Skiing – and so much more

For twenty four years in a row we have maintained our tradition.  Without fail.  There have been years of sickness, but we overcame it.  We had small children at home – five between us – but still we escaped.  Snow failed to materialize, but we went anyway.  Jobs were stressful and demanding, but we left them behind.  A lot has changed over the years, but Susan and I still get away for our annual cross-country ski weekend every year.

This year’s venue was Golden Eagle Lodge, on the north side of Bearskin Lake on the wonderful Central Gunflint Trail Ski System.  We stayed in a lovely cabin aptly named “Trailside” and took full advantage of our proximity to the 70k of XC ski trails at our door.

It wasn’t long before the weekend’s unique qualities began to reveal themselves.  And as each new challenge presented itself, we coined a new term.  It seemed better than complaining, and far more fun.

IMG_2363Adaptability  It’s the characteristic needed when things don’t turn out as expected. Like the gas fireplace that ceases blazing after the office closes at night.  And your figure out it’s the only source of heat in the cabin.  Or when the enormous clumps of snow that once graced the tops of the pine trees melt enough to fall, creating tree avalanches that obliterate the ski trail with icy mounds.  Or topple weakened trees across the trail.  It’s the turn-on-a-dime trait that comes in handy for revising ski plans to take advantage of trails that have been groomed in favor of those still coated in refrozen snow.  It’s figuring out how to use a percolator when you’ve only ever made drip coffee.

IMG_2365Lurch  This is what happens when the snow gets warm and wet, and ices up the bottom of your skis.  It creates a huge snowball underneath your foot, which effectively stops all forward progress.  Your body lurches forward with the momentum of your former glide, while your ski remains firmly planted in the ski track.  And an inane sound escapes your lips as you try to regain some sense of balance (and lose all hope of retaining any dignity).

IMG_2360Perseverance  It keeps you going when you realize you have chosen an overly ambitious distance to ski given the sticky snow conditions.  It makes you move when you fear you will be finishing your ski in the dark, and your headlamp is still back at the cabin.  It becomes your strength when you are dead tired after dragging your snow-bound skis across the snow (and lurching).  Its mantra sounds something like “think of crisp, chilled Chardonnay waiting for you.”

IMG_2375

Yet for each challenge the rewards were many.  Skiing at sunrise, watching it paint the sky with orange stripes.  Baking in the heat of the sauna, letting our aches drip away.  Sunny days, warm temperatures.  Talking, sharing, laughing caring.  Sipping that Chardonnay.

 

It’s a rare friendship that endures this long.  Perhaps it’s even more rare to keep up a tradition this long.  But we’re unlikely to miss next year’s milestone – 25 years of skiing together.  And so much more.IMG_2381

A Saxy Reunion

They call themselves the Silver Sax. Starting out as a quartet ten years ago, they have blossomed into a robust band of eleven, over half of which are saxophones which range from soprano to baritone. Jo's husband Peter is one of the original members. It was he who explained to me the significance of the name, which refers to the members' hair color. By happenstance, they were to play a charity event while I was there. It was the perfect event for our mini-reunion.

Molly, Mary and Jo after 40 years

Molly, Mary and Jo 40 years later

Mary and Shaun arrived toting a bottle of bubbly to celebrate the occasion. Mary, Jo and I were reunited one more time, now 40 years since we all first met at Durham University. We covered as much ground as we could over drinks and dinner, dragging up old memories and recounting recent updates. But the main event was still to come.

Although we knew Peter played in a band, apart from Jo the rest of us had never heard him play. In his quiet way, Peter made light of his musical endeavors, but we all suspected he underplayed his and the group's prowess. We were eager to hear it for ourselves.

It was an eclectic old building that housed the bar where the event was hosted in the large back room. Arriving early in time for band set-up we carefully selected a table mid-way back, knowing the band would produce a full sound. Procuring our beverages from the bar at the back, we settled in to watch the room fill. All manner of dress and age were represented, although most like us sported the same hair color as the band.

