One small step

Yesterday was the fiftieth anniversary of the first American manned space flight. This morning I went for a run. I jogged across the field at Bluemont park in the flat early morning light. The brown winter grass was covered with frost. No one else was around; the only sound was my feet crunching the ground. It felt very much like taking a jog on another planet. If a local park can feel this otherworldly, what must the real experience of being in space be like?

The Virginian Canaan, 2012

Canaan Valley is a place of mixed signals. On the one hand, it gives off a feeling that its best times, the boom times of coal extraction and timber harvesting, are behind it. Driving along one sees tumbledown shacks and dilapidated mobile homes, and many of the storefronts in the towns of Thomas and Davis stand empty. The area’s amazing natural beauty has, however, given it a second wind as a mountain resort town, though when bad luck hits – like this year’s snowless winter – that wind dies down to an asthmatic breeze. Still, the towns offer an enticing mix of mountain bike shops, art galleries, small inns, antiques, and funky restaurants. The proprietors tend to be outdoorsy types themselves, more friendly to visitors than mountain-folk stereotypes would lead you to expect. It was this post-coal mountain paradise that served, as usual, as the destination for my kayaking friends’ annual ski trip.

Except this year the ski trip wasn’t a ski trip. It’s been an almost snowless winter up in Canaan, and so the days leading up to the trip were filled with a flurry of emails about alternate activities – all involving the outdoors, food, alcohol, and relaxation. No one was concerned that the lack of snow would hinder our good time.


Thursday night: I arrive after the long drive out from Tysons Corner, including a few death-defying moments on the twisties of the West Virginia roads. We’ve rented a bunch of rooms at the Bright Morning Inn, plus Doc’s Guest House behind it. I drop off my bags in my room and head across to Doc’s. Nelson & Caroline, Dave & Cyndi, Rob and Peter 1 are already there. They give me grief because I’m still dressed for work (hey, I took off the tie). I retreat to my room to change, pick up a veggie burrito from Hellbender Burritos across the street, then return to hang out.

Friday: The day’s plan is to hike the Canyon Rim trail. But first there’s a kind of leisurely breakfast at the inn. I remember the waitress from last year. She’s a college student who works there on the weekends. She’s majoring in nutrition – a funny major for someone who spends her weekends serving huge plates of bacon and eggs, French toast, and breakfast burritos.

By morning our group had grown by two people: we added Mike & Allison. I had met Allison at kayaking rolling sessions but hadn’t met Mike before. The group did the Canyon Rim Trail as a loop hike, covering maybe eight miles on a mix of trails and forest roads. The weather was amazing for February – crisp, but warm enough that we all had our jackets off. The trail was squishy and muddy in spots with melted precipitation, but not too bad. As we hiked the edges of the trail I passed along Teddy’s admonition about Leave No Trace Hiking – that you really should stick to the trail, no matter how gloppy, to avoid mucking up and widening the edges (thereby leaving a trace, or not leaving no trace - whatever). In response I got a lot of shrugs.



Lunch along the Canyon Rim Trail

The trail had some nice features: a tall observation tower to climb, a couple of nice canyon views. We paused for a lunch break at one of the canyon views. At my instigation we paused to try and find a geocache, but despite climbing up higher on the rocks than I really felt comfortable with, we were not successful in finding it. At the end of our hike we stopped off to gawk up close at the gigantic wind turbines of a local wind farm.

Friday night brought the arrival of the rest of the group: Jen and Suzanne, Leslie and Mark (kayak racer friends of Cyndi’s), Peter 2 and Gina. Friday also brought our great group feast. First, at Cyndi’s direction, lots of people had brought cheese for a cheese tasting. We had so, so much cheese: gouda, goat, buffalo mozzarella, manchego, cheddar, and more. The quantity of cheese became something of a running joke for the rest of the weekend. After a more than ample wine and cheese course we moved onto the main dinner – Gina’s much anticipated quinoa loaf, with chicken for the carnivores. And more wine. And salad. And cheese. Desserts included a hazelnut torte I had brought from the Heidelberg bakery, cookies, and pie. Sated, we all just hung out. Conversation turned, as always, to trips taken, trips planned, and outdoor gear. I’m generally a little bit on the sidelines of these conversations; I simply don’t take as many trips as many of these childless or empty nester folks. However, the array of scotches on hand, both single malt and blends, gave me an opportunity to describe Teddy & my Scotland trip from this past summer.



I was the only one without a roommate (this was by choice) and as the evening wound down I was happy to retire to the warmth and privacy of my little inn room.
 

