on coming home

view of the Akershus Fortress and the Oslo fjord

I've been home for five days now, after a three-week journey through northern Europe. I wrote a brief reflection on the trip as I sat in JFK before the final leg of the trip home, before the vacation had worn off and the jet lag had set in. I'd like to share it, and some more pictures, here.

westward bound

It feels like a secret I've been keeping too long.

Four years ago, on a trip through California, we fell in love with the western half of the United States. Each year since, we vacationed in Utah, Arizona, California again, Washington and Oregon, and each time we've told each other we hoped to live closer to these amazing places someday.

In two weeks, my friends. Two weeks. I will call Seattle my new home.

on Lake Union

People ask why. Why would we leave our house and the friends we have in Georgia? Why would we leave our jobs here? (We will do essentially the same work remotely for the time being.) Why would we change almost everything in our lives from the past eight years when we don't have to?

Because we can. Because why not? Because the way has been paved with grace and we have taken one step at a time in that direction and will continue to do so. Because the seed that was planted long long ago has begun to send a green shoot out of the ground and lean toward that light.

North Cascades National Park

It still hurts to leave. I've been all excitement and finally and this is happening, until about a week and a half ago. I cleaned off my desk at work and said a few goodbyes, made a weekend trip to visit some writing friends in Tennessee, and then began the following week camping with another writing friend on the Georgia/South Carolina border. I will go back to the office for a luncheon party where I'll get to hug everyone one more time. We've packed our days with bittersweet meals and outings with dear ones from church and work, trying our best to say "see you later," and not "goodbye." We make promises that we will be back.

somewhere outside of Lincolnton, GA

Despite my best efforts, I will be leaving part of my heart in the American Southeast. I've grown to love the trees and the soil, the sun, the drawls, the potlucks, the back roads. But our hearts are infinite things, if we allow them to be.

alone

When my uncle died in 2006.

When I started my low-residency MFA program in 2010 and every six months for the next two years.

When I drove to Kentucky for the Hindman Appalachian Writers Workshop last July.

my bunk in the Hindman dorm

These are the times (not many but there will be more) that I've traveled alone. Gone through security alone. Carried luggage alone. Navigated streets alone. Stopped for gas alone. Woke up in a different bed alone. And alone means so many different things. In the case of Hindman, I had three roommates plus, but that first night I was still alone.

Each time I've traveled alone has been a gift to me in ways I've taken for granted. Each trip has added something to my life, layer upon layer. To walk through unknown environments, among strangers, has filled me with a sense of my own self and my own strength. I have to be present to every moment; no one else is taking care of the details for me. I am both fully responsible for myself and like a child in the world, seeing everything for the first time.

When I get wherever I'm going, if there's no familiar face waiting, it's up to me to make connections and be the friend I hope to find. As a shy person and an introvert, this draws out skills I don't use when I'm around the same people I see every day, every week. Traveling alone takes away my social and conversational fall-back plan (Andrew), and I am not one to retreat from a challenge. I say hi, I ask the dreaded small-talk questions: i.e. "Where are you from?" I make awkward conversation for a minute and eventually, almost every time, chit chat turns into something better, warmer, more personal. By the end of a week, I have friends I'm crying at the thought of saying goodbye to. Friends I can't wait to see again.

Hindman 2013

Lesley 2011

Traveling alone reminds me (1) that I'm not lost in the world, (2) that the secret to being liked is to like people, and (3) that I have whatever it takes for whatever the journey.

Hawaiian breakfast buddies

I miss sharing fresh pineapple on the lanai every morning.

skyline

purview of the Boston AWP conference 

I love Boston. I love it even better in the snow. Socked in, hushed, humbled, warmer inside than out. Filled with 12,000 writers from all over the world. We took over the city, or at least our corner of it, leaking out of the convention center and dashing into restaurants and bars. Talking shop. Talking life. Talking horizons.

