I first heard about this relatively new park four years ago from my friend, Amy. She also wonders if Cane Creek might be an epicneter of unusually good weather.

We always meet in the parking lot where we admire the forest green trees against that piercing blue sky with the white white clouds. I’m sure I’ve told her how some day I’m going to crochet an afghan in these colors because it’s the thing I usually say in situations like this.

After Cane Creek built the Monadnock Lookout Tower, Amy said, “Let’s go!” so we picked a date in May.

We were halfway up the 80-foot tower when Amy turned and told me that she has an uneasy relationship with heights. However, she pushed ahead and 70 steps later Amy was standing on top.

I scanned the horizon, trying to pick out landmarks and vowed to bring my camera with the big lens next time.

Six weeks later I returned with Emma, who when I told her about the tower, had said, “Let’s do it.” Once again, it was a perfectly crisp, dry morning. I swear this is some kind of Alamance County Park juju.

Emma and I head up the trail at what I think is a respectable pace until we are passed by a jogger, a thin woman who shouts over her shoulder, “Therapy!” in response to my, “You go!”

Emma confesses that she isn’t comfortable with heights, so I suggest she go first like Amy did in order to strike her own pace. “The platforms are the worst,” she says. “I don’t like how you can see through them.”

I consider this while staring through the metal grid, wondering what are the chances that two of my friends might express a desire to climb something that gives them the heebie jeebies.

I recently learned about the Visual Cliff experiments from the ’60s in which babies who would crawl across a platform to reach their mothers, refused when that platform was made of plexiglass. The hypothesis being that humans are hardwired to avoid the air space between trees lest we fall to our deaths.

My five brothers and I are all goats—we’ll climb anything—and I can’t wait to bring them here. Although they may not enjoy it as much as the towers they have to squeeze through locked gates to climb, those danger boys, now in their 60s and 70s.

Emma and I reach the big platform at the top with its sturdy rails and magnificent view, a giant American flag clapping for our triumph, and a nice breeze to wick away the sweat of our efforts.

I point out the nuclear plant some 40 miles to the south. I admire Emma’s courage, admire her for boldly pushing herself upwards to stand here in the breeze looking down into the overstory. She isn’t even holding on to the railing.

I point to the north, to a cluster of man-made towers and Emma says, “I think that’s Durham.”

After we’ve had our fill of thrill, we walk back down and take turns posing with the warning sign at the bottom. To wit:

Climb at your own risk. Falls from the tower may result in death or serious injury.
Tower may be used during park hours of operation only.
Do not climb on or lean over railing.
Visitors under the age of 18 cannot climb the tower without being accompanied by an adult.
Any visitors with health issues should be supervised while on the tower.
Park management reserves the right to close the tower at any time without notice.

We are nearly back to the lot when our jogger reappears. “Therapy!” I shout, and she laughs. “It beats housework!”

We stop to admire the way the sun is highlighting flora and fauna on the bank of a thin creek and crouch beside the wooden bridge to watch a half dozen damselflies flirt above the rocks.

I point out some chanterelles—Emma’s first—and she grows as excited as she did with the blueberries we’d been seeing along the trail. “We have to go foraging sometime!”

By the time we reach our cars, I am infused with friendship, endorphins, and hope. What a great use of tax dollars! What a great Country! This sure beats war and detention centers, ballrooms and arches. If Alamance County can do this, maybe the old U. S. of A. isn’t entirely broken.

Art is best shared with friends, so I invited Susan, a professional artist, and Tony, a published author, to join me on a walk across the pumpkin bridge.

I parked near Matt and Dana’s house up the hill, and we walked past the brightly decorated yards, joining a tide of costumed people, young and old, flowing down towards the river.

The sky was dark by the time we reached the bridge, pumpkins glowing brightly on their railing perches.

“I love this,” I thought, feeling like a tiny speck beneath the moon. It occurred to me that almost everyone on that bridge had likely carved into at least one pumpkin during their lifetime, no doubt taught to handle the sharp knife with care by their parents, who learned from their parents, and back across generations.

With the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program due to run out of funds tomorrow due to a prolonged government shutdown, I wasn’t surprised to see the words, “You can’t be pro-life and anti-snap.”

