Temperatures have stayed below freezing for multiple weeks. Most nights last week were in the single digits, with highs in the teens when the sun was up. My husband texted during the week, do you want to hike the Cascades Saturday morning? I want to see it after all this cold.
When we pulled up to the trailhead at 10 am, the thermometer still below freezing but at least in the 20s instead of the teens, the parking lot was full of cars. Everyone in town wants to see the frozen Cascades.
It snowed and sleeted here a couple of weeks ago, and plenty of people have hiked to the falls since. The trail was slippery and treacherous as a result. The snow was packed tight from all the footsteps, and we had to use hands, feet, and butts to make our way without breaking any bones or falling into the frigid stream. On several short descents, we got down to the ground and used the path like a slide. About a hundred times, I thought, I wish I had a hiking stick. That, and hand warmers.
But oh my God, was it worth it. I really struggle photographing snow, and I could barely manage my camera because my hands were ice cubes, so my photos don’t do it justice. And of course, pictures don’t capture the hollow percussive sound of the stream glooping against the crust of ice above it, or the glitter of sunlight on the snow when the trail broke out of the shadows. They don’t capture the sounds of the college kids’ laughter as they slid on sneakered feet and bowled icicles on the frozen pool at the base of the waterfall, or the smell of cold forest air along an icy mountain stream. But they do capture some of the pretty shapes created by shadows, water, ice, and snow.
Stream from above on a trail bridgeSo smooth!The first hint of sunlightStream under iceI love this rock and its shadowCool blueIce palaceOn the waterfall pool
Fall has arrived, and I am happy. We went south to North Carolina yesterday; the leaves are almost done here in Blacksburg, and we hadn’t gone for a single hike yet. We didn’t want to miss our chance to soak up the warm glow of a jewel toned forest.
We arrived at noon, which is much later than we typically hike, and the parking lot at Hanging Rock State Park was full. Cars circled at a crawl, rolling down windows to ask anyone on foot and near a parked car, “Are you leaving?” We joined the circling line, eventually found a spot, then got in another line to use the bathroom before heading to the trails.
Once we were in the forest, leaves crunched underfoot. My chest swelled with contentment as I listened to them scrape and scuttle. In a sunny spot near the lake, the air bloomed with the aroma of warm pine straw. I inhaled deeply to take in the scent. Here, the trail felt soft with the fallen needles of evergreens, now golden brown.
The light was strong and contrasty, and I wasn’t confident I’d be able to get any good photographs. It occurred to me that maybe black and white would work well in these conditions, so I had fun breaking out of my regular habits to try to look for light rather than color. Instead of looking for red maple leaves or golden beeches, I found myself examining stone instead, and how pretty it looked in the light.
The stone looked pretty in color, too, especially covered in lichen, coppery leaves, and golden November sun, or set against the colorful autumn treetops beneath it.
On our way down from one of the peaks, two outdoorsy college-aged women with braids down their backs passed us on their way up. They looked happy and healthy, one with her knee taped from athletic strain. In their wake, I smelled coconut, like summer at the beach. Like our daughter’s favorite sunscreen. My heart swelled again as I thought of her away in college in Florida, having fun with her friends, even if their activities are swimming and river-tubing instead of hiking.
The trails were more crowded than we’re used to — we forgot it’d be crowded midday, we’re so used to hiking right after the sun comes up and nobody is around — but I liked to see so many people out enjoying nature. I think I’ll go for another walk now while the sky is blue and a few remaining trees gleam ruby.
Last week was A Week at work. My husband and I had a getaway on the calendar that we’d scheduled back in August, and I was grateful for the chance to put our everyday lives away for a couple of days. After riding hills and mountains all the time here at home, we wanted to see what it felt like to ride flat roads. And we both were craving the coast.
We put our bikes on the roof rack and headed to a little bed and breakfast we’d visited back in 2021. When the innkeeper asked what time to expect us for breakfast, Brian and I looked at each other — do we want to eat before we ride, or after? The whole reason I exercise is so I can eat. I wanted the anticipation of breakfast while we rode.
“Food is my reward. I want to eat after we ride,” I said. We told the innkeeper 9:30. We got up early Saturday morning, before the sun, and rode out as soon as it was light.
We rode close to 30 miles and it felt great. It was so easy compared to the hills back home. The roads were quiet, and the sunlight glowed on the marsh. When we returned for breakfast, the coffee, fruit, oat pancakes, sausage patties, and baked egg with cheese and dill were deeply satisfying.
