~ wander.essence ~

great sand dunes national park

wanderessence1025 February 3, 2019

After visiting my youngest son in Crestone, Colorado, where he was WWOOFing on a small organic farm, we went to visit Great Sand Dunes National Park and Preserve, about an hour’s drive west, then south, then west again. It would have been much closer if we could have flown like a crow.

The park protects the tallest dunes in North America, reaching heights of over 750 feet. The dunefield alone covers overs 30 square miles. The preserve also contains ecosystems ranging from wetlands to nearly 42,000 acres of pinyon-juniper forests extending to high elevation alpine tundra.

Driving into Great Sand Dunes

Great Sand Dunes

my son at Great Sand Dunes National Park

Congress has protected nearly 90% of Great Sand Dunes National Park and National Preserve as wilderness under the 1964 Wilderness Act. This includes the Great Sand Dunes Wilderness of 33,549 acres in the national park, and 41,676 acres in the Sangre de Cristo Wilderness.

Great Sand Dunes National Park

We first stopped at the visitor center to watch a film about how the dunes were formed, and then went to explore the dunefield from the main Dunes parking area.

Most of the sand here comes from the San Juan Mountains, over 65 miles to the west. Larger, rougher grains and pebbles come from the rugged Sangre de Cristo Mountains to the east. Sand and sediments from both ranges washed into a huge lake once covering the valley floor. As the lake vanished, prevailing southwesterly winds swept the sand grains in a pile beneath the Sangre de Cristos or washed them back toward the valley floor. Northeasterly storm winds blasted through mountain passes, piling dunes back on themselves and creating the tallest dunes in North America. The dunes are likely less than 400,000 years old.

driftwood in the dunes

The high, cold Sangre de Cristo Mountains collect and hold snow from October into April, releasing it in icy streams as spring brings on warmer temperatures. The creeks feed the underground aquifers for San Luis Valley residents’ wells, local agriculture and livestock.

the Sangre de Cristo Mountains

driftwood in the dunes

the Great Sand Dunes

From the parking lot, we walked 2.3 miles (3.7km) through the Piñon Flats campground to the Dunes Overlook Trail. Here, we strolled through sand sheet and grassland among gnarly juniper and small flower sand-verbena. Golden grasses and shrubs like rabbitbrush, starvation prickly pear, and narrowleaf yucca grow over old dunes, stabilizing them with their roots and reducing wind speeds with their branches and leaves.

Dunes Overlook Trail

Dunes Overlook Trail

Dunes Overlook Trail

Dunes Overlook Trail

juniper on the Dunes Overlook Trail

Dunes Overlook Trail

Dunes Overlook Trail

From the overlook, we had a great view of the first ridge of dunes and the San Luis Valley.

Dunes Overlook Trail

Dunes Overlook Trail

Dunes Overlook Trail

my son

my son and me

the Sangre de Christo Mountains

Great Sand Dunes

After reaching a small hill where we saw panoramic views of the sand dunes, we headed back down to the parking lot. Sadly, I had reserved a hotel room in Pueblo, Colorado for that night, long before I knew my son would be in Crestone, and it was non-refundable.

Great Sand Dunes

My son and I had such a wonderful time together that I wished I could have spent a couple more days exploring the area with him. However, he had only one day off from the organic farm and I had reserved all my hotels for my 3-day drive back across the country.

Cloudy skies

Great Sand Dunes

After our visit to the park, my son wanted to visit an “awesome” hot spring for several hours, but I was getting worried about the time. I had to drive him back north to Crestone for an hour and then drive south again, backtracking past the Great Sand Dunes, and then east to Pueblo, Colorado for nearly three hours.

When we returned to Crestone, we had a wonderful, but very long (because of slow service) dinner at a homey restaurant called Desert Sage, where I enjoyed a huge meatloaf (much of which I gave my son to take to the farm) and mashed potatoes with gravy and vegetables. An accompanying glass of wine wouldn’t help me stay alert during my long drive to Pueblo.

I hate to drive in the dark, but by the time we finished our meal and I drove my son to the farm, it was nearly 8 pm. For what seemed like forever, I drove in circles around the dirt roads in Crestone, utterly lost. I couldn’t get my GPS to work, so I don’t know how I ever found my way out of those convoluted roads. Finally, I was on Route 17 heading south, driving on deserted county roads in the middle of nowhere.

At Mosca, my GPS took me on the “scenic route” which bypassed Alamosa, where I’d hoped to find a restroom. There was no “scenery” to see as it was pitch black outside. When I turned east onto Route 160, I thought it woudn’t be far to I-25, but the GPS told me to follow the road for 79 miles (!), crossing the North La Veta Pass of the Sangre de Cristos at 9,413 feet. There was hardly another car in sight in any direction.

Finally, I reached I-25 at 10:30 p.m. and headed north for 48 more miles. It was a drive I thought would never end. After Pueblo, I would still have three more full days of driving to get back home to Virginia.

Of course I got my National Parks sticker and cancellation stamp.

Sticker & cancellation stamp for Great Sand Dunes

*Tuesday, May 22, 2018*

*Steps: 11,980 (5.08 miles)*

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On Sundays, I post about hikes or walks that I have taken in my travels; I may also post on other unrelated subjects. I will use these posts to participate in Jo’s Monday Walks or any other challenges that catch my fancy.

This post is in response to Jo’s Monday Walk: Funazhinas to Odeleite Dam.

poetic journeys: refugio

wanderessence1025 February 1, 2019

Refugio

Los peregrinos shake the dust from
their zapatos de andar,
leaving los paisajes outside the door.

They deposit their bastones de caminar
into the large clay jar by la puerta,
wash off el dia in la ducha.

They launder their camisas y calzoncillos
y calcetines and hang them with
their toallas pequeñas

on the clothesline in the scant afternoon
luz de sol, retrieving fresh clothes from their mochillas.
They toast their amigos peregrinos,

raising glasses of vino tinto o vino blanco
o vino verrano, o sparkling cerveza limón.
They laugh, or chat, or

write with las plumas in sus diarios,
spilling los instantes of their day onto the pages,
their secretos, their inocencias.

Por la tarde, they might have a siesta do oro,
their pasaportes and dinero
wrapped snugly around their waists.

Later, when the temblores of sunlight have faded
and the great darkness desciende al día,
they toss and turn between sabanas of paper

or cocooned inside sacos de dormir,
their snores punctuating el silencio,
disturbing la luz de la luna.

The dreams of sus espíritus
seek voice in ríos of sleep,
on literas crowded into los dormitorios.

Por la mañana, many flow oeste on el camino
in la oscuridad, hoping their hearts will lift
with la salida del sol, on echoes of wind,

singing away through España.
Is this how they pray –
Un pie en frente del otro?

Meeting Point Albergue

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Here’s the poem in English:

Refuge

The pilgrims shake the dust from
their walking shoes,
leaving the landscapes outside the door.

They deposit their walking poles
into the large clay jar by the door,
wash off the day in the shower.

They launder their shirts and underpants
and socks and hang them with
their tiny towels

on the clothesline in the scant afternoon
sunlight, retrieving fresh clothes from their backpacks.
They toast their pilgrim friends,

raising glasses of red wine or white wine or
summer wine, or sparkling lemon beer.
They laugh, or chat, or

write with pens in their diaries,
spilling the moments of their day onto the pages,
their secrets, their innocence.

In the afternoon, they might have a golden nap,
their passports and money
wrapped snugly around their waists.