Jen, Suzanne, Peter and me at Lindy Point



Saturday: Saturday we split up into sub-groups; you just can't get 15 people to agree on any one activity, and no one really expected that we would. Frankly, the amorphous splitting and re-joining of subsets of people over the weekend is part of the fun. Some folks wanted to downhill ski (possible, barely, at Timberline, where they make snow). Some wanted to go to Timberline to use its gym and pool. Others, including me, wanted to do more hiking. Those of us staying on the inn side started the day with another generous breakfast served to us by our nutritionist waitress. Peter 1, as always, had a fully worked out nutritional plan – he was ordering a breakfast with a mix of proteins and carbs to give him sustained energy, but planned to go for the French Toast the following day when he wouldn’t need as deep an energy store. As we all set out there was a vague plan for everyone to meet up at the Timberline ice skating rink at 2 PM, subject to whatever else was going on. My sub-group did not make it to the rink.





Along the Dobbin House Trail



As is their wont, Peter 2 and Gina and Allison and Mike went their separate ways. The weather forecast threatened cold rain and snow, so Suzanne, Jen, the well-nourished Peter 1 and I headed for Blackwater Falls State Park – a place where we could get in a good hike, but which wasn;t very remote and so was an easy place from which to retreat if the weather turned bad. We set out to hike the Dobbin House Trail and wound up taking some side trails which took us out of the park into the national forest land. A very pretty area, with wild rhododendrons and mountain laurels, and the characteristic high meadows. A lot of this land was clear cut a century ago; the amazing beauty we see today is actually relatively new forest. We hiked down to some small falls along the Blackwater River. After we finished our Dobbin House loop we also did the short Gentle Trail, and walked to Lindy Point to see the awesome view of Blackwater Canyon there. The Lindy Point trail is 0.4 miles each way. The bushes on either side of the trail are thick enough that it would be pretty much impossible to wander off the trail. Still, it was incredibly heavily blazed – Peter counted fifty two blazes along the trail. That’s a blaze every forty two feet, perhaps little bit of overkill. Finally, we drove back to the lodge with the intention of walking down to Blackwater Falls overlook but it had started snowing and the park rangers had closed the long wooden stairway which leads down to the falls. Peter went down anyway while the more law-abiding members of the group checked out the falls from up top and read about how a 19th century travel writer, under the pseudonym Porte Crayon, had been the first to write about this area as a “Virginian Canaan”.

By the time we left the falls it was snowing fairly heavily and so we decided it was time to head back to town. We figured we’d stop in Thomas to get a warm drink. Along Thomas’ single thriving block we detoured into a couple of stores before finally making into the Purple Fiddle for our beverages. First, an accordion in the window of an antique store caught my eye. I went in and played it. There was lots of other cool stuff in the store too – Jen wound up buying a decorative glass window. Then we went into the Mountain Crafts gallery. Finally, made it to the Purple Fiddle, a local live music venue and hangout joint. At 3:30 in the afternoon it had a mellow vibe, though things almost immediately picked up with the arrival of a wedding party – a couple was getting married at the Fiddle! Bride and Groom, guests, cake, minister, musicians (the opening act for the evening’s performance). We decided to finish our drinks and high-tail it out before the ceremony got under way, since we figured it would be rude to walk out during the wedding and we didn’t want to get trapped there. We got back to Doc’s to find Gina and Peter 2 had already gotten home and laid out the day’s cheese supply. More cheese consumption and hanging out ensued while the various sub-groups gradually trickled back home.

Dinner Saturday night led to another splintering into sub-groups. Some folks ate in, buying groceries at the nearby “Stop and Shave” (really the “Shop and Save”) market. Jen, Peter 1, Suzanne, Allison, Mike and I went to the Italian place up the street. Having had my fill of cheese, I skipped the pizza and went instead for the pasta putanesca. According to the menu, the recipe was graciously provided by Manganaro’s in New York City, a place I know well, as it was one near my father’s office and was among his favorite lunch spots.

After dinner we regrouped again. Some people went to the Purple Fiddle to catch the show. Others caught some different music: I had brought my accordion, and the Bright Morning Inn had a piano (in tune!) in the common room. Jen had brought her guitar and some music books. The two of us proceeded to make earnest attempts to play a number of songs, sounding good on some while completely butchering the rest. Fortunately someone had thought to bring over one of the bottles of scotch from Doc’s, which improved the audience’s enjoyment of our quasi-music-making.