We didn’t have anything else to do, so we went for another 30 miles after breakfast, this time to several of the nearby beaches.
We showered, got lunch at a Mexican restaurant, where I ate all the guacamole I could bear, got a coffee and walked around the quaint little town of Gloucester, and then went back to our room, where we collapsed into a deep and beautiful afternoon nap.
Besides eating, weekend naps in daylight, where your mind and body stop with the mania — no more thinking, no more doing, just blissful surrender to daytime drowsiness — are one of my favorite things in life.
Sunday morning, we rode again before another delectable breakfast, this time of spinach, egg, and cheese casserole, fruit, bacon, asparagus, and lemon panna cotta with honey and toasted almonds. In all, we rode close to 90 miles over the weekend. It’s probably been 20 years since I rode that much in that condensed a time. It felt great to empty my mind and my body, and to come back home refreshed.
I’m sitting in the window seat in our hotel room in old Montreal. A dog bark echoes off the building walls. I hear the hum of delivery trucks, gritty footsteps on the cobbles below, a man’s low voice on the quiet morning street. A breeze lifts the gauzy curtains. I’ve always wanted a window seat, to read in, to write in. For the moment, I have one.
I have a milestone birthday coming up. I told my husband I didn’t want to spend it in an empty house with both kids newly gone away for college. He planned a trip away to Montreal for us, and I am so happy. I have drunk in tremendous art in our days here. Along the cobbled street outside our hotel, we’ve ducked into several small galleries. Hanging in the window of one, Espace Langlois, is a pencil sketch of a solemn-faced boy. He wears a flamboyant, drapey yellow bow tie.
The painting is arresting. I love this little boy. I love him so much. Every time we walk down that street, I tell Brian, “I want to go see my little guy.” He reminds me of both my dad and my son. He looks wise, serious, super intelligent, and witty. If I won the lottery, that painting would be the first thing I’d buy.
The painter is Louis Boudreault, and I am captivated by his art. The mandarins. The blue pigments. After my tenth or twelfth visit to the window, I finally investigated to see whose portrait I admired. It is Albert Einstein.
We walked to the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts Saturday. Once in the museum, I used the tactic I learned in Bianca Bosker’s Get the Picture to get the most out of our visit: when I walked into a gallery room, I found the one artwork that sang to me, and I stood in front of it to drink it in. I looked at it from different angles and distances. I spent time with it. I noticed five things. I paid attention to the choices the artist made. I sat with whatever responses happened inside of me; I paid attention to how it made me feel. I did not read plaques. Afterwards, I regretted that I didn’t at least photograph the descriptions so I’d know who the artists were, especially since the gift shop didn’t have postcards of any of the ones I loved. Thankfully, the internet delivered; the museum has a digital gallery so I could find my favorites and sit with them some more.
The exhibit of Flemish and Dutch art hung in galleries whose walls were painted nearly black. The darkened galleries created the perfect backdrop for the bloom of light in the paintings. Most were deep tones with a glow of warm light that shone on silk garments, forest scenes, or still lifes. Brian pointed out a still life he liked. He said he doesn’t usually care for still lifes, but he liked that one. I said, I love still lifes, they’re my favorite.
And then we walked into a whole room of them, and I gasped with pleasure. One was a scene of wreckage on a table, the aftermath of a wild party filled with seafood and meat pies. A pitcher is overturned. A lemon peel hangs from a lamp. In the background is lobster who sneaks from one level to another. It looks to me like the lobster caused the mischief. This painting delights me. The shining nautilus. The rich blue riboon.
Christian Luycks (1623-1670), Banquet Still Life with Silver and Gilt Vessels, a Nautilus Shell, Porcelain, Food and Other Items on a Draped Table, ca. 1650. Montreal Museum of Fine Arts
From the museum, which itself is a work of art with its open spaces, clean lines, and satisfyingly sturdy, rectangular handrails, we looked out and saw the mural of Leonard Cohen as part of the Montreal cityscape. I felt bathed in goodness.
Leonard Cohen, Montreal
Saturday night, we went to the Upstairs jazz club in an underground, exposed brick room. We had tickets for the Taurey Butler Trio. I leaned my head against the bricks at one point and closed my eyes to focus on the music. I’ve started meditating recently, and I emptied myself like I try to do when I meditate. The music filled the openness inside me.
