Author: Laurie Sunderland

The Camino… final thoughts…

 

So… the Camino.  Susan and I logged 120 plus miles on it, which no matter how we seemed to slice it and regardless of the daily mileage, consistently added up to 8 hours of walking a day, or more accurately,  hiking. Many have asked me since my return home how it was and once I’ve made my way through the blister talk, the amazing people, the beautiful scenery and charming towns we experienced and oh yea, it was a life changer, I’m kind of at a loss for words.

“Oh, life changing?  Really?  How?”

And that’s where I hesitate because I’m really not sure I’ve got an answer…yet…but I know that pacing through those miles, with Susan nearby, but not necessarily in talking distance, the time spent alone with presence and awareness definitely had an impact on me.  It was like weaving in and out of an 8 hour walking meditation that went on for 9 days.

Although the goal for most is the cathedral in Santiago, this is far more about the journey than the destination, as it is in the journey where the magic happens.  I witnessed this over and over again with the kindness among people who didn’t know one another, yet we all shared something or we wouldn’t have found ourselves on the Camino in the first place. There was the case of the Brazilians who had found Dan from Boston’s itinerary book and were so concerned about finding him to return it.  This was a story we heard not only from the Brazilians, but from the Canadians, the Hawaiians as well as the two brothers from Indiana.  What really made this amazing was that we were not all bunched together, constantly running into one another, but rather there were 14 to 16 miles covered a day, each of us with different start times and with different paces,  so you didn’t see the same people over and over again,  and some people, Dan from Boston for instance, we only saw the first day.  There was an intimacy present that I never expected.   We heard concern about David from Toronto as he hadn’t been seen for a couple of days and then there was Dr. Dan from Hawaii who was tending to a girl in his group who had come down with pneumonia.   We were very concerned for her after seeing her trudging slowly along, while wearing a surgical mask. Susan and I also were worried about Maria from California,  who we met the day before we began walking and who had had a string of bad luck before she even got to St. Jean Pied de Port, where we began.  She shared her woes with us over a glass of wine the night before our Camino start, which among a lot of getting lost stories,  included a flare up of tendinitis in her knee.  She was very discouraged and said her kids were telling her enough.  Come home.  I don’t think a day went by that Maria didn’t come up in our conversations, wondering how she was and if she was even on the Camino at all.  After the difficult journey on day one, on day two we saw the negative effects of that long and tedious climb on more than one pilgrim in the form of a knee brace.  Where were those pilgrims?  Were they still on the Camino?  Then there was the minor fall Susan had on a rocky downhill stretch 3 days in and the British man who came up to her in the café where we were having tapas in Pamplona and asked her if she was the woman who fell earlier in the day and was she OK?  (She was OK, by the way…).

This was what Eduardo from Brazil was talking about when he said that we are all in this together, yet we are all doing the Camino alone.  It was that invisible bond that united us all that really touched me.  No one asked or even seemed to care what you did in your “other life” and where you lived wasn’t always the first question either.  Rather, the focus was more about the here, the now, the next town, the Camino.

 

Our climb through the Pyrenees on day one, pushed me to my edge, which I found out extended a lot farther out than I realized.  It was our longest and most difficult day, challenging both my physical and my mental limits.  I thought I was at my limit, when we got to the hotel, only to find out that there was no elevator and we were on the 3rd floor, which in Spain means 4 flights up.  And we did it, with reserve tank fuel and our gear in tow.  I learned that there was a whole lot more in that reserve tank than I ever give myself credit for. That was a good piece of knowledge to tuck away in my pack for the many miles ahead.

Some views you have to earn… this one was well worth the hike up (in the Pyrenees Mountains, Day 1)

Walking the Camino offered the opportunity to strip away all outside distraction from life  and break things down to the very simplest components of putting one foot in front of another, mile after mile, day after day. I learned to focus on what was in front of me, especially when it came to the big hills as the view towards the end was daunting,  but when you can bring it back to what’s right in front of you, one boot in front of another, with an occasional eye to the prize, it sure is a lot easier.  It didn’t take long to see the parallels to life that the Camino offered up to us daily.

There are many faces and a lot of stories that come to mind when reflecting back on the Camino, one that was especially touching… the person, not the story, as the story is one that Susan and I made up.  When we were leaving Pamplona, we saw a girl who I’m guessing was in her mid to late 20’s.  She was walking at a slow pace with her head held low and I can’t remember if I told her “Buen Camino” when we passed or not, but I do remember anticipating that she likely wouldn’t answer if I did say it to her.  She seemed to be in her own world, far away from any of us who passed.  She was wearing boots and had a pair of boots tied onto her pack.  Seeing boots hanging from packs was common in the first few days as people had switched to sandals due to blisters (sandals on the Camino, I might add, seemed a whole lot harder to me than walking with the blistered feet in boots, but to each his own.  I even saw one guy barefoot, no boots hanging because I’m guessing he started barefoot.  Again, to each his own).  This situation was different from what we were used to seeing,  as she was wearing and toting boots.  The boots hanging from the pack looked to be a bit larger than the boots she was wearing, but still a woman’s boot.  We later passed her again, still with a solemn,  head down gait, and couldn’t help but notice that her pack had pushed down her pants on one side, exposing her underwear.  There was something very vulnerable about her, especially now that the side of her underwear was showing and she either knew and simply didn’t care, or didn’t realize it.  Susan and I were quite take by her and spontaneously started forming her story.   She had planned to do the Camino with someone (Her Mom?  Her Aunt?  Her sister?), but that person died a few months before they were to start the Camino, so she carried the boots in memory.  I have no idea whatsoever if this is true or not.  Maybe she couldn’t decide which pair of boots to bring, so she brought them both,  and was not sad, but tired.  Her downward gaze and posture told the story.  We just filled in some blanks.   Happily, the story, made up or not, had a happy ending as we saw our sad girl in Los Arcos, all smiles and with a guy.  We put that story to rest, only to move on to the very overweight French man who we quietly started calling “Slim” as I swear, he was shrinking in front of our very eyes.  Day by day.  I might add that there is tedium in the long, 14 or 15 miles of walking days… stories, made up names, stories to go with the names and so on… it happens.  Or at least with us it did.