Later, when the tremors of sunlight have faded
and the great darkness descends on the day,
they toss and turn between paper sheets

or cocooned inside sleeping bags,
their snores punctuating the silence,
disturbing the moonlight.

The dreams of their spirits
seek voice in rivers of sleep, on
bunk beds crowded into dorm rooms.

In the morning, many flow west on the road
in the darkness, hoping their hearts will lift
with the sunrise, on echoes of wind,

singing away through Spain.
Is this how they pray –
One foot in front of the other?

laundry on balconies at a refugio

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“POETRY” Invitation: I invite you to write a poem of any poetic form on your own blog about a particular travel destination. Or you can write about travel in general. Concentrate on any intention you set for your poetry.

In this case, one of my intentions was to write a poem about some aspect of the Camino mixing Spanish and English words (p. 158 Poetry Everywhere).

You can either set your own poetic intentions, or use one of the prompts I’ve listed on this page: writing prompts: poetry. (This page is a work in process). You can also include photos, of course.

Include the link in the comments below by Thursday, February 28 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Friday, March 1, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, on the first Friday of each month. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

aztec ruins national monument

wanderessence1025 January 31, 2019

From the late 1000s to the late 1200s, ancestral Puebloan people at Aztec Ruins National Monument in New Mexico planned and built a settlement encompassing large public buildings, smaller structures, earthworks, and ceremonial buildings. The extended community here rivaled Chaco Canyon, 55 miles south, which flourished between 850 and 1130.

The first inhabitants here were influenced by Chaco architecture, ceramics and ceremonial life. At first, it may have been a place that supported Chaco activities. When Chaco’s influence waned after 1100, it may have been a center in its own right.

Early farmers here took advantage of the Animas River’s steady flow across the plains of northwestern New Mexico. When inhabitants finished building this complex in the late 1200s, the community consisted of great houses, tri-walled kivas, small residential pueblos, earthworks, roads, and great kivas.

The ancient builders of Aztec Ruins are generally called “ancestral Puebloan people.” The site got its name because early Spanish explorers traveling north from Mexico commonly used the word “Aztec” when naming sites they encountered.

Visitor Center & Museum

The Great Kiva here served as the religious core of the Great House. These were probably public buildings used by people in the surrounding community. Common features include a large size, a central fire pit, four pillars, and floor vaults, possibly used as foot drums after planks of wood were laid across them.

This Great Kiva was excavated by Earl Morris in 1921 and reconstructed under his management in 1934. The purpose of fifteen surface rooms surrounding the central chamber is unknown. Possibly they were used for ancestor spirits, individual clans or societies, spectators, or ceremonial preparations. Supporting the 95-ton roof was a challenging feat of engineering, both when originally built, and when reconstructed.

Inside the Great Kiva

The round room shown below was another kind of kiva or ceremonial chamber. The roof in this kiva was domed with timbers resting one upon another, a common style for kiva roofs. Descendants of ancestral Puebloans describe this construction as representing a basket, associated with the sky above. People entered the kiva through a hatchway in the roof.

Kiva

Most prominent are the great houses — well-planned public buildings of many connected rooms surrounding a central plaza. By 1105, people began harvesting wood from distant sources to build the largest structure, now known as West Ruin. The West Ruin resembled the great houses built at Chaco and elsewhere in the Southwest. The three-story building had over 500 rooms and many kivas, including the Great Kiva in the plaza.

Buildings around the plaza

The thick tapering walls had a core of roughly shaped stones and mud mortar sandwiched between sandstone masonry exteriors.

construction

Aztec Ruins

The Great Kiva and another kiva

Kiva

me at Aztec Ruins

Buildings around the plaza

doorways

construction

walls

The path leads through a series of interior rooms. The rooms along the back wall were often used for storage as well as a place for burials. Mats, hides, stone slabs, or feather blankets were used to close off openings between rooms and the outdoors.

In this passageway, the ceilings are still intact after 900 years. The large beams (vigas) are made of widely spaced spruce, Douglas fir, or Ponderosa pine. The overlying smaller beams (latillas) are made of aspen or pine. Rather than using local timber, the builders chose to bring in high-quality roof beams from higher elevations 20 miles north. A layer of thin juniper splints was placed on top of the latillas. Finally, a heavy layer of tamped mud topped this layer, forming the floor of the story above.

This intact roof enabled precise dating of these ruins because of tree-ring dating, or dendrochronology.

inside nooks

interior nooks

kiva

North Wall

Aztec West

Aztec West

Aztec West

Hubbard Tri-Wall site

In the early years, the settlement was influenced strongly by Chacoan culture, and it prospered as a regional administrative, trade and ceremonial center. Later, despite periodic droughts and the decline of the Chacoan social and economic system, Aztec’s regional prominence persisted as construction and remodeling continued in the Chacoan style.

By the late 1200s, people had moved from Aztec and the Four Corners region. No one knows why they left, but archeologists guess perhaps it was drought, or social, political or religious issues. Possibly, it was simply the allure of distant places. They moved south to the less arid country near the Rio Grande and west into Arizona, where their descendants live today.

Murals

Many American Indians maintain deep spiritual ties with this ancestral place through oral tradition, prayer and ceremony.

Of course, I got my National Parks sticker and cancellation stamp.

Murals

Aztec Ruins cancellation stamp

Information above came from various brochures created by the National Park Service.

*Friday, May 18, 2018*

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“PHOTOGRAPHY” INVITATION: I invite you to create a photography intention and then create a blog post for a place you have visited. Alternately, you can post a thematic post about a place, photos of whatever you discovered that set your heart afire. You can also do a thematic post of something you have found throughout all your travels: churches, doors, people reading, people hiking, mountains, patterns, all black & white, whatever!

You probably have your own ideas about this, but in case you’d like some ideas, you can visit my page: photography inspiration.

I challenge you to post no more than 20 photos and to write less than 500-800 words about any travel-related photography intention you set for yourself. Include the link in the comments below by Wednesday, February 6 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Thursday, February 7, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, every first and third (& 5th, if there is one) Thursday of each month. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

{camino: day 4} zubiri to pamplona

wanderessence1025 January 27, 2019

I sent my backpack ahead again because the walk was to be 13 miles and anything over 10 miles to me was a killer. I decided I’d try to carry my pack every day the distance was 10 miles or less, but I’d see how my resolve would hold up. After all, it only cost 5 euros to send a bag ahead, making the way much more pleasant. Yet. I couldn’t help but feel a little guilty when I did it.

In the morning, still feeling heavy over the previous night’s events, I walked with Carolyn from Iowa 5.3 km to Larrasoaña, which had been sheltering pilgrims for almost a thousand years, and another 3.8km to Zuriáin. I shared with her about my loved one. Carolyn had had numerous problems with her son while he was in college at Notre Dame. He stopped showing up for class and she had to give permission for the university to go into his apartment to check on him. He had to lose a semester and then reapply. Another time he was taken to a hospital in a semi-comatose state. He finally got himself together and graduated in May in IT Management. This conversation eased my fears and made me feel less alone. On the other hand, she told of her schizophrenic sister who is into Morgan Horses and hears voices. I felt anxiety clutch me inside, thinking about my loved one.

