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Hybrid Walks

Hybrid Walks

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Here in the suburbs we have few bears, and no lions or tigers.  But we do have automobiles.

This morning, lured on by the buoyancy of the air and the radiance of the light, I turned right on a narrow road and (staying off it for the most part) made a dash on foot to the safety of a path. I was happy when I tucked into my usual route, because the road is hilly and cars travel fast along it.

On the way home, I thought about the walkability quotient of my neighborhood and how greatly it has improved since I’ve come to know the shortcuts and the cut-throughs, many of them woodland trails. 

The best routes around here are the hybrid walks, part paved, part pounded. They are the safest ways, and in some cases the only ways, to get where you’re going. 

 

Hammock Season

Hammock Season

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It’s the first post of the hammock season, which starts early this year. I rock sideways on the contraption, using it more as a rocking chair than a chaise lounge.

I perch above a bumper crop of wood poppies and within sight of several spectacular azaleas. To my right is a lilac bush that seems likely to produce more blooms than ever this year, more blooms than ever being a relative term, of course. I’m hoping to crack the double digits. 

The poplar above me is barely leafing. Ferns are unfurling. A breeze ruffles the foliage and rings the wind chimes. Yesterday, there were 26 people in this yard. Today, only me. It’s a mellow Easter Monday. Let’s hope I can stay awake long enough to do some homework. 

An Encounter

An Encounter

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An early walk this morning, sun smoldering orange on the horizon, first birds clearing their throats, air soft on my skin. Back home, I bounce and stretch on the trampoline. When the fox spots me, I’m doing the bird dog exercise, so I’m on all fours just as she is. We are maybe 20 feet apart. 

A fox’s face is doglike, though the eyes are more wary than soulful. The animal takes my measure just as I take hers. 

I wish we could hold the gaze longer than we do, but she’s smart. She knows better than to linger long with someone 10 times her size. So she scampers off to try an alternative route to her prey. And I go back to my exercise. Just another morning in the suburbs. 

Table for Four

Table for Four

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When I drove there Saturday in the pouring rain, it seemed as if the place was an extension of Washington’s Rock Creek Park. And in a way it is. Hillwood, the home of Marjorie Merriweather Post, is perched on a hilltop in the Forest Hills section of northwest D.C. It might as well be in England or France, though, with the formal gardens and the extensive collection of European art, furnishings and tapestries. 

By the time my friend and I finished lunch, the rain had stopped, the sky was blue and the just-dowsed hyacinths scented the walk we took around the garden. Inside the house were treasures from Post’s collection, including Faberge eggs and a large collection of Russian art. 

And then there was this breakfast room. Post’s table was always set for four, even if she dined alone. It’s a big waste of plates and silverware, of course, but I kind of like the idea. 

The Beauty

The Beauty

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I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve trekked around the Tidal Basin to see Washington, D.C.’s cherry trees in bloom. More times than I can count, for sure. I’ve seen the trees with toddlers in tow, with Mom long ago, but for the last many years, I’ve seen the blossoms alone, usually before or after work.

Yesterday I went down early, as if it were still a workday for me, wanting to beat the crowds. I snapped photos of people, not just blossoms, because it’s the people I notice year after year. Old and young, nimble and slow-moving. The amateur photographers and the serious, long-lensed people, too. 

There was a woman in a strapless dress with a pink parasol. She made a lovely focal point for this amateur photographer, but she must have been cold. I was wearing three layers. 

If you look closely at her, you’ll notice the water lapping nearly at her feet. Some parts of the path were completely submerged and pedestrians had to detour up a little hill until the trail reappeared. There have been articles lately about the peril the blossoms face with rising sea levels and early blooms. 

But when I saw the trees again, I wasn’t thinking about the peril—just appreciating the beauty. 

A Mind of Its Own

A Mind of Its Own

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It’s been a while since I studied a topographical map. I’ve had to refamiliarize myself with those little squiggly lines. The closer they are together, I remember, the greater the elevation. 

Sometimes there’s a little number there to help. In the case of my terrain it’s a little number in more ways than one, something in the 300 range, as in 367 feet above sea level. 

But even 367 can be felt in the legs on the way up — and on the way down. It’s a good reminder that the land has a texture and a contour. That it has a mind of its own. 

Suburban Passage

Suburban Passage

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Once again, I’m on a mission, this time to find a passage through the Crabtree Park woods to a street called Foxclove. From there it’s a short walk to a Reston trail. 

Having struck out on finding it from my end, yesterday I drove to Foxclove and tried it from the other direction. I reached at least one point I recognized from earlier hikes, enough so that I think I can find my way back there another time. 

Once I have this figured out I’ll be able to walk from my house to the trail system I usually must drive to reach. It’s not exactly the Northwest Passage, but it’s something. 

From Ordinary to Extraordinary

From Ordinary to Extraordinary

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To the untrained eye this is nothing but an ordinary parking lot. But to me — and the other people who parked their cars here — it’s a suburban trailhead. 

Yesterday I took two short walks, both of which began in parking lots. In each case, I had to find the paths, which took online research (which happened years ago) and on-foot exploration. Then I traipsed the paths themselves, an ongoing process of discovery. 

Who would guess that less than a quarter-mile from the lot above there are fox dens and creek bends and greening briars glittering with raindrops? 

The photo above was snapped quickly with no attention to angle or light. But I’m glad it looks as ordinary as it does. It’s proof that around here, the ordinary can lead to extraordinary. 

Megalopolis!

Megalopolis!

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Over the weekend, a family birthday party took me to Towson, Maryland. It dawned on me as I was driving that my niece, her husband and their now one-year-old daughter live in the same metropolitan area that I do. I can get in my little gray car and drive for an hour and a half and never leave home.

It sure feels like leaving home, though. Four expressways are involved: the Dulles Toll Road, the Capital Beltway, I-95 and I-695 (the Baltimore Beltway). And the two places have quite a different look and feel. 

The megalopolis is a strange creature, a many-bellied beast of a term. Coined in the middle of the last century, it means two or more adjacent metropolitan areas that share enough transport, economy, resources and ecologies to blur their boundaries and complete a continuous urban area. I see that megalopolis is an outdated term. It’s now megaregion, according to the America 2050 Initiative. 

Given that most humans identify with a house, a block, a town at most, I think we’re in dangerous territory here. Let the geographers have their fun, but as far as I’m concerned I definitely left home on Saturday.

(The Northeast Megaregion at night. Courtesy Wikipedia, which also served as source for some of the information in this post.)

Hybrid Walk

Hybrid Walk

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It begins in the neighborhood common land, field and forest, and continues in the stream valley park that meanders through these parts. I cross a couple of bridges there that have seen better days, and once I’m over them, I make my way to another neighborhood street.

This one is hillier than ours. It reminds me of the great sledding hills of my youth, including one I heard about but never experienced, Banana Hollow. The slope begins on one side of the street and continues on to the other. You have to imagine the hill without the houses and lawns, see it the way it once was, part of the roll and sweep of western Fairfax County hunt country.

After 20 minutes on pavement, I’m ready to be in the woods again, and follow a well-marked trail most of the way home. 

The hybrid walk: it’s good for what ails you.