The River Guide

Last Saturday, Andrew and I went on a four hour kayak trip down a stretch of the Etowah River in north Georgia. First time kayaking for both of us. The sun never came out; the wind stung our cheeks much of the way and made us paddle hard just to go downstream; the work made my arm and shoulder muscles knot up and pinch; I ripped open a cuticle because my knuckles kept scraping the kayak whenever I dug the paddle into the water. I had to make an emergency stop and climb up a bank to pee in the woods. More than once, navigating over and between boulders in the shallow water, our kayaks wedged to a stop and nearly overturned.

But we're already planning our next kayaking trip. 

Because we didn't take our phones or camera, I have no pictures of my own from the day, but you can see some more gorgeous pics from other trips on the tour company's website.

Whenever I look down at my arms I see new muscles and think of how after a while the counter-intuitive nature of steering and paddling became normal. I think of how the water felt surprisingly warm compared to the air. How I saw blue heron and, for the first time, a kingfisher and a bald eagle. How the giant sycamore leaves stuck to my paddle and black walnuts as big as tennis balls bobbed beside our kayaks. How a woman in a lawn chair facing the river waved at us and called, "You're the first paddlers I've seen! I just moved here two weeks ago!" I think of how I learned to detect boulders by the way the light curved off the surface of the water above them.

How it felt to be carried along by currents who knew the way through the riffles and were a helpful guide if I kept pointed in the right direction.

phantom pain

Friday was the first day of the first MFA residency I will not be attending since January, 2010. Every residency started on a Friday, each January and June. Friday was the day I normally flew up and reunited with friends like long-lost family. Friday was the meet & greet with new students. Friday was the day we all attended the welcome reception with Steven's announcements and the inevitable call to Jana or Janet for help.

Last Friday I felt the phantom pain of not traveling, of not hugging and laughing and going out for dinner and drinks.

For those who don't know, I graduated from a low-residency MFA program this past January. Prior to that, every six months I traveled to Cambridge, MA, to attend a 10-day residency at the campus of my school.

This past Friday, at the time I normally would have been landing at BOS, I met a friend at Starbucks here in Georgia. Ever the people-watcher, I couldn't keep my attention only at my table, and I watched/listened to two guys across the patio who were clearly from Boston, hanging out in my small Georgia town. They had the unmistakable accents, and one of them wore a Fenway t-shirt. Universe! Must you rub it in?

I'm sure I'm not the first or only graduate of a low-residency program to feel this way. This is not anything special. But I can't not talk about how I miss the camaraderie, the creative and intellectual stimulation, the conversations over dinner & over drinks later, hearing other writers' work & learning from the way they think about their work. Sharing life.

I miss you, A, M, L, M, E, S, R, S, S, L, ... Can I just say, I miss you Lesley posse?

order of business...

...upon returning home after a week away. These are my priorities:

dispose of furballs (both the shed and the regurgitated kinds),

feed them the treats they've been without for a week,

have some quality hang out time,

play time,

 

and finally,
staring out the window time.

It's good to be home.

Is it a sense of adventure I suffer from, or rootlessness?

Growing up, I never really imagined myself living more than a six-hour drive from my hometown in central Illinois. Somewhere easy to get back home for the holidays. And I never imagined I'd marry someone whose family lived ten hours east in Pennsylvania. And I never imagined I'd live in Georgia.

But here we are. 

And now that the seed has been planted, I want to live so many other places: Colorado, Maine, Canada, Europe... That's right. I have loved/would love to visit those places on vacation, but somewhere inside me wants to really live all over the place. Become an insider in lots of communities, in lots of landscapes, in lots of cultures.

However, this sense of what I think is adventure or wanderlust conflicts with the part of me that believes in the soul's connection with the land of their birth. I love the flat cornfields of Illinois. I can't help it. I love the simple, friendly-farmer ways, even at the same time that I want to be in the midst of a progressive literary community and vibrant diversity. Most importantly, I love my family, and most of them live within a day's drive of our hometown. Except me and one brother. I hate that I can only see most of them once a year, and we have to pick a holiday instead of being able to enjoy them all, and birthdays and anniversaries and graduations. (I realize I should be thankful that I get to spend even one special time of year with my family--there are many who have lost family, or are estranged from family and don't even get the option.)

