The Point

It's been long enough.  I should probably explain myself, eventually.

Most people don't know this is my fourth active blog project.  However, it is the only public blog project tied to my real name.  I wanted a place where I could post under my own name for two reasons, and I finally decided I could put them both under the same umbrella.

First, I love writing.  I often get ideas for books or short stories, and lately I've had more opportunity to flesh them out from inspiration to text.  I'd like to be able to share them, but until I find someone who wants to publish what I write, the responsibility for releasing these into the wild falls to me.  Admittedly, I don't share everything here--I still hold on to a small, wriggling hope that I can some day become a real writer, with a benevolent publisher, three-book contract, and fervent following, so I hold some of my best in reserve.  After all, who buys cows when there's free milk all over the internet, amiright?  Thus, I use this space to share some of my stories, and a few pastiches, but I like to think of them as bait.

Second, I love getting outside and doing fun things.  I like sharing those experiences (you may call it bragging.  I probably wouldn't argue) and encouraging other people to get outside, too.  There are some big adventures I'd like to have: through-hiking the AT and PCT, visiting Australia, hiking in Alaska, and touring Europe to name a few, but my meager budget has limits.  I found that disheartening and disappointing until I was walking through Bend one day and realized how much fun I was having looking at things within ten minutes of my apartment.  I discovered hidden treasures in my own city, and I realized I had done it before, many times.  An adventure doesn't have to be big to be worthy, or exciting, or fun.  When I was a kid, our family would often go on "Mystery Trips."  We'd pile into the car and my brother and I would have no idea where we were going until we got there.  We'd try to figure it out ahead of time, believing we were cagey and clever when we asked how we should dress or what we should bring, trying to glean information that could gain us insight into the day's destination.  We almost never figured it out until we started seeing signs or familiar territory.  I have many fond memories of those trips to museums, zoos, and parks, and I look forward to tormenting my own kids in similar fashion.  The small adventures are no less adventurous for their scope, and you can have them every weekend if you like.

In my perfect world, National Geographic would call me one bright morning and tell me that they'd like to consolidate a few jobs.  They need a gear tester for Adventure, a travel writer, and a decent photographer.  They would hand me a pack full of interesting gear, a camera, a plane ticket to some exciting new place, and a sturdy laptop or notebook.  I'd go off into the world for a couple weeks, using and abusing a new backpacking stove, sleeping bag, and travel clothing, write up my opinions on the equipment and colorful descriptions of the places I went, waterfalls I jumped, and people I met along the way.  When I returned, I could exchange my pack and a flash drive full of photos and text for a paycheck and a new set of gear.

It doesn't have to be Nat Geo; any similar gig would be fine.  You get the idea.

Since this is not a perfect world, despite what Leibniz may tell you, I'm still waiting for that job offer and book deal.  Until then, I have a place where I can post some stories, share my little adventures, and maybe an occasional bittersweet love letter.  Every adventure is worthy.  Each day can show you some small glimpse of beauty.  Find it.  Even the effort will improve your world, or at least your view of it.

Sandbridge

We slipped out early and drove east.  There was no specific destination in mind; we only knew that if we went far enough, we would find a beach, and if we found a beach, we could play in the ocean and sand.

Sandbridge beach fronted the houses people use to escape the rest of their world; the houses they bother to name, located on streets with nautically themed titles and no defined edges because the sand creeps in on everything, encroaching on driveways, sidewalks, inside spaces, porches, and the scrubby little plots that might be lawns in any other area.  As soon as we arrived, we knew our time there would be limited.  Dark clouds stretched across the northern horizon, from the houses and hotels to some undetermined spot far out in the ocean.  If you watched long enough, you could see the flashes of lightning in their dark bellies.  I dropped my bag and ran for the water.

The slope is shallow, and by the time I was deep enough to get my shoulders under while standing, people on the beach were tiny specks.  I let myself drift back in with waves, and saw a large school of fish coming down the shore towards me.  Waist-deep, I could see the rougher texture they gave the surface of the water for dozens of yards in every direction.  The closest edge was only a few feet from me, and I stood still, waiting for the moment when I would be in the middle of a frenzied flurry of fins, but whenever they got close enough to recognize my presence, a great wave went through their bodies and the closest edge of the school surged away from me again, eyes wide at the surface of the water as they roiled over one another.  Above me, the edge of the clouds gave sharp delineation between the clear skies to the south and the storm approaching from the north.