Sunday: We awoke to a change in seasons: overnight the snowfall hadn’t been heavy, but a couple of inches and a drop of temperature had taken us from fall into winter. After an early breakfast at the inn (Peter 1 indeed ordered the banana French toast; still full from the previous day, I downshifted to yogurt parfait and wheat toast) the day’s hiking sub-group (Nelson & Caroline, Peter 1, Jen, Suzanne, Leslie and me) headed for a trail just outside of town (past the Stop and Shave) which had been recommended by our innkeeper Susan and which had been hiked by Gina and Peter 2 the previous day. We had originally planned to do a short out-and-back hike but we enjoyed being in the woods in the snow so much we carried on and made a loop out of it for a total of about five miles. By the time we made it back it was the tail end of lunchtime and we were hungry!

Trees and snow

In addition, some of us were missing Whitegrass – the local cross-country ski area and home of an endearingly shabby ski lodge, an endearingly shabby staff, and some of the world’s greatest soup, so after loading up our stuff we said some goodbyes (some people were staying into Monday, others of us were getting on the road) and headed over there to eat lunch and browse the ski shop. Whitegrass looked strange in its almost snowless state; like a recently shorn sheep. The parking lot was nearly empty and more of their business was coming from the restaurant than from skiers. They weren’t serving their mind-boggling curried lentil soup, but the Mediterranean chickpea was a happy substitute.

Finally, a cup of coffee in hand, I hit the road, taking the southern route through Seneca rocks and heading home. Yes, there had been very little snow, but that didn’t detract one bit from a marvelous weekend.

More pictures here

Beauty in the Strangest Places

This morning I went out back to get some firewood. Along the way I noticed a ring of ice crystals inside a piece of PVC pipe I have stuck into the vegetable bed (I use it to support a cold frame). I grabbed my camera and took this photo.

Paddling with Orion

The Potomac is only about a third of a mile wide at Memorial Bridge, but at night it seems much wider. This part Thursday Peter, Moulton and I took advantage of some unseasonably warm weather to do an Ice Pirates paddle. As we paddled down dead center in the river, the cars on the Virginia side were far enough away to be no more than a hushed drone. To our left, the monuments shone as always. They appeared large until I looked up. There, revealed through an opening in the clouds, was the constellation Orion, dwarfing the rest of the scene. Orion is, of course, a fixture in the winter sky, but somehow its (his?) enormous presence seemed particularly striking this evening out over the relative darkness and open expanse of the river. The rest of the paddle home on the calm river was graced by his presence.

Of Two Minds About Winter

I go through a cycle of thought again and again when I go paddling in winter. Naturally, it's usually cold as I put my boat onto the car. I feel the sting on my hands when I touch the racks and the cam buckles on the straps. I hate cold hands. "OK, this is it," I think. "Winter paddling has been a unique experience, but it's really unpleasant. I've earned the bragging rights for having done it, but after today I'm done."

At the put-in point I wrestle into my cold weather gear. Pulling the tight-fitting dry suit over my head is extremely unpleasant; once in place the gaskets are tight around my neck and wrists. The stiff zipper across my back limits my mobility. Again, my hands are cold. I am cold. "This is ridiculous," I think. "I'm going to be uncomfortable the whole time I'm out. I really think I'm going to switch to something else in winter time. It's crazy to do water sports in freezing weather."

I set out in my kayak. The coldness of the water makes me nervous. A capsize, harmless in the fall and even enjoyable in the summer, could be fatal in near-freezing winter time water. "I am so done with this," I think.

Then I get going. Slowly, I warm up. After a while, the sting of the cold disappears even from my hands. I notice a special feeling. The water itself seems to be more viscous while the air is light and crisp. The scenery, in a winter palette of browns and grays, stands out in high relief. An eagle is easily visible in the bare branches of a tall tree. It takes flight, gliding majestically past us. The sun glints off the water and warms us a bit. There is an feeling of total quiet. There are no jet skiers and few other boaters. We see few people even on shore. It is, as is so often the case with winter paddling, magical.

My paddling companion and I arrive back at Riley's Lock all to soon. Still in our dry suits, we walk over to the C&O canal towpath and gaze out over the Potomac. A peaceful quiet pervades the scene. I linger, looking forward to my next opportunity to experience the magic of winter on the water.

A Guilty Pleasure

I have to admit that I feel guilty doing it. It's just not something that people like me do. In fact, I have spent years looking down on people who do it.