Silver Sax band

With the first note we knew we were in for a good night. The first half was comprised of big band music, and their renditions of Count Basie and Glenn Miller were a solid credit to the original jazz and swing music. What they lacked in trumpets and trombones, they made up for in saxophones, and very effectively so. It was good foot tapping music, and each piece was better than the last. The music was interspersed with tidbits about the music and the band by their leader, who proved to be enlightening and articulate as well as a talented musician.

Peter playing with Silver Sax

After intermission, the second set changed gears entirely. Tackling the likes of the Beatles, Abba and the Beach Boys, the band rocked the house with their lively tunes. Foot tapping gave way to bodies jiving to the music. It couldn't be helped, it was that irresistible. Chicago followed and kept us so entertained that we begged for an encore when the time came. And the Silver Sax graciously (and readily) accommodated with a medley from Earth, Wind and Fire.

We all agreed that Peter had kept his musical skills and fellow musicians a good secret for far too long. But now that we knew better, we'd be back for more performances. To me sounds like a good excuse to return to England. I'm sure I could be talked into seeing my Durham friends again for another saxy reunion.

Jo, Peter, Molly, Mary and Shaun

 

Lifelong Friendship

There I was, all on my own at Durham University in northern England. The year was 1975 and I was studying abroad on a program through the Institute of European Studies. It was a thrill to call that beautiful old cathedral city home, walking among age-old buildings, the castle and along the banks of the River Wear as a matter of course.

I loved the opportunity to lose my American self among the British and to immerse myself in their culture. As one of only 40 Americans in a sea of 4,000 students it was easy to do. I joined student clubs that offered experiences that were uniquely British. Soon I found myself in a church belfry doing “change ringing” on huge bells high over my head. I scaled rock faces with the mountaineering club, and went “walking” in the Lake District. I even rowed in a four-with-cox shell.

But the greatest gift of that year was the people I met. Little did I know they would become lasting friendships.

Jo rescued me. I was in the dorm laundry room, totally befuddled by the English version of washers and spin dryers. She immediately sensed my predicament and in her lively manner set about instructing me on the operating procedures. Hailing from the far north, Jo had a Geordie accent which added a language barrier to the session as I could barely understand her. But we muddled through and I found that she was equally curious about me and my “terrible American accent.” In short, we hit it off.

Mary was a good Catholic girl. I met her at a Catholic Society event. She was quiet but friendly and but we were drawn to each other. Discovering that we were both the studious type and lived in the same dorm, we established a fast bond. It was Mary who became my confidant. We could talk for hours, time slipping by unnoticed and never running out of conversation.

That was all forty years ago, almost to the day. And despite the passage of time our friendships have endured. In spite of the long distances between us, we have continued to see each other periodically through the years. We have even traveled to share our children's weddings. And regardless of communication barriers, we have stayed in touch. Mary and I are still avid talkers, thanks to Skype and other advances in technology.

Molly, Mary and Jo in 2011

So it seems fitting that I am traveling on my own to England once again. This time for the sole purpose of visiting my friends. I know they have both been planning excursions, cooking up a storm, and scheming for the duration of my visit. And I can't wait to be back in Jolly Olde England, a place that won my heart that year I lived there (and the subsequent graduate year I finagled just to be able to return). But it's really all about the people. I can absorb my fill of ordered green countryside with its rambling stone walls and hedgerows, drink an abundance of properly brewed tea with milk and take in the ancient buildings while in their company.

I have no fear of running out of things to say. We have forty years of memories to draw upon, share and compare. Gaps to fill. Family and career moves to relate. I know it will be like we saw each other just yesterday. These are lifelong friends.

 

Cyclists Hosting Cyclists

We start out as strangers.  When we request lodging from a Warm Showers host while on our cycling tours, we know only what a brief profile and some feedback provide about our potential hosts.  And yet, more often than not we part the next morning as friends.  The common interest in cycle touring and shared experiences quickly breaks the ice and opens the door (quite literally!) to a warm welcome and lasting memories.