I clicked away, hoping to capture the Halloween-on-the-bridge vibe.

This elaborate fly carving was extremely popular, so I waited for my turn to photograph it.

We wondered how long it took to etch such an image.

I took a fancy to the birds as eyes and nose, and bat as mouth version, an innovation I have never seen before.

This one reminded me that it’s been too many months since I visited Tractor Supply Company with its rugged clothing, plastic farm animals, and horse notions.

I found myself trying to visualize the person behind each work of art. Perhaps I will come early next year and get in on the action.

Halfway back across the bridge, Emma and Soren stepped out of the darkness. Susan was talking and Emma said, “I know that voice!”

“Where’d you get that drink?” I asked.

“At the Community Center. Check it out.”

So, we did. Talk about warm fuzzies. There were bathrooms, baked goods, and an atmosphere of relaxed congeniality. Communal celebration is the antidote to political grief and uncertainty. True power resides in small neighborhoods!

We happily joined legions of white-haired leaf-peepers intent on inhaling Vermont’s colorful change of seasons. What I recall from a long-ago glimpse of Vermont was fall foliage, winding roads, white-steepled churches, and covered bridges.

Indeed, the leaves were changing, the roads winding, we saw a few quaint, white churches, and Bob found us a bridge. At 280 feet, the Scott Covered Bridge is the second-longest covered bridge in the state.

I’d like to take a minute and show you how Frank and I are related.

This is a picture of a picnic in the woods above Nana Helen and Grandpa Frank’s home in New Jersey from the late ’30s or early ’40s. Grandpa Frank, Nana, John, Frank, and Frank’s sons, Frank and Mark, were all in show business in New York.

Therefore, Frank and I are first cousins. He is my father’s brother’s son. Helen and Frank had two sons: Frank (Frank’s dad) and John (my dad).

When my Uncle Frank married my Aunt Kathy, Nana and Grandpa split off an acre for them to build on. So Frank and his younger brother, Mark, grew up next door to our grandparents. My parents and five siblings lived close enough to join everyone for Sunday dinner, which sometimes included both Nana and Grandpa’s extended family.

I often spent the entire weekend at Nana’s with one or two of my brothers. Aunt Kathy would take us all to the beach. We played make-believe games with the neighborhood kids, and climbed the hill through the woods with the dogs. It was a pretty sweet childhood.

Nana did all the cooking, likely prepping for days. In the summer, she’d make iced tea, potato salad, bake a poppyseed cake, and fry some chicken. In the colder months, she might make artichokes, a beef roast with potatoes, mashed carrots and turnips with sweet cream butter and kosher salt, and an orange cake with butter cream frosting and bakers’ chocolate melted across the top and dripping down the sides.

When we arrived at Frank and Shawn’s, Frank had dinner mostly prepped. It’s safe to say that Frank inherited his Nana’s culinary flair. Not everyone has a palate to please the masses, but he does, just like his Nana did. What tastes good to Frank tastes good to everyone else.

Here’s the story behind the orange rotary phone. Shawn told me that she and Frank were in a vintage store and didn’t quite find anything they liked until she spotted the shop’s landline in her favorite color. And even though the phone was in use, Shawn must have made them an irresistible offer, and now it lives in their kitchen.

We hadn’t seen Frank and Shawn’s daughter, Houston, for some years, so it was a treat to spend time with her. She recently moved across the yard into a newly finished home designed by Frank in the same contemporary style as the main house.

Frank jokes that their house resembles a double-wide on steroids. I wouldn’t go that far, but it does possess an unusual floor plan. Imagine a two-story, one-room-wide tower with windows on the long sides, and a walk-out basement that opens onto a patio. There’s a deck off the dining room, similar to their previous home. Upstairs are two bedrooms, one at each end. Simple and airy, with a large kitchen and a cozy den downstairs. We’d been to their New Jersey home a number of times, but this was our first visit to their Vermont home.

We slept like angels in a comfy bed beneath a delightful cross breeze with a full moon beaming outside. When I asked Shawn if she had chosen the warm wall colors, she said, No, Houston did.