It took me 2 days of looking at my pack and duffle bag at the back door, exactly where I dropped them when I got home, before I could bring myself to open them up and begin the process of unpacking.  Given the well worn clothes, that had only had a couple of well-meaning, but kind of worthless,  sink washings, this wasn’t a great idea, so I entered the process with caution and a bit of trepidation. There was something in me that needed to keep that part of my journey front and center, before emptying them and tucking them away in a closet.  I wanted to hold onto all that I could fearing that it would be gone before I was really ready.  What I didn’t realize was that although I do miss being on the Camino, the Camino has not left me.  It popped up unexpectedly in a yoga class yesterday.  We started the class seated back to back with a partner.  I don’t usually care for “partner” yoga, especially when you don’t know your partner, but found the exercise quite interesting.  We both found our place of comfort between leaning and supporting and before long even our breath became in sync.  At the end of the class, we were seated in the same manner, but without the partner and our teacher told us to envision a person in our life who we knew “had our back” seated back to back with us, exactly as we had done in the beginning of class, but now with only the vision of a person behind us.  That’s when quite by surprise,  the tears started streaming down my face. I thought about  Susan and how she had my back, and me hers, during our incredible journey on the Camino.  These are the moments that I have no doubt that those who I met on the Camino will also have and I hope they will be in a place where they’ll have the luxury that I did in my yoga class to wrap themselves up in those feelings and honor them for what they are… the Camino’s nudge to us to stay on it, even though  our boots are off and physically we are thousands of miles away from those long, winding pathways.

This journey, my journey, as a pilgrim on the Camino,  was inspiring, challenging, moving, heartfelt and for me right now, unfinished.

Next year.  Next September.  375 miles.  Buen Camino.

Mother son duo from Bellingham.  I was so happy to reconnect with them once home.  I really enjoyed these two!

 

I was so touched by the countless memorials we came across on the Camino.

 

 

I was struck by the silver heart that hung from this single boot and had to wonder about the story that accompanied it.

 

This brought us both to tears… we came around a corner and as far as the eye could see, were notes and momentoes to loved ones.  Very powerful.

 

Our beautiful Canadian Camino friends, Laurie and Mathilda

 

The words of encouragement that our Canadian friend, Laurie showed us (or “whispers along the way” as she called them), from her four sons.  This one made me cry.

 

Running into our Canadian friends quite by accident and having dinner with them.  A wonderful surprise.
As said by Susan, “What you need is usually there for you, if not, maybe you didn’t need it after all.”  Case in point, our last day on the Camino we had counted on stopping at a café along the way for lunch.  There was no such café, but when we dug deep into the packs, we realized we had more than enough for an impromptu lunch.  We always had what we needed, one way or another.
Signs of the Camino come in many forms… this one was a sign that was braided right into his beard!

 

 

An incredible mountain top surprise after a long hill climb.

 

This beautiful guy followed us for a bit…
Camino communication.  I’m guessing she/he got her photo.  That’s how it works on the Camino.

 

She’s got my back, and me hers…

 

Rain, thunder, lightening and fog. Don the poncho and keep going…

 

 

No matter how you slice it, it’s not a good look, but today, it was common.

It was easy, and pretty natural, to go into today with a bit of dread.  It was pouring with rain, after all, and we had 14 miles ahead of us.  Thank goodness for ponchos.  It rained and rained and at times the rain was accompanied by thunder and lightening, which had us both wondering about the lightening rod hiking poles we were carrying, but all was not lost, or ruined or even all that miserable.  It was what it was and gave us a whole lot more appreciation for the sun that did eventually come out.

Wanting to escape the rain, we pulled into a small pub/restaurant called “Bar Juan” and enjoyed a nice 20 minute or so omelet “lunch” (it was not even noon, so I’m sure they would still be calling it breakfast).  By the time we had finished, the tiny one-roomed bar had at least 20 people waiting in line for the one waitress behind the counter and there were probably at least that many outside waiting to get in.  Our timing was perfect.  Had it been sunny, I doubt we would have allowed ourselves the luxury of enjoying lunch and a coffee afterwards before getting back on the Camino.

The lunch was so filling that after a couple of beers, neither one of us were all that hungry for dinner so ate “out of our packs.”  Susan loves to cook and was feeling the need so I gave her complete access to my snack stash and we enjoyed a lovely light dinner of beef jerky, Spanish almonds, an orange and some crackers we bought our first day in France… all laid out on a scarf (one that hadn’t touched a sweaty neck, yet…) and placed on the end of one of the beds in our room.  Simple.  I might add that although we’re only into day 2 on the Camino, our standards of hygiene and otherwise have slipped and we’ve gotten pretty casual, which I don’t mind one bit.

Good news… on the package, the poncho said it can double as a tarp…

 

Started our day in heavy fog and rain

 

Gotta love poncho sharing…

 

Dinner.  And it was delightful.

While nearing the end of our journey today, we passed what looked like a food truck on the side walk.  Several plastic tables had been placed in front of it and were filled with pilgrims enjoying an cup of cafe con leche or even a beer before heading out for the final few miles.  Only in Europe, I thought, would a “food truck” serve cafe con leche in a cup with a saucer.  I loved that there was no need for “to go” cups and that the ritual of sitting down for a proper cup of coffee, served in a cup with a saucer was that important.  It was a nice nudge to slow down.

We’re running into a lot of the same people, whether at dinner at night, or over a beer and there’s a real comfort to that. The common expression on the Camino is “Buen Camino,” regardless if Spanish your native language or not.  It is a real uniting factor for a group of people that speak so many different languages and come from so many different places.  It feels a bit like a hug, and doesn’t seem to lose any power even though it is said and received so many times a day.

Buen Camino.

It was the little stuff that made it a big day on the Camino today…

 

 

The beautiful morning light…

 

Step by step with my sister

Blogging has not been easy due to spotty internet so I’ve been a bit remiss on my postings, but while I’ve got decent internet (that will end when the hotel fills up with Pilgrims), I wanted to share a few stories I heard on the Camino today.

Today was day 6 on the Camino and with each mile, about 90 so far, there seems to be a new story.  I was especially touched by the ones I heard from a Canadian woman, ironically named Laurie.  She and four of her friends, now known as “the Chicas” have been planning their Camino trip for the past 2 years.  They’ll be going to the end at Santiago, a 4 to 5 week journey.  I noticed that she had
laminated cards attached to her pack, about the size of a playing card.  I noticed one of them had a photo of 4 young men and had to ask.  They were her 4 sons, none of them who live close to her.
Before she left, she asked each one of them what they would whisper to her if they could while she was on her journey.  She wrote down each one of their responses and in addition to the card that had their photo, she carried their words with her.  She told me to go ahead and read it aloud if I wanted, especially paying attention to the 3rd one as it was her son who had given her the most emotional support.

It read:

“Stop, look around and appreciate where you are.  I love you and I have more confidence in you completing your journey than anyone else on earth.”