This year everybody--my immediate family and spouses--are getting together for Thanksgiving in Chicago. Even my brother in California and his wife will be there. And Andrew and I weren't going to be able to go. But then we reevaluated our schedules, Andrew arranged his work schedule and made last-minute sacrifices so that we could drive to IL for Thanksgiving. 

I'm, seriously, SO thankful. And really excited. Have I said yet that I love my family?

So that's what I'll be doing instead of blogging on Friday. Have a happy holiday everyone! Enjoy your roots this week, or maybe, enjoy doing something adventuresome.

A map of the Story

A map of the United States came in the mail today from the Sierra Club. On one side are our states, our cities, our major highways, and the topography of our land. On the other side are regional environmental challenges: water pollution in New England, mountain top removal in Pennsylvania, deep sea oil drilling in every body of water that meets our shores.

I lost track of time studying the topographical map, the cities, the regions, the rivers. I'm supposed to be writing a novella. That's what I've been up to lately. It's my fourth and final semester of my MFA program, and I want to do the best work I'm capable of so far. I want to do better than the best I've been able to do, up till now.

I wish I had a map for my story. I want the topography of my characters. I want to see where their streams flow, where the headwaters bubble out of the ground. I want to see their capitals as well as their hidden gems. And on the flip side, I want to know where their conflicts are, what crisis do they need to face, and how do I march fearlessly toward it?

Writing takes trust, courage, and some kind of dim vision, I think. Most writers aren't lucky enough to get the bird's-eye view of their story before they set off down a road and find where it leads. Maybe a little like driving with a GPS.

On a recent weekend camping trip, our TomTom turned us off the state highway and led us down a narrow gravel road, no telling what we'd find along the way or where we'd come out of it. We topped out, in good parts, at 25 mph under dark forests, passing hidden driveways and no-trespassing signs, not a single other car on the road for miles. We were awake and alive to every detail around us. And then, we cleared through the trees and sailed onto blacktop, surprised and a little disappointed.

If I could write like driving down that road, that'd be just fine with me.

Tabs

I'm bending the rules a bit--need to be good and put school work before blogging, since I have a big deadline in a week! So I'm not going to finish this A-to-Z challenge in April. But I will finish. Aiming for posting every other day now. On to my topic!

Who else out there opens their internet browser--Chrome for me--with the sole intention of checking their email and ends up with a dozen or more tabs open? Just say the magic words, Open link in new tab, or Ctrl+t. And follow the rabbit down the hole.

Borrowing the idea from someone else's blog, I'm going to share what tabs I currently have open (or cheated and bookmarked on Friday when I came up with the idea). I think your browser tabs tell a kind of story, maybe about you, about your day, about what's happening in the world.

Most of my tabs have something to do with writing and books, which is unsurprising. Other pages relate to my other interests, like food and travel. The last tab is a little surprising, especially because I don't remember how I got there.

* * *

First there's my Gmail tab. Gotta take care of FreeCycle digests and school emails and friends' emails and, oh yeah, the endless stream of articles I send myself to read later, which I don't usually get to but I feel better knowing they're there.

Then Twitter. Between gmail and twitter came all the sites below.

A WSJ interview with Jennifer Egan, who just won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction for her novel A Visit from the Good Squad.

Next is a peek at a creative ad campaign for a bookstore in Vilnius, Lithuania that specializes in classic books.

A Rumpus article on Self-Publishing Dos and Don'ts--haven't read it yet, but I'm curious since the "literary" world is pretty biased against self-publishing, from what I've seen. The Rumpus seems to tread an admirable line between the indie literary arts and "serious" literature, whatever that means for sure.

A YouTube video of record-setting mountain climber Ueli Steck speed-climbing an Alpine mountain face. Maybe I'll use this for a story. Apparently I like writing about extreme sports I've never tried. I already wrote one on freediving underwater based pretty much on research and watching YouTube videos.

My friend Erika's blog (chambanachik), on which an epigraph for a certain entry quotes Anais Nin: "If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don't write." I went to high school with this girl but because we were a few years apart, I never really got to know her until I found her blog and realized what a talented writer she is. Go Erika!