The next morning, I joined Shawn for strength training with her personal coach. We hung from bars until our grip failed, did squats, lunges, jumps, and sit-ups. Her trainer cut me a break, giving me lower weights and a not-so-high jumping platform. Even so, my legs were sore for four days. She and her partner were very knowledgeable and happily answered all my questions regarding protein, hydration, and how to build stronger bones.

Shawn’s trainer had recommended Dr. Peter Attia’s book, Outlive, which Shawn had already read and generously passed along to me. So I went home with some notion of how to do what needs done if I want to be reasonably independent in my last decade of life. Attia calls this our marginal decade, when our capacity drops by 50%. You can view his interview on 60 Minutes here.

Between that workout and walking Houston’s dog, Lobo, with Frank, I left in better shape than when I arrived.

In the summers, Houston works at Kingland Bay State Park, a place we were eager to see. Sadly, Houston had to work at her winter job, so we retirees went without her.

Houston is a published photographer who posts compelling nature photos on social media—puffins!—many of them taken at this beautiful park. She truly has a gift for composition, and the patience it takes for brilliant nature photos. She and her camera are planning a trip to Alaska, and one to New Zealand.

Like cooking, photography runs in the family. My father had a darkroom in Nana’s basement and took many of our family photos. Nana’s nephew, Steve Wallace, was a professional photographer, as was my brother, John.

We snapped a photo of the wind playing with our hair and went out for lunch.

After coffee the next day, we said goodbye to Houston and walked over to see her new place.

The contractors had done a fine job of manifesting Frank’s vision of “elegant sufficiency,” a phrase often used by his mother. They had built an apartment with a separate room for storage and perhaps a pool table above a three-car garage. The outside of Houston’s house echoed the main house and, like the main house, was gleaming with glass.

I loved that they had installed a pulley, a beam, and a roll-up door outside the storage room. “That’s how we got all the materials up there,” Frank said. A backstage, showbiz trick to be sure.

And then it was time to hit the road. This time, Bob took a more direct route back to Jim and Kathryn’s, routing us through Montpelier, where we rejoined the river of tourists for a look-see at Vermont’s historic State House.

Bob couldn’t resist posing next to an enormous cannon. For the record, we are both pacifists.

This is not the Ethan Allen of furniture fame; this is Ethan Allen, the Revolutionary War hero and one of Vermont’s founding fathers.

It warmed my heart to see a woman with a sheaf of wheat atop the blinged-out Capitol dome. Agriculture is so often overlooked.

Speaking of bling, this was the brightest tree we saw in all our driven miles. You can see the State House peeking out from behind this funky sandstone house.

My parting shot is a montage of mass transit, a nod to the dairy industry, and a FedEx delivery truck. I don’t know what it means, but I think it’s art. The kind of art that makes you go, “Huh.”

After landing, Bob picked up the rental car we would use to drive to Vermont, and we spent a couple of nights with Jim and Kathryn. We had planned a pizza picnic with Kathryn’s daughter and her family, but that fell through when her husband came down with a killer sore throat.

Here’s a photo of the previous pizza party celebrating Jim’s birthday in July 2024.

The weather was spectacular, perfect for rambling chats in Jim and Kathryn’s expansive yard.

I joined Kathryn in the kitchen to bake three “AB Cakes” from her Nan’s recipe book: one for the house, one for Kathryn to take to her friend with whom she would be making bread and butter pickles, and one to take to Vermont. It was a delicious, yet simple cake, involving only sugar, butter, eggs, milk, and flour.

Jim picked out a wonderful hike to Peppercorn Hill for just the two of us. It was supposedly one mile, but felt a whole lot longer due to the elevation gain.

We started inland with a view of Lake Maspenock before heading uphill to our destination.

Here’s Jim with one of many rounded boulders along the trail. Someone a long time ago might have thought, Hey, these boulders look like giant peppercorns, and that’s where we assume Peppercorn Hill got its name. No one actually knows.

“Funny story,” Jim said, “My last time here was with Joe, and we got lost. We took a wrong turn on the way down and ended up on a different ridge. Kathryn had to drive over and pick us up.” I wasn’t surprised. “For Joe, it’s not a real hike unless he gets lost,” I said, chuckling, but I spent the rest of the hike looking over my shoulder at every trail split, trying to memorize the way back to Jim’s car.

