RunningBarb

One of RunningBarb’s many pleasures in life is biking. It is an excellent way to get into the great outdoors, breathe the fresh air, and get some good exercise.

I live on a small street and my house has a giant window where I can see everyone who goes by. They can see me too, which leads to some awkward moments. If we make eye contact, should we wave? Pretend not to see each other? Something else? I’m never sure. There is an ongoing parade of dog walkers, power strollers, speedy runners, and even the cross country team from the local high school.

One of my favorite scenes is families going by on their bikes. Two parents, a coupla kids with those funny kid helmets. Those tykes are so lucky to be encouraged to ride and to have this fun and empowering experience with their parents. 

The first bike I remember owning was given to me by my next door neighbor. I was around seven, and she was a teenager. The bike was way too big for me, I couldn’t sit and pedal at the same time. My father duct taped wooden blocks to the pedals so I would have a chance. The bike also introduced me to a new vocabulary word, “official.” On the stem of the bike was pasted a sticker that read “Official Spit Ball Target.” Don’t ask me why. Of course, I wore no helmet when I rode. No one did back then.

My next bicycle was a purple sting ray that my parents bought for me at a flea market. It made me so happy. It was the kind of bike the cool kids rode. For a moment I could harbor the illusion that I was cool, too. One day it disappeared. Maybe it was stolen out of the garage. I never found out.

There were a few other bikes, a memorable one being the one I picked up at my favorite store, Goodwill, for 75 dollars. I had been toying with the idea of doing a triathlon, but I didn’t have a light bike. One day I walked into Goodwill and volla! there stood a bike that had just been brought in. It was outfitted with aero bars and water cages and all the accoutrements you want on a bike. There was a tag on the front of it with a number and the words Savage Man Half, as in half Ironman triathlon. I bet that the guy who brought it in was trading up for a better model. Okay, well, that’s the bike for me. I used it for several triathlons, including an Ironman. Competitors would eye my bike and tell me “That’s a nice bike!” This happened frequently. I wondered what they thought was so special about it. I mean, I loved it, but they had super fast bikes that weighed like a feather and cost a year’s salary. This was child’s play by comparison. Then I started to think that they were thinking “What is RunningBarb doing on such an old, non-triathlon bike? Can’t believe she’s even in this race!” I didn’t mind. 

These days I ride a lot, on bike trails, in the country, in parks, and other beautiful areas. When I see these families pedaling by past my house it brings me joy and a hope that the children will continue their biking journey, taking in the beauty around them, enjoying their biking skills, and remembering these happy moments. 

What are some memorable moments in your biking life?

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Well, they say three’s the charm, so here is RunningBarb’s third post involving birds.

I was chatting with my friend, Biking J, about my joy in watching the hummingbirds at my feeder. She told me about a book she was reading, “The Backyard Bird Chronicles” by Amy Tan. You may remember Amy Tan as the author of many absorbing books such as “The Joy Luck Club” and “The Kitchen God’s Wife.” Did you know that in the past ten years she has become a bird aficionado? She began by watching our winged friends on field trips with birding groups. Then she realized she lived among quite the feathered community in her own back yard. She started learning about, journaling about, and drawing them. Feeding them, also, bringing many varieties up close and personal. Her book is a collection of her thoughts and observations as well as her rough sketches and stunning artistic images. Her gorgeous work inspired RunningBarb to get into the act: 

Early on she could identify only a few birds, but over time she became proficient in recognizing more and more, and becoming familiar with their habits. I think it is safe to say she is now a birding expert. 

While I can’t claim nearly the expertise that Amy can, I do have a few home birding experiences of my own. There was the hawk that built a nest in a tree next to my house and laid some eggs. As far as I know, the clutch successfully went off into adulthood. (No thanks to me. All I did was watch.) I invited my neighbors to come by and take a look. 