I believed this sharing among pilgrims is one of the reasons that people say “the Camino provides.”

me starting in Zubiri with my knee sleeve

on the way to Larrasoaña

sheep on the way to Larrasoaña

on the way to Larrasoaña

Larrasoaña

The path followed a level course through a wood. The río Arga bubbled along beside us. When we arrived at Zuriáin, we stopped at a lovely pilgrim cafe, La Parada de Zuriáin, alongside the river. Here, I ran into Ingrid, who had been walking with Stephanie from Maine, to whom she introduced me. I updated Ingrid about the phone call from last night, and they both expressed sympathy and wished our family well. Ingrid’s pace was faster than mine, so I said Buen Camino as they went ahead. I also let Carolyn go ahead because I needed some contemplative time.

The café was peaceful and relaxing. I ate a spinach tortilla and orange juice while sitting on the lawn. I took my socks off to inspect my feet. They were hurting and some of my toes were reddish, so I put on some moleskin. Claire, of the newlywed couple (Claire & Matt) I’d met at Suseia, offered to let me use her silk liner socks which seemed to help reduce the friction, although my feet and legs remained sore all day.

walking into Zuriáin

pilgrim sculpture at La Parada de Zuriáin

From Zuriáin, I fell into step with Claire, Matt, and John from Houston as we walked 3.3km to Zabaldika. Claire, an ESL teacher from Dayton, Ohio, had applied to teach English with the English Program in Korea (EPIK), just as I did from 2010-2011; she had an interview coming up in the next week. She asked me questions about working in Korea, and I told her she would most definitely get the job as she was already qualified. When I went, I was much less qualified.

The path continued alongside the río Arga, with splendid views and the soothing sound of running water.

farmland on the way to Zabaldika

Zabaldika

Later, walking on to Puente de Arre (3.7km) alone with John, I got choked up as the conversation turned to my loved one. He told me his son dropped out of high school his freshman year but then was home-schooled, and that both of his kids have struggled with depression. John was carrying his pack and complaining of back pain. He was 66, retired from his career as an industrial salesperson, but his wife was still working in title insurance in Austin, TX and loved her job. She was to turn 63 on October 26, one day after my own 63rd birthday, so he’d return home by then. He and I stuck together for a long time, but I wished I could shake him because I desperately wanted quiet time.

Approaching Arleta, we stopped in the shade at a country house with a hermitage attached. The path leveled off and gave us a great view of the valley of the Arga. It was quite hot by this time, and we were exhausted. After this, we lost sight of the river.

on the way to Puente de Arre

country house and hermitage in Arleta

We crossed the medieval bridge, Trinidad de Arre, with its six arches, and admired the río Ultzama. Just past that is a medieval hostel, but we were bound for Pamplona. On the calle Mayor (high street), we stopped at a cafe where I devoured some tapas – toast topped with skewered shrimp, an egg slice, and a little stuffed phyllo packet.

walking over Puente de Arre

outskirts of Pamplona

tapas

I left John behind to make the long slog (3.8km) through the city streets to the 12th century Puente de Magdalena and into Pamplona through the gates of the walled city. I was so tired I could hardly pick up my feet, so I stopped for a long while to rest on a bench, where John eventually caught up with me.

This long walk into Pamplona was jarring to the senses after walking all day on rural paths. The path was on hard city pavements and suburban streets with much traffic.

walking through the outskirts of Pamplona

the long slog into Pamplona

outskirts of Pamplona

getting closer to Pamplona

We crossed the famous pilgrim bridge, the 12th century Puente de Magdalena, and entered the city over the drawbridge and through the splendid Portal de Zumalacárregi, also called Portal de Francia, a reminder that Pamplona has welcomed pilgrims from France since medieval times.

Portal de Zumalacárregi

streets of old Pamplona

streets of old Pamplona

The urban part of today’s route ended at the door of the 15th century Cathedral of Santa María la Real. Just as the Way always passes by the main church in smaller towns, in the cities it runs to the cathedral.

Cathedral of Santa María la Real

Once in Pamplona, I checked into Albergue Plaza Cathedral, directly across from the cathedral. I was assigned a top bunk again. I planned to stay two nights in Pamplona. Out on the plaza, after doing my laundry and taking a shower, I had a glass of wine with Claire and Matt, Tim from Atlanta, a Brazilian girl, and Heather, who I’d met at Beilari. When I shared my struggles over my loved one, Heather said our family needed to have a plan in place for dealing with him in case he attempted suicide.

Cathedral of Santa María la Real

Feeling heavy and weary, I wandered around Pamplona and found myself in the midst of a lively festival and parade. Apparently, this festival is the Privilege of the Union, which commemorates the unification of the three parts of the city (La Navarrería, San Cernín and San Nicolás) into one in a treaty signed by King Carlos III in 1423. Each of the three boroughs at that time lost their individual walls and individual governments and opted to be governed by a single council and enclosed within the same city walls.

Festival in Pamplona

As I wandered aimlessly, I met up by accident with Lisa from Leesburg, Virginia (I’d met her in Orisson). We had dinner with another pilgrim named Sandy from Minnesota. I ate a tuna-egg salad with wine and shared some of Lisa’s risotto.

Lisa lost her sister Kathy 15 years ago but felt she’d never properly mourned her. Both of her flights to Spain were reported to be full, yet she had an empty seat beside her on both flights, as if Kathy were traveling with her. She got very emotional while sharing this. Later, when I shared the issues with my loved one, Sandy wasn’t sympathetic; she said it sounded like “a lot of drama,” as if to brush it off. I was quite taken aback by that.

It turned out Lisa had met Lindy and her partner on her flight from Dulles. I’d met Lindy on a hike with my Virginia hiking group in early spring and had talked to her a long time about her sons, who both live in Colorado, and her visit to Crestone, Colorado, where I ended up going last May to visit my youngest son. I hadn’t crossed paths with Lindy yet on the Camino; I knew she had planned to start on September 6, two days after I did, and Lisa said they’d made a stop in Bayonne for two nights.

Later, my loved one texted my husband to say he had an interview at Chipotle and the manager sounded positive but hadn’t called. He also had an interview with a garden center. That made me feel a little more hopeful. My husband planned to go to NAMI (National Alliance of Mental Illness), a group for relatives of mentally ill people, on Saturday.

*Day 4: Friday, September 7, 2018*

*35,418 steps, or 15.01 miles: Zubiri to Pamplona (20.9 km)*

You can find everything I’ve written so far on the Camino de Santiago here:

Camino de Santiago 2018

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This post is in response to Jo’s Monday Walk: Fuseta at Blossom Time.

anticipation & preparation: southern illinois & cincinnati, ohio

wanderessence1025 January 25, 2019

To prepare for my ten-day “Midwestern Triangle” road trip to southern Illinois, Cincinnati, OH, and Louisville & Lexington, Kentucky (I’ll write about Kentucky in another post), I started by looking through several guidebooks:

Off the Beaten Path Illinois: A Guide to Unique Places by Lyndee Jobe Henderson
100 Things To Do in Cincinnati Before You Die by Rick Pender ****
Walking Cincinnati by Danny Korman and Katie Meyer ****

I found some novels and memoirs set in Illinois and Ohio, some of which I’m currently reading. If I’ve already read them, they have a link and star ratings:

Illinois (outside of Chicago):

Barn Blind by Jane Smiley ****
The Year of Pleasures by Elizabeth Berg ****
Anything is Possible (stories) by Elizabeth Strout *****
The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen
The Eighth Day by Thornton Wilder
The Nix by Nathan Hill
Dandelion Wine by Rad Bradbury
Ordinary People by Judith Guest

Ohio (southern):