We eventually made it to Peppercorn Hill, one of the highest points in Hopkinton, to admire the spectacular view. I found it comforting to see tree cover all the way to the horizon in a world often scarred by construction.

I might mention that Jim is eleven years younger than I am. I, the oldest, and he, the youngest of six. Can you believe my mother had six kids in the span of eleven years? Holy moley.

Anyhow, I think I did a good job keeping up with that youngster. Jim went down in front of me, gallantly offering to carry my camera so I had both hands free to grab at small shrubs and prevent a plummet.

We swung by the grocery store on the way home, and Jim threw together chili and a salad in record time. We ate, talked about everything and nothing, and went to bed early.

Bob and Ned roomed together at Colorado University in the ’70s and have a long history of posing implacably behind their sunglasses.

We took Emily and John to lunch in downtown Denver at Park & Co, less than a mile from 1600 Glenarm Place, where I cooked and cashiered at Stouffer’s more than fifty years ago.

We spent two days with Rob and Sharyl, friends since 1990 when Bob and I worked with Rob at Data Entry Products (DEP). On Wednesdays, we’d leave work early and four of us would motor around  Horsetooth Reservoir in our shared boat, taking turns on a boogie board. I married Bob in July of 1994, and Rob and Sharyl married three months later.

Bob and Rob contentedly discussed many topics of importance in the shade of the big trees.

Bob and I threw in with each other in the spring of 1992 and began living together in my Loveland, Colorado apartment.

Eventually, we moved a few blocks away to a standalone house at 913 Franklin Avenue, which had a second bedroom for the girls. There was a basketball hoop outside the garage where we played many games of horse. We used the garage like a covered patio for cocktails with friends or to paint our daughter’s fingernails with pink polish. We called it the pallet house because our bedroom walls appeared to be constructed from pallets.

Next, we rented an old house on two acres with room for our saddle horses outside of town. This is where we stood on the porch and said our vows aloud in front of our friends.

That place was close to the Big Thompson River, and we rode our horses, Jesse and Penny, down there several times a week.

Now a medical clinic, this is where we worked until DEP sold to Lucas Varity, and we relocated to Williamsburg, Virginia.

Ten years later, we returned to Colorado, settling into a clean and airy apartment in Berthoud within walking distance to Bob’s new job at Biodiesel Industries, the grocery store, post office, library, and farmers’ market.

We did not miss having our own yard and gardens as we initially feared. The apartment was a short walk to nearby parks, all of Berthoud’s streets were lined with shady trees, and we had a roomy patio on the back of the building. We parked our bicycles and an under-driven 1995 Ford Escort in the back. At that time, Habitat for Humanity occupied the building next door, where I volunteered in their used book department.

Much remains of our old life along Colorado’s Front Range, especially our friendships. We fondly remember ice skating on Lake Loveland, riding our horses in the Corn Roast Festival Parade, hunting for wild asparagus, and happy gatherings. It was gratifying to visit places that were once part of our lives.

Our drive up scenic Highway 101 felt as adventuresome as it looks in the movies, only with Bob behind the wheel of a GMC Terrain instead of a red convertible and no one wearing a scarf.

We stopped to eat sandwiches from our cooler at Otter Crest State Scenic Viewpoint and saw a Gray Whale in the water far below.

Haystack Rock, home to Tufted Puffins, looms in the coastal fog, removing all hope of adding a new bird to our life list. Even if we’d brought a telescope, there would not be any puffin sightings on this day.

You take what you can get, so we settled for a big, wooden puffin.

I think wind farms are beautiful and am perplexed by people who don’t appreciate their simple magic.

It was a beautiful day along the Mighty Columbia.

Bonneville Dam was a must-see. Moving water always moves me. I believe it’s the negative ions.

The dam blocked fish from migrating upstream to spawn, so the engineers built a fish ladder.

It takes lots of muscle and DNA imperative to spawn another generation of steelhead or salmon.

When life throws you garbage, turn it into something flashy. At least this stuff is no longer in the river.

I knew there must be a good reason why this border collie needed protective eyewear, but didn’t have the courage to ask their owners.

An hour further, and Bob stopped in front of Gunkel Orchards. We were there for peaches, but after tasting their nectarines, we bought them instead, all in agreement that they had the best flavor.