Marthe and Charles with Rich at the ParkWe hit it off immediately with Charles and Marthe on our first long cycling tour in the Canadian Maritimes.  They knew just how to make us feel comfortable in their beautiful home, giving us plenty of space, showing us to the washer and dryer and even outfitting us with Charles rode with us when we departedcushy robes so we could wash absolutely all our clothes.  We had fabulous meals, as they understood better than we did how much food we really needed.  And they took us to nearby Kouchibouguac National park which we would have missed on our bicycles.

But it was their manner that was so engaging.  We easily moved on from cycling stories to share tales of our lives, our families and our interests.  There was no shortage of conversation and we felt a close bond.  Charles and Marthe disclosed their dream of retiring soon and cycling the four borders of the US.  Apparently seeing us newly retired and touring was proof it could be done.  We fervently wished them well on their goal and left with a sincere invitation to return the hosting favor.

Two years later, when the email arrived we immediately recognized the names.  Charles and Marthe were setting off from Vancouver to cycle across Canada to their home in New Brunswick.  We instantly replied with entreaties to dip down into the US in order to pass through Minnesota.  Knowing the Trans-Canada highway stretch over Lake Superior was treacherous for cycling, we strengthened our argument by offering a safer route below the lake.  It worked.

Charles and Marthe with us at the cabinCharles and Marthe cyclingBefore long we found ourselves cycling out from our cabin in Northern Minnesota to meet them.  Sharing an ice cream together on the return trip brought back so many memories – touring, seeing new places, local folk astounded over the distances traveled, and how sweet that treat tastes after pedaling so many miles.

This time it was our turn to introduce these friends to our world.  We celebrated the 4th of July cabin-style and they happily jumped off the boat for a refreshing dip in the lake.  We easily picked up where we left off, as if no time had passed in between.  And as they set off once more, we promised to meet again.

Okay, so that wasn’t too far fetched as we returned to Duluth just in time to host them again a day later!  We celebrated Marthe’s birthday with dinner overlooking Lake Superior and strolled the Lakewalk to get ice cream cones as it drew dark.

It was harder saying our farewells the next morning.  But I have no doubt these cyclists will host one another yet again.  We are no longer strangers.

Friends on the Katy Trail

Perhaps the first indication that this was not going to be a normal day of cycling was the roadblock. Cows. Right in the middle of the trail. They looked friendly enough, but did not seemed inclined to budge. They meandered, munched, and checked us out. Rich finally ventured forward but that didn’t even faze them. They ran ahead of us and eventually exited the trail to return to their field, graciously allowing us to pass.

Cows on Katy Trail

The second clue was hearing my phone ring, which was unusual. It was our friends Carl and Connie from the Twin Cities. They were camping at Lake of the Ozarks and were already en route to the Katy Trail with their bikes. Where were we, and could we meet up? To be fair, it wasn’t 100% out of the blue. We had traded Facebook comments about being close by. Soon we had plans to cycle toward each other.

Cycling on from Booneville we encountered the only railway tunnel on the trail just before Rochport. There were loads of people out walking, which was a surprise as until that point we’d seen few people at all on the trail. It became apparent why they’d chosen that area as it was very scenic. Not far beyond, the bluffs rose well above the trees and we heard a bunch of geese making an awful racket. They were nesting in the crevices on the face of the bluff.

Katy Trail Tunnel

Shortly after that we saw familiar faces approaching. Sure enough, it was Carl and Connie. They turned around and cycled with us for a good distance. Cycling two by two down the trail, we had a great time catching up on each other’s vacations while the miles quickly slipped by. Searching for a café for lunch turned out to be an exercise in frustration (and hunger) as Wednesday just happened to be the closing day in that area. So when we saw the sign for Chim’s Thai Kitchen, we had low expectations. Discovering that the lowly trailer business was indeed open, we were all in. The fact that Rich does not care for Thai food was irrelevant. Despite some language difficulties and a strong-willed proprietress, we managed to place our orders. To our amazement, the food was very good. Even Rich agreed. I have witnesses, and will remind him next time I want to go out for Thai.

