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Category: walking

A Map, A Direction

A Map, A Direction

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It’s often this way in the morning, the competing urges. Should I walk … or write about walking? Today’s early rising has left me even more muddled. I remembered a website with trail maps from the area, and I’ve spent the better part of an hour exploring the site.

One of the maps charts a park near me, a park with poorly marked trails I’ve always wanted to explore. If and when I figure them out, I’ll be able to reach the Reston trails without driving to them  — or at least that’s the plan.

The map is printed. All that remains is to drink the tea, eat the breakfast … and set off.

Proud to be … Bipedal

Proud to be … Bipedal

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In class last night we talked about our earliest ancestors, about Australopithecus, Homo Erectus and the whole gang, the distant relatives on our ever-so-shaggy family tree.

A key trait, of course, is bipedalism, walking on two legs. In Maps of Time, David Christian talks about the hazards of this posture, especially for women, who had to bear children with large heads that required turning as they passed through the birth canal. 

For this, they needed help. Thus did a physical trait engender cooperation, social behavior, the collective efforts of women helping women during childbirth. And later on, the collective efforts of raising young humans, who are far more helpless at birth than most mammals. 

We don’t walk on two legs because we’re human. We’re human, in part, because we walk on two legs.

(One of my favorite toddlers shows off her stride.)

Black and White and Blue

Black and White and Blue

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A winter walk is monochromatic, color drained by sun and shadow, leaving only form and contrast behind. 

This was evident on my stroll yesterday through D.C., from Metro Center to Chinatown, then down Seventh to the Sculpture Garden, where I watched ice skaters fly by. They were a study in black and white, too.

From there I made my way to the Mall and the Monument, where I finally found color … in the sky. It seemed like an afterthought, though, as if it were crayoned onto an already printed page. 

Writing in Bed

Writing in Bed

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With Copper gone,  I’ve no need to rush downstairs in the morning. Which means I can indulge in one of my favorite pastimes, writing in bed. 

Churchill did it. Marcel Proust did it. Mark Twain, Edith Wharton and Truman Capote did it, though the latter said a bed was not required. A couch would work just fine, as long as coffee and cigarettes were available.

I can’t relate on that score. More my speed was Wordsworth, who wrote poems in bed but made up for it by walking 10 miles a day, striding all over the Lake District, often with his sister Dorothy. 

It makes perfect sense to me, a great expenditure of energy, followed by an equally great period of rest. 

(Marcel Proust writing in bed.)

Walking’s Worth

Walking’s Worth

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If I ever needed proof of walking’s worth I got it yesterday. A sad day, as the last have been, but out on the trail, the rhythm and the movement brought me around.

It was good to be outside, to make my way past the tennis courts, around several small ponds and then down the long straightaway through the Franklin Farm meadow. 

It was only 45 minutes on my way to the grocery store, but sometimes, that’s enough.

Sharing the Trail

Sharing the Trail

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The Capital Crescent Trail. A Monday afternoon that felt like a Sunday afternoon. A jumble of humanity — and mammal-anity, too, since there were plenty of dogs on hand. 

Without realizing it, I went into auto mode. That’s “auto” as in automobile, glancing over my left shoulder before “changing lanes”  Cyclists use the trail, too, and they don’t always sound their bells in warning.

Sharing the trail sometimes means walking defensively. 

Before the Rain

Before the Rain

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On a woods walk yesterday there was not exactly a traffic jam, but there were more people than usual. 

“It’s not raining … yet,” said a tall man in a lightweight jacket. (You could get away with one of those, though I was donned in parka and gloves.) 

It must have been the threat of showers that drove us out and into the forest, one last dash before the deluge.

This morning the drops move out and the wind moves in. I foresee a basement walk for me this morning. 

(A photo from the Blue Ridge, not my neighborhood stream valley park.)

Craven Gap

Craven Gap

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“There are four reasons people come to Asheville,” the ranger said. “Beer, bears, that big house down the road (the Biltmore) and the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

The ranger didn’t have much to say about the first three, but oh, could he talk about the last one. He seemed to know most everything about the Blue Ridge Parkway, which sections were closed (many of them), the detours and work-arounds, which trails to hike and the views you’ll see from  them. 

This is the vista that greets you on the hike up from Craven Gap: mountains beyond mountains, purplish green in the foreground, smudges of blue in the distance. 

City Walks

City Walks

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We still have a few days, but New Year’s resolutions are beginning to coalesce. Or at least one of them is. 

Yesterday, I drove Celia and Matt into D.C. to save them a Metro trip. I was surprised by how excited I was to see the city spread out  beyond the river, first the Washington Monument swinging into focus and, a second or two later, the Capitol behind it. 

It was chilly enough to feel like winter but without the biting cold of recent days. Sidewalks were clogged with holiday visitors. There was a celebratory feeling in the air. 

I found a convenient spot to pull over and drop them off, and even more remarkably, was able to make a (perhaps illegal) U-turn at 12th to head home. But I couldn’t help looking for parking places on Constitution on the return trip. Wouldn’t it be nice to walk in the city instead of the suburbs? 

I didn’t do it yesterday, but a new year beckons. It’s only a matter of time. 

Solstice Miracle

Solstice Miracle

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The low light was shining directly into my eyes during part of today’s trail walk. But it’s all part of the package on the shortest day of the year. 

For some reason now, as I write this post, a funny little glob of a rainbow has appeared. I don’t recall seeing anything like it before: an ordinary sky except for one cloud bleeding yellow and orange light.  We’ve had no rain; the sun is lower in the firmament. 

I’m sure there’s some sort of scientific explanation. But I’m going to consider it a solstice miracle.

(P.S.on February 2, 2023: I just learned that my “solstice miracle” is called a sundog.)