The Stonehenge Memorial near Maryhill was another place Bob had visited during his work travels.

The next day, we drove north to Mt. St. Helens. This destination was on my wish list. As you may know, this mountain blew its top in 1980. I had seen it in its moonscape form five years later and was interested in seeing how its recovery was coming along.

Well, it still appeared scarred by the blast, but had a whole lot more green than it had forty years ago.

We stopped at the visitor center to watch a video showing the blast and hear some of the stories about that terrifying day. We were surprised to learn that the people closest to the eruption felt their houses shake but heard no sound.

After meandering through the museum, we went for a hike and Bob found a friend.

Amy stopped to admire many flowers, and one of them turned out to be an orchid.

We flew over Mt. Hood and could see Mt. St. Helens in the background.

So that was the sightseeing leg of our tour. I think we did a very nice job impersonating tourists.

Everyone in Astoria lives on a slant. This is why god made emergency brakes. Astoria has hills akin to those in San Francisco and Knoxville, Tennessee. Roads that drop out from underneath your car and plunge toward deep water.

Bob presented Tine with a Jedi logo flag because we’re really into flags these days, and he was pretty sure Tine would like this one.

Tine took us for a walk at a nearby demonstration forest where we learned a whole lot about forestry and tree management. If you’re wondering what’s a Clatsop, well, the Clatsop were the original people of this region. Before the white people came.

The forest is mainly planted in Douglas-fir and western redcedar. We got to see both managed and untouched forests on either side of the trail. While I’d love to say that Mother Nature knows best, the managed trees looked larger and healthier than the untouched trees.

Bob and Amy trying to identify a tree that is neither a Douglas-fir nor a western redcedar.

Everything out here on the Oregon Coast is ginormous, even the slugs.

Amy and I split off to do an extra loop and encountered some really big trees. This one looks like a cedar.

Next stop: the Astoria Column, an “artful summary of the triumphs, conflicts and turning points of the frontier.” At the base of the column is an image of a forest populated by animals and the words “Before White People Arrive.” Notably missing are the Clatsop people who had occupied the region for tens of thousands of years.

If you wanted, you could climb the spiral staircase to the top and look out across the Columbia River at Washington State on the other side. I thought this was a great idea, so up I went.

A view across the river.

After all that walking, we were ready for something to eat, and Tine knew just the place.

When I asked Tine for a low-traffic route to the river, she set me on course. The streets she chose were not whizzing with cars, but were instead populated by deer who regarded me with mild curiosity.

Tine had grown excited when she mentioned the pigeon steps and I soon understood why. They practically beg to be taken.

It was still early when I arrived at the river.

I saw a giant slug hugging—humping? can’t get the previous image out of my mind—a not-open-for-business food truck. Which was just as well because I found the slug unappetizing.

So I turned around and walked back up the pigeon steps, which took a lot more effort than I had imagined on my way down.

Tine was a wonderful host, and we were happy for the break between our drive up the coast from Cottage Grove and more touring ahead. Stay tuned for Mt. St. Helens, the Bonneville Dam Fish Ladder, and other interesting Pacific Northwest destinations.

We began our long vacation in Denver, spent a day with Amy’s older sister, Emily, and another day with Amy’s younger sister, Molly, visited some friends, and then flew to Oregon.

Bob had rented a place outside the tiny town of Drain, half an hour from Amy and Jasper. When I told our host I was a walkaholic, he pointed out a woodsy path behind our room and, in the other direction, the gravel road we’d driven in on.

I walked both ways both mornings, taking note of two little deer who were as curious about me as I was about them.

It was berry season, which added time and calories to the walks.

On the woodsy side of things, we encountered moss and lichen, something we have in much smaller amounts back home.

We stopped at a bakery on the way to Cottage Grove and scored some hand pies for breakfast.

Amy and Jasper live in a surprisingly spacious tiny house built inside a large barn.

When it was time, we sang the Happy Birthday song, which I am certain we are somehow born knowing, since I cannot remember ever not knowing how to sing it.

I’ve only met one person in my life who didn’t know what to do next. You make a wish and blow out the candle! Equally important, you must keep your wish a secret or it will not come true.

Amy was born on a Saturday, for what that’s worth. Bob was Thursday-born, and I arrived on a Friday.