Katy Trail Thai lunch

With farewells to the Minnesota folks, we headed for North Jefferson City. There we made new friends when we were picked up by Kent, who is the brother of our friends on Duluth. Having heard about our cycling tour, he and his wife Marna kindly offered to host us for a night. Kent ferried us to their home in Fulton, passing the spot where Winston Churchhill made his Iron Curtain speech. We had a lovely visit with them, trading travel stories and desires for future destinations. We hope they will make a trip to Duluth soon.

Breakfast with Palmers

Breaking out of the mold of just cycling as a duo with only each other for company was refreshing. Who knew we had friends on the Katy Trail?

Savoring the home life

It’s good to be missed.  After almost-daily posts from our cycling trip, my output has definitely dwindled.  To be more accurate, it’s come to a complete halt.  And it was noticed.  Granted, it was my siblings who commented on my literary absence, but it felt good nevertheless.  It’s good to know I have readers who enjoy my posts.

Between resettling at home and catching up on my volunteer duties, I’ve been at a loss for inspiration.  Compared to pedaling through an ever-changing array of new sights and adventures every day, life at home is quiet. Or is it?  Taking stock of the three weeks we’ve been home, I realize that I’ve journeyed through a litany of emotions and personal experiences that rival many of my traveling highlights.

Molly-Beryl-Bill trimmedEnduring friendships – Sharing in a private dinner party for a dear friend to celebrate her 75th birthday.  Spending the night in her North Shore home, waking to the sunrise over Lake Superior and lingering over a delicious breakfast prepared by her husband.  Delightful.

Truly moving moments – Losing a close friend to cancer.  Attending her Celebration of Life service, hugging mutual friends and witnessing the multitude of people whose lives she touched.  Such an outpouring of love.

photo-2Family celebration – Getting the phone call with the joyful news.  Hearing the happiness in our son’s voice as he announces his engagement.  Feeling his new love and excitement.  What a thrill.

Nature’s beauty – Running in the dark of the morning, as the days get progressively shorter.  Watching the sun pop over the horizon to shine across the water and spread its colors into the clouds above.  Every day different.  Each one gorgeous.

Little hugIMG_0080 trimmeds – Filling the house with kids and grandkids for the weekend.  Swishing through the leaves on the nature trail.  Playing Pooh Sticks on the bridge.  Seeing the world through their eyes.  Never a dull moment.  Tiring, but oh so worth it.

Cabin time – Nestling in front of a crackling fire on a chilly evening.  Listening to the radio to play Green Cheese.  Preparing the cabin for the winter season.  Calm and quiet in the off-season.

No, travel is not essential to finding inspiration.  I need only open my eyes to what is around me.  And it’s good to be home.

A Century on the Mesabi Trail

Mesabi Trail Century Ride

Our 100-mile route out-and-back on the Mesabi Trail

Three times must make an annual tradition.  With two century rides behind us, Myra and I couldn’t let the summer go by without adding to the count.

After cycling part of the Mesabi Trail on the North Shore Cycling Tour, I thought it would make an excellent choice for our annual outing.  Although it would mean doing an out-and-back ride, it had the advantage of allowing us to cycle side-by-side and chat all along the way – a signature feature of our rides.  Somehow we never run out of things to talk about.  And it sure makes the miles fly by.  All 100 of them.  It didn’t take long for Myra to buy into the idea, and as soon as we could agree on a date, it was set.

wpid-Photo-20140728212925.jpgWe were greatly impressed with the Mesabi Trail. The last time I rode it was years ago, and it was largely discontinuous – more a hopeful concept than a reality.  That has now been reversed, with 115 miles of trail stretching eastward from Grand Rapids toward Ely.  Only short sections, mostly in towns, left us on city streets or country roads.  Each of those sections, as well as the rest of the trail was well marked.  Between their signature Mesabi Trail sign posts and directions on the roads at all turns, we had no opportunity to make a wrong turn or mistake in following the trail.  That was significant!

