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Nadine Walks

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COVID Road-Tripping: what it was like to travel in the US during a pandemic

November 21, 2020

I was reading a post recently from a very successful travel blogger. I’ve never followed his blog but he gets mentioned a lot in the travel blogging industry, and I occasionally read a post or two of interest. Something led me to his site- I can’t even remember what- but the thing that caught my eye was a post on his experience traveling in the US during the pandemic.

He road-tripped this summer, mostly along the east coast, and his conclusion was that he probably wouldn’t do something like it again (not during a pandemic, anyway). There was some fear about catching the virus in places where cases were spiking, but overall, his assessment seemed to be based more on the closed attractions, not being able to be a last minute traveler, not getting the chance to interact with and meet people, feeling lonely.

These are all perfectly valid reasons to not have a great time on a trip, especially if the kind of travel you’re used to is flying by the seat of your pants, lots of interactions with locals, seeing the popular/major sites, etc.

But my initial reaction was to want to come to my own blog to write about my impressions of what it was like to travel the US during COVID-19, because so much of what I came away with was very different.

 

I wrote just one post about my road trip, and it was filled with imagery more than anything, and short on specific details. While my trip wasn’t perfect, while it wasn’t all I had once imagined it could be, while there are things I would have done differently… I had a really good time. And since I haven’t written much about this trip, I thought this would be a good time to talk about what it was like, and why I maybe had a much better time exploring the US this summer than this top travel blogger.

Lone horse in a field at Little Bighorn National Monument, Montana

I think, in some part, it was about expectations. We’re in a pandemic, so just the decision to travel at all took a lot of time, and thought. I weighed it all: what was my risk, was it possible to travel and mitigate my risk based on my itinerary, my activities, my route? Should I travel alone, should I travel with others? Should I visit friends and family? When should I go?

Not everyone would make the same decisions that I did. Some wouldn’t have traveled at all, some would have done a smaller trip. Some would have done a bigger trip, or done things differently: hit the more famous National Parks, stopped in on friends. 

But for me, it was about deciding what I was comfortable with, and then I let that guide how I was going to build my trip. I lowered my expectations. I let go of the idea that this (almost) cross-country trip would ever come close to what I had been imagining for so many years.

Because this trip has been a long time in the making. It goes back to when I was a kid, to when I read the Little House on the Prairie books and dreamed of what it would be like to cross the prairie in a covered wagon.

Little House on the Prairie book on porch, Kansas

My image of this trip has grown larger and larger over the years, and it’s taken on many versions: the Little House pilgrimage, but also a tour of Major League ballparks, a tour of the National Parks, staying with friends and family as much as possible, hitting the most off-beat roadside attractions, eating a slice of pie in as many diners as possible.

There have been so many versions of the trip in my head that, even in non-pandemic times, I never would have been able to do it all.

But even in limited circumstances, I decided I wanted to give it a go, and see what I could see. I reduced it down to that: to a road trip, a chance to get in my car and drive for thousands of miles, and see where the road would take me. I would see what I could see.

I did some research, I planned out a route, I checked to see what might be open, I gave myself a theme. I might not be able to see a baseball game or visit friends on the West Coast or hike in the biggest National Parks, but I would do a Laura Ingalls Wilder pilgrimage, focusing on the mid-west.

This was a good plan. Aside from one small museum in De Smet, Little House stuff was open, the attractions were all there: the dugout on the banks of Plum Creek, the cluster of cottonwoods that Pa planted for the family, the surveyor’s house and schoolhouse in De Smet, Pa’s fiddle, Pa’s hand-dug well, Laura’s writing desk, a ride in a covered wagon. From Minnesota to South Dakota to Kansas to Missouri, I saw (almost) all.

Pa's hand-dug well from Little House on the Prairie, Independence, Kansas

My sister joined me for the first part of the trip, and most of the Little House stuff. I’d initially intended to do the trip alone, but having my sister with me for the beginning worked out perfectly. At the end of the trip, I stopped at the beach in North Carolina to spend a few more days with family, but otherwise, I stayed solo. I got so many messages and texts from friends as they saw my posts on social media, offering to meet up, offering me a place to stay. I was deeply touched by these invitations- some from friends that I’ve never even met before (a few a result of this blog!)- and if there wasn’t a pandemic raging I would have absolutely made the effort to visit people. But I made a rule for myself- only family- and this felt good.

It wasn’t an easy decision, but I think it made me feel more settled in doing a big road trip. COVID was always on my mind, but by staying mostly solo, I felt like I could keep my risk down (as well as not risk others!).

And despite being alone for a lot of the trip, I didn’t feel lonely. It helps that I like to travel solo, that I already have a lot of experience with it. And maybe, again, it was about expectations: I didn’t expect that I would meet people and make new friends (not that this couldn’t have happened, I just didn’t expect it), and so having a mostly solo trip didn’t disappoint me. I had some really nice interactions along my way, but it was no big deal to keep mostly to myself.

Baby bison in Wind Cave National Park
One of the “friends” I made along my journey!

Little House was the theme, but I incorporated other stuff, too: a couple of National Parks, Mount Rushmore and Devil’s Tower. The Field of Dreams movie site, Buddy Holly’s Crash site, a Frank Lloyd Wright house, hiking in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

There were a few things that were closed. The Surf Ballroom, for instance, the site of Buddy Holly’s last concert before his plane crash, was closed (despite the website saying it would be open). My sister and I would have loved to go in, but it was okay: we took pictures outside, had lunch on a bench with a view of Clear Lake, and then a beautiful drive through cornfields to find the crash site. The Frank Lloyd Wright house was closed, too, but this wasn’t even on our radar! We’d just been driving to our next destination and saw signs for Cedar Rock and decided to detour. We were still able to hike out to the property and stop by the visitor’s center and I think this was a highlight for both of us.

Maybe I had a really good time because I didn’t expect to be able to do it all. Maybe I had a really good time because the whole point was the road.

Dirt road in Kansas

And oh, what a road!

Is the United States not the very best place in the world for a long road trip? You don’t need open attractions for a road trip. You just need a car that runs and eyes that are open to the wonder that’s all around. The pandemic doesn’t stop an eagle soaring through the sky, it doesn’t stop a sunrise from shining through the doorframe of an abandoned building. In my case, it didn’t stop me from drinking bad gas station coffee, or an ice-cold coke from a styrofoam cup, or a couple of beers on the porch of a little white cottage in Kansas. It didn’t stop me from hiking through the mountains or picking wildflowers or walking through tall prairie grass or seeing a field full of bison.

Sunrise and abandoned building in Formoso, Kansas

I wrote this reflection about one of my favorite moments of the trip, just after I’d say goodbye to my sister in Rapid City, SD, and continued on towards North Dakota:

“My sister heads home and I continue on, now just me in my little white car and the great stretch of open road. I’m in the very northwestern corner of the state and it seems like there is nothing up here, nothing but the subtly rolling land and I think that I can see forever. The window is down, the sun shines in through the passenger side and warms my right arm. Gas station coffee and Tom Petty’s ‘Wildflowers’ playing and there isn’t another car or person here but me. Then a fox in the field to my right, and five minutes later, soaring in the sky to my left, a bald eagle. I let out a great and loud cheer when I see the eagle and it feels incredible: there are eagles and foxes here? I see deer, maybe mule deer and one stands close to the road, with great big horns. A small one darts out in front of my car but passes to the other side unscathed. After miles and miles of nothing, a small building on the side of the road. A little country diner. I walk inside and the woman running the place asks what I want for breakfast. She goes in the back and fries up an egg, and some sausage, and toasts an English muffin and it might be the best sandwich I’ve ever had. I ask her about the fox and the eagle, still wondering if I’d imagined them, but she confirms that you can see them up here. “You can see a lot of things here,” she says, “if you look closely.” “

All told, I traveled a little over 6,000 miles in 21 days. My route: Pennsylvania -> Ohio -> Indiana -> Illinois -> Iowa -> Minnesota -> South Dakota -> North Dakota -> Montana -> Wyoming -> Nebraska -> Kansas -> Missouri -> Kentucky -> Tennessee -> North Carolina -> back home to Pennsylvania. A couple states- Illinois and Kentucky- I just passed through on the way to the next stop. 

This map doesn’t show the exact route I took, but it’s pretty close. 

map of road trip route, 2020

With regards to COVID-19, overall, I felt relatively safe. I think the worst experience was towards the very beginning of the trip; after I picked up my sister in Cleveland, we did a big day of driving in order to move ourselves west. The plan was to drive through the rest of Ohio, then Indiana, Illinois, and well into Iowa before stopping for the night. I’d looked at the map and thought a nice place to stretch our legs would be Indiana Dunes National Park, which sits on stretch of shore along Lake Michigan. Our timing was bad: it was a Saturday and we arrived at the park around lunchtime. Everyone was out. It was a summer day during a pandemic and finding a green spot or, better yet, a little stretch of sand along a big lake was what everyone had in mind. Really, it was one of the only things to do! My sister and I headed towards the start of a small trail just as it started to rain, and it truly felt like there was a mass exodus of people leaving the beach. We weaved in and out of groups of people, dodging beach chairs and inflatables, trying out best to keep our distance. I would say the majority of people weren’t wearing masks. I remember that my sister and I looked at each other and wondered if this trip was a good idea.

It went uphill from there (quite literally, ha!). We found our trail and climbed up a long series of stairs and because the light rain had scared most people away, we had the trail mostly to ourselves. At the top we looked out over the lake to a hazy view of the Chicago skyline, then continued on the loop to get back to where we started. We had to walk for a short stretch on the beach, and this, too, felt harrowing: hundreds of people were crammed onto a tiny stretch of sand. Going from months of isolation to a scene like this was jolting.

Indiana Dunes National Park, beach crowd, summer 2020

This was the only time on my trip that I felt like I was around far too many people. A few other spots had a lot of people, but they never felt too bad. At Mount Rushmore, there was plenty of room for people to space out, and my sister and I quickly moved past where people were lingering and to the much more quiet and spacious Presidential Trail that loops around under the mountain sculpture. Wall Drug (in Wall, SD) is a huge general store/shopping/eating area, and while I don’t regret stopping, I think because of the pandemic I didn’t quite feel at ease. Too many people there for the free ice water and 5 cent coffee (myself included)!

