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Miles and Miles and Miles …

Miles and Miles and Miles …

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On the second day of my getaway I wrote in the morning and explored in the afternoon. About 20 minutes from where I was bunking, there was an entrance to Shenandoah National Park’s Skyline Drive. I’d been there before — it’s less than 90 minutes from my house — but I hadn’t been there in years, so I was looking with fresh eyes … with, dare I say it, eyes of love?

Virginia is for lovers, you know, though it’s taken some of us a while to love the state in which we live. But this reluctant Virginian was swept off her feet yesterday. First of all, the weather was perfect. It was almost 60 degrees, clear and bright. There weren’t many people around, and those who were there drove slowly, seemingly as much in awe as I was.

I did a couple of quick hikes, but what grabbed me most were the views. Skyline Drive runs along the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains, so you don’t just have one vista, you have dozens. At some point I realized that if I didn’t stop pulling over at every overlook I would never get home.

I looked at the ridges, one behind another, as close to infinity as we are likely to have this side of heaven. In my head was that song from The Who: “I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles. I can see for miles and miles and miles and miles and miles.”

It reminded me of flying; there was the same above-it-all-ness, the sense of seeing more clearly because we can see farther. Real world problems didn’t go away, but for a few hours they seemed smaller and more manageable. They seemed miles away too.

Look to the Rainbow

Look to the Rainbow

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I knew what it was before I saw it. I knew it from the jaded commuters standing slack-jawed outside the Metro station, then grabbing their phones and snapping away. I knew that on this October Tuesday, our gray day of rain was being rewarded with a rainbow. And not just any rainbow — but a complete arch that spanned all of Route 66.

The rainbow was spotted in other parts of the region, too. I have a reliable rainbow-sighting report from Reagan National Airport, though no pots of gold were found.

The longer I looked at the rainbow the more the colors revealed themselves. At one point there was even a double bow.

What heartened me most were the rainbow-spotters themselves. Not much will slow commuters from reaching home in the evening, but the rainbow was doing just that. I snapped half a dozen shots of the heavens on my way to the car … and I wasn’t the only one.

Threatened Tidewater

Threatened Tidewater

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I’ve certainly been posting a lot about a three-day-trip, but the Virginia Tidewater is a magical place … and a place now threatened by Dorian.

The National Hurricane Center predicts flash floods, high winds and a strong storm surge in southeastern Virginia and the southern Chesapeake Bay. That means that the bucolic landscape we toured last weekend could be drenched and battered today.

It’s one reason to scotch dreams of home ownership in that area, which I’ll admit were percolating in my brain as we spied one gorgeous inlet and quaint town after another.

Probably better these days to lust after cottages on safer, higher ground. But oh, there is something special about landscapes where land and water meet.

End of the Road

End of the Road

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It happened often while traveling in the Northern Neck. We’d follow the road to a cove or point only to find that the pavement literally dead-ended into the water. No parking lot. No gracious circle in which to turn around.  Just land … then water.  Sometimes there would be a sign. The one above for the Sunnybank Ferry was a bit misleading. It wasn’t closed for lunch but closed for the weekend. Still, what can you expect? It’s free!

Other roads were more like this one at Windmill Point: a clear signal (as if you needed one) that if you want to go further, you’ll be needing fins or flotation devices.

The road to the village of Weems ended at this overlook — well, not exactly an overlook, more like a backyard with a world-class view. You can see the big bridge to the Middle Peninsula from here.

When land meets water, roads and cars take a back seat to boats and bridges.

ROVA

ROVA

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It’s the morning of a four-day weekend and we’re off soon to Virginia’s Northern Neck, a spit of land that lies between the Potomac and the Rappahannock.

It’s a land of marsh and water fowl, of water vistas and sailing ships. Known for its oysters and wineries — also the birthplace of five early presidents.

I know far too little of this state that I call home. To be a resident of Northern Virginia (NOVA) is often to be far less familiar than one should be with the Rest of Virginia (ROVA).

Today we put that at least partially to rights.

Moving Image

Moving Image

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When I woke up this morning I was dreaming I was snapping a picture. I was a passenger in a moving car, and the terrain we were driving through was like an ancient Chinese painting.

There were human-sized hills, a winding stream and perfectly coiffed trees. There was a sense of scale that made me think I could capture the landscape quickly from a vehicle.

The dream probably augurs nothing. But if it does, could it mean that I’ve become less of a words person and more of an image one? It’s happening to many of us these days.

Of course, there’s the fact that I’m writing about this experience, not illustrating it. And I’m doing it on an outmoded platform that is anything but image-friendly.

Whew! I’m probably safe — at least for the time being.

Holding On

Holding On

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What helps the beach state remain? I’m asking myself that question today, as I feel it slipping away.

I was off to a good start on the way home: a plane so empty that each passenger had his or her own row of seats.

Then a late-day landing that showcased the Washington Monument and the Capitol, the graceful spans across the Potomac, the compact graciousness of the place.

But today there was the long commute into Arlington, the work call that came in before I reached the office, the emails, the to-dos that piled up when I was gone.

Welcome back, they say.  I try not to listen. I hold onto the beach state for dear life!

Beach State

Beach State

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Today I leave the beach. That much is indisputable. But I hope to keep the beach state.

The beach state, as you might suspect, is the habit of pondering clouds and palm trees. It’s also the habit of not caring as much about every little thing. It’s the habit of letting go.

Beaches, after all, are receptacles. Onto them is thrown the flotsam of the sea, and from this random collection of shells and plastic bits comes sand both smooth and powdery (depending upon how close it is to the ocean). The beach, in short, is accomplished at acceptance.

This is something I would like to emulate, the beach state of acceptance. So it’s that I would like to take home with me.

It’s easy to think about retaining the beach state with the smell of sun on my skin and a tropical breeze moving palm fronds to and fro. Much more difficult when I’m standing on a crowded Metro train or sitting at my office desk, up to my ears in work.

But that’s when the beach state is needed most of all.

Beach Clouds

Beach Clouds

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Beach clouds differ from their mainland cousins. They cluster in the distance, looking gray and ugly. They throw down sheets of rain, giving themselves away.

Sometimes they scoot over the beach, leaving just droplets in their wake. We beach-goers take the brief pelting and shrug. We can see the sun breaks up ahead. We know we will have blue skies again soon.

I used to dread clouds at the beach; now I welcome them. They block some rays, cool me down, let me stay a few more precious minutes on the shore.

I’ve Got Rhythm

I’ve Got Rhythm

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It’s the rhythm that does it to me, the waves lapping, advancing and retreating, moving in and out.

It’s the palm trees swaying and the birds here, different from the ones back home.

It’s the landscape. Semitropical, lush — hot, yes, but where isn’t it hot these days?

The rhythm of Florida has become the pace of relaxation for me.