I couldn’t complete the words without crying.  There is such an openness and vulnerability that seems
to be present on the Camino and I think that’s why so many of these people, who I’ve really spent
very little time with, I will carry with me long after I’ve left Spain.  We’re on a first name, home state or country basis with so many, and though connections are made, there’s little exchange of information (ie facebook) so it is all in and of the moment.  It is very powerful and very real.  We were asked today by a group if we knew who Dan from Boston as he had left a book behind and one of the other guys had it.  I knew right off who they were talking about and had met him on the first day.  There’s Jerry from Indiana, Dan from Hawaii, the Canadians (5 chicas), the French couple, the Brazilian guy, the Dutch quartet, and so on.   I’m learning to appreciate the moments spent with a variety of people from all over the world, some speaking English, some Spanish and others, communicating simply with a “Buen Camino.”  The mother son duo we met on day 2, saw again on day 3, we’ve not seen since and that makes me sad as I don’t even have a last name for them, but that’s the lesson on the Camino, that of impermanence and treasuring the moment

Laurie, from Canada, also told me a story that she referred to as “heaven on earth.”  She said her aunt who she was very close to had recently died.  She loved red wine and red roses.  We spent a lot of
time today walking through the rioja wine vineyards and she told us that earlier she had seen one lone
red rose amongst the rows and rows of grapes.  I’m not sure that would have been noticed otherwise, but while on such long stretches of walking alone or in and out of a group, you begin to see with all of your senses.  I shared her story with a couple we had met earlier in the week and had shared some beers with, and they said they also saw the rose.  As we’ve gotten deeper into the Camino, we also seem to be getting deeper into ourselves.

I also heard the story today about an American who had started the Camino last year, but during the climb through the Pyrenees (day one), had fallen and broken her ankle.  She was taken to the nearest town, Roncesvalles, where they cast it and when she was able, she flew home where she had extensive surgery followed by months of physical therapy.  She came back this year to start the
Camino all over again, Pyrenees Mountains and all, and had gotten to know the Candians along the way.  You’ve got to admire such dedication.  I’m not sure I’d have the same enthusiasm.
It was a good day today on the heels of probably one of the worst days on the Camino (due to both
the route and the final destination).  Most of our day was spent walking through vineyards.  Even though we were rained on, had bouts of wind and a lot of climbing, I do think it was the best time I’ve had on the Camino yet.

One of the biggest treats today was a little stand set up in the middle of what seemed like nowhere, where a couple was “selling” (by donation only) fruit, cookies, and drinks while another woman sat nearby and provided accordion music.  Eating a nectarine in the middle of a field with accordion music in the background was pure heaven.  It was the simple things today that really counted.

Our beautiful Canadian friends, Laurie and Matilda
surprises come in many packages…accordion music while walking through farm land

 

“Benevenido Peregrinos!!”
Stopping for a café con leche… Yeah.  This is good.

Photos from the Pyrenees leg of my Camino journey (internet is legit now…in the metropolis of Zubiri, population 400)

Corn and sunrise

 

Lots of these guys…

The fog added a strong element of mystic to the morning…

 

sheep for days…

 

Seriously?  4 flights of stairs after 9 hours of hiking through mountains???
More spiritual than I had imagined…
Almost to our destination for the day…

 

 

16 miles, through the Pyrenees, from St. Jean Pied du Port to Rancevalle.

The beginning….

First off, the internet is off and on here, mostly off, so photo uploading is impossible.  I uploaded one in about 10 minutes.  New town, new internet connections, hopefully tomorrow.  Hopefully can post more then…

Today was hard.  Really hard.  Plain and simple.  But oh was it beautiful.

We were on the Camino by 7:30, which actually started right outside of our Bed and Breakfast.  The Camino is very well marked, and it’s first marking for where most people start walking, was a brass plaque set into the cobblestones.  It felt very exciting to cross it, even though yesterday, while walking around the small town, we crossed it countless times.  But today… today is official.  We are Pilgrims on the Camino, walking our journey.

The countryside was absolutely breathtaking and I’m afraid neither my photos or my words can do it justice, but I will try.  We walked into a low lying fog for several hours, at the base and well into the Pyrenees Mountains, which added to the mystic of our walk today.  As we climbed higher, we rose above the fog and it truly was mystical to look down into the valleys through a thick layer of cloud-like fog.  Susan and I, not necessarily planned, began to separate from each other, which really was a good thing.  I know for me, the setting and the one foot in front of the other for so many miles, were very fertile grounds for pensive thought.  I found that the trivial conversations in my mind subsided quickly and have to think the setting had a lot to do with that.  Besides, it was hard not to think about all those who went before me on this journey, starting a few thousand years ago.  Those people, clad  in leather sandals and wool robes, were the true pilgrims.  Although I’m retracing their steps, I’m doing it in high tech, quick dry clothing and am pacing out the journey in comfortable boots with good socks.  Not to mention a back pack to hold extra layers, a 3 liter water bladder and all sorts of food for those “just in case” moments.

As we ventured further and further into the mountains, the wind stared picking up and I spent a lot of time thinking about wind.  I don’t like it is what I came up with.  It was so loud that that whole thing about not being able to hear youself think really did come into play.  I had to walk with my head down, as I watched my feet inching forward so terribly slow due to the headwind.  If I raised my head, and believe me, I did that as often as I could as the scenery was so amazing, the wind would sting my face and blow the rim of my sunhat back giving me a bit of a “Little Debbie” look.  One man said he guessed the gusts to be near 70 mph.

When we passed into Spain, which was a no- event as really didn’t know it happened someone mentioned it, the “voilas” turned to “esta biens” quicker than you can say Camino and we couldn’t figure out why.  I felt like we were with the same group of people, more or less and they’d come and go leaving big gaps when you saw no one then there they’d be, all having a bit of a rest together.  It was strange though because at one point we were surrounded by French speakers and I swear, a couple of “around the bends” later, and Spanish was all we heard.  I’m happy.  I can talk again.

Today beat me up and showed me where my edges are and lo and behold, they extended out farther than I ever thought possible.  We hiked a good 9 hours, covering over 16 miles, most of it in the mountains.  We never really had a sense of how far or how much longer, which is just as good as it is bad.  Susan and I separated during the final downhill leg and I was so tired, with feet that were feeling slightly beat up, that when we did finally meet towards the end at a Camino sign, I didn’t recognize her.  Well, actually, I wasn’t really looking at her but heard a woman who I could see out of the corner of my eye, say, “Looks like we’ve only got 1/2 a kilometer to go.”  I responded with a, “Ok, sounds good…stood there for a good 5 or 10 seconds, then looked up and said, “Oh my gosh, I didn’t even know that was you.”  That was what she referred to as delusional tired.  Also a low point.