But in general, I think the theme of my trip suited a pandemic: a pilgrimage to the prairie, walking and hiking in wide open spaces. It was difficult to not want to keep driving west, especially when I hit Montana/Wyoming, and I could feel- strongly- that I wanted to see the mountains. 5 more hours and I could have been in Yellowstone! But I decided to stick to smaller, lesser known parks, and it was a good decision.

A highlight of the trip was Theodore Roosevelt National Park. It’s a similar landscape to Badlands (maybe not quite as dramatic, but still so beautiful), but with far less people. At times I felt as though I had the park to myself! 

Theodore Roosevelt National Park, North Unit

I mostly stayed in hotels, along with a couple of Airbnbs (I’d planned to do some camping, but without a camp stove and after long days of driving, I often just wanted to find a cheap hotel and not have to worry about setting up a tent). I’d had a little worry over what it would be like to stay in hotels on this trip, but again, overall, it was fine. You could add an extra layer of caution by cleaning/wiping down surfaces in the hotel rooms yourself, but I never did. I’d say the biggest downside to staying in hotels during a pandemic is that most of the amenities weren’t available: namely, breakfast! It’s nice to be able to fuel up at the hotel before starting the day, saving both time and money. Some hotels that typically have breakfast available didn’t have anything to offer, most others handed out a brown bag with a piece of fruit, bottle of water, and a granola bar (Nature Valley, always Nature Valley!). It was something, but it certainly wasn’t a hot waffle.

Summer 2020 road trip hotel packed breakfast

Masks were another thing that were practically nonexistent. The further west I went, the less masks I saw. Most business owners wore them, but often I’d walk into a gas station being one of the only people wearing one. Even though this was back in July, it seems like not much has changed in some parts of the country with regards to mask-wearing. There are big stretches of the States where people don’t believe in the risk of COVID-19, or else don’t believe it will ever reach them.

Sometimes, I questioned whether I should be out there, traveling at all. Sitting here back at home, months later (and with the world still very much in the thick of this pandemic), I’m glad I decided to go. I tried to make smart decisions and stay careful and safe: washing hands, sanitizing, masks in public, takeout dinners back in my hotel rooms, solo hikes in the great outdoors. 

I think about where we might be in summer 2021, and as much as I want to say that I’ll be in the middle of a Camino in Spain, followed up by a few weeks in the mountains of France… I’m not sure. I’m hopeful, but it’s too soon to say. What I do know, however, is that if I can’t travel to Europe or somewhere else further afield, there’s still so much more exploring to do in my own country.

I’m still dreaming of travel, but now- in addition to planning long walks in Europe- I’m adding more US road-tripping to my list: Rt 66 and the Southwest, the vineyards of Northern California, a rim-to-rim hike of the Grand Canyon.

But for the time being, I’m sitting tight. It’s time to ride out this next wave of the pandemic and stick to local explorations. But I do wonder what my next trip will be like, if it will be another masked and socially-distanced road trip, or if it might feel a little more like the summers I’m used to: walking down a long path in Europe. Is anyone else dreaming about trips in 2021? Where is the first place you’ll go when it feels safe enough to travel?

Sunrise on the Blue Ridge Parkway

Sunrise hike in the Blue Ridge Mountains, NC

 

2 Comments / Filed In: Travel
Tagged: adventure, American road trip, Blue Ridge Mountains, hiking, Little Bighorn National Monument, Little House on the Prairie, pandemic, road trip, summer travel, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, us road trip

October Recap: Waterfalls and Scary Movies and Casting a Vote

October 30, 2020

There’s ragu simmering on the stovetop and I’m back to my regular spot at the kitchen table, beer in hand, the place where I sit to think and to write in the fall and winter months. Sometimes I think that I get my best writing done when the weather turns cool. Maybe it’s the shortening daylight (only 6:30 and already dark!), maybe it’s the desire to retreat, hunker down, put on my slippers and a long sweater and sink in. 

And so, back to writing it is!

Despite not posting a ton of content here lately, I think about this blog a lot. I have dozens of ideas for posts, a whole bunch of drafts and half-written things, and dreams of a grand return to blogging. At one point I was tempted to challenge myself to write a post every day for a month (who knows, it could still happen!)

In the meantime, we’ll start here, with a monthly recap. It’s my intention to start doing this every month, to put out a post that rounds up all the little things that I want to share: weekend trips and my latest hikes, what I’m reading/watching/listening to, the things I’m writing and the photographs I’m taking.

It feels like I’m always saying something like- “I can’t believe it’s ** already!”. Wasn’t I just saying that about the end of summer, or the month of September? But now we’re at the end of October and in some ways it still feels like spring. I’ve said this before and I’m still feeling it: it’s as if COVID froze time, as though it were still spring or that it’s one long extension of a very strange season, and that life- real life- won’t begin again until this virus is somewhere behind us.

It feels this way, and yet, life goes on. Real life, as strange as it is, is right now. And October was full of some good things!

Travel

I went on a couple notable weekend trips this month: up to the Adirondacks of New York, and out to the Pine Creek Gorge (often called the “Grand Canyon of PA”) in north-central Pennsylvania. Both trips involved hiking and finding good food and lots of time outside. Plus a chance to soak up the beautiful fall foliage! I think each trip caught the tail end of peak foliage, but even under overcast skies, the landscape was stunning. I might not love cold weather, but I still really appreciate living in a place that has four, distinct seasons. 

Goose Pond Inn Bed and Breakfast, North Creek, NY

Old-fashioned dinner in Wellsboro, PA

Hiking

Moxham Mountain (near North Creek, NY), a 5.5 mile hike featuring expansive lookouts over the Hudson Valley and the Adirondack mountains. There were so many scenic viewpoints and the climb up was gradual/steady, and never very steep. I loved it! 

Summit of Moxham Mountain, NY

Mt. Joy & Mt. Misery, Valley Forge National Park, PA, 6.5 miles: my local Camino group met for the first time since February. The group limit was capped at 10 and we all wore masks throughout the hike (it was easier than I thought it would be! Sometimes when I was a bit out of breath on an uphill section I’d pull my mask down but for the majority of the hike kept it on). Our leader for the day took us on a great loop through the park, including a section on a ‘border trail’ that’s not marked on any of the official maps. Valley Forge can get busy, especially on weekends, but once we got into the woods the people thinned out and it seemed like we had the trees to ourselves. And it was so good to see some of my Camino buddies, and be in a small group again. I was a little nervous heading into the gathering but a hike in the woods- with masks and social distancing- felt safe and good.

Sign at Valley Forge National Park

American Pilgrims on the Camino Philadelphia Chapter, Valley Forge National Park, October 2020

Great Falls Loop, Ricketts Glen State Park, PA, 4 miles: On my way to north-central PA to meet my sister for the weekend, I stopped by Ricketts Glen State Park, known for it’s waterfalls. I’d heard of the park before but had never made the trip- now I’m wondering what’s taken me so long! (like so many others, it’s taken the pandemic to get me exploring more in my own backyard). The 4-mile loop wound past 17 waterfalls- 17!! Just when I thought it couldn’t get better, it did. With dappled sunlight and leaves fluttering down from the trees, it was truly a perfect fall hike. (There’s a longer waterfall loop hike- about 7 miles- but if you park in the Lake Rose lot it’s possible to do a shorter loop and still see all- or nearly all- of the waterfalls).

Great Falls Loop, Ricketts Glen State Park, PA

Double waterfall at Rickett's Glen State Park, PA

Reading/Watching/Listening

It’s taking me forever, but I’m loving Haruki Murakami’s ‘The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle‘. I was reading a ton in late spring/summer, but now that I’m back to work in a school, my energy is sapped at the end of the day. But I’m determined to finish and then start on some of my current library requests: on the docket is Elena Ferrante’s ‘The Lying Life of Adults‘ (still on a waiting list but I can’t wait to read this!), and Yaa Gyasi’s ‘Transcendent Kingdom‘. 

I mentioned this in my last post, but I’m really enjoying David Smith’s new podcast– Clearskies Camino. His blog is a great place for all-things-Camino, and the podcast is proving to be more of the same. Each week he interviews a different pilgrim about their experience on the Camino, and it’s been so much fun to hear the voices of some people I’ve been “following” (blog/social media) for years now. I’m gathering up the courage to be one of his guests- I think I would love talking about my experience but of course these kinds of things always make me so nervous! 

It’s October, and that means scary movies! I watched Netflix’s ‘The Haunting of Bly Manor’ and it was the perfect thing to get me in a spooky kind of mood. Along with my annual viewing of ‘The Shining’, of course. On a completely different note, I’m also watching the new season of The Great British Baking Show (I love, love, love this show).

Writing

This month’s essay on Patreon is a reflective piece, about how an encounter on the Pennine Way got me thinking about what my version of heaven might look like. I’m having a lot of fun working on Patreon essays, and love that I have a place for these writings to land. You’ve got to ‘subscribe’ and sign up as a patron to get access to these once-a-month essays, but levels start as low as $1 a month! The support I’m getting here means the world to me, and I love that a platform like this exists.

I blogged about what it’s like to walk the Camino as an introvert, and as ever, I’m continuing to make slow progress on my Camino book. (An early chapter is up on my Patreon site, and it’s a public piece so you don’t need to be a patron to read it. Check it out!)

Photos

Over on Instagram, I’m revisiting my first Camino- my 2014 journey on the Camino Francés- and it’s been fun to share some of those memories. Otherwise, my camera roll is full of tall trees and fall colors: oranges, reds, yellows. This is one of the most beautiful times of the year in my corner of the world, and I’m trying to get outside everyday for a walk, even if it’s often the same loop through my neighborhood. What a beautiful loop it is!

Majestic fall tree, southeastern PA

Fall neighborhood walk, southeastern PA

***

Two additional, quick highlights:

1: My grandmother turned 90! Happy Birthday Baba!

2: I voted! Election Day isn’t until November 3rd but this year, millions of voters are getting their ballots in early. I dropped off my mail-in ballot at a local drop-box (I was able to walk down my driveway and onto a path through the woods to get there- what a way to vote!), and I got confirmation that it got to where it needed to go. Hoping, praying, for some good change to come to this country.