Another one of the many blogs I enjoy following: clock&bell. A lovely writer, photographer, daydreamer, currently residing in Toronto, Canada. I found her through a story of hers that was published on Storychord, which I found when I read my friend Lindsey's story on that online literary magazine. Lovely people, they.

Next is a "Blogger of the Moment" feature on ModCloth.com, highlighting fashionable and crafty blogger Little Chief Honeybee.

Via The Rumpus once again: A link regarding a writer from Pittsburgh. My husband grew up in Pittsburgh and was kind of glad to leave, hence I was curious how this writer, a self-described Pittsburgher in exile, "explains why he wrote The Metropolis Case, 'set partially in Pittsburgh, [...] largely from memory.'"

Jim Wallis of Sojourners and the God's Politics blog, on his recent Hunger Fast for a Moral Budget.

A recipe for Veggie Pad Thai. I'll leave out the egg and the fish sauce, but otherwise, YUM!

And finally, a Google map of the town of Greystones, where I stayed during a week-long visit to Ireland in the fall of 2008. 

And, of course, my Blogger tab, which makes fourteen total tabs at one time.

Thanks for joining me on the ride! What kind of tabs do you find open after getting lost in the internet?

Fostering

I've written about our foster cats before, but I've never explained why we started fostering, and I never got to write about Robin before he got adopted.

Last October, on our magnificent two-week tour of Utah's national parks, we stopped for a day in Kanab, UT, home of Best Friends Animal Society, where the show DogTown was filmed (it aired a couple seasons on the National Geographic channel).

We spent the afternoon hanging out with the cats, specifically the FIV and special health needs cats. The idea  is, all of these cats are adoptable--friendly, affectionate, will live long happy lives--but in many eyes, they're damaged goods, unlovable. So the sanctuary takes them in and provides them with a great environment until somebody comes along or visits the website and adopts them.

Sometimes all a cat needs is for someone to just sit with him or her, so on their terms they can approach you and feel safe enough to receive affection. Some of these cats aren't shy at all about giving and receiving affection.

Anyway, we loved the idea of saving perfectly adoptable pets from being euthanized in overcrowded shelters, so when we came home we hooked up with our local Humane Society as cat fosters. This means we choose to rescue up to two cats at a time from the county animal control shelter and keep them in our home. We get to know their personalities, introduce them to our three other cats, and eventually take them to PetSmart on Sundays for adoption days.

First we fostered Art/Dodge. Rather than moving to the sanctuary in Florida as I wrote earlier, he found employment as a barn cat for a woman who works with the local Humane Society. He's got a nice cushy barn, ever-plenty food, and lots of nooks and crannies to play in.

Next we got Carson. He's a big hunk o' love if I ever met one. We have conversations about everything from his litterbox to what I should wear that day, and he loves to sit at my feet or be cuddled. His favorite pastime is to lick our cat Dawson's ears. We say they have a bromance going on; and on top of that, I'm a little smitten with him. He's going to be hard to give up.

Then we got Robin. He chirps when he purrs and loves to play with anything that moves, including, when we introduced him to the other cats, Carson. At first he was shy with Carson, but before long he was treating him like a jungle gym. He weighs probably a third of what Carson weighs, but when he pounced on Carson, the big teddy bear would yowl and run off as fast as he could. On my very first day taking any of our cats to PetSmart, within a half-hour of arriving and getting Robin in his display crate, a young couple came in looking for a playmate for their young female cat. Someone pointed them to Robin, and they fell in love. It was hard to see him go, and I had been dreading that moment. On the way to PetSmart, I had called Andrew, crying, wondering if he'd be OK not getting to say goodbye if Robin got adopted. Andrew's not as dramatic as I am--he's fine. But as for me, once I met the couple and saw how they handled him, I knew Robin had found a good home.

To replace Robin, a week ago we rescued Sally, a tiny one-year-old girl who mixes up her play and her affection. She loves to be loved on, but all of a sudden she'll flop on her side and try to wrestle your hand. We're teaching her appropriate boundaries. Play with toys, Sally. Hands are not toys. But her face just screams cuteness, and she loves to "make biscuits" with her paws. I'm sure she'll get adopted fast, too.