Hillbilly Elegy: A Memoir of a Family and Culture in Crisis by J.D. Vance (Middletown) ****
Beloved by Toni Morrison (Ohio and Kentucky)
House Under Snow by Jill Bialosky
The Truth of the Matter by Robb Forman Dew
Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson
Cincinnati
1. Calling Me Home by Julie Kibler ****
2. Eligible by Curtis Sittenfield ***

Books set in Illinois & Ohio

I also found some movies set in Illinois and Ohio as follows:

Illinois:

Young Mr. Lincoln (1939)
Abe Lincoln in Illinois (1940)
Ordinary People (1980)
The Breakfast Club (1985)
Ferris Bueller’s Day Off (1986)
Planes, Trains and Automobiles (1987) ****
Home Alone (1990) ****
The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Inventing the Abbotts (1997)
Mean Girls (2004)
Christmas with the Kranks (2004)
Man of Steel (2013)
The Accountant (2016)

Cincinnati, Ohio:

The Best Years of Our Lives (1946)
WKRP in Cincinnati (TV series 1978-1982)
Rain Man (1988) ****
Fresh Horses (1988)
Little Man Tate (1991)
The Mighty (1998)
Traffic (2000)
The Ides of March (2011)
The Avengers (2012)
Miles Ahead (2015)
Carol (2015) ***
Marauders (2016)
Inconceivable (2017)

Itinerary (I’ll write about Kentucky in next month’s post)

Day 1 – Sunday, Feb 24: Drive to Lincoln City, Indiana (10 hours) – Spend night in Lincoln City

DAY 2 – Monday, Feb 25: In Lincoln City, Indiana, assuming the government is open by then (!), visit:

Lincoln Boyhood Home National Memorial, Lincoln City
George Rogers Clark National Historic Park, Vincennes, IN (1 hour 20 min)
Salem, Illinois (1 hour 30 minutes) – Richard Pollard’s Yard Art – just north of town on highway 37
Arrive in Murphysboro, Illinois to visit my sister. (1 hour 25 minutes)

DAY 3 – Tuesday, Feb 26: Murphysboro, Illinois

DAY 4: Wednesday, February 27: Murphysboro, IL: to visit my sister.

Hang out and explore Carbondale and surrounding area with Steph.
Southern Illinois

DAY 5: Thursday, February 28: Murphysboro, IL to Louisville, KY (3 hours 40 minutes)

Stop on the way at Garden of the Gods in Shawnee National Forest, IL (1 hour 50 minutes)

DAY 6: Friday, March 1: Louisville, KY

DAY 7: Saturday, March 2: Cincinnati, OH (1 hour 40 minutes)

Take walk #1: Ohio River: Bridges, Parks and Three Cities (including Covington, KY) (4.2 miles)
1. Ohio River
2. Covington, KY
3. Roebling Suspension Bridge
4. National Underground Railroad Freedom Center
Take walk #3: Over-the-Rhine and Pendleton: Urban Italianate Architecture Haven (2.4 miles)
1. Findlay Market
2. Enjoy whole area on the National Register of Historic Places

DAY 8: Sunday, March 3: Cincinnati, OH

Pick up Mike from his friend’s house in Centerville, OH (1 hour each way)
Take walk #2: Downtown: Resurgent Economic and Transit Hub (3 miles)
1. Booksellers on Fountain Square
2. Carew Tower
3. Contemporary Arts Center
4. Taft Museum of Art
Take other walks as we desire; explore whatever we haven’t yet seen.

DAY 9: Monday, March 4: Cincinnati, OH

Take more walks around Cincinnati.
Consider the “Nati in a Nutshell” Tour by Urban Adventures
Explore Covington, KY. See walks #17-21 in Walking Cincinnati.

Cincinnati, OH

DAY 10: Tuesday, March 5: Lexington, KY (1 hour 30 minutes)

DAY 11: Wednesday, March 6: Drive home with Mike from Lexington, KY (8 hours 5 minutes)

JOURNAL AND INTENTIONS:

Here are my intentions for this trip:

Illinois & Cincinnati, Ohio Intentions

To see books set in the U.S.A., please visit books | u.s.a. |

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“ANTICIPATION & PREPARATION” INVITATION: I invite you to write a post on your own blog about anticipation & preparation for a particular destination (not journeys in general). If you don’t have a blog, I invite you to write in the comments. Include the link in the comments below by Thursday, February 21 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this invitation on Friday, February 22, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, on the 4th Friday of each month. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂 If you’d like to read more about the topic, see: journeys: anticipation & preparation.

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

the ~ wander.essence ~ community

I invite you all to settle in and read posts from our wandering community. I promise, you’ll be inspired!

Josh Hewitt, of Wanderlust Travel and Photos, wrote a very extensive and thorough post about planning a trip to Australia and New Zealand.
- Australia and New Zealand Travel Planning Part 1
Meg, of wordsandimages, wrote a fetching piece about a summer pet-sit for her daughter in Stanthorpe, and all the creative endeavors she might undertake.
- Anticipating Stanthorpe

Thanks to all of you who wrote posts about anticipation and preparation. 🙂

the call to place: southern illinois & cincinnati, ohio

wanderessence1025 January 24, 2019

I’m called to visit a triangle of towns in Ohio and Kentucky: Cincinnati, Ohio and Louisville and Lexington, KY. Before I begin what I’ll call my “Midwestern Triangle Road Trip,” I plan to overshoot Louisville and go to Murphysboro, Illinois to visit my sister, who, just before Christmas, sold her house in L.A. and bought a mid-century modern house in Murphysboro, IL for a fraction of the cost of her California home. Murphysboro is supposedly a very small town that melds into the college town of Carbondale, home to Southern Illinois University.

Since the places I’ll visit on this short road trip are varied, I’ll talk here about Illinois and Cincinnati, Ohio. In my next Call to Place post, I’ll talk about Kentucky, with a focus on Covington, Louisville and Lexington.

ILLINOIS

I’m called to southern Illinois simply to spend time with my sister, explore where she lives, and see her new house. While there, I hope to see Richard Pollard’s Yard Art in Salem, Illinois, The Franklin County Garage and the Garden of the Gods in the Shawnee National Forest. There are quirky places to explore in southern Illinois, but mainly, I’ll just hang out with my sister.

Illinois is often considered a microcosm of the U.S. because of Chicago in the northeast, small industrial cities, great agricultural production, and natural resources such as coal, timber and petroleum in the south. It has a diverse economic base and is a major transportation hub via Chicago and the Great Lakes, as well as by its border rivers: The Mississippi, the Ohio and the Wabash Rivers. It has also had a reputation as a bellwether in social, cultural and political terms.

Illinois is the most populous state in the Midwest region. The capital of Illinois is Springfield in the central part of the state. Chicago, in the north, is the third-most populous city in the United States, containing 65% of the state’s residents.

Three U.S. presidents have been elected while living in Illinois: Abraham Lincoln, Ulysses S. Grant, and Barack Obama. Additionally, Ronald Reagan, whose political career was based in California, was born and raised in Illinois. Today, Illinois honors Lincoln with its official state slogan, Land of Lincoln, which has been displayed on its license plates since 1954. The state is the site of the Abraham Lincoln Presidential Library and Museum, located in the state capital of Springfield, and the future home of the Barack Obama Presidential Center in Chicago.

Chicago is at the far north end of the state; I won’t be visiting it this time, but it’s on my radar for another trip.