 

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4 Comments / Filed In: Writing
Tagged: autumn, Election Day, hiking, long distance walking, solo female travel, travel, walking

Walking the Camino as an Introvert

October 13, 2020

I had a lot of worries before my first Camino. They mostly centered around the physical nature of the journey: would I be able to walk all the way to Santiago? Would I develop crippling blisters and have to stop walking? Would I fall and hurt myself? Would I lose the way? Would I run out of water, or food?

But there was another layer of worries as well, and these revolved around the social part of the experience. Would I make friends? Would I walk alone? How would I do sleeping in albergues with dozens and dozens of other pilgrims?

Before the Camino I read a lot of books and blogs and articles, and so many mentioned the idea of a ‘Camino family’. Most people, as they walk, pick up a small group of others that they move through the Camino with. The groups can tend to form early and the bonds are strong. These Camino families, it would appear, were one of the highlights of the way for so many people.

I was intrigued by the idea of a Camino family. I was excited about the possibility of it: a group of people you could always be with! No loneliness! No losing your way! Someone to share a bottle of wine with!

But I was also a little terrified of the idea. When would I ever get my alone time?

I was listening to a podcast the other day, the Clearskies Camino podcast, a new venture from David of Clearskies Camino (a blog I’ve been following for years!) He was interviewing Pablo, of Setmeravelles (another blog I’ve been following for years!), and one piece of advice that Pablo shared was this: Don’t be afraid to make connections with other pilgrims, especially if you’re an introvert.

This struck me, because I don’t often hear talk about introversion on the Camino.

I’m an introvert, through and through. I recently did a Myers Briggs test (for probably the 6th time), just to see how I scored, and on the extraverted/introverted scale, I was 93% introverted. I’ve known this about myself for a long time, but I think I can sometimes forget, because I like people. I really like other people (I’m a counselor who talks to teenagers all day!), and I think a common misconception about introverts is that they don’t like to socialize or be around other people. Another misconception is that all introverts are shy, and quiet (I happen to be rather shy and quiet, but it doesn’t mean that all introverts are!)

The real key to understanding an introvert is this: a lot of time around people can really drain them and tire them out. I, for one, have a limit, and once I reach it, all I want in the world is to be in a space by myself. The time to myself is what energizes me, fills me back up. Plus, I’ve always really liked my own company, and often I want to spend time alone, in my own company. It makes me feel centered and solid, grounded.

The Camino is a really great opportunity to be in your own company: if you’re walking the entirety of the Camino Francés, you’ve got 500 miles of walking, day after day after day. There are a lot of other pilgrims around, but there’s a ton of opportunity to be alone and be with your thoughts.

And, also, the Camino is a really great opportunity to be with other people. I remember a pilgrim I’d met towards the end of the Francés telling me about a girl he’d walked with for the first two weeks of his Camino. “We were never apart,” he said. “Every single minute of every day, we were together.” (I shuddered.) And it wasn’t a romantic thing, it was just… a Camino thing. A people thing. It’s fun to be around other people on the Camino, and with all of that walking, having friends at your side can make the time pass quickly. It’s great to share big experiences with other people.

And I might even argue that most pilgrims, on the Camino, like to share their experience with other people. I could be wrong (and please, say hello in the comments and share your experience if you walked!), but so often on the Camino I saw people in pairs or groups. Even if they’d arrived at the Camino alone, they almost always linked up with other people. Formed their Camino families.

I’ve walked a lot of Caminos since that first one, back in 2014, and I’ve never formed or been part of a Camino family, not really. I’ve made deep connections, I’ve made friends, there were people I would always run into or make loose plans with or stay in the same towns with, but never all the way to Santiago, never until the end of my walk. There are lots of reasons for this (and really, that’s a separate post), but I don’t think I ever needed a true ‘Camino family’ to appreciate the social aspects of the Camino. I’ve had such good, deep experiences with other pilgrims, and the opportunities for those connections is something that makes the Camino really special.

Being an introvert isn’t the only reason I don’t form Camino families when I walk. But I do think it can sometimes feel a little difficult to be introverted and be on an incredibly social sort of experience, surrounded by dozens and dozens- even hundreds and hundreds- of other people every day for weeks at a time. You see them on the trail, you see them in the bars, you see them in the places you sleep (often just feet away in the next bunk bed!).

And sometimes, it can feel a little lonely to see other pilgrims in their groups, laughing and sharing a bottle of wine, and to sometimes be the one on the outside. Even if you’re choosing to be the one on the outside. Even if sometimes you need to be the one on the outside.

Crossing the mountains, Dragonte route, Camino Francés

But I do think it’s possible- very, very possible- to walk the Camino as an introvert and have a fabulous time.

If you’re walking the Camino as part of a pair or a group from home, I think it’s important to have a conversation before you start. I’ve done this on the several occasions that I’ve walked with a friend from home, explaining that, sometimes, I’ll want to walk by myself. It can sometimes feel hard to have this conversation, or to set this expectation (especially if the other person prefers to always have someone to walk with!), but having an open conversation upfront can really help.

And if you’re walking the Camino solo, it’s still important to have these conversations with the people you meet, the friends you make. This is something I learned after my first Camino- when I wasn’t clear enough about my needs and didn’t get enough time alone- and it’s something I’m always working on when I walk. How to be friendly and sometimes walk with others, how to form strong, deep connections, but how to give myself enough of what I need, and the time that I need alone. How to truly walk my own walk.

Introversion on the Camino; solo pilgrim statue, Camino Frances

Sometimes this is hard. Sometimes I can spend hours walking with another pilgrim- sometimes all day- and thoroughly enjoy that time. Sometimes I feel lonely and crave company (and this can be the day after I went slightly off-stage from a group of friends so that I could get alone time). Sometimes I need to tell a friend that I want to walk alone, and I can see hurt and disappointment in their eyes. “It’s not you!” I want to say. “It’s just that I’ll feel so depleted, feel like I’m giving away too much of myself, if I don’t get the chance to walk alone.”

But, mostly, it’s not so bad. I’ve learned how to have this conversation gently, easily (most of the time). Most people get it. Sometimes, I’ll meet someone on the path and fall into a conversation and walk with them for an hour. I love how this can happen on the Camino, and I love that pilgrims usually cut out the small talk, and go right to the deeper stuff (which introverts tend to like anyway). But after walking for awhile, if I want to be alone, all it takes is saying, “I’m going to walk by myself for awhile, but I hope I’ll see you in the next town!” Sometimes I say, “I’m going to stop here and take some photographs.” (Often I do want to take photographs, but sometimes I say this if I don’t feel like explaining that I want to be alone.)

And the Camino really can be the perfect place for both introverts and extroverts. For me, if I’m able to walk all day or most of the day alone, I love that I can socialize in the evenings with other pilgrims. I often really want to spend time with other people, because I’ve already had plenty of time to be on my own.

And if you really need a break, there’s almost always an option to stay in a private room in a pension. I never did on my first Camino (I ended up loving the albergue experience), but on my second Camino, the Norte, there was a night I needed to stay in a pension because the albergues were full. And I have to say, it was an illuminating experience. It was such luxury! To have my own little room, a bed that wasn’t a bunk bed, a bathroom all to myself! I went to a corner store and bought basic supplies for dinner and then returned back to my room and spent hours there, all alone, soaking it up. I loved it. 

In the last few years, I’ve gravitated towards less-traveled paths. My 5-days on the Camino de San Salvador were almost completely solo: no one in the albergues until the last day, no one on the trail with me until the last day. My walk on the Pennine Way was much the same: after some great and fun interactions over the first three days, I went on to walk a very solo walk, often staying in empty bunkhouses. Walking like this isn’t for everyone, and these were on the more extreme end of ‘socially isolated’ walks. But there are some good in-between trails. For me, the Camino Aragonés is the perfect blend of quiet time and socialization. Not many pilgrims walk, but there are just enough- maybe a dozen or two- walking the same stages. You’ll mostly be alone on the path, but will inevitably run into the same group in the evenings. Perfect for a friendly introvert like me.

One of my favorite things on the Camino is when I unite with other introverts. I had a few days on the Norte when this happened- somehow, a group of about 6 of us came together. We were all on the Camino alone, none of us had formed a ‘Camino family’, most of us seemed to be doing our own thing, I suspect we were all introverts. But we came together for a night in such a beautiful, perfect way, to share a meal and talk and laugh and feel so at ease together. We parted the next day, we didn’t walk or stay together as Camino families tend to do, but that didn’t make the experience any less magical, or any less meaningful.

I’m always curious about others’ experiences: how many readers/pilgrims/walkers are introverts? Do you ever have difficulty with the social experience of the Camino or a long walk? How do you balance the social opportunities with enough time alone?

6 Comments / Filed In: Camino de Santiago, Travel
Tagged: Camino Aragones, Camino de Santiago, camino del norte, Camino Frances, hiking, introvert, long distance walking, pennine way, solo female travel, travel, walking

If I Had Three Days in Paris…

September 20, 2020

I woke up this morning missing Paris. Maybe it’s the weather; it was cold this morning, almost unseasonably so, and sometimes when there are sharp changes in the weather my memories of past events flood in so strongly. The first time I was in Paris was at the end of October, 20 years ago. I was studying in a city in the south of France and the weather there must have been warmer, because when we got to Paris it felt like we’d stepped into fall.

So maybe it was the weather this morning, or maybe it’s the coronavirus and missing the things that I usually do. Every week it seems like I’m missing something different: the sounds of a baseball game, the stillness of an art museum, sitting around a table drinking a beer with my Camino group.

Today it was Paris. I’ve been there a lot, but this is the first year in a long stretch of years that I haven’t stepped foot in the city. I didn’t think about it so much during the summer, my thoughts were focused on the long walks I was supposed to be taking, not the two or three days I’d planned in Paris at the end of my trip.

But maybe it’s only now, now that the season is changing and we’re entering the long and slow march towards winter, that I can feel it so strongly: I didn’t get on a plane this year. I didn’t see Notre Dame, I didn’t eat a baguette by the Seine.

I have a long weekend coming up. I needed to use a few days of PTO and my school is off for Yom Kippur, so I have this little, extra pocket of time. I’m sticking close to home, going back to the local walks I did every day in the spring, taking a book out to that patch of sunlight on my porch. And yet, I couldn’t help but dream, dream about what it would be like to find a cheap flight to Paris and drive to the airport on Thursday evening and wake up in Paris on Friday morning.