The other low point of the day, I’m not even counting the wind as it wasn’t a point, but rather, several hours, was when we got to the hotel and were told we were on the 3rd floor.  Of course we naturally asked where the elevator was and the very kind woman at the front desk, who looked so clean and fresh to our sweaty, grungy selves, said, “There isn’t one.  I’m so sorry.”

We both thought we were going to cry.  I’m not much of a swearer, but that’s exactly what I did for 4 flights up… 4 because it’s the European system and the ground floor is 0.

Beat up, sore feet, a bit of a mess but so extremely proud of what we did today.  We can’t think to far ahead to tomorrow as we’re still licking our wounds from today, but it was hard to not lean in an ear tonite at dinner when we heard the 100% chance of rain and muddy, slippery trails, I’ve got to admit, my heart kind of sunk.  I’m hopeful though…

On a side note, while thinking about 911, I had to think that as much pain as I was in from the fatigue and physical exertion, it pales compared to what so many are going through today.

 

What goes on on the Camino, stays on the Camino… (disclaimer, we both are still wearing our undies…)

 

 

Lots of these fellas on the Camino today…

 

 

 

Biarritz, France… beaches (we didn’t see), resorts (we didn’t see) but we do know where the kidney dialysis center is…

Nothing about sitting in the back of a taxi for 45 minutes in the parking lot of a kidney dialysis center was even remotely normal.

 

First off, I’m not in kidney failure. Oddly enough though, it’s part of the story…

I’m not sure my sister, Susan and I have ever been on a trip that something very unusual didn’t happen.  It just doesn’t ever happen on the first day.

After what seemed like days of travel… oh wait, it was days… with multiple airports, countries, time
zones and wait times, we finally arrived at our ALMOST destination, Biarritz, France.  We were tired and it was late, or at least we felt like it was late, after 9:00 pm, and our cab, that had been arranged weeks before, didn’t show up.  We were about the last travelers left in the small airport when after waiting for a good 30 minutes, he finally showed up.  I add this in as its relevant to know the frustration that was starting to build along with the growing fatigue.  The airline, we later learned,
doesn’t post an arrival time (there was nothing on our tickets), but since it was the last flight of the day, with no connections, people just tend to guesstimate on pick up times and last night, our guesstimater was off by about 30 minutes.
Into the ride and more than anxious to be at our destination for the night, St. Jean Pied du Port, about 45 minutes away, our driver turned off the main road and into a parking lot in front of what looked
like a very small medical building or hospital, which was confirmed when what I’m guessing was an ambulance, squeezed by us.  He then said something in French, got out of the car and went into the
building.  Susan initially thought he has said “gas,” but clearly we were not at a gas station.  We sat in the dark, the street lights in the area being very dim, both of us silent.  Both of us curious.  Then Susan says,
“I’m not sure what is stranger… the fact that we’re in a cab sitting in the parking lot of a hospital… or the fact that neither one of us has said anything about it and we’ve been here for 10 minutes.

Very true.  So I got out of the car and went around to the front of the building to see exactly what it was and pieced together that it was a kidney dialysis center.  Like that explained anything!  We sat for another 25 minutes or so, both of us tired, frustrated and now totally puzzled by our situation.

I’ve got to back up a bit here and comment on the city of Biarritz, where we had just flown into.  It’s a popular vacation spot for the French as it’s a coastal city (which we couldn’t see in the dark) and is
known as a “playground” for those not on vacation budgets.  A San Tropez, if you will.  We, while
seated in the back of a dark cab, saw none of that, but do now know where to go for dialysis if the
need arises.  Even stranger, when I driver finally returned after half an hour, there was an elderly woman with him, who promptly got in the front seat and we were off.  No explainations.  No apologies.  Nothing.  And maybe it was strange that we didn’t even ask, but there was that whole
language barrier dilema going on and frankly, I think we both were just too tired to even go there.  The first thing I thought of this morning when I woke up was,

Did we really spend close to an hour in the parking lot of a kidney dialysis center while our cab driver was missing or getting dialysis himself of picking up someone up who had had dialysis (perhaps his mom??) while his customers waited patiently in the cab???  Or did I dream that?

The memory that will come to mind for me years down the road when I hear about the vacation
of Biarritz won’t be the sea or the charm of a French coastal city (neither of which we
saw), but rather will be the kidney dialysis center and the two of us sitting in the back of a dark cab
wondering why we weren’t more concerned or were we just too tired?
Once delivered to the door of our charming inn, the driver uttered his first words since he left us in
the medical center parking lot, then was on his way.
“Buen Camino.”

That alone undid a whole lot of whatever it  was that just happened.

Smiles.  On both of our faces.  Oh and on a side note… something weird happens to my ipad, this blog site, or perhaps  me, when I do blog postings from another country. I have no idea why, but spacing becomes an issue that I’ve not cracked the code on. Thank you for bearing with me… hopefully I’ll figure it…

 

Off of I-70 and onto the “Beyond” part…El Camino de Santiago…

 

Maps, check. Passport, check.  Journal and pen, check.

 

Several years ago, while struggling with some personal issues, I bought Shirley Maclaine’s book, “The Camino.”  I didn’t have a clue what it was about, but while perusing the travel section of the book store, was intrigued by the cover.  This is how I buy a lot of my books and I’ve been surprised at how many times that the judging a book by its cover method has led me to exactly what I needed and in a timely manner. I once had a book fall off the shelf while I was making my way through an aisle I used to frequent and with a nudge like that, I felt compelled to buy it (self-help section books don’t seem to stay on the shelf like the fiction books do…). As I started digging into Maclaine’s story about her solo pilgrimage on El Camino de Santiago in Spain, I found such a connection to the emotional piece that had put her on the Camino in the first place that I knew the right book had landed in my hands, yet again.

The Camino is a 500 mile spiritual pilgrimage across Spain that people have been traveling for thousands of years and for at least that many reasons.  Ever since reading Shirley Maclaine’s memoir,  I’ve wanted to make the journey myself.  On Friday, September 11th,  after 4 days of planes, trains and automobiles, with my sister, Susan, I will be doing just that.  We won’t be walking the Camino in its entirety, but will log over a hundred miles in what I’m optimistically calling “phase 1” of our journey (to be completed in the following year or two).