We started our journey at Eveleth and followed the Trail west just short of Keewatin, then turned around and returned.  That allowed us to use the most complete portion of the trail.  Unlike “rails to trails” paths that follow a relatively flat and straight course, the Mesabi Trail winds through mining territory, skirting open pits that are now lakes and winding over and around mounds of tailings.  There were plenty of ups and downs in the rolling terrain, which kept things interesting without being too taxing.  It was fascinating to see how the land is transforming with new growth.  And there were frequent towns along the way to keep things interesting.

Just as we were nearing our turn around point, the dark clouds that we were trying to ignore began to drip.  Then rain came in earnest, and within a few miles we were in a serious downpour.  With the gusting winds, it cooled us down rapidly, but didn’t dampen our spirits.  It was all part of the experience we figured.  But we would be happy to see it stop.  After taking cover 15 miles later under a trail shelter near Hibbing to add layers under our inadequate light jackets (who thought we’d need real rain gear?) and snarf down a snack in hopes of fueling some warmth, we continued our journey.  It wasn’t long afterwards that the rain dribbled to a stop, improving our outlook significantly.

The return trip didn’t feel like covering the same old ground at all.  Somehow things look different coming from the opposite direction, and we often remarked on things we’d missed seeing on the first pass.  Before long we had dried out and were counting down the miles to the end.  Those last 20 miles are always the hardest, but we had no problem conquering them.

IMG_1423I didn’t have much appetite for taking pictures once the rain hit.  So we will have only mental images of the fun that we had, the beauty of the trail, and the soggy mess we presented under that shelter.  Perhaps that’s for the best.  But I couldn’t resist a final shot at the end of the day – victorious after our 3rd Century Ride.

Soon we will have to start planning next year’s Century.

 

My Memory Garden

IMG_5091IMG_5097 IMG_5096IMG_5092 IMG_5094 IMG_5093 The blooms are gorgeous. Brilliant reds, oranges, yellows and purples populate the garden. For someone who knows next to nothing about gardening, it is a recurring summer miracle to watch the perennials grow and burst into color. It lifts my spirits each time I walk up the front steps and take it all in.

With time, the plants have grown and now compete for space, trying to crowd out nearby blossoms vying for attention. I have learned how to sow the seeds in the fall to spread the plants, thereby contributing to the confusion of color and congestion. But I love it that way. The more the merrier.

In a yard that’s left “natural” with long waving grasses and otherwise filled with trees, the garden can’t help but be a focal point. It’s the only spot in the yard we have cultivated.  It’s special.  In more ways than one.

It’s memory that brought this garden about. When my mother lost hers to Alzheimer’s, one of her loving caregivers gardened her back yard into a symphony of color. It was a delight to Mom, who loved both flowers and bright colors. It was a constant in her diminishing ability to understand. Flowers were still flowers, and a never ending source of joy to her.

So when we built our house, the first person we turned to for developing our garden was Mary Jane, the caregiver. She brought all her gardening skills to bear on the project, and left us with a beauty reminiscent of Mom’s back yard. She has become the caregiver of memories for me. Preserving a piece of Mom along with beautifying our front steps.

I know Mom would love our garden. I think of her whenever I look at the flowers.  I smile at the brilliant colors. And my heart is filled with warm memories.

To Give is to Receive

Ever since joining WarmShowers, we have been on the receiving end of innumerable heart warming personal experiences. The organization exists to facilitate long distance cyclists who host other traveling cyclists.  So when others welcomed us into their homes throughout our previous cycling tours, we were overwhelmed by their extraordinary hospitality and the friendships that ensued.

But opening up our home to cyclists has proven to be equally rewarding.  When that hosting request comes in we never know the full story of those cycling through Duluth.  Reading their profiles gives us a little background.  But it isn’t until they arrive and the cyclists’ stories unfold that we truly begin to understand the personal stories behind our guests.  And it’s not always about the cycling.

This weekend we had the privilege of hosting Derek.  We knew from his website that he had terminal cancer and that in the face of that news he chose to fulfill a life-long dream of cycling around the world.  But that didn’t begin to prepare us for the enriching experience of sharing four days with Derek.

IMG_4765 trimmedDespite a house already bulging with kids and noisy grandkids who came for Grandma’s Marathon, Derek slipped right in and joined the festivities.  When we learned that it was also his birthday, we couldn’t resist the opportunity to celebrate the occasion with a bicycle-topped cake.  But it was in the quieter moments that we gradually got to know Derek.