I can’t get on a flight to France right now. But if I could, what would those three days in Paris be like?

I’ve often mentioned how much I love Paris on this blog, but I realize that I haven’t written much about it. There’s this post about my week there in 2017, and this post about Notre Dame, but not much more.

I probably have at least 3 or 4 partially written posts about Paris in the drafts folder on this blog. I always think that I should write about my favorite places, my favorite museums, my favorite walks, tips I have for solo travel and budget travel.

After all, I’m getting to know Paris. It’s the city I know best in the world, and I’m by no means an expert, but traveling there has now become easy. It’s almost mindless, that’s how frequently I seem to stop in. Often it’s just for an overnight at the very beginning of a long trip, or a day at the very end, but sometimes I squeeze in some extra time.

And so I know my way around my favorite areas. I know where I like to stay and where to pick up some groceries and somehow the French comes back to me and I can navigate and communicate. I stop by all of my favorite spots. I sit, sometimes, on the same benches. I can see the same views, over and over, and never get tired of them.

Sparkling Eiffel Tower at sunset, view from the towers of Notre Dame, Paris, France

So if I had three days, a long weekend at the beginning of fall when the air is crisp and the leaves are red at their edges, what would I do?

I’d do all of my favorite things.

This post is by no means a comprehensive guide or itinerary to three days in Paris. To be sure, most people with three days in Paris would spend them very differently. You’ll note that some of the biggest attractions aren’t included here. There are many, many great posts and resources for planning a trip to Paris, and this isn’t necessarily one of them (though, for any first timers to Paris and anyone revisiting this city, I think there’s a lot here to take note of).

This is a dream, a fantasy. If I could close my eyes and be transported back to Paris, back to a city where the spire of Notre Dame still stands and people crowd inside virus-free spaces, this is how I would spend my days.

My Three Days in Paris

In no particular order.

I’ll exit the metro in St-Paul, a neighborhood in the Marais district, and when I reach the top of the stairs at the metro stop, the first thing I’ll see is a small carousel, the one that has always been there. I’lll walk down the narrow cobblestoned alley, a shortcut to my hostel. Sometime in the last few years they upgraded the pillows, but the squares of pink toilet paper- like the carousel- are the same as they’ve always been.

  • buying a baguette in Paris
  • hunting down the best baguettes in Paris, Aux Desirs de Manon

I’ll buy a baguette. (Paris on a budget tip: you don’t need to order an entire baguette unless, of course, you know you’ll eat all of it. I nearly always order a une demi-baguette instead, for the princely sum of about 40 cents. I like to buy bread from a different boulangerie every day (you can find a boulangerie on just about every corner in Paris, and nearly all have high quality baguettes, but this place is a favorite. So is this one.)

  • The Thinker, Musée Rodin, Paris

I’ll go to my favorite art museums. There are a lot in Paris, but because I only have three days and because the sun is shining, I’ll just stop by two (the two I go back to every time): Musée de l’Orangerie, and Musée Rodin. If I can, I’ll arrive at Musée de L’Orangerie just as they open (or, maybe, within the first hour of opening). This is a small museum about a five minute walk from the Louvre and through the Tuileries, famous for housing Monet’s water lilies. Monet picked this very spot and very museum for his masterpieces, intending visitors to experience a calm oasis when surrounded by his paintings. Because this is my fantasy, and because I arrived early, I manage to have the rooms to myself. The Musée Rodin is another gem, both the indoor museum and outdoor grounds are worth visiting. (Paris on a budget tip: for 4 euros, you can buy a ticket just to the outdoor sculpture garden).

I’ll walk the Promenade Plantée. If you’re familiar with the High Line in NYC, then you’ll understand what the Promenade Plantée is (but Paris did it first): a 4.7km elevated walkway/park, a magical green space above the city, stretching from the Bastille to the Bois de Vincennes. It’s my favorite walk in the city, one that is frequented largely by locals, rather than tourists.

I’ll visit Shakespeare and Company, the historic English language bookstore on the Left Bank. I’ll buy a book and then stop by the café next door for a coffee.

I’ll walk through Père Lachaise, Paris’ most famous cemetery, located in the 20th arrondissement. I try to go whenever I’m in Paris, and each time make sure to stop by to see Oscar Wilde and Jim Morrison. There’s now a plexiglass barrier around Wilde’s tomb (and Jim Morrison’s is heavily guarded as well), and it turns out those red lips were wearing away at the stone, so it’s best to keep your distance and pay your respects without doing any damage.

I’ll drink café crèmes and café noisettes (a shot of espresso cut with a little milk) to my heart’s content. A favorite place for coffee is in the charming Place Contrescarpe, just around the corner from the little apartment where Hemingway once lived (74 rue du Cardinal Lemoine).

I’ll have a picnic on the Seine. If the weather is cool I’ll put on a sweater and a scarf and call a friend, or maybe just go on my own: spread out a blanket and open a bottle of wine, break off a hunk of baguette and pair it with a good, soft cheese, a handful of raspberries, a ripe tomato (you can find good picnic food all over Paris, but La Grande Epicerie is an experience. Described as a food department store rather than a grocery store, it has anything and everything you could want for a Parisian picnic).

I’ll visit one or two of Paris’ many beautiful parks and gardens. My favorites are the Jardin de Luxembourg, and the Jardin des Plantes (both on the left bank). On a nice day it will seem like all of Paris is out in the gardens, and you’ll be lucky if you can nab one of the green chairs (bonus points if you get a ‘reclining’, or ‘low’ chair!).

I’ll walk around the city with my camera, looking for that beautiful light, for ornate architecture, winding and empty streets, the reflection of rain on the sidewalk. I’ll take a hundred photos, and then take a hundred more.

  • Sitting by Notre-Dame, Paris, France
  • Notre-Dame and cherry blossoms, Paris, France

I’ll stop by Notre Dame. Actually, this will be the very first thing I do, because it’s the first thing I do every time. I’ll pretend that there was no fire, that the cathedral sits on the Île de la Cité untouched and perfect. I’ll climb its towers and look out over the city, I’ll circle around and sit beneath the flying buttresses, I’ll walk over a bridge so I can get a perfect view, so I can take it all in.

*****

If I close my eyes and think, hard, about the how the light reflects on the Seine, quiet ripples, steady waves, I can imagine that I’m back there. I go for a long weekend of the imagination, filled with cafés and bookstores and cobblestoned streets, stone gargoyles and rose-colored light.

One day we’ll go back.

8 Comments / Filed In: France, Travel
Tagged: France, Musée de l'Orangerie, Musée Rodin, Notre Dame, Paris, Promenade Plantée, Shakespeare and Company, solo-female travel, travel

The Beginning of Something (a new season)

September 8, 2020

Summer is winding down, ending, already over. How? Is it stranger this year because of COVID, and the feeling like we might still be at the end of winter, early March, and that these last 6 months have all been some sort of a dream? It feels that way, like these last two warm seasons were just a tease, and that real life stopped in March, and that when we wake up we’ll be back there, still wearing puffy coats and sweaters, still waiting for the first signs of spring.

Marsh Creek State Park hiking trail

My summer was… okay. It was good, it was long, it was short, it was so hot and humid, I was restless, I was settled, I was anxious, I was joyful. The times when I felt settled were usually when I was driving on a long and empty road, or standing by an ocean. Nearly all the rest of the time it felt like I was waiting: waiting for the day to finish, waiting to move into the next week, the next month, waiting for this virus to be “solved” and to be in a place where I could move ahead with life.

Sunrise and ocean

This is not generally the way I want to live, and it certainly wasn’t the way I wanted to spend my summer, but I keep repeating to myself: “We’re in a pandemic. This is still a crisis. It’s okay that the summer wasn’t all it could be. There was no way the summer could have been what you expected.”

And now we’re heading into a new season and the large questions of this time still remain. How long will we continue to be in this? Will I feel unsafe working from my school? Will I be able to manage all of the work that I’m facing this year? What happens when the weather turns cold, when I can’t see people outdoors? What happens in November, who will be elected president? How will that have an effect on the state of my country?

Sunrise on Assateague Island, MD

It often feels like a little too much and I can get trapped here, trapped with the questioning and the wishing that time could speed up, that I could arrive at a point where it is safe to get on a plane and travel to a new place and go on a long walk.

Instead, I’m here, home, on my couch and on my porch. Soon I’ll be back in a school and even though I had a long break from work, it almost feels as though there was no real break at all.

I think and think about what I can do to quiet the questions and the restlessness, and the answers are what they always are: Walk. Write. Repeat and repeat.

My writing has gone in slow waves this summer, from nonexistent to small things to occasionally a big burst of something. But then there are the ideas, too, the ideas of new things to write and new things to share and when I start working on an idea, it feels really good. It’s enough to even make me forget that there is a pandemic swirling around, and I can sink into the excitement of something new, even if it’s just the words I’m putting on a page.

Trying to write a book

I’ve been working on some essays, maybe you could call them pieces of long-form travel writing. Whatever they’re called, they’ve been fun to work on, and I have nearly a dozen ideas of what to write about. They are stories and lessons from the last 6 years (or, the last 20 years, if you go all the way back to my college year abroad). Initially I thought that I might try to put the essays into an e-book, and for the last year have been coming back to that idea (when I’m not trying to finish writing the Camino Book).

But a few weeks ago I had another thought, and this one feels good. Nearly two years ago I started a Patreon, and have occasionally posted short ramblings and photos, but I’ve always intended to do more. The support that I’m getting there has been phenomenal and has meant so much to me, especially because my patrons aren’t getting much directly from the site- no real bonuses or perks. They’re supporting the work I’ve already done, and whether the know it or not, are giving me a tremendous amount of encouragement to keep chipping away.

But then it occurred to me- Patreon would be the perfect place to publish these essays I’ve been working on/dreaming up! I always worried that posting regularly to Patreon would take away from what I would share on this blog, and would also take away from the precious time I have to work on my book. And those concerns are legitimate, but I think an essay a month is more than do-able. It will keep my writing muscles strong, it will motivate me to write out some of the stories I’ve been meaning to share, and it will give those stories a place.