Some people began slowly gathering their things, knowing the end of their day at the beach was imminent, but their pace belied how little they had to travel to shelter.  We had brought very little, and it only took us a moment to shoulder our bag, pick up our sandals, and start back towards the boardwalk that jutted into the sand like a taunting tongue.  I didn't even get to fly a kite, but perhaps that was for the best.  We had been granted a brief break in the weather for our little adventure before driving back through the storm to the hotel, and dinner.  Something with seafood.

photo credits for this post are The Girl's

More Great than Dismal

Near the eastern end of where Virginia meets North Carolina lies the Great Dismal Swamp.  At one time, escaped slaves hid here in small enclaves, using tools left behind hundreds of years earlier by Native Americans, or raiding nearby farms and settlements to survive.  Now most of it is a National Wildlife Refuge.  I found it because I happened to be in the area, with a day to kill, and looked at a map with the intent of finding somewhere I could hike, outside, unimpeded by pavement or traffic.  The entrance I chose may not have been the best for hiking trail selection, but it did offer me access to the pavilion with interesting information about how the swamp had harbored escaped slaves (I feel like there should be a bodies-of-water pun in that sentence, but I can't figure out what it is), and the only driving access to Drummond Lake.

The refuge is marked with a network of perfectly straight ditches of apparently stagnant water.  The roads run parallel to these, and it seems sometimes like one serves the other, but I'm not sure which is in either position.  Are the roads for the sake of the ditches, or are the ditches there for the sake of the roads?  As I drove in, I saw several herons sweeping low above the road, keeping just ahead of me.  Later, while walking along one of the ditches, I heard a steady stream of turtles plopping into the water from various logs and other perches.  In the drier sections of the preserve, cicada song rose and fell in the trees with a steady rhythm, like a wave in a stadium.  Along the ditches and obviously water-logged sections of the refuge, the songs came from frogs that were always somewhere I couldn't see.  Once, I heard something that must have been a deer rushing from my view, because nothing else in the area is that large, fast, and loud.

As I neared the lake, I saw something white in the middle of the narrow gravel road, and stopped to get a better look.  I never left my car, because I didn't want to scare it away, but I'm not sure I could have bothered this egret too much.  He knew it was his place, and I was just visiting, and saw no reason he should cede access of the road to me.  I waited patiently, taking far too many pictures of him as he strutted nearer and nearer to my car, until I finally decided to try creeping around him very slowly, and he finally flew off over the swamp.

Lake Drummond is one of only two natural lakes in the state of Virginia.  At roughly 9 miles in circumference, it's also the largest of the two, despite averaging 2-3 feet in depth.  The water looks black because it's filled with sediment.  It drains into the lake from the swamp and bubbles up from the ground.  A few times, I thought I saw something flop at the surface of the water, but by the time I was close enough to the splash to see what caused it, the splasher had dropped below the surface and was effectively invisible again.

I've spent a lot of time lately isolated in the city, surrounded by pavement and high buildings.  It felt good to spend a day in the swamp, in sweltering heat, even if the trails were arrow-straight and bordered, or were perhaps bordered by, ditches of black water.  The trails I found weren't that interesting, but the environment was.  It was definitely more great than dismal.

Bitter Muffin Bakery

I don't want to make a habit of leaving posts like this here, but The Girl worked from home today, and with forecasts in triple digits, I felt that going out for a long weekend ride may be inadvisable.  Instead, I stumbled out of bed at 7 and went to the kitchen.  In order, my accomplishments for the day were:

Oregon Cheesecake

Cheesy Sexy Bread (personal sizes)

Chicken Pasta Salad

I also finally saw The Avengers and realized that I can't be a superhero, because my hair is not fabulous enough.  I was going to make oatmeal raisin cookies, but then I remembered that I was tired, and apathetic, and the fridge was very, very full.

GOBA 2012

When I was nine years old, my mom, two of her sisters, and a couple other friends embarked on the inaugural Great Ohio Bicycle Adventure.  I trained with them as much as they would let me, but I was told that I was too young to join them.  They were probably right; they still had to stop often to let me catch up.  In my defense, my bike was much smaller--and so was I.

When I was eleven, I got to ride GOBA for the first time.  Fifty miles of biking a day, every day, for a solid week.  We camped in tents at fairgrounds and school campuses, showering in their facilities or in semi trailers refitted for that purpose.  For the first time in my life, I was part of a traveling biker city which descended upon small towns like a swarm of spandex-clad locusts, devouring everything in sight and disappearing by dawn the next morning.

I loved it.