THE QUEEN CITY — CINCINNATI, OHIO

I’m called to Cincinnati, Ohio, because it is close to Louisville and Lexington, Kentucky and is also close to Centerville, Ohio, where my husband goes once or twice a year to visit his old high school buddies. As he’ll go to his gathering the first weekend in March, I’ll leave the Sunday before that weekend and drive to my sister’s, where I’ll spend several days. Then she and I will go to Louisville, KY and Cincinnati. I’ll pick up my husband from his friend’s house, and we’ll all three explore Cincinnati. Then my sister will drive home, and my husband and I will spend another day in Cincinnati, continue to Lexington, KY and then home.

Cincinnati has a great food scene, with its famous Cincinnati Chili at Skyline Chili, German food at Mecklenburg Gardens, and Mexican fare at Mazunte. For culture and history, I’d like to visit the American Sign Museum, the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center, and Harriet Tubman’s house. I hope to do a lot of walking in Cincinnati, especially to outdoor murals through ArtWorks that enliven neighborhoods across the city, and to stroll across the Ohio River on the Roebling Suspension Bridge. There is the Cincinnati Art Museum, an outdoor sculpture garden, and a Contemporary Arts Center. Many buildings in the city are listed on the National Register of Historic Places.

Settled in 1788, Cincinnati sits at the northern side of the confluence of the Licking and Ohio rivers, the latter of which marks the state line with Kentucky. It contains Ohio’s largest metropolitan area, and is the third largest city in Ohio and 65th largest in the U.S.

In the nineteenth century, Cincinnati was an American boomtown in the heart of the country. As the first city founded after the American Revolution, as well as the first major inland city in the country, it is regarded as the first purely “American” city.

Cincinnati developed with fewer immigrants and less influence from Europe than east coast cities in the same period. However, it received a significant number of German immigrants, who founded many of the city’s cultural institutions. The city’s growth slowed with the development of railroads, which took trade away from steamboats on the Ohio River. Other cities such as Chicago and St. Louis surpassed the city in population.

Cincinnati is home to historic architecture with many structures in the urban core having remained intact for 200 years. It is also the birthplace of William Howard Taft, the 27th President of the United States.

Cincinnati has many nicknames, including Cincy, “The Queen City,” “The Queen of the West,” “The Blue Chip City,” and “The City of Seven Hills.” For many years it was known as “Porkopolis” because of the large pork interests centered here. Newer nicknames such as the “Nati” are also emerging. The classic name is The Queen City.

I’m also heeding a call to visit Cincinnati from other bloggers. Robin, from Breezes at Dawn, said:

Southern Ohio, if you travel along the Ohio River, is very pretty. (I lived in southeast Ohio for 13 years, along the river where Ohio, Kentucky, and West Virginia meet. It’s Ohio Appalachia.) If you’re interested in the Underground Railroad at all, it follows the river in spots (I think along U.S. 52). Also, there are at least seven covered bridges in the same area. … If not, some must-do’s always include Skyline Chili (can’t say I’m a huge fan but it’s worth trying at least once) and Graeter’s ice cream. Covington, Kentucky, which is across the river from Cincinnati, used to be worth exploring, too. I don’t know what’s there now.

Pit, of Pit’s Fritztown News, also recommended the “Nati in a Nutshell” Tour by Urban Adventures. He also recommended going to Covington, KY. Pit also sent me a very extensive list of places to see and things to do in “The Queen City.”

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“THE CALL TO PLACE” INVITATION: I invite you to write a post on your own blog about what enticed you to choose a particular destination. If you don’t have a blog, I invite you to write in the comments. If your destination is a place you love and keep returning to, feel free to write about that. If you want to see the original post about the subject, you can check it out here: imaginings: the call to place.

Include the link in the comments below by Wednesday, February 27 at 1:00 p.m. EST.

My next “call to place” post is scheduled to post on Thursday, February 28. If you’d like, you can use the hashtag #wanderessence.

This will be an ongoing invitation, on the fourth Thursday of each month. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

{camino: day 3} espinal to zubiri

wanderessence1025 January 22, 2019

I skipped breakfast in Refuge Haizea and left Espinal directly at 8:00 a.m. I decided to carry my backpack today rather than sending it ahead; little did I know what a rough day it would be, with little payoff in regard to views and a major emotional upheaval. It would be one of the worst five days on my Camino.

I walked on narrow paths between wire fences bordering sheep and cow pastures and under a heavy sky that threatened rain all day without delivering. I walked on paths through mature beech and pine forests and crossed stepping-stones over the río Erro. The landscape changed elevation numerous times, peaking at Alto Mezquiriz, dipping to the río Erro, rising and dipping and rising again.

At around 10:30 in Viskarreta, I stopped at a café for a potato tortilla, orange juice and café con leche; this breakfast would become standard fare for “second breakfasts” on my Camino, although this was my first today. I used the WC for the only time during the entire walk. I walked past an ancient-looking cemetery with a stone cross at the gate. Today’s path was rough, covered in either gravel or large loose rocks, surfaced in cement patterns imitating paving stones, or paved in uneven or weird ways.

In the cute town of Linzoain, I sat on a stone wall and ate Havarti cheese and chocolate I’d bought at the supermarket in Viscaretta. The wall bordered a pelota court (frontón). Pelota is a Basque or Spanish game played in a walled court with a ball and basket-like rackets fastened to the hand. A scruffy black dog came to visit, nudging us and begging for a petting. Annette from Ireland, who Ingrid and I had met on the descent from the Pyrenees, sat with me on the wall and smoked an electric cigarette. Several other pilgrims stopped to chat as well. It was a nice break from my backpack, which was making my life miserable.

Back on the woodlands path, stony at first but eventually turning soft, I had a nice chat with Pather from Ireland. We commiserated about Trump and all the nationalism in America, Europe, and throughout the world, beliefs seeking to divide us rather than build bridges. He took off before long and I walked in shade scented with pines and boxwood.

I chatted a bit with a group from California who had been at Orisson: Anne-Marie, her husband Gary (who was walking after double hip and double knee replacements), their daughter Kaylee, and their friend Beth. Ingrid had connected with Anne-Marie at Orisson, while I’d felt disconnected. This is often the story my life. I see people relating well to one another, and I’m standing on the outskirts, feeling baffled by my own aloofness.

At the last high point, Alto de Erro, I stopped for lemonade at the mobile cafe Kiosco. At an outdoor table, I chatted with Peter from Charlotte, NC, his daughter Beth, and her husband Matt; we had passed each other numerous times on the path. Beth works as a fitness coach in Manhattan, coaching clients in all areas of fitness: spiritual, nutritional, and physical. I shared with her that my oldest son had dallied with the idea of being a fitness coach but chose a butchery apprenticeship instead.

The worst part of the day was from the mobile cafe down a perilous and steep rocky path 3.5 km through woodlands to Zubiri. I feared it would never end. It was a rough scree-covered descent, taxing and ponderous. My knees and toes took a serious beating. I kept expecting to catch sight of Zubiri, but with a dense cover of trees crowding the mountainside, I saw the town only when I was right down on it.

Coming into Zubiri, I crossed the Puente de la Rabia, a medieval bridge over the Río Arga. Legend had it that any animal led three times around the central arch would be protected from rabies. This is also the likely site of a former leprosarium.

Here, Joy from Orisson told me she’d walked with Ingrid, who had already checked into her place in Zubiri. “She missed you today,” she told me. I wondered how on earth Ingrid had passed me without me seeing her, as she’d started 4 miles behind me in Roncesvalles.

