, stolen millions, a terrorist connection. And an appealing and very human hard-luck ex-cop named Harry Bosch, determined to solve a murder that had haunted him for years.
My daughter and husband were fighting over this one after my "this was great" review.
The last book I picked up was a literary suspense-type novel, "Samaritan," by Richard Price. I got about half-way through it on the beach, and read more on the plane ride home. It's sitting on my kitchen table now, still smelling of sea-salt, a few specks of sand stuck between the pages. I hope I can finish this one - it was quite good. And also, I really, really, want to know "who did it?"
(This column was originally published on townonline.com April, 2006)
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