This will be no doubt not only be a physical challenge, logging 12 to 14 miles of walking a day, but a challenge of mind and spirit as well.  Even though I will be walking with my sister, Susan, and we are rarely without words when we’re together, I know the significance and importance of this journey, as does she (she did a leg of it a few years ago) and will try to practice more awareness and less endless chatter.  After at least a dozen two day breast cancer walks with her, I know our routine.  Conversation is relevant and thoughtful in the beginning but quickly cycles into past travel recollections… still good… with ‘what’s this jiggly stuff on my upper arms?’ for the lightning round… not so good.

Awareness.  In the moment.  Silence.  I’ll google the arm stuff when I’m home.  THIS, is my plan.

I recently became inspired by a woman I was introduced to via Facebook, (rather than real face to face), who recently completed her journey on the Camino, all 500 miles of it, all by herself, and while battling cancer.  I’ve been humbled, moved, inspired and awed by her photos and posts and know she will come to mind often as I pace through the same pathways and trails that she did.  I’m honored to carry her story with me and can only hope to show the strength and stamina that she did throughout her journey.

I’ve learned through my many solo hikes, that sometimes the scariest thing on a hike is that person you are hiking with…and on solo hikes, it is very difficult to escape oneself.  Sometimes the mind is like a 4 year old child vying for attention to matters you thought you had long since tucked away.   Eventually, the endless jumping from one subject to another calms down and just like in meditation, it becomes easier to let the thoughts that don’t really matter go, while lassoing those that hold more relevance.  I’ve spent 7 or 8 hours in my head on a long hike and I’ve got to say it’s as inspirational as it is challenging,  but that’s only one day.  I can’t imagine 9 days, let alone a month, which is the length it takes most to complete the Camino.

So, with few expectations and a whole lot of excitement,  Susan and I will start the walking part of our journey on the 11th of September after 7 legs on 3 different airlines, stopping in 2 different countries before arriving in Spain, where we’ve decided to add in a day to sleep off any jet lag from an exhausting bout of travel.  To this I have to add that day one of our journey will be the most difficult (through the Pyrenees Mountains) so the hang, chill, sleep day was a very good idea.  Thanks, Susan.

From long hikes in Colorado to prepare my body,  to the many books and travel memoirs I’ve read to prepare my mind and spirit, to the intentions I’ve written and will carry with me in my pack,  I’m ready to begin a journey that I’ve thought about for the past 12 years and right now, feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, anxiously waiting to open my presents.

New decade, new attitude and thank goodness, a new hairdo.

 

Don’t adjust your dials… it’s not Bob Dylan… it’s me, still gracing my first decade.

I never really gave aging a whole lot of thought until I turned 59, then I figured I had a year…. a year for what, I’m not sure, but 60 was inching closer and it was beginning to present itself as a much  bigger milestone than the decades preceding it.  The whole decade change has always been kind of  a big one for me,  but it wasn’t turning 40 or 50 that gave me greatest pause, but rather, it was turning 30.  It was a big, damn deal because in my young mind, 30 meant being a grown up to me, which meant that the fun was going to start taking a back seat to responsibility.  This attitude left a whole lot of “finishing up” at the end of my 20’s, or at the very least, just minutes into my 30’s.  My get ‘er done in your 20’s before real life hits philosophy is evident when looking back on my time line – graduated from college (finally…), got married, got pregnant, had first child… ALL when I was at the tail end of 29 and the very beginnings of 30.  Of course now, on the eve of 60, 30 seems like puberty to me.  Fortunately,  I’ve lost the notion that life will end as I know it as a new decade comes on, but I must say,  I’ve become a bit more thoughtful when it comes to the math of the decades.

Recently, while listening to the last free concert in the park in Frisco, CO, I was standing behind an older couple who I’m guessing were at least a decade or two older than me, but in this competitively athletic  town, it’s kind of hard to tell.  The man, armed with the latest iphone (good goin’ old man),  was trying to video the band, but was getting frustrated because he kept videoing himself, even though he was holding the phone out in front of him and pointed directly towards the band, who was not all that far away from him in the small park venue.  He was on selfie mode, but didn’t realize it.  He’d make what looked like adjustments to his phone then would hold his camera out in front once again for several seconds to video, then would look at the screen and shake his head in frustration.  I was close enough to see the videos and the mistake he continued to make, but far enough away that I couldn’t hear the comments he was making to his wife….that would be the wife who had her fingers in her ears.  I guess the music was too loud for her.  I doubt I would have given the whole scenario a second look a decade or two ago, but now, now on the heels of 60, I was having a hard time looking away.  There was so much age-related vulnerability coming into play that I felt compelled to settle into the scene long enough to decide on an appropriate emotion… sadness, frustration, or depression. Although I know how to reverse the camera on my iphone, I’ve certainly done or haven’t done all sorts of things that have had all of my kids rolling their eyes and asking me to hand the phone over so they can “sort me out.”  Technology is moving at a much faster pace than is our aging, which is pretty damn fast, and given that most of this is only a few decades old for so many of us, a little behind the technological eight ball is valid and something we hold in solidarity with those in our same age group. Thankfully, attitudes of caring what others think diminish a bit, but also thankfully, not entirely.   A little bit of vulnerability keeps us humble but we traverse a fine line between pride and embarrassment when we expose that side of ourselves.

While on one of my favorite hikes a few days ago,  a hike that is so beautiful that it’s difficult for me to contain my enthusiasm, I met a nice couple quite by accident. We had been doing the passing back and forth so many times since the beginning of the hike that at the 5th encounter, I felt compelled to say something,  so made a comment to them about the hike.  He had been on it before, she hadn’t.  Each time we had passed, my eyes were drawn to her beautiful, long, silver hair,  so along with my gushing about the views they would soon encounter, I felt compelled to give an appropriate shout out to her hair and with great enthusiasm and most likely a little bit of posture adjustment, I took off my ball cap to a sisterhood of silver hair gesture and proudly said,

“Your hair is so amazing….  I’m trying to do the same thing.”