The place I had reserved in Zubiri was an oasis in an otherwise ugly town: Hostel Suseia, the pilgrim’s home. It was nearly a mile off the path, meaning I’d have to walk back to Zubiri’s entrance in the morning. I was assigned a top bunk for the first time. It was so crowded that one lady planned to sleep on the floor. Four Australian ladies I’d met in Orisson couldn’t find a bed anywhere in town. They had carried their packs for the first time today, as I did, and they were not happy. They decided to take a taxi to Pamplona, my destination for the next day.

The pilgrim dinner at Suseia was a wonderful gourmet meal: a salad with pomegranates, quiñoa, greens, and tomatoes, followed by a cold tomato cream soup garnished with cucumber, bread with chorizo, and polenta in tomato sauce. Desert was a refreshing chilled lime pudding. The gentle and welcoming owner, Aya, served dinner with loving-kindness. I would encounter several fellow pilgrims I met at Suseia numerous times in the following days, especially the newlyweds Claire and Matt, and Lisa and her brother Josh. I also met Pat from Seattle, who I’d meet time and again on the early part of the Camino.

After dinner, my husband called with distressing news. Someone I dearly love, who lives a great distance from us, called feeling worthless. His money was gone, and he’d applied for a job at Subway (a chain sandwich shop) and was rejected. In desperation, he considered committing robbery, questioned the point of living, and ranted about the “system” and how the world needs to change, how he’s a shaman and hears the voices of angels. At one point in their conversation, my husband told him he was crazy, at which time our loved one hung up. Later, in follow-up phone call, my husband got so upset, he was the one to hang up.

I was devastated by news of this call, although we have heard our loved one express such bewildering thoughts on numerous occasions. As much as I have wanted to believe he is idealistic, gifted and possibly in tune with something in the universe to which most of us are oblivious, I was paralyzed by his description of “voices.” No elaboration was offered. I would have liked to ask, but it wasn’t my phone call and I would be too terrified to find the truth, What exactly are these voices? Are they the voices that a poet, an artist, a musician call inspiration, intuition? Voices that creative artists describe as speaking through them when they write or paint or compose? Or are they the “voices” used so often when diagnosing mental illness?

Suddenly, after this phone call, I found myself straddling a threshold between two worlds. One was the world of my all-too-real life, telescoping backwards to my childhood and currently to this ominous moment with my loved one and forward to a foreboding future: the childhood during which my mother believed people were out to get her, walked in front of a neighbor’s Volkswagen van, was committed to a mental institution and underwent electroshock therapy, drove herself into a tree, unsuccessfully attempted suicide other times, and sat for entire days at our kitchen table in a smoke-filled zombie-like state, drinking wine while on anti-psychotic medications; the present day with my brilliant and gifted loved one who continues to make decisions we don’t understand or feel are productive, who wants the world to change, utterly and completely, at this very minute, and who can’t seem to figure out how to get along in our deeply flawed society; and the unknowable future, where he could go on making self-destructive decisions, or worse, commit a desperate and devastating act.

The other world, on the other side of this threshold, was of course the Camino itself, a world removed from real life yet, at the same time, a reflection of it, a world where there was possibility and hope that if I kept putting one foot in front of the other, offering prayers and sharing with pilgrims, all could be righted in life.

I told my husband I would cut my Camino short and come home on the next plane if my loved one would check into a hospital for evaluation. I would remain helpless if his attitude stayed the same; he doesn’t believe in so-called “mental illness,” distrusts the “system,” and believes messages he receives are gifts. Unless he wanted to get help, there would be no reason for me to return.

So, I would continue walking, and praying. My husband suggested maybe this was where I was meant to be during this trying time. I would take my Camino one day at a time, and if I needed at any point to return home, I would.

Still, I was heartbroken, shattered. I wept in the dark entryway of the hostel among jumbled hiking shoes and poles hanging on pegs. Pilgrims came in and out; there was no space to be alone, so when some asked me what was wrong, I confided in them about what was going on.

I felt angry about the unfairness of it all. Why should I have to suffer through this in childhood and again, now, as an adult? Well. Of course. Life simply isn’t fair.

I can understand fears about being labeled and stigmatized, about the impreciseness of medications, about being shocked or locked up. I can understand the fear of losing one’s essence on powerful drugs and treatments. I saw the effects of these on my mother. I had these fears myself throughout my teens and 20s, worried about the hereditary nature of her illness. Although I am not a firm believer in the remedies available, I feel at least some attempt could be made to try them, or at the very least, to talk to a professional.

Full of angst, I tossed and turned and couldn’t sleep, finally taking a Valium to calm myself down. At about 3:00 a.m., I woke up, heart racing, and took another half Valium.

The problems with my loved one would become a near constant on my Camino and I often shared with other pilgrims my fears, worries, and even my hopes. I would find consolation from many compassionate people, some of whom would share a related story that was highly personal, without offering unwanted advice. After a deep talk, they would often disappear on the horizon and I’d never see them again.

It was almost as if my fellow pilgrims were angels that dropped in to console me. For that I would be eternally grateful.

Espinal

house in Espinal

sheep

cows

beech forest

gargantuan slugs

cafe in Viscarreta

potato omelette and bread, OJ and café con leche

cow and machinery

house in Viscaretta

cemetery

On the way to Linzoain

dog in Linzoain

leaving Linzoain

woodlands

mixed woodland

steep rock outcrop to Zubiri

steep rock outcrop to Zubiri

mixed forest

forest

path to Zubiri

tomato cream cold soup garnished with cucumber

lime pudding

pilgrims at Suseia with newlyweds Claire and Matt at the left end of table, and Lisa front right and her brother Josh front left

*Day 3: Thursday, September 6, 2018*

*26,437 steps, or 11.2 miles: Espinal to Zubiri (15.3 km)*

You can find everything I’ve written so far on the Camino de Santiago here:

Camino de Santiago 2018

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“PROSE” INVITATION: I invite you to write up to a post on your own blog about a recently visited particular destination (not journeys in general). Concentrate on any intention you set for your prose. In this case, one of my intentions for my Camino was to write using all my senses to describe place and to capture snippets of meaningful conversations with other pilgrims.

It doesn’t matter whether you write fiction or non-fiction for this invitation. You can either set your own writing intentions, or use one of the prompts I’ve listed on this page: writing prompts: prose. (This page is a work in process.) You can also include photos, of course.

Include the link in the comments below by Monday, February 11 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this invitation on Tuesday, February 12, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

the ~ wander.essence ~ community

I invite you all to settle in and read a few posts from our wandering community. I promise, you’ll be inspired. 🙂

Jude, of Travel Words, wrote a follow-up piece about trying to get a crime report in Windhoek, Namibia, after she and her husband were mugged and robbed.
- Room 202
Jude, from her other blog, Under a Cornish Sky, wrote a piece full of sights and sounds of summer in Cornwall, with a sketch from her journal as well.
- Summertime Memories
Pauline, from Living in Paradise…, wrote about a day trip she took to visit a Buddhist temple full of curves.
- Lens-Artists photo challenge: Curves in Buddhism…

Thanks to all of you who wrote prosaic posts following intentions you set for yourself. 🙂

balcony house at mesa verde

wanderessence1025 January 20, 2019

On my second day in Colorado’s Mesa Verde National Park, I went on the Balcony House Tour with a large group of other tourists. The only way you can visit Balcony House is on a ranger-guided tour, as it is strenuous, demanding, and quite a bit scary. The tour requires you to climb up three ladders on the side of a cliff, walk along a steep trail with some exposure on cliff faces, and crawl through a narrow 12-foot-long tunnel to a classic 13th-century cliff dwelling. The cliff dwellings have drop-offs at the edges and deep kivas cut into the floor. You have to pay attention to what you’re doing and you need a sense of adventure as well.