I remember a dramatic episode a few years ago when a fox came through our yard. Now, a fox prancing around here is not unusual. We have lotsa foxes in these parts. What was unusual was the reaction of the birds in the area. Normally the fox cruises on down the road without being bothered. But this one time all the birds in the vicinity went nuts. They were screeching and dive bombing the guy. They chased him out of the yard to who knows where. I don’t know what he did, maybe he had stolen an egg or something. But it goes to show, a group of committed individuals can get rid of someone they don’t like hanging around if they work together. 

We also have owls that live nearby. On morning I was out running in the early, early, early morning when one flew over my head on his way to a tree. He was so close I could practically touch him! His wing span was gigantic. It was the first time ever I was so near to a flying owl. I was lucky to be where I was at that moment.

So, yes, RunningBarb lately has had birds on the brain. They are everywhere and remind us of our place in nature. What specimens of beauty in our wonderful world.  

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RunningBarb was cleaning out my library shelves in preparation for the house painters, and I came across a book that had been sitting there for years but never had been cracked open. The book is “Birds without Wings,” by Louis De Bernières. Since my previous post focused on hummingbirds I thought I would continue with the theme.

“Birds without Wings” tells the story of a village, Eskibahçe, in southwestern Anatolia, part of what is now Turkey. It takes place during the beginning of the twentieth century. 

De Bernières brings Eskibahçe alive with vivid descriptions of place and character. It is a peaceful place (mostly), where folk of varying cultural and ethnic identities generally mix easily. The Muslims ask the Christians to pray to the Christian saints for the health and safety of their loved ones, and the Christians ask the Muslims to tie scraps of cloth to trees so that wishes can be granted. The towns people rarely, if ever, leave the village, and don’t fully grasp the ways of the world outside the town. (Who does?)

Mr. K and I traveled through Turkey in 1986, through villages like this one. Reading this book brought back memories of open land and black starry skies. These places felt remote and isolated, a step back in time. But we knew we were just passing through. 

“Birds Without Wings” is told from a variety of perspectives. There is Iskander the Potter; Philothei, the greatest beauty ever seen, even from the moment of her birth; the wealthy and influential Rustem Bey; Ayse the healer; military leader Mustafa Kemal; and many others. Clay birds also make an appearance.

The equanimity of the town is disrupted when war comes to its door. Prior to World War I a number of regional conflicts were fought in that part of the globe. The war escalated them, resulting in millions of deaths, obviously, and also the dislocation of thousands of people based on their ethnic identity, including Christians from Eskibahçe, who were replaced by Muslims from Greece.

The people were distraught, damaged, and completely puzzled. Why did their friend have to leave? What was wrong with having Christians in the neighborhood? How do these changes make anything better? The fact that they have almost no way to communicate with the outside world and therefore don’t know who is doing what or why, or what might happen next, adds to their feelings of helplessness. They are victims of decisions being made continents away, with deciders showing little regard for their situation.

The beginning of the book is colorful and interesting as we learn about the characters and their ways. The middle section is hard to read as it describes in detail the gruesome acts of war. The end feels like resignation and acknowledgement of the folly of human endeavors. Which feels kind of sad. Also realistic.

This is not the kind of book you want to read fast to see what happens. First of all, it makes you review your history. And it is the kind of story where you want to stop at the end of each chapter and savor the beautiful writing and the visions it evokes. Or, in the more violent sections, pause and catch your breath.

If you are looking for a read that will take you to another time and place this may be for you. It makes you think about how different is the world of today. And how much the same.

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If you want to spark some joy in your life RunningBarb has a suggestion: get yourself a hummingbird feeder. 

I was visiting some friends last year and observed their hummingbird feeder close to their kitchen window. Those little guys were coming and going all day, flapping their wings a mile a minute, sipping from the feeder, flying off, coming back, hovering, sipping, disappearing, and coming back. I want that, I thought. 