I then turned around to give her a view of the back, my confirmation to her  that it is still a work in progress as a good 8 inches of length is still brown.  Again, syncing with the sisterhood of silver hair…

Her response to me had nothing to do with my hair and my subtle (ok, maybe not so subtle) nod to our connection on a “we’re almost soul sisters because of our hair” level.   Rather, she expressed her excitement at finally doing this hike that she had heard so much about.  Well that was not quite what I expected to hear from her, but whatever.  We met again  a few switchback later, and I’m not sure if it was the lighting, my exhaustion or the altitude (when in doubt, blame it on the altitude),  or what it was that skewed my color perceptions, but her hair was not silver.  She was blonde.  Nope, not even a strand of silver in that blonde hair of hers.  And to think that I had just taken off my cap enthusiastically as a connecting gesture, only to reveal sweaty,  two-toned, not at all attractive, hat hair.  I wanted to quietly back down the mountain, never to see them again, but instead began to talk incessantly to cover up my blunder, as my correction.  She was (I’m guessing), 10  years younger than me and at that very moment, I felt like I was old enough to be her mom.  OK, honestly, her grandma.  I was the man trying to video tape the band but videoed selfies instead.  Go figure.   They’re from New Jersey.  They drove.  It took them 2 very long days. They spent the first night in Junction City.  She is kind of afraid of heights.  He’s cool with that. They might be married.  They kind of want to move to Colorado.  She has blonde hair, not silver.  Lesson learned.   Hold your enthusiasm until you’re sure you know what you’re talking about and then wait a few more seconds,  just because.  And if you mess up, really badly and don’t want to come clean, then talk.  Talk a lot.   Five more minutes and we would have been Facebook friends,  another ten and we would have had dinner together.

I’ve come to believe with each advancing decade,  that when you reach a certain age,  numbers become far less relevant than how you feel, which has become so relevant in the very physically-active state of Colorado, where I live part time.   Last winter I rode the ski lift up with two elderly gentlemen who asked me if I was alone, and if so, did I want to do some runs with them?  Yes, I was alone, but wasn’t sure if I wanted to spend my afternoon doing runs with two 80 plus year old men  (they shared their ages with me with pride).  I guess in the back of my mind, I assumed they’d be too slow for me, although I’m hardly a fast skier.  When they told me the runs they were doing, all bets were off… black diamond, back bowls.

“Ahhh, thanks, but think I’ll just do some runs solo… you know… alone time and all….”

In actuality, I could not have kept up with them… the them who were in their 80’s, while me, the kid in her 50’s.   It gave me hope that maybe, just maybe, I didn’t need to start eliminating things, but perhaps it was time to start adding to my list as I add another decade to my collection.  I’ve got to be able to ski black diamond, black bowl runs in my 60’s if I’m going to do it in my 80’s right?

I like to be able to attach an event to each decade, the one that had the biggest impact on the 10 years for me and have to admit that I’m just a little curious as to the event that will mark my 60’s.  My 20’s were my decade of exploring, making mistakes, being fearless, yet afraid of everything, while I began, unknowingly, to begin to forge my life path.

My 30’s,  in my young opinion, were my big step into adulthood, which at the time meant finishing college (finally), getting married and having my first child.  Bing, bang, done.  My decade of change… or so I thought…

My 40’s were my decade of letting go of the lead and by default, letting my children lead.  Their friend’s parents became my friends, their schedules became my schedules and long life friend bonds were forged.  Oh, and my hair started turning gray, and while I went in every 6 weeks to cover up that secret, I honestly thought no one had a clue.  Secret’s out now…

My 50’s were the decade that changed everything and my entry into it started with hurricane Katrina.  I had divorced just days before my 50th birthday and set out on an unknown and very scary path,  which had far more forging and exploring than I had anticipated and for that, I am now very thankful.  I made a lot of mistakes, worried far too much,  and seemed to learn every lesson the hard way, with the predictable pattern of reactionary hysteria, breathing, and eventually a slow recovery coupled with a lot of talking on the phone.  Case in point, the explosion of my water heater a mere two weeks after moving into my new house and my new life.  I’m still thanking my lucky stars that all of my photos that weren’t in albums were in plastic boxes.  Nothing was lost but a whole lot was learned.  That lesson started with me in a heap at the bottom of the basement steps, my head in my hands, my strength and my courage in another room.  When sump pumps, water heaters or garage door openers go on the blink, I remember that girl that sobbed in a panic on the bottom step, not knowing who to call or where to turn.  She grew a lot that night.  Life felt unexpectedly hard, but was softened with several of Emery’s friends, armed with dry vacs and encouragement, and in the end, I  became a whole lot stronger and added a good plummer to my phone book.

So… 60….a new decade and I can honestly say, a new women who is making the entrance.  I gave myself a very impromptu birthday present this year and returned from Colorado a few days early to hear a speaker who I discovered on Facebook a few months earlier and have been in admiration ever since. Her name is Tao Porchon-Lynch and she is 96 years young, still teaches yoga and has a light and an energy that completely filled the room and had most of its occupants as entranced as I was, I’m sure.  All bets are off on the thoughts of aging I had when I woke up to today – those pesky thoughts that being 60 is inching towards being old. Today, on the eve of my odometer clicking over one of the numbers that moves the slowest, I was flooded by the youthful messages from a 98 year-old yogi.  Seriously, after being in her presence for 2 hours, coupled with the intimacy of the venue that allowed me to introduce myself to her and give her a hug, it’s amazing that at almost 60 years to her 98 years, that I’m even old enough to drive a car let alone all the other things that come with true adulthood.  Next to her youthful spirit, I feel like I’m at the beginning, and right now, with so many wishes, hopes and dreams ahead of me, it feels like the perfect place to be.  For that, Tao Porchon-Lynch, I thank you, with deep sincerity for the birthday gift that you have no idea that you gave me.

With each decade comes gratitude;  the 6th bringing a bit more than the 5th and a whole lot more than the 4th or 3rd. I’m comfortably seated on my cushion of gratitude while I continue to adjust my sails to catch the best wind to carry me forward. It’s a good place to be and I can’t complain about the view.

Here’s to 60…to those who are there, those who have been there and those still to embark.  Salud.  Oh, and when you’re 60, you can do that, wishing yourself a happy birthday, that is.  It’s a rule I made up  just minutes into my new decade because adding another year to the toll is something we all should celebrate because we’re happy to be getting older, right?  I certainly am.

 

Life’s scars…

 

 

Relaxing on top… pre-fall, pre-scar
I don’t like this hike, but keep returning… my scar attaches me to it…

 

 

With all the moss and so many trails that I hike looking like this, it’s surprising that I don’t have a roadmap of white-line scars on my legs

 

While resting during a hike yesterday, with my dirty and freshly scratched up legs stretched out in front of me, my eyes were drawn to the 4-inch scar on my right calf that seems to be pointing down to my foot… that would be the foot that slipped on a mossy rock while hiking and came down on a piece of sharp granite many years ago.  Now had that thin white line ended up on my forehead or cheek, the memory of how it came to be might not conjure up the smile that it did yesterday.  It’s a gentle reminder of a fun day on Rooster Comb mountain, the same mountain by the way where  several years later, my daughter would be proposed to by my now son-in-law.  It’s a hike I do not like, but for some reason, whenever I’m in the Adirondack mountains with my sister, Susan, we do it.  We were close to the bottom and in a shaded area where slippery mossy rocks are common when I fell.  My leg was a bit of a bloody mess and once back at the lodge where we were staying, Susan suggested that maybe I should go to the hospital for stitches.  I had no idea if there even was a hospital nearby, but even if there had been, I opted out and patched myself up with a lot of bandaids and Neosporin.  Had I gotten the suggested stitches, I’m sure there would be far less of a scar, if any, but honestly, I don’t mind it a bit.  It feels like a badge of courage to me now and an ever present reminder of how much fun I have hiking with Susan.