To have access to the stories, readers will need to sign up to be a patron (it’s easy and I’ve included several levels from as little as $1 or $3 a month), and patrons can cancel at any time. To give you a little taste, I’m making September’s essay public for the rest of the month (which means you can read without signing up to be a patron). It’s a slightly altered excerpt from the book I’m working on about my first Camino, and this section includes my arrival in Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port and what it was like to face the beginning of a 500-mile long walk.

Leaving home for my first Camino

So go check that out, even if you don’t intend or can’t afford to be my patron- I’d love for you to read some of my work in progress!

It feels good to be writing, and to give myself accountability in this way. It’s nerve-wracking and a little scary, too (publishing/posting anything I write always is), but that’s not a bad thing. And in these months, I need something to focus on, something that moves me forward, something to anchor me while the rest of the world swirls and rages.

And, otherwise, I’m going to walk. There’s nothing big planned- how can there be?- and while I wish I could be chronicling a grand adventure, instead I need to focus on what’s around me. The same walks I always do, but also exploring the parks and trails a little further afield. Finding joy and adventure in these smaller journeys is something I’ve been trying to work on in these last 6 months, and I’m slowly getting better at it. I can’t wait to be back on a long-distance path somewhere out in the greater world, but in the meantime, I’ll continue to look for the beauty in my own backyard. Walking, any way you do it, however you do it, is good.

So that’s the update for the moment: new writing on Patreon, and stretching my legs wherever I can. Mourning, a bit, the end of summer, but keeping an open mind as to what this next season might bring.

Late summer sunlight through trees

Leave a Comment / Filed In: Travel, Writing
Tagged: Camino de Santiago, Camino Frances, coronavirus, memoir, patreon, solo female travel, travel, writing

Dreaming of Walking Again

August 16, 2020

This was going to be a big walking year. Well, I suppose you could consider every year since 2014 a big walking year for me, since I always planned at least one long-distance hike/walk. But this year? This year was going to be good.

Last summer I returned to Spain after three years away, and spent 30 days walking the Camino Aragonés and part of the Camino del Norte. As I walked (particularly at the three-week mark), I realized that I hadn’t walked a 30-day stretch since 2015. And I have to admit that I was a little surprised to realize that it felt GOOD.

coastal path on the Camino del Norte

Previously, I’d thought that my body adjusted and my hiking legs kicked in after about 10-days of walking, and while there’s probably some truth to that, something else seemed to happen after another 10-days, at least on this particular trip, something that I hadn’t felt since 2015: I felt like I could walk forever.

I not only start to feel strong, I continue to feel strong. My body adjusts, almost completely.

It’s physical but it’s mental too, because 30-days gives me enough time to really settle in. On my two-week long trips (like Le Chemin du Puy, and the Pennine Way), just as my body starts to adjust, my mind begins the wind-down process, and I never get the chance to just really sink into it. But to have an entire month to walk? The routines feel natural, normal. Walking becomes what I do.

Nadine and backpack on beach, Camino del Norte

I’ve wondered what it would be like to walk for even longer, and I fantasize about giving myself two months, even three months, to walk continuously. Would my body eventually break down? Would I become restless or bored, wishing I could just stop moving and stay in one place?

While I didn’t plan a two-month walking trip this summer, I did recognize that I wanted to walk for more than a few weeks. I wanted another long stretch. And so I booked a flight to Portugal and had a solid 40-days of walking before I would need to make my way over to France, and my writer’s retreat at La Muse.

I didn’t even have a plan of how I would spend those 40 days! I had a Camino Portuguese guidebook, and the thought that I could spend a few days walking south of Lisbon on the Fisherman’s Trail (Rota Vincentina) before making my way north on the Camino, towards Santiago. I intended to walk to Santiago, but knew that I’d have extra time and thought I could either do another trip out to Finisterre/Muxia (and finally walk the link between the two villages!), or maybe walk part of the Camino Invierno.

Muxia, end of the Camino

The coast at Muxia, Spain

All I knew was that I was excited, really excited, to have 40-days to walk.

But this wasn’t it; had all gone according to plan, I would have done some spring-time walking in Japan, as well, on the Kumano Kodo. That would have been 5 days of walking in the mountains of the Kii Peninsula, and it’s hard to describe how much I had been looking forward to that trip.

And maybe ‘hard’ is the best word for all of this. It’s been hard to give up these trips because of COVID. It’s been hard to not go on a long walk this year. It’s been hard to be uncertain about the future, to worry about where my country (the United States) is headed, to stay energized and hopeful in the day-to-day.

At first, I couldn’t look at or read anything that had to do with travel, it stung too much. But a few months ago, I listened to a podcast where Sherry Ott (of Ottsworld, a great travel blog) talked about her long-distance walks and at first I thought I would have to turn it off but as I listened some little spark reappeared. She talked about St Olav’s Way, in Norway, and my brain started turning. What would it be like to walk in Scandinavia?

rising sun, Camino Primitivo

Not Scandinavia, but a beautiful path in Spain, on the Camino Primitivo

I started to do a little research and before I knew it, I had a document outlining a 30-day trip on the Gudbrandsdalen Path (the most popular of the pilgrimage paths making up St Olav’s Way). I didn’t know that I would ever actually walk in Norway, and if I did, I had no idea when it would be, but it felt good to plan. 

And then, a few weeks later, I bought myself another ticket to Japan. I just pushed my trip back one year and honestly, I have no idea if I’ll be able to get to Japan next spring but I figure I might as well act as though I can (a caveat: I got 100% of my flight/lodging money back for the trip I had to cancel, and my flight for next year has good cancelation options). 

In the past couple of months I’ve let myself dream of travel again, especially of all the walks I want to do. A friend living in Spain traveled up to Scotland to walk the Great Glen Way… and instantly I was reading blogs and doing research, planning my own stages. And then I started thinking about Portugal, realizing that I never really looked through the guidebook that I’d bought for my trip and so I started dreaming of walks by the coast and pasteis de nata.

Boat on the Duoro River, Porto

I dug back into Kat’s blog (Following the Arrows). She passed away earlier this year and it was hard to read through her posts but I’ve always gone to her for information and inspiration, and her blog is excellent. I saw that she’d walked the Coast to Coast- had I realized this?

And then I remembered that a few years ago, I’d asked for a Coast to Coast guidebook for Christmas (this must have been right after I walked the Pennine Way), and suddenly I was planning yet another walk, this time a walk across England.

Winding Path, Day 15 on the Pennine Way

It’s hard to not be able to buy a ticket and hop on a plane and use the last few weeks of my vacation time on a walk through the moors, or along a coast, or deep in the mountains. But I have to say, planning feels good. It reminds me that this virus won’t shut down life forever, that there are so many amazing places yet to discover, so many roads to travel, so many walks left in me. 

It feels good to dream, and to have hope for the future.

Here are some links and resources to the walks mentioned in this post, in case you want to do a little dreaming of your own!

Camino Portugués (Portugal): 

Overview from American Pilgrims on the Camino, overview from the Confraternity of St. James. 
Blogs: Camino Portugues- the Nuts & Bolts, Following the Arrows.
Guidebooks: The Camino Portugués, Cicerone, A Pilgrim’s Guide to the Camino Portugués. 

Kumano Kodo (Japan):

Overview from Tanabe City Kumano Tourism Bureau.
Kumano Travel- Official Community Reservation System.
Blog: Following the Arrows.

St. Olav’s Way (Norway):

Pilegrimsleden website: information on the paths and planning resources
Blog: Everything You Need to Know About Walking St. Olav’s Way in Norway

Great Glen Way (Scotland):

The Highland Council: information and planning resources
Independent Hostel Guide: information on hostel/bunkhouse accommodation 
Guidebook: The Great Glen Way, Cicerone.

Coast to Coast (England): 

Blog: Planning Your Coast to Coast Walk, Rambling Man.
Guidebook: Coast to Coast Path, Trailblazers.
Guidebook: Wainwright’s Coast to Coast Walk.

 

5 Comments / Filed In: hiking, solo-female travel, Travel, walking
Tagged: Camino de Santiago, camino del norte, Camino Portugues, Coast to Coast, Great Glen Way, hiking, Kumano Kodo, long distance walking, pennine way, solo female travel, St Olav Ways, travel, walking

The Road Trip

August 6, 2020

This summer, travel has looked a lot different for me than it has in other years. No flights, no long walks in Europe, no mountain village retreat at La Muse, no reuniting with friends, no picnics by the Seine.

I held onto my reservation at La Muse for as long as I could; even though I knew I probably shouldn’t hop on a flight and embark on an international trip, if France would only let me in, I wondered if I could find a way to do it as safely as possible. But by the first of July I knew I needed to give up- fully give up- and accept that I wouldn’t be traveling as I’d meant to this year.

I suppose I’ve known this for many months now but seeing the departure date for a long-planned trip come and go is another matter, and it stings (I would have just been wrapping up that trip now, with a couple of days in Paris. I know I shouldn’t let myself think of the things I would be doing if not for COVID, but alas…)

So, Europe was off the table. Could I do something else, instead? Something in my own country? Maybe, finally, my long-dreamed of cross-country trip?

Road through the Badlands, SD

I’m not going to go into this too much here, but I went back and forth- many times- on whether I should be traveling at all. The absolute safest and most cautious thing would have been to continue to hole up in my apartment, walk around my neighborhood, keep to myself, wait this thing out. But I live alone, I had nearly three months off from work, and there was no end in sight to this thing. I’m a generally still sort of person and I couldn’t sit still. I couldn’t focus. I planned a 9-day walk on the C&O canal towpath that ended in flames; I returned home and immediately wanted to move again.

So I went west. I loaded up my car and drove to my hometown and my dad helped me take my car to a mechanic to have the AC fixed. I ate a slice of peach pie with my mom while I waited, and as soon as I got the call that the car was done, I hopped in and started driving.

Car on side of the road, somewhere in SD

I was gone for three weeks, though the last 5 days were spent with some family at a beach in North Carolina. That was certainly a vacation, but it felt very separate from the road trip. The road trip was the 17 days prior, driving 6,000 miles through 16 states, staying in cheap motels and quiet Airbnbs.