Hummingbirds are attracted to various types of flowers, such as red cardinal flower and trumpet honeysuckle, so if you can garden your way into drawing them in, do it. If, like me, everything you plant dies the second you put the shovel away, you might want to try a feeder. Make sure you get the right kind. I had had a one in my garden for years, and the only critters I ever saw hanging around were ants. (Not that this Nature Girl has anything against ants . . .)

This is the one that I bought:

And no, RunningBarb does not earn any bribes from this endorsement. If only! But I do get the pleasure of knowing that you, loyal reader, might also hang one of these babies in your yard and get as excited as I do when they have their intended effect. 

Now I spend a lot of time sitting on my back porch watching these little fellas. I bring my binoculars for extra fun. Anytime you see animals in the wild* it feels like a treat, right, because we never know when they are coming. That’s part of the joy.

Hummingbirds are tiny and fast – they can fly up to 30-45 miles per hour. Whoa, that exceeds the speed limit in my Town! I also learned that their hearts beat around 225 beats per minute when they are at rest, and more than 1200 times a minute when they are flying. (I’d love to know how bird people counted that one.) Interestingly, they enter a state of “torpor” when it is cold in order to save energy. In torpor their body temperature and metabolism drop. They look like they are sleeping, but when they feel the sun they start warming up and going on the move again. 

For a long time my feeder attracted one hummingbird. I mean, I don’t know if it was the same one or a different one. All hummingbirds look the same to me. Lately I have been noticing two showing up at a time. And lemme tell ya, they do not play well together! One will be perched on the edge of the feeder, sipping away, when another will dive bomb him, and they both will fly off. Also, I have been noticing that when one bird comes by it hovers near and around the feeder for a while before landing. Or, it will perch on a nearby bush before coming close. It knows that it might be attacked mid-meal and is on guard. I want to say “Dudes! There’s plenty of sugar water to go ‘round!” But I have not yet learned how to communicate that to a creature with a brain smaller than a pea. (On the other hand, I can think of a species with a much larger brain that fights over less than its own version of sugar water.) Hey, there’s plenty for everyone, people, knock it off!

Hummingbirds don’t care about how messed up our world is. They are colorful, fascinating, and just their own true selves. Hang up a feeder and see what I mean.

*Okay, I admit tree rats squirrels are an exception to the wild animals thing. 

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We had an uneventful drive from The Garden to Albany and had just about reached the Albany Medical Center when Mr. K’s eagle eyes spotted a sign on a large office building that read “Did you break your collarbone on a hike? Come on in, and we’ll fix it for you.” I mean, it may not have said that exactly, but you know what I mean.

We pulled a u-ie, drove to the place, and went in. It hummed like a well-oiled machine. Mr. K checked in and was seen by a medical assistant almost immediately. Next was an x-ray. Here’s what it showed.

Broken, obvs. A few minutes later Dr. Bone Fixer and his Trusty Assistant strode in. They explained the choices. Leave it alone, and you can live a long happy life with a broken bone. Or, undergo a surgical repair, and you can live a long, happy life with a refurbished one. The surgery would entail screwing a metal plate to connect the two pieces of bone. It didn’t seem hard to decide. If it’s broke, why not fix it? Then the next questions were: Should he have it done here? We don’t even know these people. How do we know they’re any good? Should we drive back to Maryland and have it operated on there? 

This was a Monday. Dr. Bone Fixer said he could do the surgery a week from Tuesday and see Mr. K for follow up eight days later. Why, that was the day we were planning to start back home! His schedule fit ours to a T. We could stay in our beloved Adirondacks – without hiking the 46-ers, boo hoo – get all fixed up, then head back. We really liked the staff. Everyone was friendly and helpful, and they all seemed to like each other. In our experience you receive better medical care when the staff is closely knit. Mr. K gave the surgery the a-okay. When Dr. Bone Fixer and his Trusty Assistant left, we did an online search to check out his credentials. He looked as reputable as anyone.