We walked down a staircase into the canyon at the north end of the site to a platform where we were faced with a sturdy 32-foot-long double ladder made of logs. I was very nervous as we were standing at the edge of a sheer drop-off, but I gathered my courage and climbed side-by-side with another person, tensely gripping the rungs.

The first ladder at Balcony House

Climbing the ladder

In the first small alcove, water played an important role. A spring at the back of the alcove was probably the main water source for the residents. They likely spent a lot of time in this cool, damp area judging by the amount of black fire soot on the alcove walls. The tunnel at Balcony House may have been built to protect this domestic water supply.

masonry structure

We had to get on our hands and knees and crawl through two more tunnels, one of which was probably the only original access to Balcony House.

me at Balcony House

Masonry structure

Park ranger Jeannette told us that Balcony House is a typical Mesa Verde cliff dwelling; it’s a medium two-story masonry structure built about the same time as other cliff dwellings at the park. Archeologists count 38 rooms and two kivas, and they divide the site into three plazas or courtyards: the Lower Plaza, the North Plaza and the Kiva Plaza. The overall layout was likely determined by the size and shape of the rock alcove.

Ranger Jeanette

view of Soda Canyon

The builders used whatever local materials were at hand: sandstone, sometimes shaped into rectangular blocks and pecked on the surface. The stones were set in wet mortar mixed from tan, sandy soils and smoothed by people’s hands. Smaller chinking stones were inserted into the mortar, and might have helped level walls and create tighter joints. Some parts of Balcony House show careful attention to craftsmanship, while other masonry is less meticulous and looks hastily done. Once the walls were built, some surfaces were completely plastered over, hiding the fine rock work. Original plaster, sometimes several layers thick, can still be seen in a few rooms.

masonry at Balcony House

The North Plaza has balconies for which the site was named. One of the finest examples of balconies in an Ancestral Puebloan site, they remain intact between the first and second stories of the central rooms. The residents used the balconies to move from one second story room to another, and they may have used them as work spaces. A retaining wall runs along the entire front of the alcove.

The North Plaza balcony

Roof beams and other supports were mostly juniper wood. This wood provides construction dates for archeologists. Three construction periods were indicated: First from 1180-1220, residents built a block of rooms toward the back of the alcove and possibly a kiva. None of these still stand.

The next phase was in the 1240s, when more room blocks were added, likely replacing the earlier rooms, and the retaining wall and the pair of kivas seen today were constructed. In the 1270s, the retaining wall was extended further north, rooms were added, the passageways were defined, and the north plaza parapet was built. Four rooms were built in the central portion of the site, possibly marking off a ceremonial space.

structures

beams and mortar

The Kiva Plaza has two deep kivas side by side in the center of the site. Both kivas are examples of the signature Mesa Verde style kiva, identified by the ‘keyhole’ shape, six pilasters, a banquette or bench around the interior, a fireplace and ventilator shaft, and the sipapu (a Hopi word for a small hole or indentation) in the floor. Originally the kivas were roofed and a ladder led down through a hole in the roof.

Looking out from inside Balcony House

Kiva A

beams and structures

kiva

more walls

walls at Balcony House

the tour group crowded around a kiva

building in the alcove

From Balcony House, we had a magnificent view down Soda Canyon.

Soda Canyon

We climbed two more steep ladders as we made our way from Balcony House to the top of the mesa. The last one was nearly vertical and had only a narrow platform at the bottom and top, where only a chain fence kept us from toppling down into the canyon.

the last, and steepest ladder back to the mesa top

By 1300, most of the people who had lived in Balcony House and neighboring villages had moved on. Archeologists have proposed various reasons for their leaving. The tree ring record shows a long drought at the end of the 1200s, which crops would have shriveled and springs would have dried up. The numbers of sites and artifacts suggest that populations had been on the rise for generations. Ancient trash middens implied that people were eating fewer large animals and more small animals. Some archeologists have found evidence that increasing social conflict may have resulted as environmental pressures grew.

By all evidence, the descendants of the people who once occupied these canyon dwellings are the modern pueblo people of the Hopi Villages in northern Arizona, and the people of Zuni, Acoma, Laguna, and the Rio Grande pueblos of New Mexico and Texas.

Information above came from various brochures created by the National Park Service.

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This post is in response to Jo’s Monday Walk: Party Time in Ayamonte.

natural bridges, continued

wanderessence1025 January 17, 2019

Three natural bridges, sculpted by water from stone, were discovered by prospector Cass Hite in 1883 when he wandered up White Canyon in search of gold. In 1908, four years after National Geographic Magazine publicized the bridges, President Theodore Roosevelt proclaimed Natural Bridges National Monument, creating Utah’s first National Park System area.

I wrote one post about the hike we took to Owachomo Bridge: the owachomo bridge trail at natural bridges national monument. This post features the other two natural bridges: Sipapu and Kachina.

The rock here is sandstone first formed by windblown sand. The deep and curvaceous White and Armstrong Canyons and their three bridges were formed by water’s relentless action against the sandstone. Sipapu and Kachina straddle streams with long, winding curves. Owachomo, straddling no stream now, apparently was cut by two streams.

When a stream forms a looping meander and almost circles back on itself, it can carve the thin rock wall in which a natural bridge forms. Flood waters erode both sides of the thin wall, and even at low water levels, percolation weakens the wall.

Over time, the river breaks through and takes the shorter course under the new bridge, abandoning the old meander. The river continues to wear down the rock, enlarging the hole by cutting itself deeper. A natural bridge is temporary as blocks fall from its underside, and its surfaces weather, wear and weaken.

Sipapu means “place of emergence,” the entryway by which the Hopi believe their ancestors came into the world. Sipapu is 220 feet high, 31 feet wide, and has a span of 268 feet. It is 53 feet thick. Mature, highest and greatest in span, it endures very little stream erosion because its abutments stand far from the stream.

Siipapu Bridge

White Canyon

Ancestors of modern Puebloan people moved onto the mesa tops to dry farm in 700 CE and later left as the natural environment changed. Farmers returned about 300 years later, building homes both on the mesa tops and in alcoves in the cliffs. South facing caves provided passive solar heating and cooling. The farmers often chose sites near seep springs where water could be found. From an overlook into White Canyon, we saw the Horse Collar Ruin built in one such alcove.

Horse Collar Ruin Overlook

We couldn’t get a great view of Kachina Bridge without hiking down to it. As we didn’t have time to do two hikes, we only were able to admire it from above. Kachina is named for rock art symbols that resemble symbols commonly used on kachina dolls.

Kachina Bridge, the youngest bridge, is big and bulky. White Canyon floodwaters still work on enlarging its span. Kachina is 210 feet high, 44 feet wide, and has a 204 foot span. It is the thickest bridge at 93 feet.

Kachina Bridge

Owachchomo, the oldest bridge, is no longer eroded by streams, but frost action and seeping moisture continue to continue to erode it. The bridge may now have a fatal crack, or it may stand for centuries. Owachomo is 106 feet high, 27 feet wide, and has a span of 180 feet. It is only 9 feet thick, much thinner than the other two.

Owachomo Bridge

Information above came from various brochures created by the National Park Service.