I listened and was in awe that humans have created things like pianos. It struck me that everything in that room was miraculous. How wondrous that our ancient ancestor humans cared enough about creating music that they figured out how to strike strings to make sounds, and then made strings of different lengths or thicknesses to enable different sounds, and developed instruments so that they could create music with those sounds. And then spent hundreds of years refining those instruments to refine the sounds, and put all those sounds together to make music that doesn’t just touch our ears, but touches our souls. I thought about the building, the tables, the glassware, the cocktail shaker I heard, the electricity that created the light in the room, the thousands of human creations all around us. I was in awe of us as I often am, that we exist and have made all of these things.
On Sunday, we visited the Botanical Garden, where humans design beautiful spaces in harmony with nature. The tresses of a weeping willow swayed in a gentle breeze in the Chinese garden. A tiny tree hugged a boulder. Another stood strong atop its rock. We walked a winding path among conifers, and another among ponds and lilies. I stopped and smelled roses.
Weeping willow in wind, Montreal Botanical Gardentrees, boulders, roses
And I haven’t even talked about the food! Sauces and soups like velvet. Blistered peppers, fresh salads, watermelon and feta. Breads! Cheeses! Pastries! Or the cathedral, which made my eyes prick with tears when I walked inside and saw the wonder of the space.
My soul feels full. I am in awe of the excellence humanity strives for. I am deeply grateful for the beauty people create and share with the world.
We are at our final Airbnb in Costa Rica, near Tamarindo Beach. We are in a resort area that clearly caters to wealthy tourists. It’s cute and fun, with a whole food truck village (which we haven’t eaten at), and the beaches are gorgeous.
Our daughter and I spent hours at the southern end of Tamarindo Beach yesterday. Our first spot was under a tree down the beach a few meters from a guy juggling machetes. He’d stroll out from under his tree into the sun, we’d hear the metallic schling of one blade running down the other, and then he’d toss them, one, two, then three, and juggle. He’d do that for a few minutes, then catch them each out of the air, then walk back under his tree and sit in his chair he had there. He also juggled what looked to be torches, were it night and the bulbous ends were on fire. He was practicing. He was there for hours.
Our daughter was happy as a clam, laying in the sun and taking swim breaks to cool off in the Pacific Ocean. The waves were gentle, unlike the first beaches where the surf was so big it seemed it’d crush you or pin you under or tumble you or suck you out to sea. After hanging out at the beach for a while, she and I walked to Costa Juice for Pitaya (dragonfruit) bowls, which I’m now addicted to and I want to eat all the time.
12:12pm
I’m sun-screened and bug-sprayed and sitting on a lounge chair in the grotto at the house. I’m in the shade, cross-legged on the lounge chair, leaning forward to write on the end of the chair. I took a brief cool-off dip in the blue-tiled swimming pool a few minutes ago. The water was refreshing since the pool gets some shade. I’m mostly dry now, but my arm may be damp at the bottom corner of the page. It’s just our son and me here; Brian and our daughter are at the beach. I’m reading Hemingway’s Garden of Eden again. I picked up and put down several other books after State of Wonder. This was the only thing I was in the mood for.
I shopped this morning with hour daughter. We went into a tiny artisanal coffee shop off on a side street that roasted their own coffee. I told the woman I’d like to take some home, and she told me all about the coffees and how they’re grown on small farms here in Costa Rica, and roasted here, and I didn’t really care that much but she was passionate about it and sweet and clearly loved the coffees and let me smell them all, and I bought a bag of the one she said is her favorite, and I’m happy to have some coffee to take home with us.
I can feel the sweat beading on my upper lip, and my right arm glistens in the sun as a write. The pool’s fountain tinkles, and I hear a bird whistling in the neighborhood. A breeze moves the pam frond text to me, and the shadow of another sways across my page.
3:30pm
A wind has come up. I’ve moved out of the air conditioning and back out to the grotto where I can hear palm fronds swoosh and every few minutes, the low growl of thunder. Raindrops dimple the pool’s surface. Now they splash. Rain rattles on the corrugated roof above the patio table where I write. Thunder rumbles over the ocean and the sky is dark. Maybe I should pour a glass of wine. Lightning just flashed in my peripheral vision. Now a thunderclap and a hard clatter of rain. the wind is blowing spray under the roof and my pages will soon be wet. The air smells of wet stone, warm from the sun.
This is really only day 8; I apparently didn’t journal on day 7, and day 9 was actually days 9 &10 and was mostly the ordeal of cancelled flights and journaling from airports and an unexpected hotel stay, none of which I care to relive.