In September, when other kids started getting wound up for Christmas, I thought "it's only nine months until GOBA!"  It became a family tradition, and our riding group grew, peaking at around fifteen friends and family members.  2012 was GOBA's 24th year; my aunt has only missed two.  I've honestly lost count of how many I've ridden, but I think it's in the neighborhood of fifteen to twenty (I missed a couple years when I had to work, go to school, or couldn't afford it).

It's also become something Dad and I can do together.  I tend to ride a little faster than him these days (he has a great bike, but I still have an edge on hills), but several years ago GOBA started including loop days and a century option.  On days when we need to secure a campsite, I ride ahead from the second food stop and find a place for our tents, get the luggage, and set up camp (when The Girl started riding, she found out that part of riding my speed is doing more work when you get to camp).  On loop days and Saturday, I get to ride with Dad; last year I convinced him (on his shiny new bike) and The Girl to join me on the century ride.  This year, he suggested it.  GOBA is the week we get to hang out together without worrying about shoring up someone's house, trimming trees, or even doing laundry.  A lot of people would look at 400 miles of riding in a week as a brutal punishment, but for us, it really is vacation time.

This year, we started riding from Hillsboro, and spent the next two nights in Yoctangee Park, in Chillicothe.  We found an expansive mural, watched part of a criterion race, and drank dollar margaritas at a local tavern until they ran out of tequila.  That's how we roll.

Can you tell which windows are real?  How about that slate roof?

I wanted to include this detail because that lady looked at me, and it gave me the willies.

 The Girl rode her first century with us last year (it was also Dad's first, and my... third?), but opted out this year due to meteorological and dermatological concerns.  Plus, the last twelve miles into Wilmington the day before really pissed her off.  They pissed all of us off, and I don't think I go too far to include the other 2,000 riders in that statement.  It was slightly uphill, completely exposed (the only shade trees we could see were well back into the endless cornfields on either side of us), and most of it featured a headwind.  The Girl did the smart thing and drafted me.  I did the belligerent thing and pedaled hard, occasionally growling.  She might have made the right call; a couple parts of the century loop were very similar, but we did get to see my new favorite barn quilt and a pair of confusing signs.

Pay no attention to the smudgy UFO; I need to clean my lens.

I had no idea how to proceed.

Our midway food stop was unsupported by GOBA; they routed us to a tiny town called New Vienna.  There were only two tiny restaurants in town.  Not great news, but not bad, either.  The bad news was that a storm had come through a few days earlier and destroyed the roof of one of them.  The other bad news was that nobody had told New Vienna that they would soon feed a couple hundred hungry riders.  The diner that was still open ran out of bread and had to call in two more people to help staff the place while Dad and I were there.  They apologized profusely; so did we.  I was just happy to feel like I had experienced one of those moments from GOBA's early years, when our host towns honestly had no idea what to expect, and the gang of bikers would shut down entire restaurants, but I felt really bad for the staff of the diner.  They did the best they possibly could have, and probably set a local record for business done in a day, but they could have managed more easily if they had been warned ahead of time, instead of suddenly being swarmed with spandex.

That night, after Dad and I had found something to eat, the four of us went to downtown Wilmington for dinner (I know--but on GOBA, sentences like that make sense).  We didn't have any particular plan, but that worked out well, because we ended up wandering into two really neat places.  The General Denver Hotel, named after an American badass (also the namesake of Colorado's capital), is home to one of only two manually-operated elevators still running in Ohio.  I've never seen one of these in person, and I was really impressed to find out that two of them were in Ohio, much less that I got to step inside this one (only staff were allowed to run it, and I had no business on other floors, so I didn't get to go for a ride).

After we decided that the General Denver was way too busy for our dinner plans, we stepped back outside and I noticed that the nearby Murphy Theater offered tours.  I had no idea what to expect, but I'll tour just about anything if I think it might be cool, and I had high hopes that we'd get to see parts of the the theater one wouldn't usually see.  Our guide picked up on that and showed us everything.

Dad is easier to find than Waldo.  He's the one in the white hat.

 We got to see the Rope Room, high above the stage, and pull the lines to see how heavy the curtains and backdrops are to move; we went down through the dressing rooms and saw the under-stage entrance to the now-closed orchestra pit (she told us that no other tour that day had seen that, but after hearing that I wanted to see everything, she obliged--she even opened the door to the loading dock so we could peek outside), and I got to go into the box seats for the first time in my entire life.  The box seats in this theater have a peculiar acoustic property: you can hear the people in the matching box seat on the opposite side of the theater.  A couple people, unaware of that feature, have left believing that the theater is haunted.  One guy who had done work for the theater and received box seat tickets in gratitude had been sick and full of cold medicine during the performance and thought he had hallucinated the voices.