The doctors IMG_4766 trimedhad given him 12 months to live, but Derek has already spent 19 months on his world cycling tour.  As it turns out, this is only his most recent bout with cancer, having faced it at least twice before and losing his wife to breast cancer.  Despite having traveled 4 continents and 44 countries to date, including some hair raising experiences in Asia, he admitted to slowing down, knowing he can’t do as much as he could when he started and needing more rest days.  Given that knowledge along with enjoying his company, we heartily encouraged him to prolong his stay with us.

Derek’s purpose in his trip is to inspire others.  In the face of devastating news, he didn’t accept defeat and wait for the cancer to overtake him.  He plans to fight it right to the end.  To help spread the word, Fox 21 News came out to interview Derek, featuring his story on the evening news and on their website.  It didn’t take a newscast to convince us, however.  In his quiet way, Derek exuded a confidence and determination that was impossible to ignore.

IMG_4784During Derek’s stay, another cyclist joined us.  Bala is soon to be a high school junior and is cycling from his home in Ohio to California this summer.  The picture of youth, yet with the plans and determination beyond his years, Bala embodies all that is good about young people. His trip blog is aptly named “Hey Mom, can I ride my bike to California?”

Since the two cyclists were traveling in opposite directions, it was the perfect opportunity to trade notes on the routes they covered to reach Duluth.  And we enjoyed eavesdropping when they shared anecdotes about stealth camping, eating on the cheap and other aspects of seasoned cycle touring.  It was easy to slip into the camaraderie of long distance cyclists, sharing a passion.

The house seems strangely quiet now, with our guests cycling on to their next destination.  But we are richer for getting to know them.  We thought hosting other cyclists was providing a service.  Instead, we have been truly blessed by those passing through our lives on two wheels.

Farewell Snow Mountain Ranch

A world of white greeted me on my final morning at Snow Mountain Ranch. Deep powder blanked my car and was still being plowed from the campus roadways. Arriving at breakfast earlier than usual, the low sunlight caught the sparkling white branches of the pine trees atop the hill at the Commons with mountain peaks glowing in the background. It begged for a photo, but for once I had no camera with me.

By the time I finished packing the car a thick low fog had descended into the valley. All was indeed white. And so were the roads. The snowpack and ice were an unwelcome addition to the roads that were clear pavement just the afternoon before, and it was a slow and treacherous drive through the local countryside.

The Berthoud Pass, which was my most direct route to Denver, had been closed the day before and through the night due to a snowslide, but fortunately reopened early that morning. I was glad for the clear sunny skies which worked their magic on the road, uncovering patches of pavement that gave my tires greater purchase as I wound my way around the switchbacks in the mountain pass. Unaccustomed to driving on my own in dicey conditions, I prided myself that my knuckles never turned white and I safely navigated the pass. My reward was stopping at the first exit on the freeway (which was mercifully clear) to rid my wipers of ice and stand in a long line in order to savor a latte.

wpid-Photo-20140310113131.jpgFinally I could relax a little and reflect on my time at SMR. That last week there finally cemented my affection for the place, and I could understand why so many senior volunteers return year after year. Good weather (no strong winds!), lots of fresh snow, excellent skiing, plentiful social events and good company all came together, and at last I knew how it felt to be part of it all. It takes a while to get acclimated to the way of life at SMR and really get to know people. I was indeed part of the SMR family. And wouldn’t you know, I reached that point just about the time I had to leave. I only wish that Rich had been able to stay and enjoy the same benefits and rewards. It was a great experience, and left me wanting to return for more.

At the Denver airport, Rich and I were reunited after a long 10 days apart while he stayed with his Dad in the hospital in Florida. We ended up cutting our time at SMR short by about 5 days, but under the circumstances, we were both ready to head for home. It was a bittersweet experience, but the bitter is fading fast leaving mostly sweet memories for me. Farewell, Snow Mountain Ranch – at least for now.