And there was also the souvenir factor. I mean, anyone can waltz into a trinket shop in Lake Placid and come home with a musical snow globe. How many can boast of a bespoke slab of metal in their body? Plus, your kids won’t have to donate it to Goodwill when you’re gone.  

The next day Dr. Bone Fixer’s office called with a list of tasks. We had to pick up a packet of medical orders and information, and go to this location for a chest x-ray, that lab for blood tests, this other building for an EKG, and so on. Duties completed, we feasted on a vegetable panini and eggplant parmesan lunch in one of New York’s famous diners. The next day we headed back to the Adirondacks. 

Back at the mountains we took walks around Lake Placid, went to the grocery store, did our laundry, and who knows what-all. The time passed quickly and soon we were back in Albany for the surgery.

As I said, a well-oiled machine. Everything ran on time, and before you could say “Turn that darn tv off in the waiting room for crying out loud!” it was over. RunningBarb brought a slightly groggy Mr. K back to the hotel. He had an arsenal of pain drugs to take if needed. He was on his way to healing. 

After the surgery we went to Lake George, where we spent the week walking the beautiful Warren County Bikeway and staring at the sparkling water.

At the follow up appointment Dr. Bone Fixer gave Mr. K the a-okay. All right then, time to head home.

I know that we live a life of privilege. I am well aware that our nation’s medical system is deficient and flawed. Many who need care face obstacles related to insurance, money, transportation, language, communication, and other factors. We did not have to deal with any of this. It sits on my chest a little bit. 

May there come a day in our lifetime when this kind of medical care is fully accessible and available to all. 

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Of course, we didn’t know right away that they were EMTs. They looked like normal people. As we climbed the steps to the Johns Brook Lodge (JBL) porch a friendly voice called out, “Hey, how was your hike?” Mr. K told his story. “Well, we have four EMTs here,” she replied.

It seems that these EMTs, when they are not pulling people out of burning buildings, resuscitating unconscious heart attack victims, locating lost souls in the wilderness, and teaching back country skills to city slickers, relax by hauling their packs into the woods and climbing crazy mountains. Some people just don’t know when to quit!

First EMT looked at Mr. K’s shoulder and clavicle, poked around a bit, and asked him a few questions. He assessed that the collarbone likely was broken. He was somewhat surprised Mr. K wasn’t in more pain. He advised us to get to a trauma hospital in Albany as soon as possible. That seemed like good advice. But the “as soon as possible” part seemed a little challenging. Getting back to our vehicle in The Garden would require the three-and-a-half mile hike out. Then we would have to hop in the van and drive for two hours to get to the emergency room. And who knows how long it would take to see the right medical professional?

It was already late in the day. We were tired, wet, and hungry. We decided to stay at the lodge, eat a good dinner, get a good night’s sleep, eat a good breakfast, then be on our way when we were fresh.

Let me tell you about the meals at JBL. For dinner guests were served pork barbeque, fake vegetarian pork barbeque, rolls, macaroni and cheese, cole slaw, steamed broccoli, and for dessert spice cake with a maple glaze. Breakfast was scrambled eggs, bacon, homemade biscuits, and pancakes. I ask you, do you eat better than that at home?

We received excellent care at JBL. First, from First EMT who made the tentative diagnosis. Second, from Second EMT who offered numerous times to carry Mr. K’s pack down the next day if it hurt too much to carry it himself. Third, from the staff at JBL who contacted a ranger and learned that she agreed with our course of action. Fourth, from said ranger who volunteered to walk out with Mr. K if he wanted, or even cart him away in an ATV. 

Who knew this was such a good place to crack a bone?

Rested and sated we prepared to leave but not after we thanked everyone. It was touching and comforting to receive so much support, and we are forever grateful. 

Turns out Mr. K felt he could manage on his own. Tough guy, eh? We strapped on our packs, grabbed our trekking poles (two for me, one for him), and were on our way.

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Man plans, God laughs.