Author Chris Cleave, in his book, “Little Bee”, says,

“A scar does not form on the dying. A scar means, I survived.”

Once again, I survived Rooster Comb Mountain.


I love that spin on scars and have a whole lot of surviving going on on my body.  I’ve got an 8 inch “zipper” on my right side that shows that I survived the removal of my right kidney when I was 21.  I remember sitting in the doctor’s  office with my Mom by my side when he told me that my kidney needed to be removed.  My response was, “What will the scar look like and will I still be able to wear a bikini?”  Seriously?  Not even a hint of how will this affect my life, my health, my overall well-being?  At age 21, I couldn’t look beyond the scar and honestly, I was devastated.  Not with the loss of a key body part, but at the thought of a scar wrapping its way around my mid right torso.  The removal of the diseased kidney left me healthier than I was with it, by the way, and has not affected my lifestyle, health or general well-being whatsoever.  It did bring on a question or two back in my bikini  days, which like the scar on my leg, always brought on a smile – a smile because my 21-year old self has grown up and feels no shame in showing the necessary trail of the surgeon’s scalpel.

The small scar duet, one just below my left brow and the other on the upper left side of my lip are easily forgotten until at a stop light on a sunny day and I catch my reflection in the rear view mirror, and then it’s,   “Oh yea…. I remember you guys.”  They found their way to my face during a car wreck with my best friend, Susie, in high school.  A car ran a stop sign and hit us from the side.  He wasn’t going fast or it could have been a lot worse, but had I fastened my seat belt, it would have been a lot better as my face probably wouldn’t have smashed into the windshield.  Lesson learned.  The hard way.  My biggest fear that time was not the scarring (this was 4 years before the kidney came out and my attention was in the immediate, not the future) but rather, my date’s reaction when he picked me up for the Black Oak Arkansas concert later on that evening.  Looking back, I probably should have given him a head’s up as he was certainly surprised by the sorry sight that greeted him at the door. My eye was black and puffy and freshly stitched and was nearly swollen shut and my lip, also freshly stitched was so swollen that my mouth wouldn’t close all the way.  I’m surprised he still wanted to take me, let alone be seen with me and more surprised that my parents let me go!

On the same leg as the hiking incident scar is a much smaller scar that is positioned just below my knee and is a straight up and down, one inch long white line.  It is my knelt down on an exacto knife scar while wall papering my soon to be 2nd baby’s room.  I was 8 months pregnant and although I should have had stitches,  I didn’t feel I had time to go to the hospital to get them.  I was mid-way into the wallpapering project and it’s not wise to pull a nesting mother from her project. So no stitches.  I mostly blame this round of bad judgement on the hormones.  I’m not sure where all of the braincells go when you’re pregnant (the baby?), but there is definitely a period of misfiring and the closer to delivery time, at least in my case, the worse it seemed to get.  This scenario happened again when I was 8 months pregnant with my 3rd child and I sliced my palm open on a tin can lid, while trying to extract it out of the can.  That time I did get stitches… a lot of them… and without an ounce of fat on the palm of your hand, that’s a painful experience that I hope never to go through again.  Then there was the whole situation of showing up in the ER, very pregnant, and trying to explain to the rushing around staff who had me in a wheelchair headed straight up to delivery,  to NOT take me to delivery but rather to the stitching up room of the ER.  That’s my scar that I’ve been told by more than one person, messed up any future palm reading on that hand.  Well shoot.  I missed that opportunity as I’ve never had my palm read. The scar did add an extra branch to my life line, though, which could come in handy someday.

With every one of my children’s entry into the world, or pre-entry, I’ve earned a scar.  With my first born, it is a 6 inch scar in my lower abdomen where he made his entry into the world during an emergency C-section due to an rapidly lowering heartbeat.  Rather than being stitched up that time,  staples were used to close the incision.  I never thought twice about the scar and would have welcomed one on my face if that was what it took to bring him into the world safely.  I saved the staples in a box along with my hospital bracelet (and his) as it seemed important at the time. Now it seems kind of creepy to save the staples, but I still have them, which either says they still hold importance, or I need to do more cleaning and clearing out.   I remember having a friend who saved her tonsils in a glass jar filled with water after they were removed when she was 5 and I thought that was pretty cool as I only had a sore throat and some cards after my tonsils were removed for my take home gift.  I didn’t want my kidney after it was removed (and am pretty sure that is against hospital policy now), but when they told me they had to take out a rib to get to the kidney, thoughts of making art or jewelry out of that rib made me wish they had saved it for me.  Today, the scar seems to be more than enough reminder to me, without needing to hold onto the rib, which is far creepier than an envelope of staples, right?

I survived.  And the relics of those survivals are etched all over my body – my personal badges of strength, courage and maybe stupidity for not going to the hospital on some of them…

I’ve often wondered what it would be like if rather than tucked away in the depths of our heart, if we wore our emotional scars side by side to our physical scars.  Would it illicit kinder behavior to those who we don’t know but think we do when we see them yelling at their kid or throwing trash out of their car window or mistreating their animals?  If we saw the scars of all of their pain, would we act differently towards them?  Maybe it’s best they are tucked away and held where only we can feel them.  The emotional wounds do heal in time, but no doubt, they leave scars in the wake of their fading pain and every once in a while, I will get the gentle or maybe not so gentle reminder of their presence.

We’re all scarred, inside and out, but it’s in those telling marks that lies our history, our bumps in the road, our accidental lessons in life, but we survived, and no doubt, with a story to tell.

Don’t look down, don’t think about it, you can do this…

 

Seriously.  Do NOT look down!

 

Thank goodness for the guardrails… although I doubt they’d stop a car from falling off the mountain, they offer a bit of security…

 

Oh geez… how’d I get here?

 

 

Rocky Mountain rapid pulse.