As ever, I imagined I might blog on my trip, writing a small, daily post every evening once I was settled at my destination. When will I ever learn? The days were long, the distances were far, I hiked and I walked and I explored and I was so tired at the end of every day that it was all I could do to figure out dinner and then grab the remote to the TV in whatever hotel I happened to be staying in, and flip through the channels to watch bad movies or home improvement shows.

I’d also imagined that I would do this trip solo, and most of it was, but my sister hitched a ride with me for the first 5 days. But that was fitting, and right, because part of this trip involved seeing Laura Ingalls Wilder/Little House on the Prairie sites, something we’ve talked about doing together since we were teenagers.

Line of laundry at Ingalls Homestead, De Set, SD

I centered the trip around Little House, in a way. I decided to go off into the prairies, to the Mid West: a place I pictured as open and empty and vast. Without people. I’d decided that if I was going to travel during a pandemic, I wanted to go somewhere quiet. I avoided cities, I turned down such generous offers from friends scattered across the country. There were so many more things I longed to do on this trip, but I pulled back, and narrowed my focus. “Open spaces,” I told myself. “Go to where it’s quiet.”

Two years ago I wrote this post about the Pennine Way, a stream of images and words that came to mind after I finished my hike, a way to attempt to sum it all up. I’m going to try to do the same thing here, to capture what this trip was for me.

(This might have more photos than it does words, but, here we go):

 

The Road Trip

It was the prairie. How the wind blew the tall grass and how it rippled in waves and how the land seemed to stretch forever.

Prairie, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, ND

Picking up my sister in Cleveland and strong cups of coffee and cinnamon raisin bagels and photos of state route signs. A crystal blue sky.

Cheering as we crossed state lines and rows and rows of corn and Sinclair the green dinosaur. Logging what I spent on gas into a little purple notebook, watching as prices fell as we moved west.

Crossing into South Dakota

Missouri welcomes you!

Sinclair the green dinosaur

Taking refuge at a truck stop as a wild storm blew in, finding the ice machine in every hotel. TV remotes and House Hunters International and take-out burgers and ice-cold bottles of beer, hotel beds with the covers pulled up and the AC on high.

Burgers and beer in the hotel room

Motel in Sheridan, WY

Playing Buddy Holly’s ‘Rave On’ and walking through the corn to the site of an airplane crash that happened long ago, on the day the music died. A field of dreams in the middle-of-nowhere, Iowa, an imagined baseball game, a crack of the bat heard somewhere far off in the long lines of corn.

Standing in the corn, Field of Dreams movie site, Dyersville, Iowa

A perfect summer lake. And another, and another.

Caribou coffee and hotel coffee and gas station coffee, a big bag of cherry Twizzlers and a box of salty popcorn.

Gas station coffee

Sod houses and dugouts and learning about the way people once lived, as they moved across the country in search of a better life, a place to homestead, to make and grow a home. An endless land that felt full of possibility. The glowing, golden light on the banks of Plum Creek, that same golden light in a cemetery high on a hill.

Sod house on the prairie, Minnesota

On the banks of Plum Creek, Walnut Grove, MN

Sunset in De Smet, SD

Old school houses and post offices and covered wagons, walking in the footsteps of a girl on the prairie, feeling the echo of her dreams.

Little House on the Prairie, Independence, KS

Covered wagon on the Ingalls Homestead, De Set, SD

And us, two girls, two women, walking into a dive bar in a small South Dakotan town, the place going silent, all heads swiveling towards us, the strangers in masks. “Howdy,” I wanted to say, but didn’t.

Homemade pulled pork sandwiches on red checkered cloth, and the proprietor of a motel talking about her daughter, their dog, the guinea pig, pulling out a cell phone to show us blurry photos. Our young tour guide in De Smet, dressed in pigtails and a dress- like Laura- telling us about her state and all the things we should see.

The Badlands. Custer State Park and Needles Highway and Mount Rushmore and Crazy Horse. And Theodore Roosevelt National Park and Little Bighorn National Monument and Devil’s Tower and free ice water at Wall Drug.

Badlands National Park, SD

Hike in Custer State Park, SD

Little Bighorn National Monument, MT

Self portrait at Devil's Tower, WY

Chirping prairie dogs and lumbering bison, and one charming baby bison who rested his chin on the hood of my car. A fox in a field and a bald eagle high in the sky, mule deer and burros.

Bison in Theodore Roosevelt National Park, ND

Baby bison in Wind Cave National Park

Horse at Little Bighorn National Monument, MT

A fried egg breakfast sandwich and takeout pizza from Casey’s. Soda in styrofoam cups and gallons of water and iced mint mochas from local coffeeshops. 

Rest stop in Nebraska

Hikes and walks and forging my own path through the prairie. Rough grass and white wildflowers and birds that startled and crickets and beetles. Sunrises from mountaintops.

Me in the prairie

Sunrise on the Blue Ridge Parkway

Lightening bugs against the cornfields in Kansas. Big skies, endless skies, stars that dipped all the way down to the horizon.

Sunset and cornfield, Kansas 

Kind park rangers and a sandy-haired boy in Nebraska with a dazzling smile. The man in Tennessee who told me about his hiking project, the couple on the porch of the vineyard in Asheville who told me about a great white shark.

Addison Farms vineyard, NC

Small towns and bridges and water towers and fading murals painted on brick walls, slanting light on long porches.

Main Street in Red Cloud, Nebraska

Bridge in Montana

Mural in a town in Nebraska

Old sign in Miles City, MT

Dirt roads and rock and roll, The Beatles and Tom Petty and Bruce Springsteen. 80mph speed limits. Crumbling buildings and shaded rest stops and a dusty white car.

Abandoned building at sunrise, Kansas

My car in the Badlands, SD

Miles and miles, thousands of miles, the windows rolled down, the sun on my arm, the corn and the fields and the prairies and all of it flying by, with me in the center. I could go anywhere, I could go everywhere.

Standing on rock in Custer State Park, SD

Road, sunset, Iowa

6 Comments / Filed In: solo-female travel, Travel, Writing
Tagged: adventure, American road trip, bison, cross-country road trip, Custer State Park, De Smet, Devil's Tower, Laura Ingalls Wilder, Little Bighorn National Monument, Little House on the Prairie, North Dakota, on the banks of plum creek, pandemic travel, prairie, road trip, Sinclair gas station, South Dakota, summer, The Badlands, Theodore Roosevelt National Park, USA, Walnut Grove

And then it all went up in flames

June 27, 2020

I just returned home from a 2-day backpacking trip that was supposed to be a 9-day trip, though to be fair, I always knew that I might have to cut the trip short. I’m new to backpacking, and I like camping well enough but I don’t exactly love it. I’m nervous about animals at night and I don’t like being dirty and when I’m on vacation, I really like a glass of wine or a beer at the end of the day. On a Camino, you can sleep inside and take a shower and have a hot meal and an entire bottle of wine. All reasons I really like the Camino. So nine days for someone who’s never backpacked before was ambitious.

But, you know, I thought I could do it. If not for the coronavirus, I would be walking through Portugal right now; I’d planned 40-days of walking this summer, more than I ever have before, and I was excited for it. Walking long-distance paths has become such a big part of my life, ever since I walked that first Camino in 2014. What’s a year without a long walk? COVID has demanded this question, and I didn’t want to accept its answer. I felt restless, my legs itching to go: to go somewhere, to go anywhere. Could I find a long walk a little closer to home?

view on the C&O canal towpath

The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal Towpath (the C&O) runs for 184.5 miles from Washington DC to Cumberland, MD. It’s a mostly flat path and often used by bikers and day hikers, but there are some backpackers who hike the entire trail. With enough free campsites, water pumps and several towns close to the path, I thought it would be an ideal first backpacking experience. And in many ways, it is.

I threw my gear into my pack: a tent and sleeping bag and sleeping pad, a camp stove and a bag full of food and a water filter. I booked a hotel room halfway through the journey, in a town with a post office where I could ship a resupply box full of more food. If all went well, I’d walk for nine days, camping most nights.

I set out early, at dawn, driving to the my starting point, stowing my car, finding the start of the trail. The sun was shining and the air was fresh, my pack was heavy but my legs were eager. I was back on a long path! Nothing to do all day but walk and walk!

first steps on the C&O canal towpath

Cumberland, MD, C&O canal towpath

sunny day on the C&O canal towpath

After about 3 miles, I realized how much weight I was carrying on my back. I could start to feel an ache in my shoulders and around my hips. My feet were starting to hurt a bit, too. I walked a few more miles, stopped for a short rest. A few more miles, stopped for lunch. I was 9-miles into the walk and starting to get worried. I’d planned for a first day of 22-miles (I know, I know), and the next day I was due to walk 23, the day after that, at least 25.

I’d intended to start a little slower, but poor planning involving picking up my resupply box from the post office meant I had to do big miles (note to self: in the future, don’t time a resupply for the weekend). But I thought I could do it, because hadn’t I walked 20-miles a day before? On the Camino, I do it all the time!

But here’s the thing. When I was planning this little adventure, I was imagining myself on my strongest Camino days. After 3 weeks of walking when my body had adapted to the path and my legs were strong and my shoulders could bear the weight of what I carried. Those were the days I recalled, the days when I felt strong and unstoppable. And there were days on the Camino, or on a hike in England, when I pushed myself hard, when I struggled but kept going. And these are also the kind of days that stick in my mind, proof that I can push myself hard, that I can keep going through some pain, that I can endure.

straight path of the C&O canal

Well, maybe ‘endure’ should be the word of the last two days. There I was, on the C&O, putting one foot in front of the other, pain radiating through my body. “Have I ever hurt this much on a walk before?” I asked myself. I felt it everywhere: my shoulders and lower back and hips and thighs and feet and even in my ankles. My ankles hurt! I realized that I should have been more careful in my packing, that I probably should have done a few training hikes wearing my pack. Why did I think I could walk 20+ mile days with 30 pounds on my back like it was no big deal?

I made it to 15-miles. I stopped, I rested my feet. “4 more miles,” I told myself. “Then you can stop.” As I walked I came up with a new plan, one where I would shorten my next few days, and then take a bus or an Uber to the next town where I could pick up my resupply box.