– Yiddish Proverb

Two days after we climbed Colvin and Blake we were ready for our next set of mountains: Basin, Saddleback, and Haystack. We would access these from Johns Brook Lodge (JBL), a bunk house tucked three and a half miles into the woods. To get there you leave your vehicle at a place called “The Garden” (nicest name for a parking lot I have ever heard) and hike to the place. 

We had planned to spend our first day walking in, the second summiting Basin and Saddleback, the third Haystack, and the fourth out. However, as time got closer we kept reading about how quickly The Garden fills up, especially on weekends. We would be there on a Sunday morning. At the last minute we decided to arrive early in the morning to make sure we got a parking spot.

We arrived around 4:30 a.m. The lot was two-thirds empty. That’s the last time RunningBarb takes parking advice from strangers on the Internet. No matter. We waited until it was a little bit light, then were on our way. We arrived at JBL around 8:15. Now we had a decision to make. We could stick with the original plan and not hike that day, or we could take advantage of our early start and climb at least one peak. We decided on the latter and were on our way around 9:00 toward Saddleback. We hadn’t gotten very far when it started to rain. That did not seem like a big deal. We have hiked in the rain in the Adirondacks many times. Plus, rain was predicted for the next two days, so it seemed unavoidable. 

The first few miles weren’t difficult. The trail was wide and well-marked. There was the usual mud and rocks, but nothing dramatic. After a bit we came to a few giant rock faces. These were a little trickier. They were steep and, with the rain, slippery. We took our time and kept going. Our waterproof jackets were not so waterproof after all, and we began to be soaked through. 

Soon we came to a set of ladders, which were a welcome sight. We continued up. There was more rock face, then a muddy trail. Eventually we were at the top of Saddleback. It was exposed and windy there, so we immediately turned back without taking time to eat our celebratory Snickers bar. I was getting really cold. I stopped for a minute to pull a wool hat out of my pack. 

What goes up must come down, so we headed back in the direction of the lodge. Again, a muddy trail, a rock face, and more trail. By then RunningBarb was starting to warm up. The hat was helping, and the rain had stopped. The arms on my jacket were starting to dry out, and what was that I saw in front of me? A shadow? I looked toward the sky to see the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. This hike was starting to look up. (Yes, I know we were going down.) All right, then! I was feeling pretty good and thinking Wow, I just bagged my third peak of the trip, and I only have six more to achieve my goal of becoming a – and then crash!

“Owwwwwww!”

I looked behind me to see Mr. K sprawled out prone on rock. 

Oh. That’s not good. 

I didn’t say or do anything. I knew (from experience) that once you fall on a hike you need a minute or two to get up and move on. I waited.

Soon he sat up and rubbed his shoulder. “This really hurts,” he moaned.

Oh. That’s not good.

“Can I do anything?” I lamely asked. I wondered if we were going to need help. Mr. K had a satellite app on his phone (iPhone 15 Pro in case you are curious), but it would be hours before anyone would arrive. We were still wet, and if we stayed and waited would get colder. We had space blankets with us. Do they really work to keep you warm?

After a few moments he stood up. That was good.

“I can’t lift my left arm,” he reported.

Oh. That’s not good.

As mentioned about 150 times in this blog, climbing 46-ers is a full body experience. How would he manage with the sudden inability to use a limb?

Well, maybe he couldn’t move his arm, but he could move his legs, so we slowly and gingerly made our way down the ladders, over some more rock faces, and eventually back to the muddy part of the trail. He was in pain, but kept soldiering and shouldering on and on until we finally got back to JBL.

And to our surprise, sitting on the porch rocking chairs, was a gaggle of emergency medical technicians.

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After making a few stops along the way to visit friends and family we arrived in the Adirondacks. We had booked a room in a typical Adirondack guest house: pine cone themed bed spread, dark walls, and two electrical outlets. We felt right at home.