Camping

Andrew and I hadn't been camping in about 6 years. We love camping. We have no excuse. 

At the end of summer 2010, we started hiking more. We joined the Georgia State Parks Friends of the Parks, we joined the Canyon Climbers Club, and the geocaching community. When it got cold again, we resolved to spend more time next summer outdoors, enjoying nature.

A couple weeks ago it started getting warm again in GA, and we started itching to hike some more and finally camp. We've had a tent and air mattress, sleeping bags, flashlights, and some other gear, since we got married, and we've used it once. So we made lists, shopped for more gear like a propane burner to cook on, tin plates and cookware to dedicate to camping, lanterns, head lamps, etc. Andrew made a detailed list, planner that he is, and organized a "camping box" full of supplies. A week ago, we set up the tent in our backyard to make sure all the parts were accounted for. Last Saturday night, we filled the cooler, the box, and our backpacks with clothes and all the supplies we would need for an overnight trip and several short hikes over two days.

We left Sunday morning and hiked for geocaches at two state parks on our way down to the park we would camp at. Around dinner time, we arrived at Seminole State Park, pulled into our camp spot, and sat in the car as I finished reading Andrew a Wendell Berry short story. Suddenly he sat up. "We forgot the air mattress!" I assured him it was okay. That we could clear the ground below the tent and be comfortable enough with our thick sleeping bags. Then he said, "We forgot the tent."

Though he'd made a detailed list, I am also the designated last-pass-double-checker. We had rushed out the door, getting a later start than we'd hoped for, and each counting on the other to think of everything. The tent and the air mattress sit in the garage on the side of the car I got in on. Yet I didn't see them, and Andrew took for granted that he'd packed them. In our rush and excitement, we forgot the tent.

So we slept in the car last night. Just a different kind of roughing it, I said. Spent the rest of today hiking out the kinks. This won't be our last attempt at camping, but it almost doesn't seem like a first attempt since we didn't even sleep in a tent.

Still, we picked out a beautiful spot next to a wetlands area. In the video you can hear the chorus of frogs, birds, crickets, and whatever else was out there. Doesn't matter what you sleep in, any night is great if you can fall asleep and wake up to this.

Altitude

"I wish I had been born a bird instead," he said. "I wish we had all been born birds instead." -Kurt Vonnegut (Hocus Pocus)

Zion National Park. On the edge. The landscape swallowing me whole in an eternity's moment. I lost perception of I and another. Then I heard Andrew's voice calling, asking me to face him for a second picture.

I had to remind myself of my feet on the limestone rock. My mind had to reenter my body. I had to leave the heights where I hung suspended and anchor myself again to the mountain, turn my back on the valley that environed me. Slowly and with almost telekinetic effort, I made my feet move--shuffle--step--backwards first before turning around. Wedge a few more inches between myself and the valley's lure.

San Fransisco: Before, After, and After the Earthquake

You history buffs out there, or eclectics like me, might enjoy a comparison of these three videos.

Each video was taken from a trolley traveling down Market Street, toward the San Fransisco Ferry 

riding a SF trolley with friends in 2009

Building. You can see the spire of the ferry building at the end of the road in each of the videos. 

I'm interested in the difference not only in the buildings and attire, but the attitude, expressions, and gestures of the people caught on film. 

The first video, from 1905, pre-earthquake, is wild with activity. Rumor has it the cameraman hired his friends to drive around like maniacs in front of the trolley to keep the video lively. 

The second video, taken just after the 1906 earthquake, is not surprisingly more sober. But I was intrigued to see families--men, women, and children--walking the streets as if it were any old Sunday morning. 

The third video is modern San Fransisco, 2005, with characteristically busy pedestrians and drivers. Still, some were aware enough to smile and wave at the camera. I laughed out loud when 4:40 into the video one guy pushing his bike across the street waved his hat. It reminded me of a gesture someone from the 1905 video would have made. Word to the wise: listen to the third video on mute. The music is cringe-worthy. Sorry.