Potomac Forks hiker biker campsite, C&O canal towpath

After 19.5 miles I made it to a campsite and I sat on a bench and didn’t move for awhile. Slowly, hobbling, I set up my tent and washed my socks and changed out of my sweaty clothes. Two people on bikes road up, and set up camp at the opposite end of the site.

I took out dinner supplies, figuring I could eat and then crawl into my tent and have an early night, that maybe sleep would soothe my muscles.

I have this little camp stove that is nifty and neat and so easy to use. It heats up water in under 2-minutes and I’ve had it for several years, used it a few dozen times.

But this time? I was using a new fuel canister so that must have been it, maybe there was a leak, there must have been a leak, because something went terribly wrong and my stove went up in flames.

I keep thinking of that expression- “burst into flames”. That’s what happened. One minute nothing, the next, the thing was engulfed in flames. I started at it for a few seconds, my brain lagging behind the reality of the situation, lulled by the licking and leaping flames.

I snapped out of it. “Help!” I called out, panicked. The bikers ran over, the guy reached in to turn off the gas and the girl suggested I douse the remaining flames with water. I’d been frozen. I don’t do well in emergency situations, when I need to think and act quickly. If I’d been alone I would have figured it out, I think, but thank goodness there were other people there.

The stove was dripping like a Dali painting, the lower component fused to the fuel canister, the smell of burnt plastic everywhere.

“My stove,” I whispered.

I knew that my trip was over. Half the food I was carrying needed to be heated, coffee included. I might be able to push myself through a lot but I wasn’t going to do this walk without a morning cup of coffee.

aftermath of stove catching fire

It’s hard to quit something. I was thinking about that today, on my drive back home, and I realized that once I set my mind to something and go for it, I rarely quit (sometimes to my own detriment, but that’s another story). I thought about all of my research, the stages I’d planned, the treats I’d tucked into my resupply box, the excitement I’d felt about being able to head down a long path again.

But I knew I was done. I let the stove cool off and ate a cold dinner of tortillas and babybel cheese and tucked myself into my tent and fell asleep to the sound of trains on the tracks and frogs in the canal.

The next morning, at 6am, I packed up my things and turned around and walked the 19.5 miles back to where I started. I didn’t think it was possible that things could get much worse, but maybe it’s just that kind of a year.

About 3-miles into the walk, I could feel a blister developing on the bottom of my foot. I’d felt something the day before, but figured it would be fine. But this time I knew it was a blister. Should I have stopped and tried to do something about it? Probably. But my pack was so heavy that I just didn’t want to stop to take it off and put it back on more than was necessary. I was already feeling defeated, I just wanted to get the miles done and get back to my car.

misty morning on the C&O canal towpath

So I walked, and walked, and the blister grew, and grew. After about 12-miles, I knew I’d be coming to a bench beneath a tall tree (aside from the campsites every 5-7 miles, there were few places to stop and take a break). I stared ahead, constantly looking for the bench, walking on and on.

Finally it appeared, but there was someone already there. A young guy, with a large pack and a tall walking stick.

My head was foggy from the lack of coffee, my blister ached with every step and I was annoyed that I couldn’t stop to rest at the bench. But then the guy called out- “Where are you headed?”

I stopped, and turned. “Just to Cumberland,” I said. “How about you?”

He gave me a small smile. “Denver.” A pause. “Colorado.”

I grinned, something shifted. “Tell me more.”

He talked about the route he’d plotted: starting in Pittsburgh, winding down to Cumberland and then onto the C&O to DC. He would hop to the Appalachian Trail and hike down to Georgia and then through the forests and into the midwest where he would pick up another long rail-to-trails path, and get himself over to Colorado.

“When the coronavirus hit,” he said. “I started to walk around where I live. It’s the best therapy I’ve ever found.”

I nodded and nodded.

“And then when restrictions started to lift,” he continued, “I knew that I just wanted to go out and walk for a really long time. It’s freedom.”

We talked for a few more minutes, he told me that I was the first backpacker he’d seen, and he wanted some advice. I sheepishly told him that I didn’t know much, that I was new to this too, that I didn’t even know the base weight of my pack. But I did know how to walk, and I also knew that walking was freedom, and maybe despite it all, that was enough.

He told me his name was Colby, and I wished him luck on his journey, then I continued on. I thought about him as I walked, wondering what would have happened if I hadn’t had to turn around. If I’d shortened my days would he have caught up with me? We would have been headed in the same direction and maybe I could have made a friend.

Or maybe, I wouldn’t have met him at all. Maybe I needed to turn around to find another person walking the same path.

scene on the C&O canal towpath

A half mile further on I found a flat and grassy patch where I could stop and rest. I aired out my feet, drank water and ate a snack and stared off into the distance, where dark clouds were gathering.

Dark clouds. I’d timed the start of my walk for days that promised sunshine and clear skies, no rain. But the clouds were moving closer, and then there was the rumble of thunder, too.

storms clouds on the C&O canal towpath

I kept walking. What else was there to do? The clouds moved overhead and rain drops began to fall and then in the next minute, the skies opened up and the rain poured down.

Another expression: torrential downpour. How else to describe this rain? I’ve walked a hundred days on long-distance trails and I’ve walked in the rain but I have never walked in rain like this. I’d put a rain cover on my pack but hadn’t bothered to put on a rain jacket, figuring that I might just walk under a passing shower and the rain would feel good and cool on my skin.

This rain was hard and cold. It pelted down, for 10 minutes, for 20 minutes. After about 30 minutes it slowed and stopped, and I stopped too. I took off my pack and dug through to find my little towel. I looked up and down the trail and then took off my shirt and dried off as best as I could, then put on a dry shirt and pulled out a poncho to carry in my hand and then continued on.

The rain started again, falling even harder than before. I threw the poncho over my head and for awhile I stayed dry but soon there was too much rain. And then thunder, and lightening, and my blister growing larger and larger, I limped with every step through the thunderstorm, through the puddles and the mud, retracing my steps from the day before.

Thunder directly overhead and the path coming to a clearing in the trees and I stopped, and waited, and stared at the ground as water ran down the poncho into my shoes and then I saw tiny white marbles bouncing in the grass. Hail!

When it felt safer to continue I kept walking, and saw that further up the path, there was a bridge overhead and people sheltering underneath. I approached, and a woman called out to me.

“Where are you headed?”

She told me all about her days of hiking the Appalachian Trail. There was wistfulness in her voice, a tinge of envy, she looked at my pack and my poncho and my shoes and told me to savor every moment. Just as I was leaving she asked if I had a trail name. “I don’t,” I said (though the name ‘Flame’ ran through my mind). Trail names are common on the the long-distance hiking paths in the US, but not at all on the paths I’ve walked in Europe.

Something else shifted when she asked this, just as something had shifted during my conversation with Colby. It didn’t matter that I’d only made it one day on the trail and had to turn around. It only mattered that I was out there, and doing it: the weight of the pack, my battered feet, soaked to the bone, water rolling in my shoes and dripping from my nose but my legs still moving, one step at a time. Just call me Flame, I thought.

bridge over the C&O canal towpath

I continued, two more miles to the end. The rain stopped, the clouds moved out just as quickly as they came in. The sun poured down, warming me again. A man on a bike pulled up alongside of me. “Where are you headed?”

He was biking the final stretch of the C&O, doing an out and back ride and had seen me at my campsite the night before. “I figured you were heading south,” he said.

I told him the story of my stove, that I’d decided to turn around. And the blister, and the rain, and the hail.

“Karma,” he said, “I think if you can make it through this with a smile on your face, then something good will come back to you.”

I had a half mile left, 10 more minutes to walk. The sun was shining. My legs were still holding me up.

I smiled.

hiking the C&O canal towpath

20 Comments / Filed In: hiking, Travel, walking, Writing
Tagged: adventure, backpacking, C&O, camping, Chesapeake and Ohio Canal Towpath, coronavirus, hiking, long distance walking, solo female travel, travel, walking

Walking in Circles

May 25, 2020

I was reading a post the other day, from my Camino buddy-in-blogging, Beth. As I read I realized how nice it was to hear her voice. I knew she wasn’t out walking in France or in Spain, but that wasn’t why I opened up the post. I just kind of wanted to hear how she was doing, if she was thinking about the Camino, if she missed walking, if she was restless or energized, in despair or filled with hope.

And then I started to wonder if maybe I should l find my way back to my own blog, and post an update of my own. ‘Update’ feels like the wrong word, because not much has been happening. I was on a family FaceTime call today, and I opened my mouth to give some news, but realized I didn’t have much to say. What has changed day-to-day? It starts to feel tedious to say that I went on another walk, I baked another cake, I read on my porch.

Quarantined porch sitting

So maybe this isn’t an update, but I’ve used this blog to write about my thoughts and feelings too, so here we are. Have I blogged at all since being under stay at home orders? I don’t think so. In fact, I think in my last post I wrote about travel considerations in the time of coronavirus, which feels a bit ridiculous now because a few weeks after I published that post, all travel shut down, just about completely.

It feels a little hard to write about travel. I didn’t go to Japan- a trip that was scheduled for the beginning of April- and I’m not going to Europe this summer, either. Well, despite my June flight having been canceled, I’m still harboring some wild hope that there could be a chance that I could sneak away to La Muse for a week in late July, or August (I know that the odds are less than slim, but I’m letting myself have this hope, because I think I need it).

cherry blossoms over Ridley Creek

I was supposed to walk in Portugal this summer, on the Camino Portuguese, but also on the Fisherman’s route, and then I would still have some time to do more walking in Spain, at least from Santiago to Finisterre, but maybe even the Camino Invierno if the timing was right. I’d given myself 40-days to walk, the most I’ve ever walked in one go, and it felt right. There have been a few years- last year in particular- when I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to do, where I wanted to travel, which route I wanted to walk. But plans seemed to fall together so easily this year. Once the idea of the Kumano Kodo in Japan lodged itself in my mind, I couldn’t shake it, and it seemed to work perfectly: an inexpensive flight, rooms booked despite the late planning, a chance to see the cherry blossoms.

I’ve always had a vague sort of sense that I’d travel to Japan ‘one day’, but it always felt so far, so difficult, so out of my league. But after I did a little research and started to see how a trip might come together, I realized that I was more than ready to tackle Japan. Again, it felt right. I was doing something new, something so exciting. And it made a decision about my summer feel easy, too: by going somewhere new in the spring, I felt free to go back to Europe to do my favorite things: walk a Camino and spend time at my writer’s retreat, La Muse. I found a perfect flight for the summer too: an unbelievable price that took me into Lisbon, and the return out of Paris. It couldn’t have been more perfect!