The first peaks on our list were Colvin and Blake. To get to the trail, first you need to make parking reservations. Not because so many people want to park in that specific lot, but because the number of people in the area is controlled. The two mountains are accessed through the Adirondack Mountain Reserve (AMR), a privately-owned parcel of land. The AMR has provided an easement to the New York Department of Environmental Conservation to allow hikers through. (Wonder how long it took those guys to settle that little legal matter.)

We made our reservation and set out. After the attendant checked our booking we parked, then headed down Lake Road, which leads to a number of trails. On the way we passed through the Ausable Club, a community founded in the late 1800s. Coming here feels like stepping back in time. There is a large sprawling hotel built in 1890. I have no idea how you reserve a room there. Dinner is served at the hotel, and you have to dress for it. No hiking boots in the dining room for sure. There are magnificent bungalows tucked into the woods all over the place. A huge golf course. Tennis courts. Also lots of “No Trespassing” signs. Hey, they don’t let just any ol’ body in. At any rate, it sure it lovely to walk through.

And rambling along the road is great. It is relatively flat (by Adirondack standards), wide enough for a single car, and covered with smooth gravel. No rocks or mud. You get to have more than three miles each way count towards your hike even though the pacing is easy. Part of the way down Lake Road you come to another sign in kiosk where your reservation is checked. No metal detectors, though.

So, we were taking a pleasant walk and eventually arrived at the Gill Brook trail head. Now the real climbing began. It was fairly gentle in the beginning and became steeper as we strode on. Lots of giant rocks, of course, but someone had kindly built a ladder on one of the larger faces to help with the ascent. Thank you, trail crew!

Climbing Colvin and Blake is an out-and-back excursion. You go up to the top of Colvin and down the other side toward Blake. Then you trudge up to the summit of Blake, where there is a big rock with the word “Blake” amateurly sketched into it.* That’s how you know you are in the right place. Then you turn around and go back down toward Colvin, then again up to the top of Colvin, then down toward Lake Road, then the three plus miles on Lake Road back to your car. 

Doing Colvin and Blake was a walk in the park. The Adirondack Park, that is. We slogged through lots of mud and over rocks, we slipped and slid and pulled ourselves up holding on to tree branches and dealt with all the usual Adirondack mess. The hike turned out to be 15.4 miles with over 4700 feet of climbing.

It was getting pretty late and our stomachs were starting to catch up with our legs. On the way back to our guest house we moseyed on over to the Ausable Inn – a place where they do let just any ol’ body in. There we devoured most of the food on the menu.

Next we headed back to the room for a hot shower and a good read before sleep.

It was a good day. 

*It must be said here that scratching stuff into rocks is a clear violation of Leave No Trace principles.

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Well, here we are planning our next trip to the Adirondacks. Astute readers may recall that RunningBarb had set her sights on becoming an Adirondack 46-er. “What on earth is that?” you ask. Well, there are 46 mountains in the Adirondacks above 4000 feet. If you climb all of them you get to call yourself a 46-er. This entitles you to all sorts of special benefits, like being allowed to pay money to receive a letter certifying you as a 46-er, buy 46-er merch, shell out some bucks for a 46-er magazine subscription, and all kinds of other goodies. 

Mr. K had started climbing these babies when he was eight and dragged invited me along to climb a bunch so he could finish. So he has been done since 2009. I have been trying to catch up ever since. Sharp readers with good memories may recall my epic fail trying to climb Donaldson, Emmons, and Seward, then Haystack in 2023, then my fascinating and enthralling medical adventures and return to Seward (and Seymour) in 2025. Now I have nine mountains left. When, oh when would be the best time to tackle them? The answer, like the answer to most questions involving timing, is now. So – we have been preparing.

We will be backpacking for some of those days. We want to make sure we eat enough in the back country and also that the food we bring tastes good. Nothing is worse (well, to be honest, lots of things are worse) than to spend a hard day on the trail wrestling with mud, rocks, boulders, stream crossings, losing your way, then finding it again, and finally coming back to camp and getting a teeny weeny meal. We decided that our backpacking dinners would be tuna pasta. This would cover all the Major Food Groups: protein, fat, carbohydrates, cheese, mayonnaise, and Tabasco. 