First, San Fransisco in 1905, the year before the earthquake and fires that virtually destroyed the city. This video is a chapter of a much longer video. This segment is 4:54 long. (Found via kottke.org) If the embedded video doesn't work, try this link:  http://fora.tv/2008/12/19/Rick_Prelinger_Lost_Landscapes_of_San_Francisco#chapter_12

Second, newly uncovered 1906 footage of the city right after the earthquake and subsequent fires. From 2:30 to 6:00 is the trolley ride down Market Street. The rest contains footage of some of the demolition and clean-up efforts. (Footage from devour via kottke.org)

San Francisco Earthquake and Fire from Red Channels on Vimeo.

And here's the third video: a trip down Market Street today... well, 5 years ago. Remember to mute this one. And don't miss the guy at 4:40!

I hope you've enjoyed time traveling with me and seeing how people have lived in and with the great city of San Fransisco. What else did you see in the videos that you thought was interesting?

Modern-day Treasure Hunting: For the Love of the Cache

A friend of mine recently mentioned that she was "nearing 30..." and the first thought through my mind was that she can't be nearing 30, cause we're the same age. But regardless of whether I acknowledge it or not, life is moving forward and I'm caught in the stream. One way I plan to avoid getting caught in the shallows is to try new experiences. Be adventuresome. So we decided to try geocaching!

On Friday, my husband and I took off work and drove about two hours north to the Piedmont/ Blue Ridge region of the Appalachian mountains.

Our first stop was Amicalola Falls State Park in Dawsonville, GA. We had two objectives here: (1) hike down and then back up the (alleged) 600 steps along the waterfall ravine, and (2) find the geocache hidden near the lodge.

[About geocaching: Some friends of ours (I'll call them S & S) are big-time into geocaching, driving around all day with a handheld GPS, hunting down hidden caches by their coordinates, logging in, moving on to the next one. They were the ones who finally convinced us to try geocaching by lending us their little Garmin GPS. Here's what it's all about.]


The Georgia State Parks has a Geo-Challenge, which states if you find all 42 caches hidden in that many parks and historic sites, and stamp your PassPort with that park's unique stamp, you get geo-coins! A bronze coin for 15 caches, silver for 30, and gold for 40. Since we enjoy (and need an excuse) to hike in parks anyway, these are the caches we'll do, rather than those hidden in people's yards or in parking lots. We'll save those for days we're really bored.

So first we hiked the falls. We are also part of the Georgia Canyon Climbers Club, which means if we hike all four state parks that take part in this club, we get bragging rights. Oh yeah, and a t-shirt. (We're really not suckers for kitschy prizes, I promise!)

We parked at the top of the falls, climbed down about 425 steps to see this:

Amicalola Falls

From the bridge straddling the falls, we enjoyed the cool breeze and a chance to stretch our legs. (Going down stairs is a lot harder than you would think! Especially if you're nearing 30.) Andrew took lots of pictures with his classic "continuous shot" technique, so the above picture is one of 20 that look almost identical. While we were there, our GPS caught enough satellites to coordinate our position. Apparently a basic handheld GPS doesn't work very well under tree cover, but once we'd been on the bridge for a while it finally locked on. So, satisfied that we had a few good pictures and that the GPS worked, we trudged on. Down 175 more steps and a long downhill path to a reflection pond.

Friendly nature-people pic

Along the way we met another couple hiking uphill. We stopped to chat and take each others' pictures. Afterwards, Andrew said, "Why is it that nature people are so much nicer than regular people?" Food for thought, folks.

At the pond, Andrew apologetically fielded a work call (we needed another rest anyway), then we headed back to the top. I claimed we couldn't really call ourselves "canyon climbers" unless we actually went up in elevation. Right? I found that I much prefer going up than going down. I'd rather get a cardiovascular workout than have creaky knees and rubbery calves and quads. But that's just me.

From there we drove over to the park lodge. The description said the cache was hidden about 60 feet off a short, easy trail loop nearby. Using the GPS coordinates we found the closest point along the trail. "Sixty feet? I thought we weren't supposed to go off the trail!" I said. All along our hikes so far were signs saying basically,

"Leave trail at your own risk."
"Stay on the trails for your own safety."
"It is against the law to leave the trail."