I am a bit of a white knuckled, turn off the radio so I can concentrate, don’t really love this but will do it because I have to, kind of driver.  If he’s still alive and if he could remember, I’m sure that my driver’s ed teacher, Mr. Hankins, would agree with this.   Perhaps it was the afternoon when I was required to demonstrate my mastery of parallel parking on the busiest downtown street in the small town I grew up in,  that reinforced my apprehensions with being behind the wheel.  My unmastered skills landed me on the sidewalk, smack dab in front of the TG&Y store. Being in the driver’s seat in the well-marked drivers ed car is embarrassing enough at that age, although I’m not sure why as it is a rite of passage for most, but having to get out of the car and trade seats with your teacher so he could maneuver the car off of the sidewalk and back onto the then getting busy street due to the side show, is not a feather in one’s driving school cap.  I passed the written test with flying colors, but barely eked by on the driving section due to the parallel parking incident.  Today, many decades later,  I’m still more than happy to walk the necessary blocks to avoid the whole parallel parking fiasco.  A city girl, I am not.

I’ve had face a lot of my driving fears head on simply because it was my only choice, short of staying home, my fears of mountain driving trumping all.

Several years ago while in Santa Fe on a ski trip with the family, I had to face those fears straight on and I’m happy to say that I triumphed.  After suiting up in our ski gear,  driving up the mountain to the ski resort, my youngest, Emery, who was 6 at the time, decided that she was done with skiing and wanted no part of it, that day or ever.  Period.  End of story.  Given that Charlie had already promised to ski with the boys all day, that left me with the choice of staying in the lodge with Emery and waiting, or having a day in Santa Fe, which ultimately meant having to drive down the mountain, then back up again to pick up Charlie and the boys at the end of the day. With the options of drinking coffee all morning, which no doubt would roll into beer early afternoon due to frustration, or putting my big girl driving pants on and forge ahead with some mountain driving  I opted for the latter.  So here I am, the mom, the one in charge, the all knowing,  explaining to my 6 year-old as we inched our way down the mountain, that I was absolutely terrified and could she “talk or sing me through it”?  She seemed to know exactly what I was asking and chattered and sang and kept the distractions going, hairpin turn after hairpin turn, until we made our way to the bottom of the mountain, then repeated the performance on our way back up again.  Round two was a lot easier and I swear, when I stepped out of the car and onto the parking lot at Santa Fe Ski, I was just a little bit taller.

A similar request was made of my right seated passenger while on the long and if memory serves me correctly, in the sky bridge to Coronado Island, south of San Diego.  Barely into the drive, my fear of driving over bridges overcame my rational side and my poor sister, Robin,  had to talk me through the process all the way to the other side of the bridge.  The memory comes up every time I’m on a bridge with her, but fortunately, my fears, although still present, have waned quite a bit.  Still, I don’t think she enjoys riding right seat while I drive her across bridges.  Memories shape us, whether they’re no longer accurate or not.  Sorry about that, Robin.  If I could have pulled over a switched seats with you, I certainly would have.

Fast forward several years and once again, I find myself on roads that have my pulse speeding… mountain roads in Rocky Mountain National Park.  Mountain roads I of course expected while driving through the park, but being on a narrow shelf roads that had me feeling like I was driving in the sky, was totally unexpected.  I’m a flatlander who has spent most of my life in Kansas.  I don’t think of these kind of driving scenarios.  Thankfully, there was very little traffic and I could hug the mountain side, often putting me in the wrong lane, while keeping careful watch out for oncoming traffic.

“Don’t look down, don’t think about it, you can do this…”

With no one in my right seat, I had to take on the process of “talking her down” routine to myself by myself…

I returned home a different route, avoiding the shelf roads all together, but with a smile on my face for having done it.  Even after having done this multiple times now since I started spending so much time in Colorado, it is still a big dang deal for me that adds another layer to my driving badge of courage each and every time.

Last week I drove to Aspen to see a friend of mine and thinking I was so tech smart and clever, I simply put her Aspen address into my phone and drove, not giving a second thought to the route Google Maps would choose for me.  In my car with good music, a full cup of coffee in the holder and nothing but blue skies ahead, it was simply perfect… until the roads got tighter and narrower and the hairpin turns began.  I thought it would be for just a short bit, then back onto easy, straight, no hairpin roads, until I saw the sign….

“INDEPENDENCE PASS”

Seriously?  The Pass I hear people talk about and most of them not in a “cool, let’s drive Independence Pass to Aspen” kind of way.  Again, I pulled myself up to the steering wheel as close as I could get (no idea about this, but it seems to make me drive better), turned off the radio so I could concentrate and started “talking myself down”….

“Don’t look down, don’t think about it, you can do this….”

And I did.  When I arrived at my friend’s house and my first comment out of the car was in regards to the white knuckled drive, she said,

“Oh Laurie, that’s a PASSENGER drive!  You don’t drive that!  It’s too scary!  You let someone else drive it, while you’re the passenger.”

Again, I think I may have been just a tad bit taller when I pulled my shaking limbs from the car.  It would appear that I am now a somewhat experienced, albeit not liking it, mountain shelf driver, who will do it if she has to, but has learned the hard way to find an alternate route rather than simply let Google Maps make the decision, because Google Maps does not know me, otherwise they’d probably suggest I look into the bus schedule.  I took a different route home.

I will never be the one to quickly say “Me!!” when the question as to who is going to drive is thrown out, nor will I ever purposely put myself in a driving situation that raises my pulse, unless I have to and although those “have to’s” are coming more and more often during my times in the mountains, I still don’t enjoy them.

I realized that I may have passed this driving fear trait onto my daughter the first time I had her out on a parking lot the size of a football field, with nary a car in sight, and she began to maneuver her way behind the wheel for the first time.

“Why are you slowing down so much, Emery?”

“Because, I’m about to crash into that light pole!”

That would be the light pole that was a dot on the horizon, barely visible it was so far away.  Bless her heart; she’s the recipient of yet another one of my traits that has worked its way down to her via genetics, the good with the bad, and she lives in Colorado of all places.  Unlike her fearful behind the wheel mom, who put her time in on the flat roads of Kansas at her age, she will conquer this fear with a lot more speed than I did because she’s will be thrown into the deep driving end of the pool on a far more regular basis than I was.  Bless her heart even more.  I have not doubt that just like her mom when the knuckles turn white and the radio goes off to concentrate, she’ll begin to talk, sing or mumble her way around every mountain pass until the comfort sets in.

“Don’t look down, don’t think about it, you can do this…”

Or maybe she’ll geographically personalize the mantra and go old school Colorado and sing John Denver.  Whatever works.