Each of the box seats has a small plaque with a fitting quote.

 Back on the street we found another, even larger, and more detailed mural.

None of these people are real, but Picasa wanted to label them.

We found large, tasty sandwiches for dinner at Jen's Deli, in the same cavernous space as a book/toy/furnishings store owned by Jen's dad.  They were also chock-full of bikers, and locals excited to see that their usual lunch spot was open unusually late.  Beware Jen's cookies.  If you ever get one from me, I guarantee there will be something creative inscribed upon it.

On the last night of GOBA, there is always a song contest.  This year's featured an unusually high number of portable toilet jokes, but it ended with me (and the woman who tied with me) winning sweatshirts for counting the barn stars we passed during the week.  Dad and I also got to talk to the gentleman behind Sojourner Cyclery, who hand crafts gorgeous black walnut bicycle frames.  I'd be afraid to ride it outside, but man, they were pretty.

Shenandoah strolls

I fell way behind on updates.  My apologies; June has been kind of a big deal.

Two of The Girl's high school buddies (now married to each other for one convenient package) invited us to join them for a weekend of "camping and hiking" in Shenandoah National Park.  I was so excited that it was only a slight letdown when I learned that their idea of "camping" was "cabin with a hot tub."


That's ok.  I still got to go hiking.

I also took charge of the menu, as is my wont (my wont is also to use the phrase "as is my wont" at every opportunity), and baked two apple Dutch Babies to fuel us for the first morning.  The oven was only large enough for one at a time.  Oops.

It's also my wont to go swimming in frigid streams whenever I get the chance.  As luck would have it, we found this pool right around lunchtime, and there was nearly enough sunlight for me to dry out afterwards while munching a pepperoni roll.  Sadly, it was not nearly deep enough to allow jumping, but it was still so cold that when I stood neck-deep in the middle of the pool, I couldn't get my chest to expand enough to yell over the sound of the waterfall.

The Girl informed us these were mountain laurel blooms.  Most of the other blooms had passed.

On our last hike, I saw a small sign for "Cave Cemetery."  Following it, I found a small graveyard which I assume was a family plot; most of the surnames were Cave, and a protected chart on a signpost indicated that their were several unmarked graves for the Cave family.  There were a couple wooden markers dated as recently as 2006, and some obvious replacement markers for graves dating back to the Civil War.

I've always been fascinated by natural history (I'm especially proud of my 5 year old godson's encyclopedic dinosaur knowledge, which far surpasses my own at that age), and although the Shenandoah is not known for its fossil beds, I did learn a valuable lesson about evolution.

TV lies

Over the weekend, I took a couple bike rides.  I don't really know how far I went, because the battery in my odometer is dead, and I haven't been able to find anyone willing to sell me only one replacement battery.  The first battery lasted six years.  Why would I want a two-pack?  I checked my routes on Google (they have a nice Beta feature to map routes along bike trails, but DC is a bad place to get really detailed directions that way because the trails are marked even more sporadically than the roads), and it looks like I managed about 40 Saturday and a bit less than that Sunday.  Blame for these abbreviated rides may be assigned to either my own lethargy, or my bikes urgent need for new bearings and gears.  Take your pick.

Yesterday I ventured along trails to Silver Spring, Maryland, where I was surprised to find the Discovery Channel.  They had a "sensory garden," which sounded interesting, so I stopped to have a snack and look around.

I'd like to think that a garden outside the headquarters for a cable which, although a corporate, for-profit entity, purports to be at least semi-educational, would get its own facts straight.  I let them slide on calling the garden a fractal design (it was arrayed in progressively smaller circles, though I don't know that they followed any mathematical structure)--we'll call that artistic license.  I'll even look past what I thought was a misspelling of "Crepe Myrtle," because after a quick bit of research I learned that their version may be an acceptable alternate spelling, but it still makes me itchy.

However, this is a flaw too far.

NOT Oregon Grape Holly

I'm from Oregon.  Oregon Grape Holly is the state wildflower.  I know Oregon Grape Holly.  This is NOT Oregon Grape Holly.  It's not even close.  I looked around, hoping the sign had simply been placed in front of the wrong plant, but Oregon grape holly was nowhere in that entire garden.

Myth: Busted.