Well, it didn't really say that last bit, but the young-Hermione-Granger part of me believed it was reckless and unfair to invite geocachers to wander around the underbrush of the forest trying to find an ammo box with a bunch of trinkets inside. Also, you've gotta understand, I'm a nature-loving city girl who incidentally HATES catching a spider web in the face and is paranoid of getting a tick.

our first cache!

But I followed Andrew off the trail anyway and we wandered around for a minute. There was a subtle footpath from the other cachers that helped point us in the general direction. We kept saying things like "It's gotta be around here somewhere," and "I think that's poison ivy." I was afraid we weren't going to find the cache before the spiders and ticks and poison ivy found us, but then I turn around and Andrew's looking smug and pointing at the ground. At his feet lay a pile of rocks and small logs--conspicuous enough to be the obvious hiding place, but natural enough to make it tough to spot, especially for caching virgins like us. We opened the box, I signed the log book, we stamped our cards, snapped a picture, and left a plastic jewel thingy I had found along the trail.

After a hiatus in civilization for some wine-tasting at Wolf Mountain Winery (they didn't card me--another indication I'm clearly nearing 30) and yummy pizza at Gustavo's in Dahlonega, we drove to Vogel State Park to fit one more cache in our day.

grapes!

giant veggie slice

We arrived at Vogel and walked straight to the trailhead of the 1/8 mile loop the cache was on. On the way, I turned on the GPS to let it catch some satellites. We wanted to enjoy the hike, but it was also 7:00, and nearing sundown, so we were kind of in a hurry. By the time we got to the trail, the GPS had 2 sats--not enough to triangulate our position. Then once we got under tree cover, reception was worse. It lost what signals it had, and wouldn't pick up anything else. Remember how it didn't get enough satellites in Amicalola until we'd been standing on the bridge for a while? Apparently the best way to let it get set is to stand still until the GPS picks up 3 or 4 satellites. Nice to know now. (Thanks, S & S!)

From the trail, I veered onto what looked like the same kind of footpath that led to the last geocache. We looked around there, but not knowing whether we were anywhere even close to the location, we kept going.

Near the highest point of the trail was a sort of camp circle with benches and logs, and we thought for sure the cache had to be there! The GPS even picked up enough satellites to tell us we were 50-some feet from the coordinates of the cache. We spent probably 20-30 minutes absorbed in the following activities: looking around the kumbaya circle, then continuing on the trail, then determining that doing so led us farther from the cache, and then retracing our steps to the kumbaya circle to look some more. Meanwhile, it's getting darker.

Finally, after resetting the GPS, we got a more accurate read that we were more like 100-some feet away. And we found that retracing the path the way we came in took us closer to the cache. But once again, as we descended the trail under more tree cover, we lost the signal.

centaurs might emerge from a dark forest

In the growing darkness (doesn't that sound scary?) we tried to search out what we might have missed on our hurried trip in. I followed the same footpath I had tried before, looking harder this time, fearless of spiders or ticks. (We were that desperate to find the cache before it got too dark.) Andrew ventured further than before, across a little gully, and found a familiar pile of rocks and small logs at the roots of a tree. We were so excited to have found it finally, in the near darkness under all those trees. But then when we opened it, the stamp for our cards was missing. Someone apparently thought it was one of the trinkets to trade and took the stamp! Consoling ourselves with "It would have been worse to leave without even finding the cache," we packed everything back in the box and made our way to the exit of the trail.

When we finally left, it was nearly 8:00, mostly dark, and we were tired and thirsty. On our way out of the park Andrew said, "I bet that's the most harrowing, frustrating state park geocache we'll ever do." I hope he hasn't jinxed us.

At the subway

She picks up her electric guitar, begins strumming the offbeats. Stops. Waits. Starts again, just before people getting off walk by.
"Don't worry
'Bout a thing
Cause everything
Is gonna be alright"
When the stream subsides, she stops, looks around, puts the guitar in its stand, and reclaims her lonely seat on the bench--not even noticing I'm inside the train. And I'm still listening.

The doors close, and I'm lurched away. But her voice stays in my head.