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Exitalgia

Exitalgia

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There should be a word to describe the emotion one feels leaving a place when the most beautiful day of your stay is the day of your departure. Exitalgia, perhaps?

Exitalgic was the way I felt yesterday leaving the house we rented. I stayed a few minutes after the others to make sure the place was ship-shape and found a small green beach rake toy in the gravel driveway. It looked so forlorn sitting there. I was already missing the chubby little hands that held it.

But soon there was nothing to do but leave, so I drove past the red barn, skirted the bright lake and took a left on Sand Flat Road, its new-mown fields rolling up to forested hills. I thought again about my affinity for this part of the world, largely unexplored on this kid-oriented visit, but still present, there to enjoy in the future, I hope.

An hour or so later, I was traversing a more dramatic landscape: Route 48 through the West Virginia highlands. My phone location service tells me that I snapped the top photo near Keyser. When I turned the other way I had a closer look at the behemoths you see below. Hilltop wind turbines have become a beacon on the drive to Garrett County. When I see them, I know I’m almost there.

Fleeting Colors

Fleeting Colors

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I spotted the rainbow from the beach, as I was walking down the hard-packed sand. I had no phone or camera, just my tiny iPod, so I took a “mind picture” of the fleeting colors.

I tried to memorize the shimmering sight, how it punctuated the beachfront sky with a wan, waning moon above it. The rainbow bathed the morning in vivid light. How surprised I was to see it as I headed south along the shore. How long had it been there?

When I turned around and walked north, I had an even better view, but I knew the colors wouldn’t last. I watched as the rainbow disappeared, thinking about the evanescence of beauty, how it’s our job as humans to enjoy nature’s wonders when we can.

Twenty minutes later, almost home, another rainbow appeared. It rose above the palm trees, scrawled its signature across the sky. And it lasted long enough for me to grab my phone and capture it.

Beach Day

Beach Day

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On Monday I woke before 6. It was still dark but promised light soon. I slathered myself with sunscreen and left for an early amble. My calculations were a little off — it doesn’t get light here as early as it does back home. I stayed on the road until the sky brightened enough to hit the beach.

Then I heard the thunder, low rumbles at first but ever more insistent. Lightning, too. Not a good time to stroll the beach. I hurried back to my room, reaching it just before the first drops fell. It was the beginning of a mostly rainy day, a rarity here but not unwelcome. Time to stay inside, to read and write and savor the quiet.

On Tuesday the air was washed clean, and a breeze blew in from the bay. Blue sky, puffy white clouds. Volleyball games and gull cries and little kids digging in the sand. The rainy day was over. A beach day had begun.

Stony Man

Stony Man

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The views went on forever. The Blue Ridge that appears first as a smudge on the horizon driving west from D.C. became a green and glorious reality late Monday during a brief trip to Sperryville and environs.

The hike to the Stony Man viewpoint was uphill enough to get our hearts pumping but not so rigorous that we couldn’t talk along the way. We passed some through-hikers, serious folks with heavy packs. But we were there for the visiting and the views.

I often find myself in the park around this time of year, mountain laurel season. And there was some of that on Monday, too. But what will remain with me is sitting on warm rocks with friends, catching up, looking west and south: the light green of trees with leaves newer than those at sea level mixing with darker firs and pines. Beyond the trees the hills rose ever bluer and more distant, less distinct, until it was impossible to know whether I was looking at earth or sky.

4:47

4:47

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A stiff wind roared in yesterday, accompanied by low-flying Dulles-bound jets over the house. It was unsettling enough to make me check the weather on my phone, and when I did, I noted the time of sunset: 4:47. I looked at the time on my computer: also 4:47.

With 4:47 on my mind, I did a bit of googling. It’s an early sunset, to be sure, though not as early as the 4:18 sunset in Seattle. If it’s this early now, though, what will it be next week or the week after?

Turns out, it will be later, steadily later every evening, back to 4:57 by the end of the month. In fact, 4:47 seems to be the earliest sunset we will have this year. It’s all up from here. The total minutes of daylight will continue to shrink as we approach solstice, but only because sunrises will be later.

I don’t know why this made me feel so much better, but it did.

Hitting Home

Hitting Home

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The monster storm known as Milton made landfall last night about 9:30 p.m. It came ashore on the very same Florida beach I’ve been escaping to for more than a decade, Siesta Key.

A barrier island known for its sugar-white sand and relaxed village vibe, Siesta Key is a place I’ve come to know and love. The thought of it pummeled by 120-mile-an-hour winds and submerged under 10 feet of storm surge is making my stomach turn.

It’s too early yet to tell the extent of the damage. I’m hoping it’s minimal, but I’m afraid it’s not. In other words, Florida is still on my mind.

(A Siesta Key evening, 2023)

Florida on My Mind

Florida on My Mind

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I’m thinking today not just of how beautiful it is — though it is certainly that — but of how low-lying, how houses and docks cluster along the shoreline and canals, how the place is threaded through with water.

Soon, the winds will blow, the seas will rise, the rain will fall. People are doing everything they can to prepare for the monster Milton, but how can any place cope well with storm surges of 10 feet or higher?

My trips to the west coast of Florida through the years have shown me how intimately people can live with water, how close to it they want to be, how calming they find its presence.

Now the presence has become a menace.

Fluid Again

Fluid Again

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The long-sought precipitation arrived during the night, and I awoke to the pleasant sound of a steady rain. This morning, after an early appointment, I ventured out into the storm, which had dwindled to drips and mist by the time I started walking.

What struck me most was how the dust was tamped down. The woods were refreshed after weeks of parching, and I was energized by the damp greenery and water gurgling over rocks. 

Weeks of drought slowed movement. Now, with the moisture, the landscape was fluid again. 

 

Gas Giants

Gas Giants

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When I think of the western states we just visited, I imagine the gas giant planets — Saturn, Jupiter, Uranus and Neptune. 

Utah, Colorado, New Mexico and Arizona (we didn’t stop in the latter, though we were within miles of it) have the same heft and proportions. Their landscapes are bare, alien, even dangerous at times (see yesterday’s post). 

Yes, they have an atmosphere, so I won’t take the metaphor too far, but there are similarities. They are near the outer edge of this continent, and are some of the last-explored places in the country. Their terrain can be hostile. Human effort appears puny in their vastness. 

Returning from a trip out west, then, is more like falling back to Earth, finding one’s self again on safe, familiar ground. 

Taking the High Road

Taking the High Road

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There are two routes from Taos to Albuquerque. The first is via State Road 68, a straightforward approach through the valley.  It’s known as the Low Road or River Road because it parallels the Rio Grande. 

The second is a patchwork of lanes that weave through forests and hillsides, past small farms, galleries and old churches. Like any “blue highway,” you feel the lay of the land when you drive it. And if you’re prone to motion sickness, as I am, you’d best be behind the wheel.

At first we seemed destined for Route 68. We had a schedule to keep, after all, a flight leaving at 3. But the more I thought about it, the more the High Road called out to me. We wouldn’t have time to stop much, but we’d have time to absorb the scenery as we drove through it. 

I’m hoping that those sights, sounds and smells, like all the sensory riches of the last 12 days, will become a part of us.