Osha, now a mature dog (we remember her as a pup), has been with Amy and Jasper for as long as they’ve been together.

And we met their cat, Scrumpie.

Bob gave Osha’s comfortable bed a test drive after she got up to lie beneath the table.

Stools are cool, perfect for small spaces, portable for camping, and close to the ground for tending fires and petting dogs. By the end of the day, I had an appreciation for Amy and Jasper’s well-crafted lifestyle of simple relaxation, and saw how it reflected their down-to-earth values.

No Wifi, no TV, no cell service. “If you need us, just honk your horn,” our hosts told us. A writer’s haven if I’ve ever seen one.

I knew these were my people when I saw the loop trail. Bob and Amy were also ready to stretch their legs, so we set down our bags and went for a walk.

We noticed right away one tree that seemed out of place. We later learned it was a Monkey Puzzle tree, native to South America, thriving in Washington State as an ornamental.

The trail wound through ferns and firs which seemed to grow larger the further we went.

We were soon surrounded by moss and shrinking into the forest like Alice in Wonderland.

Fallen trees nurture forest life. After I’ve lain down for the last time, I’d like to do the same.

Here’s a tree that was once a small seed, which took root in the fallen nurse tree and now has grown straight and tall.

Now we were in the stuff of fairy tales, half expecting to see a wolf in a bonnet or a small hut with a very large chimney.

Back in the hideaway, we rummaged through our road provisions and settled on grilled tofurky and cheese sandwiches for dinner. Each time we reached for our phones, we realized there was no point. I wondered if I would make it until tomorrow to check my texts.

After sundown, we stepped outside to look at the stars and saw the lanterns.

If we’d had any doubt these were our people, the lanterns and the ball jar of crayons next to the guest book settled it for us.

The next morning, I took the loop alone and went beyond, finding evidence of mankind, a rusted car that reminded me of an upturned beetle.

I froze when I heard a loud snap. And froze again when I heard another. Perhaps I was about to see a bear! Holding my breath, I stepped closer to the sound, wishing I’d brought my invisibility cloak.

Time stretched as I watched the ferns rustle. Maybe it was an invisible bear. Finally, common sense prevailed, and I looked into the overstory to see a few squirrels knocking pinecones to the ground.

I turned and headed back. I’d had enough of an adventure. Two shelf mushrooms waved goodbye, a little mockingly, I thought.

Bob and Amy had enjoyed a good catch-up. I told them my bear story before diving into a bowl of granola, blueberries, and soy milk. We left replenished, fully oxygenated, with our sleep tanks topped off. Unplugging had been as easy as falling off a log.

Bob began planning our time out west last year, and I started training immediately. In the past, travel zapped me royally, but this time I was determined to return home unscathed.

On day two, after a good night’s sleep, we picked up our oldest daughter, Emily, said hello to her cats, Rufus and Cortado, and drove down to the Denver Botanic Gardens. Just the three of us on a brilliant day.

The air was as crisp as a fall apple with a full-throated “Colorado Blue” sky, a color we call “Carolina Blue” back home.

Many of the plants in their tropical collection felt familiar, reminding us of our summers with the girls in Belize, on Guam, and Hawaii twenty-plus years ago.

I cannot think of a better way to refresh and connect than a stroll among oxygen-exhaling eye candy.

Naturally, we lingered over the orchids as Bob identified species in his private collection.

We encountered a giant picture frame, and I saw how it made me both focus and detach.

We were drawn to a massive sculpture which I initially mistook for a real flower. When I realized it was made of glass, that only made it cooler. It shone brightly even after ten years outdoors, making me wonder how you would clean such a thing.

A bench—cleverly constructed of woven branches—beckoned, but we resisted and kept on moving.

These Dr. Suessian flowers reminded me of vintage hats.

We encountered dahlia blooms as big as Emily’s head.

By the end of the day, I felt calm and energized, and I knew this trip would be different. Here’s the formula I came up with for stress-free travel:

Always get a good night’s sleep
Walk around outdoors as much and as often as possible
Eat real food, staying away from sugar and processed food
Pace yourself socially, detach when necessary
Avoid screen time

And it worked! I returned home nearly two weeks later, aglow with memories and no worse for wear.