Here is a companion piece to this post that discusses the difference between arches and bridges: arches in the four corners.

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You probably have your own ideas about this, but in case you’d like some ideas, you can visit my page: photography inspiration.

I challenge you to post no more than 20 photos and to write less than 500-800 words about any travel-related photography intention you set for yourself. Include the link in the comments below by Wednesday, January 30 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Thursday, January 31, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, every first and third (& 5th, if there is one) Thursday of each month. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

the ~ wander.essence ~ community

I invite you all to settle in and read a few posts from our wandering community. I promise, you’ll be inspired!

Lynn, of bluebrightly, posted a beautiful array of landscapes, close-ups, and middle distances from the Pacific Northwest.
- The Long and Short of It

Thanks to all of you who shared posts on the “photography” invitation. 🙂

on journey: santiago to muxía

wanderessence1025 January 16, 2019

As soon as my Camino ended in Santiago de Compostela on October 20, my body collapsed; a cold came on with a vengeance — an irritating tickle in my throat, a dry and unproductive cough, a general exhaustion. My voice was raspy and disappearing fast. My health worsened over the two days in Santiago, so when I headed to Muxía by bus on Monday the 22nd, I was feeling quite miserable.

At the bus station at 8:00 a.m., I ran into Sheryl, John and Sharon, a threesome I’d encountered many times along the Camino. Theirs was a odd situation. Sharon and John were married, and Sheryl had come along with them, although she didn’t know Sharon very well. Sharon had done the Camino 4-5 times before, and had arranged Sheryl’s trip for her, booking rooms in hotels that the three of them shared; they often transported their bags ahead. Sheryl knew Sharon’s husband John when they both worked on ski patrol in the mountains of Washington State. I talked often to Sheryl, but the two of us never connected enough to share contact information.

On the bus, Sheryl and I talked to Brian, a slender handsome man with a bandana on his head, and Tyler, a young bald man wearing opaque sunglasses (at first I thought he might be blind!). Co-workers at a start-up tech company in Orlando, Florida, they had just completed one week on the Camino Portuguese. Brian was quite the talker. From Detroit originally, he had no love of Florida, and we commiserated about our mutual dislike of it. As we talked, Brian, who looked very young, revealed that he was 48, married, and had two sons, 23 and 21. His coworker Tyler, who had worked with him for two years, was shocked to discover all of this information. Tyler, a mere 27, was under the impression Brian was in his 30s; he had no idea Brian had grown children, nor that he was married! Brian said he hated his job and would love nothing better to run a café along the Camino. We talked for a long time about his belief in natural remedies to health problems, and our mutual distaste for our current government.

The bus ride was a couple of hours through gently rolling hills and small whitewashed villages, but we were mostly too busy talking to notice. We spilled out of the bus at the “Don Quijote” bus stop in Muxía, which was just a sidewalk in front of the “Don Quijote” café. A frigid blustery wind was blowing from the harbor into town, and I was anxious to get to my hotel, Habitat Cm Muxía. I had been having cramps on the bus, and that manifested itself in diarrhea as soon as I checked into my hotel. I was lucky I had made it without incident on the bus ride!

After a bit of a rest, I went to A Marina, which seemed to be the only bustling restaurant in a town that was quite deserted. There, joining Brian and Tyler, I had a lunch of croquettes with limon cerveza. As we commiserated about our adult children, Brian said his wife was not very maternal; she had put up a big calendar in their house marking off the days when each her sons had to be out of the house. Brian said they didn’t give their kids any options. They told them they had to be out of the house at 18 and go to college. Listening to him, I felt admiration for his absent wife, who had opted to go on a holiday with a girlfriend rather than do the Camino; I have never been very maternal and have been judged harshly for it over the years. What I loved was how he spoke of such fondness for her, with no judgment about this aspect of her. I have often wondered if maybe I shouldn’t have had children, although of course I love them dearly and now couldn’t do without them. I am simply not made for motherhood, but I hoped I could be. I raised my children the best I could, but I never had much of a role model in my own mother, and I can’t say I was much of a success at it. I am who I am, and I really appreciated Brian for supporting his wife being just the way she was.

Muxía is part of the Costa da Morte, the Coast of Death, named for the many shipwrecks along its rocky shore. On the way from the town to the sea, about a one mile walk, I passed the Igrexa Parroquial de Santa María and its charming cemetery. I could see windmills on a ridge across the bay, and on the point, the larger and more famous church of Santuario da Virxe da Barca, or The Virgin of the Boat, which stands on a rocky ridge above the surf. Legend has it Muxía was the landing place of the stone boat that carried the Virgin Mary when she arrived in Galicia to help Saint James convert the locals. Sadly the church was closed, but I was able to see inside through the barred door.

On the shore next to the church is the sculpture A Ferida, or The Wound, by Alberto Bañuelos. It symbolizes the damage done to the sea by the spilling of 66,000 tons of oil when the Prestige tanker broke apart off the coast on November 13, 2002. The sculpture is 11 meters high and weighs over 400 tons.

I walked up to Monte Corpiño, where I could see down to the church and the sculpture at the western point of the land, some ruins to the south, the playful sea, and the town and harbor of Muxía to the east. The cold blustery weather didn’t do much to help my cough and cold, but the scenery was good for my spirit.

In the movie The Way, the main character Tom, played by Martin Sheen, and his cobbled-together group of pilgrims walk three days to “Finisterre” after arriving at Santiago de Compostela. Except in the movie, the setting is not Finisterre but Muxía. At this spot, Tom scatters the remainder of his son’s ashes into the sea.

After I moseyed down from Monte Corpiño, I traipsed around on the famed rocks and watched the sea churning and dancing; I admired the lighthouse surrounded by lichen-covered boulders. I sat and lost myself in the antics of the sea and contemplated the end of my Camino. Well, almost the end. I’d be going to the actual Finisterre by bus the following day.

After my walk and a long bath in a coveted bathtub, I headed back to A Marina, where I enjoyed a dinner of langostines (large prawns) with salad and bread, two glasses of vino tinto, and tiramasu for dessert. I never again saw Brian, Tyler, Sheryl, Sharon or John.

Igrexa Parroquial de Santa María

cemetery at Igrexa Parroquial de Santa María

cemetery at Igrexa Parroquial de Santa María

“A Ferida” (The Wound)

Roman ruins

Muxia from Monte Corpiño

cross on Monte Corpiño

“A Ferida” and Santuario da Virxe da Barca from Monte Corpiño

view southwest from Monte Corpiño

Santuario da Virxe da Barca

inside of Santuario da Virxe da Barca

lighthouse at Muxia

cross at Muxia with windmills in the background

Muxia’s harbor

Langostines with salad and bread at A Marina

*Monday, October 22, 2018*

*Steps: 10,373 (4.4 miles)*

You can find everything I’ve written so far on the Camino de Santiago here:

Camino de Santiago 2018

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“ON JOURNEY” INVITATION: I invite you to write a post on your own blog about the journey itself for a recently visited specific destination. You could write about the journey you hope to take in the year ahead. If you don’t have a blog, I invite you to write in the comments.

Include the link in the comments below by Tuesday, February 19 at 1:00 p.m. EST. When I write my post in response to this challenge on Wednesday, February 20, I’ll include your links in that post.

This will be an ongoing invitation, once on the third Wednesday of each month. Feel free to jump in at any time. 🙂

I hope you’ll join in our community. I look forward to reading your posts!

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