I’m sitting on a giant outdoor futon by a turquoise pool in La Fortuna, Costa Rica. The sun is a smudged glow behind clouds, just above the trees that edge the river that runs along the property. The air is full of bird cries. High twee-twits, a melodious whistle twee twittle twee, a laughing cacacacaca, the cluck of chickens, the cock a doodle doo of a rooster, the hoowa hoowa of something dove-like.
The pool is edged with yellow and green variegated plants, and red and green ones too, along wtih something like a bird of paradise except that the flowers dangle and look like toucan beaks rather than lifting up to look like long sharp bird bills. At the end of the pool are broad-leafed plants almost my height and with giant showy iris-like flowers in lemon yellow and flame orange, and hummingbirds drank from them last night as I floated in a donut inflatable in the pool with a cold glass of white wine.
By the river, the trees drip with lime-green bromeliads and dangling vines that drop all the way from the treetops to just above the water’s surface. Insects whirr. A yellow leaf falls gently into the moving water and drifts downstream.
When we arrived yesterday and piled out of the Suzuki, we went straight to the pool and saw it sparkling in the afternoon sun, filled with inflatable floaty toys that drifted around its edges: two beach balls, two pink-frosted donut inner tubes, a fun noodle, two long lounging floats, and a giant pink flamingo you could lay your whole body on and be a foot above the water and stay completely dry. And a basketball hoop! Our son immediately began looking for a pool basketball.
This morning, when I came out here, the flamingo was dressed up. One donut was around its neck like a necklace. The other was around its back end and had the fun noodle stuck through it to give the flamingo a long arching tail. It had a lounger float under each wing like skis, and the yellow frisbee was on its head like a halo. The flamingo floats around the pool in this getup in the morning sunlight, and each time I see it, I’m tickled all over again by what I assume is Brian’s doing after the rest of us went in last night.
Saturday May 25, 2024. 6:15am
I swam laps for 10 minutes in the pool this morning. The water was too warm and I felt like I was overheating, even at 5:30am. It got me moving, though, which was better than not swimming. Now I sit by the water in the rising sunlight. The volcano is straight ahead of me, La Arenal. Black birds, probably grackles, squawk on tree tops. The monkey masks on the little cabanas around the pool look creepy with the sun rising on them.
Sunday May 26, 2024. 6:24am
I’m on a bench by the pool. Roosters crow from the farm across the gravel road. The sky is heavy with clouds. I can’t see the volcano or the surrounding mountains. It hasn’t rained at all since we’ve been in Costa Rica. We expected rain every day.
We saw sloths yesterday! After lounging by the pool most of the morning, and after Brian and I went into town to eat at Lulu’s soda for a casado, a local meal of rice, black beans, plantains, salad, a tortilla, a small wedge of cheese, and grilled fish, we drove over to a nature sanctuary, the Bogarin trail in town, where we took a mile hike through a forest and saw leaf cutter ants carrying leaves and flowers in long trails along the path. We saw lizards and a giant moth that was not alive but was posed as if it were; I wondered if the guides had put it there. The place we went offered guided tours for $50 per person; self-guided tours were $16. We did the self-guided tour.
We looked to the treetops so much our necks ached. We did not see sloths, nor did we really know where to look or what to look for. We wondered if maybe we should have done the guided tour, though none of us wanted to have to engage and be social and be led around.
But about halfway through the outer loop, either Brian or our son spotted a small sloth hanging from a branch. It was close enough that we could see it’s little face! It was so cute we all wanted to die.
The hike started pleasantly in terms of temperature — we expected to be sweating buckets, but in the shade of the green forest, the temperature was surprisingly tolerable. As the minutes ticked on, though, and my backpack smothered my back, I became slick with sweat. We went in the afternoon, maybe around 2pm, and we walked slowly to look for sloths. The sun sets at 6pm, and by 4, the light was getting low. Mosquitos began to emerge, and I soon was covered in bug bites and was ready to come home. Our stomachs were growling, too. So after seeing the first little sloth, then near the end of the loop seeing a message drawn in the dirt of the path, “SLOTH look up,” and looking up to see a big sloth, then going back to see the little sloth again, we hiked out.
Our son wanted pizza — “something smothered in cheese” — so we stopped by the Papa Johns that was on the way home and that we had previously laughed about looking so out of place. I drank chilled white wine and we ate pizza in front of the TV while we watched F1 qualifying for Monaco.
Now it’s time to move Airbnbs again. This time we move from the jungle house with the pool to the beach house with the pool in Tamarindo. Only 3 more days in Costa Rica. I’m ready for it to end and not ready for it to end.
Butterfly Mind 