I'm talking about powersports. Activities which involve using a motor to have fun. I have always been a people-powered person. On the water I scowl at jet skiers and water ski boats. On the cross-country ski trails I shake my head at people who ruin the pristine winter wilderness with snowmobiles. Being something of a car guy, I go a little easier on the pleasures of motorized vehicles on land. I don't expect car owner to be a super-miler in a Prius, but I also give a pretty wide berth to ATVs and dirt bikes.

But now I'm motorcycling. Over the summer I fulfilled a "bucket list" item by learning to ride a motorcycle (Valerie took the class too). For the last month or so I've been tooling around on a borrowed Kawasaki Vulcan cruiser, and I must say I'm enjoying it. Riding a motorcycle is ridiculously impractical, particularly in a densely populated area such as where I live. There's little feel of the open road when there are five stop signs between home and the supermarket. Commuting to Tysons Corner is only for the suicidal. Even the highways in the area - I66, the Beltway - don't lend themselves to easy riding, except at really off hours.

In my brief riding career I have experienced a fresh horror at the terrible driving habits of Washington area drivers. I have become pretty inured to them in my "cager" (biker sland for car-driving) mode, but motoring along on two wheels gives you a fresh perspective on the cell-phone-talking, makeup-applying, left-turn-from-the-right-lane habits of my fellow Northern Virginians. Riding is pretty impractical too. You can't carry much on a bike, and it requires special clothing, which is another limiting factor in using a motorcycle as a commuting vehicle. Motorcycling is really a form of recreation rather than transportation. People ride for fun, and quite frankly I have more than enough forms of fun that I don't get to in my life. I think that if I buy a bike it'll just sit in the driveway looking forlorn and making me feel guilty.

Have I mentioned it's fun? There is something pretty cool about being astride this motorized beast, leaning it through corners and feeling the acceleration when I twist the throttle. The wind in my hair (OK, you can't feel the wind in your hair when you wear a helmet. Oh, and I don't have any hair). Also, motorcycles are cool. I love looking out the window at the thing. I find myself spending time looking at motorcycling web sites - gear, bike manufacturers. There's also a community of riders. One day when I was riding to work another rider exited the Beltway and merged into Rt. 123 right in front of me. As he pulled into the lane in front of me he flashed me a peace sign. Suddenly I felt like part of the tribe.

Speaking of tribes, I have also joined the email list of The Tribe, the DC area club for Jewish motorcyclists. Yes, there is such a thing. I haven't met any of my fellow kikers ... ooops, bikers ... yet, but I can't wait to!

I even had a biker bonding moment at work the other day. I went in for a meeting with my new boss and noticed his office had a lot of motorcycle-related stuff in it. Turns out he's really into riding - commutes every week from his house in the Northern Neck to his pied a terre in Tysons on his Harley. We had such a good time talking bikes we almost forgot to talk about how his plan to eliminate my department's budget, which I guess I can categorize as two engineers' equivalent of a barroom biker brawl.

Anyway, I am conflicted to death on this bike thing. Dropping another couple of thou for a hobby (I'm already into music and kayaking for that much or more)? A dip into a world where people burn gasoline for pleasure? So confused. I think I need to clear my head. A ride on the bike would be just the thing ...

Focus

Mindfulness has come up a few times recently. Last month I did a paddle with a kayak Meetup group at Mason Neck. It was different than a CPA paddle in that there were a wider range of participants - relative beginners in rented rec boats, a guy in a one-man wooden canoe, up to an ACA Level 4 instructor. As a result, there was less focus on getting-somewhere-fast and more on just being in the moment. On the way back, I took particular notice of this tree stump and cormorants. Being sharply in focus on a slightly hazy day, it somehow seemed extra real. I stopped and looked at it for a while. Being aware of being in that spot at that time was wonderful. Interestingly, this is not my photo - the trip organizer, BayMystic, must have thought there was something noteworthy about this spot too since he took and posted the shot.

Not long after, I sat in Yom Kippur services. The rabbi's sermon was about, of all things, focus vs. multi-tasking (things have changed - I don't remember my childhood rabbi talking about iPhones!). Sitting there, having just been reminded about the specialness of every day both by the liturgy and by the very recent and unexpected passing of a family member, I decided I would try harder to be fully conscious and to in the moment.

And then I promptly forgot about it.

Kidding. Sort of.

This post is for you, dear readers (I'm optimistically using the plural), but it's also for me, to remind me as I look back over posts in the future to keep working on my mindfulness.

Now, what was I writing about?