Walking the Camino through the Pyrenees Mountains

Any walk in the woods does good for a person's state of mind, but the timeless rhythm of walking an ancient path does more. Following the footsteps of all those drawn there before you, seekers and soldiers and pilgrims and travelers of all kinds. Some with a question to answer, others open-minded to what comes their way.

Walking this path means leaving the rest of the world behind, step by step by step. Sharing a table with strangers, to talk and laugh and drink and pass the potatoes. Examining your toes for hot spots; discussing the finer points of socks. Wringing out your soul like a soggy towel. Thinking about your family, your dreams, your mistakes, your life. Sleeping long and hard. Then getting up the next day and doing it all again. 

Backcountry touring in Central Oregon

A different kind of pilgamage, this one colder and cozier. Eight people on skis gliding through snowy trails, sometimes gracefully. Sometimes missing the turns, shrieking and laughing, slipsliding and grunting, off kilter with the weight of the backpack. Spy the turn to the side trail to that night's backcountry hut its cedar walls glowing peach in the late afternoon sunset. Set about the business of stoking the fire, melting snow for water, hanging wet woolies to dry. Tell and retell the adventures of the day. Make bean burritoes, delicious, knowing that you all will sleep in close quarters. Play cards and drink wine and build a history with these friends. The sleep is miserable but the morning coffee is strong. Feel fortified for the next leg of the trail.

Rafting the Yellowstone before the flood

The river was murky and brown, running fast. Our fly rods stayed strapped into the tubes on the sides of the rafts. The fish wouldn't see any flies through the silt--they'd stay hunkered down, waiting for the river to clear. Instead of fishing, we floated along under skies that went from drizzle to sunshine to drizzle again. We explored the islands along the channels, chatted and laughed--me and Jeff, our son and our soon-to-be daughter in law. Our three dogs ran wild and chased sticks on the rocky island shores. On the rafts they shivered and bit at the burrs in their fur. This river is part of their stomping grounds, their big backyard, a part of their world we were overjoyed to get to know. We didn't know how lucky we were to have that time on the river.

Over the next week, the drizzle grew to a torrential deluge. The river ballooned, raged, swallowing the islands. Trees ripped out at the roots sailed downstream, bridges collapsed into the current. We watched news videos from our dry, safe homes, footage of a place so familiar and forever changed, grateful for that light-hearted day spent floating before the storm.

Sailing the boundary between sea and sky

A geographer defines this space as the band around the Earth's equator, north to the Tropic of Cancer and south to the Tropic of Capricorn. A meteorologist defines it as hotter and wetter than the rest of the world, receiving the most direct sunlight and the least seasonal change. A poet might wax on about paradise, the moon's reflection on the night sea, the fragrance of the island flowers. Me, I let the juicy of a pineapple slice run down my chin. I bob in the surf with snorkel and mask, limbs splayed like a starfish, spying on parrotfish and sea turtles.  Above me the pelicans soar with their necks curled and tucked til they dive and plunge to fill their beak with sea water and hopefully a fish. I'm not jealous of their menu. Below me giant diamond shaped rays undulate through the silky water, remoras nibbling the pests from their skin. My own skin goes raw with salt and grit and sun. The burn reminds me that I'm not adapted to this place, not like the pelican and remora. I'm a temporary visitor soaking up the tropics, enough salt and sky to see me through the last bits of winter in my northern hemisphere home.