Bamboo curtain

To have travel canceled any year would have been a blow, but for some reason it felt particularly cruel this year (although- and I’ve thought about this a lot- does it feel worse only now that I can’t have it? I’ve always appreciated my ability to travel and the time that I have in the summers, but I wonder if it feels even sweeter, in hindsight, now that it is (temporarily) lost). But I do wonder if it feels harder this year because I felt so settled. For the last seven years, ever since I walked my first Camino, I’ve continued to return to Europe, searching for something: to push myself further, a new adventure/experience, a community. Some years, I’ve wondered if I should skip a summer of walking, and see some new countries, instead.

But I didn’t have those questions this year. I felt so confident in knowing what I wanted, confident in the life I’ve built for myself, in the things I’ve grown to love, in the community that I have built from my summers in Europe.

There are other things about these last few months that have been hard, but if I’m going to talk about anything here, it will probably be about travel. But I can’t publish this post without acknowledging that I still have a job, that my family is healthy (even my two grandmothers: 89 and 101 years old! I still worry, so if you have a moment, send a good and warm thought out for my Babas). I live alone, so I’ve been particularly isolated during this long stay-at-home order, but I can’t even really complain about that. For better or for worse, I like being alone, and video-chatting (plus a job where I spend many hours a day conferencing with teenagers) makes it not too difficult to hunker down and not see anyone. And, as I mentioned at the top of this post, I’ve been spending my days walking and reading on my porch and baking bread and cake and scones. I’ve made pesto from scavenged wild garlic mustard, and syrup from the violet petals I picked in my yard. I’ve done a few puzzles and turned myself into a Vermeer painting (this was early on in the quarantine; I thought I’d do a series, but I’ve lost some of that initial energy). I’ve also been writing every day; not in a big way, just small, daily diaries that I post to Facebook. I’m not sure how Facebook became the place where I shared my musings, but so be it. I’ve been taking photos every day and sharing those, too, and I think that small daily habit of writing and taking photographs has been really good for me. I won’t continue forever- in fact, I think I only have another week or two in me- because then I want to turn to other writing.

Art in Quarantine: Vermeer

Garden focaccia in quarantine!

What’s a summer of my life without travel, without a long walk, without the view from my window at La Muse? I’m not sure, and it’s hard to face, but I’ll need to come up with something. I’m going to have a few months at my disposal. The obvious answer, the one that is trying to knock me over the head, is the one that says: “Nadine, finish your book!!”

It feels inevitable, doesn’t it? I can’t spend 40-days walking through Portugal and Spain, so maybe I should finish writing about that first time that I walked through Spain. Face the difficult parts of the book, do a little research, a lot of editing, find a few people who might be willing to read a few chapters, and see what happens.

So that’s one part of my summer. And the rest? It’s hard to know what this country is going to look like in a few weeks or a month, but I’ve been tentatively putting together notes for a little backpacking trip, and a road trip to the mid-west (I know that Nebraska is not Europe, but I’ve always had some strange fascination with Nebraska, and this could be the summer that I finally make it out there). It might be impossible to do any traveling like this at all, even a road trip or a backpacking trip, but I’m going to remain hopeful.

Yesterday, over on Facebook, I wrote about a cake I tried to bake. I followed a recipe for a Berry Buttermilk Cake, though I didn’t have buttermilk. In the end, it turned out that I didn’t have berries either (where did those frozen blueberries get to??), and all I could do was laugh at my buttermilk-less and berry-less Berry Buttermilk cake. It felt like an analogy for my life, for maybe all of our lives: trying to bake cakes without the key ingredients. But someone commented on my Facebook post, saying it’s what we do with those ‘berry-less’ cakes that matter.

Which is the truest thing I know at the moment. This virus isn’t personal, we’re all affected, every single one of us. I can get caught in feeling frustrated about a plain cake sort of life, a life that’s supposed to have the berries in it, but I can’t let myself get stuck there for too long. I’ve got to make the best I can with the ingredients I have.

 

I’ll try to write more here in the next few months, to keep you updated on the different kinds of adventures I’m having this year. I hope you’re all well, finding hope and peace and creativity and energy where you can, making the most of your berry-less cake days. More (hopefully) soon.

Redbud with raindrop

6 Comments / Filed In: Writing
Tagged: Camino de Santiago, long distance walking, quarantine, solo female travel, travel, writing

COVID-19 Update #1

March 29, 2020

Greetings to all of my quarantined friends! I can imagine that most of us- if not all of us- are hunkered down at the moment, staying in one place and doing our best to keep physically distanced from others. For the last two weeks I’ve thought about writing a blog post every day, and then inevitably, don’t write a thing. I’m about two weeks into a quarantine (16 days, to be exact), and one of the biggest things I’ve noticed is that it’s been hard to focus. Hard to sit down and get the coronavirus and all of its implications out of my head and focus on something that takes any sort of mental power. In other words, it’s been hard to write.

But here I am, I’m feeling just a bit more settled today (or at least, at the moment!), and I’m going to seize that energy and post an update.

First, a little glimpse into my part of the world. I live outside of Philadelphia, and we had identified coronavirus cases somewhat early on (in terms of identified cases in the US). It’s hard to remember dates, but the county where I live and the county that borders the school I work for had a few cases in early March, and from there things moved quickly. By March 13th my school closed for the day so that teachers could get some online learning training; the intention was that we’d be back in school on Monday, March 16th, but I think we all knew that wouldn’t happen. That next week there seemed to be a new restriction or new cancellation nearly every hour: school were closed for two weeks, parks and libraries and businesses closed, then my county (and surrounding counties) were issued “stay at home” orders. 

staying at home during quarantine

The stay at home order isn’t quite a lockdown (though maybe that’s a synonymous term? I’m not sure). We’re allowed out for groceries and medicine, and to go to work if it’s deemed an essential service. We’re also allowed outside to exercise, take the dog on a walk, get fresh air. The “rules” here get a little hazy. I know that in other places, there are more restrictions on outside time. I could certainly be misinformed, but I read that in France, people can go outside but need to stay within 1 kilometer of where they live. And in the UK, I believe the rules state that you only get one allotted walk or exercise session a day.

Here, it’s generally understood that you shouldn’t stray too far from where you live, but there don’t seem to be restrictions on what, exactly, that means. Initially, the nearby state park where I always hike had closed, then the trails reopened. But other parks that had remained opened are now closed, because too many people flocked there. It’s being left largely up to us, as individuals, to sort of ‘self-police’, and use good judgment. So, don’t walk or hike in an area where there are too many people. If you go to a trailhead and the parking lot is full, go somewhere else. 

Quarantined hiking

I’ve been mostly staying at home, and walking around the neighborhood where I live. I’ve made a few exceptions and have driven out to my park, and for the most part the trails are actually more quiet than walking around my neighborhood is! I’m grateful that I can still get in my car and go somewhere, but I also want to be careful about this. I worry that if everyone gets in their car to go somewhere, areas will become overrun. So for now (and as long as it’s allowed), I’m going to limit the park visits, and if I go, get there early in the morning when it’s guaranteed to be quiet. Otherwise, it’s walks around home for the time being. 

And walking, as ever, has kept my spirits up. These have certainly been a difficult few weeks, and for me, one of the most challenging aspects is not knowing how long this will last. Plans are cancelled, travel is completely upended, none of us know how long we will be sitting inside of our homes. There are the larger questions, too: if and when we’ll get a handle on this virus? What the cost will be in the meantime: who will get sick, how many lives will be lost, what will the economic landscape be when we’re gotten to the other side? 

Spring detail; grass growing on tree bark

It’s easy to get overwhelmed, and when I find my thoughts moving in this direction, I get up and I move. I lace up my shoes and go outside and sometimes it’s just 15 minutes around the block. Sometimes I walk for an hour. Sometimes- if it’s raining- I just walk inside my apartment. Back and forth and back and forth. I put earbuds in and listen to music and move. It helps. It’s the best thing I know to do in times like these. 

Many have commented that at least the weather is getting nicer, that spring is arriving and trees and flowers are beginning to bloom. It’s true, and the walking will become more beautiful, but I can’t help but be heartbroken, too. I walk in all seasons- winter doesn’t really slow me down too much- and while I’ll certainly enjoy nicer weather, it’s also a reminder of what I’ve lost. Nice weather had always been an indication that my adventures would soon be starting- and indeed, in less than a week, I was supposed to be on a flight to Japan, walking through the mountains of the Kii Peninsula, hopefully catching the last of the cherry blossoms. Needless to say, I’m no longer going to Japan. I hope it’s a trip that I can one day reschedule, maybe for next year’s spring break, but it feels too far away for me to even be hopeful. Right now, I’m just sad and disappointed. I’m also keeping perspective, knowing that there are much harder losses for so many to bear, but allowing myself to mourn the loss of this particular adventure.

March cherry blossoms

In fact, I’m not sure that I’ll be able to go on any long walks this year, and I’m having a difficult time sitting with that. I’d just bought a new pair of hiking shoes earlier this month, and after a couple weeks of hiking and walking, they felt good and broken in. But a few days ago, I went back to wearing last year’s pair, reasoning that maybe I should save these new shoes for a time when I know I’ll be going on a really long walk. 

Keen hiking shoes

It feels like I’m putting those new shoes up on a shelf forever, and I have to remind myself that it’s not the case. They won’t be put away forever. This ordeal might feel as though it has no end, and indeed, it’s hard to see a light when we don’t even know how long the tunnel is. But it will end, we’ll all emerge, we’ll dust off those new shoes and dance down a trail in the summer sunshine again. 

In the meantime, be well, send news, stay safe and dream of brighter days ahead.

Blue sky after the rain

 

1 Comment / Filed In: walking, Writing
Tagged: COVID-19, hiking, physical distancing, quarantine, stay at home, walking, writing

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Welcome! I’m Nadine: a traveler, a pilgrim, a walker, a writer, a coffee drinker. This is where I share my stories, my thoughts and my walks. I hope you enjoy the site!
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