Now, how do you bring mayonnaise in your pack? Well, any self-respecting backpacker will tell you that you can’t. But what do they know? Undeterred, we tried to find a way to make it work. We came upon a simple solution. You know those little packets you see in restaurants sometimes? We’ll just bring a few of those. Problem solved.

Turns out that the smallest number of packets you can buy is 200. Lemme tell you, I am at the point in my life where, if I want mayonnaise in the back country, gosh darn it, I’m going to have it. So we ordered a box of 200. Guess what – it’s really a lot! But I am already thinking about what to do with the leftovers. Maybe give them out for Halloween. All the boring houses give out full size Snickers bars, boxes of Mike and Ike’s, and bags of M&Ms. I think it’s time for a new trend. I’m sure the kids will thank me for it.

Even though we are regular campers and thought we had all the camping gear on the planet that two human beings could possible own, it turns out we didn’t. Camping and backpacking are not always the same. We needed more stuff. So we sprung for a new backpack for Mr. K, light sleeping pads for the both of us, a microscopic stove, featherweight pots for cooking, new trekking poles for me, and who knows what-all. For what we spent on equipment for a few days of deprivation in the woods we could have stayed a week at the Four Seasons. But no matter, it’s all about the experience.

We also had to train to be ready for those peaks. How best to get in shape for mountain climbing when you leave at sea level? Why, you go to Weverton Cliff! It’s the steepest place I know of in the area. Weverton Cliff is a section of the Appalachian Trail that offers a beautiful view of the Potomac River. To get there from the road you have to hike a mile up, with around 500 feet of elevation gain. So we took a few hikes there. That is up to the top, then down. Then up. Then down. Etcetera. My longest day on that trail saw more than 12 miles of hiking and more than 3000 feet of elevation. Our planned hardest hiking day in the Adirondacks was more than 14 miles with 3300 feet of elevation. That seems within reach. Of course, that does not figure in trail conditions, which, as has been made clear above include mud, rocks, boulders, stream crossings, and losing your way. Plus, there could be rain. And bears. But we can’t control everything. I think we are as ready as we will ever be. 

That mayonnaise sure is going to taste great. 

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After many weeks on the road it was time to head home. We always end up stopping in Kansas. Normally we stay at Cedar Bluff State Park, where we always get a nice, private campsite with a great view of the reservoir. This time we ventured into Wilson State Park, where we had a nice, private campsite with a great view of its reservoir. (Kansas has 24 reservoirs.) Reservoirs may not be so great environmentally, however, they provide lots of fun recreational activities.  

When RunningBarb was walking back from the shower house, I noticed a light blink out of the corner of my eye. What’s wrong with my eye? I wondered. Then I noticed it again, and again, these times with a full-on view. The sky was flashing, and now there was lightning added to the mix. Looked pretty cool.

As night fell the blinking and glinting continued. It didn’t seem to be moving any closer or farther away, as you might expect from a storm. As I crawled into bed in the van it kept going. I lie back and watched through the windshield of the van as the sky lit up and darkened and the lightning flickered. It went on this way for hours. I was captivated by how beautiful it was. There was never any thunder or rain, just the brilliant light popping and sparkling. The sky was bringing out its flashiest artists for anyone looking up.  

After a while I fell asleep, and sometime during the night I woke up to the sound of the wind in the trees. The night lights were still going, and now they had an added element. I tried to stay awake to take it in. I finally closed my eyes to the sound of the rustling of the leaves. 

As dawn came about the birds started warbling and crooning, offering me stirring chirrups to accompany the start of my day. Soon the sun was up, and so was I.

My night experience was wonderland of sights and sounds. I was so grateful for the time spent traveling and the opportunity to pass this time in nature. Even though it was from the inside of a Toyota Sienna. 

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