Flume Gorge

Flume Gorge

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Like any mountainous area, the White Mountains feature attractions that involve moving oneself closer to the action. You can drive to the top of Mt. Washington (6,288 feet), take a cog railway, or hike to the summit. We stayed a little closer to sea level, but we still took a perfect mountain hike.

The Flume Gorge Trail in Franconia Notch takes visitors up a crevasse into the heart of Mount Liberty. We hiked past streams, waterfalls, boulders and across covered bridges.

A boardwalk and stairs took us close enough to the walls and water that, well, let’s just say I didn’t linger in some of the scarier stretches. Now I learn from the website that the boardwalk and stairs are removed at the end of the month for the winter. Mt. Washington is expecting snow today. The fairytale world of red-treed peaks is ephemeral. It’s vanishing, leaf by leaf and flake by flake, even as I write this post.

Peak Fall Foliage

Peak Fall Foliage

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When we first talked about taking this trip I looked up the “leaf schedule” and thought we would probably miss peak fall color, be here just a tad too early.

That was no problem. We didn’t plan the trip for that purpose — it was worked around Ellen’s schedule and a rare opportunity for us to travel together. That was so good in itself that it seemed greedy to ask for anything more.

But somehow, in a miracle of perfect timing, we hit it just right. Since that seldom happens in life I want to take a minute to celebrate it here.

Peak fall foliage plus splendid autumn weather equals a time to remember in the White Mountains.

To the Lighthouse

To the Lighthouse

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The sun peeked out just as we reached Pemaquid Point Lighthouse yesterday, making an already picturesque spot even more exquisite. Ellen and I strolled the grounds, snapping photos and learning about the lighthouse. It’s been active since 1835, and is one of 65 in the state. The light it produces reaches 14 miles out to sea.

Before we climbed the tower we learned about its Fresnel lens, how it’s only one of six still in service in Maine and we absolutely could not touch it. We obeyed!

It was only later I read that Edward Hopper painted this lighthouse and it’s featured on the Maine quarter. Was that why it seemed strangely familiar? Or was it from some long-ago road atlas photo?

Ellen and I laughed about how Dad always said he wanted to visit the “rockbound coast of Maine” but drove us west to California instead. We wished he could have been there with us. And, in a way, he was.

New England!

New England!

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Many years ago, we lived in Groton, Massachusetts. I loved the small-town life — village meetings, friendly neighbors, big white churches on a hill. The past was all around us in New England.

Today I remembered all over again why I hated to leave this area: the beauty and charm, the sense of place that’s in short supply elsewhere in the country.

Boothbay Harbor, Maine, looks like a picture postcard: boats in the harbor, a mist rolling in. Today we may see a lighthouse, too.

New England: bring it on!

Into the Storm

Into the Storm

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I don’t fly into a nor’easter every day … but I did yesterday, taking off in the morning for Boston Logan.

The occasion is a trip with my sister, a rarity that we’ve both been looking forward to. Was a little rain (OK, a lot of rain) gonna stop me? Of course not!

But it did feel counterintuitive to travel into a storm, and I was hoping that we would be able to: a) take off, and b) land.

We did both of those things and now we are in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, the first stop on our New England tour.

We’re not listening to the weather, but we are hoping to see a little less rain and a little more rainbow.

The Wisdom Project

The Wisdom Project

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An encouraging study came to my attention recently, one that makes me feel better about those times when I can’t remember why I walked into a room.

The paper, which was published in the journal Perspectives on Psychological Science, posits that changes in the aging brain aren’t necessarily a sign of decline. They are a new developmental phase, one that’s focused more on prioritizing wisdom than forming new memories.

Apparently, brains rely less on the hippocampus region and more on the frontal cortex as they age. While this shift has often been interpreted as compensating for deterioration, this new research suggests that it might be a more positive adaptation that allows us to pass knowledge on to the next generation.

I want to believe this idea because it makes me feel better about every word I can’t retrieve. But it also makes sense. I have gotten better at seeing the big picture. Details are important, of course, but they can also distract.

Wisdom isn’t highly appreciated these days. I’m glad to see it’s getting some love.

(Wisdom helps us see the forest and not just the trees.)

Checking Boxes

Checking Boxes

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This morning, for the first time in more than six weeks, I did not tip back my head and squeeze drops of medicine into my eyes. Drops are a part of many cataract surgeries, or at least they were in mine. I’ve gotten used to the routine, the slight sting that tells me the fluid has actually hit the target and is not going to run down my cheek.

Also, and more to the point of this post, I’ve grow accustomed to checking the box on the handy chart the surgeon’s office supplied. Doing this has reminded me how much I like checking boxes. It must be the sense of completion I enjoy, of “mission accomplished.” And then there’s the tidying-up, organizational aspect of it all.

Imagine the fun of ticking off a box first thing in the morning. I’m barely awake but I’ve already completed a task. It’s enough to make me coast the rest of the day.

Checking boxes makes me think I’m in control. And even though I know I’m not, sometimes it’s fun to flirt with that illusion.

Have a Heart

Have a Heart

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I like wild things. At this house we feed birds and hummingbirds and our yard is full of weeds so fireflies flourish. But earlier this summer, a little terrorist prowled the deck, upending flowerpots, digging out bulbs, knocking over light fixtures.

We hauled out the have-a-heart trap to see what we would catch. Surely it was a raccoon or opossum, something large enough to perpetrate these crimes.

After just one night the trap had done its job. There was a varmint, all right … but it was a chipmunk. How could this one little guy do all that damage? Maybe he had a partner in crime?

Doesn’t matter. Some questions have no answers. We quickly let the critter go in the common land. Less than an hour later I saw him guy running across the deck. It’s his home, too.

8:05 p.m.

8:05 p.m.

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Shortly after dinner last night, the northern hemisphere shifted from summer to fall. It has been raining here for three days, so for once the weather fits the season. The world is still green but it has tilted.

I feel a certain betrayal acknowledging this. Shouldn’t I hold summer close as long as I can? Perhaps. But I also believe in knowing when to exit, when to change, when to say “enough.” And by the end of last week, with temps once again edging up to 90 and this summer’s trademark high humidity, it was time.

Don’t get me wrong. I know what fall means, the cold, dark days. But I also love lamplit afternoons, permission to stay inside and write. I appreciate seasonal change, what it provides the restless soul. Today is the first full day of autumn. I plan to embrace it.

The World Not Given

The World Not Given

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I live 20 minutes away from an international airport. In fact, I hear a plane right now, a long, low sound as a jet takes off in the leaden skies we have today.

Despite the proximity, Dulles is mostly out of mind. That is, of course, until I enter it. Then I step into its impressive lobby with my heart in my throat. I’m anxious because I’m rushing to make a flight, wondering how long the security line will be. But mixed in with the nervousness is always excitement. No matter how short the trip I almost always love making it. I am, you might say, enamored of travel.

I was even on Sunday, with several hours to kill at O’Hare, the busiest airport in the world. (Did I know this? I do now. Banners and promos proclaim it.)

Yesterday, I found someone else who feels the same way:

“How many times I’ve relished the private thrill of a foreign place where you know no one, speak a handful of words, where even the street signs throw you off balance,” writes Frances Mayes in A Place in the World. “How you feel your mind open to the new. How you set forth, all synapses crackling with curiosity. … Travel is a privilege because it gives you the world you were not given.”

The world not given. That’s it, exactly.