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Category: walking

ISO Stairways

ISO Stairways

Walking in the suburbs is one thing. Taking the stairs is something else entirely — mostly because of how difficult they are to find.

They may lurk around several nondescript corners in a nondescript office building. They may be hidden behind an unlabeled door. They may be dark when you enter them, though hopefully lights will come on as you ascend. 

I once worked on the third floor of a 100-plus-year-old university building. It had a staircase to die for, broad, shallow, perfectly calibrated to the human footstep, with a curved wooden banister. I felt noble just ascending those stairs. They were the main show. There may have been an elevator somewhere, but it took a back seat. 

I know it’s not practical, but what if every two- or three- or four-story building was retrofitted with such a grand staircase? What if elevators were harder to find. Wouldn’t we all be better off? 

Wet and Dry

Wet and Dry

We’re climbing out of what has been an unusually wet spring so far. Three days of rain ended late yesterday, with cloudy/ showery weather the week before.

Which means I’m glad to see cloud breaks this morning because they promise a long, outdoor walk this afternoon, instead of sodden strolls or indoor exercise. Come to think of it, I dreamed of hiking last night, proof positive of how much I’ve missed it.

As for the route, though, this is a day to stay on paved paths rather than dirt and gravel. It’s good we have plenty of both around here.

(If paths were this dry, I’d go for a woods walk.)
Anywhere People

Anywhere People

I’m making my way through Neil King Jr.’s American Ramble at a walking pace. I’m enjoying it so much that I don’t want to rip through it, much as I would prolong a stroll on a perfect spring morning. 

King walked from Washington, D.C., to New York City in the spring of 2021 and wrote a book about what he found along the way. I’m more than two-thirds of the way through King’s report — he’s about to cross the Delaware — but I’m still musing over thoughts he had in Lancaster County. 

“There are today at heart two American stories: the story of those who stay, and the story of those who go. … Some of us still wander from place to place, and many others of us don’t. We have the Somewhere people, who are very much of a place and rooted there, and we have the Anywhere people, who have a faint sense of belonging wherever they are and if they ever had a place, they left it behind long ago.”

What happens, I wonder, when the scales are tipped, and a society has too many Anywheres and not enough Somewheres? And can walkers turn Anywheres … into Somewheres? 

Point A to Point B

Point A to Point B

On Sunday, I walked to a friend’s house. This would seem unremarkable unless you knew the narrow hilly road that connects our neighborhoods. There’s no shoulder, no margin of error. The road was built long before all the development that’s clogged our county. 

Luckily, I had a secret weapon: a path through the woods that goes from my house to my friends’. It takes about 30 minutes, compared with a five-minute drive. But since I’m just back from a world where walking with purpose is far more common than it is here, I was more than willing to do it. 

While I was strolling I was thinking about how natural it seems when you’re doing it: walking not just for exercise but because you need to get from Point A to Point B.

I wish I could do more of it.

(Pedestrians in Funchal, Madeira)

We’re Back!

We’re Back!

Not home, not yet. A stopover in Lisbon has landed us in the same neighborhood and same hotel that we stayed in two years ago on our first big post-Covid trip. The whole world seemed lit up again when we were here in June of 2022. 

I thought the energy and bustle was springing from all that pent-up travel desire. But the energy and bustle are still here. From the moment we stepped out of the Baixa-Chiado Metro stop to  rousing street music, I felt the pulse of this city, the light and magic of it. 

We dove right in, strolling through Bairro Alto and Baixa, ogling pastry in bakery windows, finding not one but two lovely viewpoints over the city, and crowding onto the Number 28 trolley for our ride “home.”

It’s fun to explore a new destination, but there’s a special satisfaction in returning to the already-visited places, the ones we love enough to see again. 

Mountainous Madeira

Mountainous Madeira

Madeira is a mountainous island. This makes for vistas aplenty, some of them vertiginous. A walk we took the other day was along a cliff edge. 

It wasn’t right on the edge, and the path was generous, but it took most of my concentration to focus on the path ahead and not look too far out or down. The few times I did, though, I was rewarded with glimpses of blue sky, white waves and lush greenery.

Soon the trail turned inland, and we followed a steep old road down to the shore. The knees were a bit wobbly at the end, both from the height and the effort. But they made it.

There and Back

There and Back

The village of Câmara de Lobos is perched near one of the world’s tallest cliffs, but it’s stunning even when seen from a less-imposing viewpoint. We approached it on foot, walking across a bridge, past acres of banana trees. 

When Winston Churchill visited Madeira, he set up up his easel to capture the bustling harbor we just saw today. A hotel nearby has memorialized his visits with a sculpture of the prime minister. You can sit next to him if you like.  

But the best part of Câmara de Lobos was walking home from it, up into the hills to Levada dos Piornias, taking the high road back to Funchal. It was a balancing act, as the only path was along the edge of the levada itself. But it got us home. 

Toasting the Levadas

Toasting the Levadas

Madeira is made for walking, and we took a levada walk on our first full day on the island, joining a group of Scandinavians who gather every Saturday to stroll the paths alongside the irrigation canals (levadas) for which Madeira is known. 

The levadas were built to pipe water from one end of the island to another, but the trails that run beside them have become an attraction in and of themselves. Saturday’s hike took us to the village of Camacha, approximately 2,300 feet above sea level. Luckily, most of the altitude gain was accomplished by a swashbuckling bus driver switch-backing up a narrow highway into the hills. We only walked the last few hundred feet. 

Once on the levada trail, we pretty much had the level path to ourselves. We ambled and chatted, took a break to swig some water, then walked some more. 

We ended the hike at a Camacha watering hole that serves the local specialty, poncha, a tangy-sweet drink made of sugar-cane rum, honey, and fruit juice. The leader of our merry band suggested that we sing Swedish drinking songs before every skål! We sang many songs. It was that kind of day. 

Friends on the Trail

Friends on the Trail

Yesterday a long walk took me through Reston’s Vernon Walker Nature Center, over a small bridge and up a trail to South Lakes Drive, then along to the cut-through where I caught the Lake Audubon Trail. 

The wind picked up a bit as I strolled around the lake, not enough to stir whitecaps but enough to make me stuff my hands up my sleeves. 

The last leg of yesterday’s amble was on the Glade Trail. I was picking up speed, thinking of things yet to do at home, when I ran into a new acquaintance, someone from yoga class. She introduced me to her friends and we all chatted for a few minutes. 

It was small talk, really, but fun to find friends on the trail. It warmed the walk and changed my day.

(Reston’s first naturalist, Vernon Walker. More on him and the Nature Center in future posts. Photo: Reston Museum)

Woods in White

Woods in White

The main roads were plowed by Saturday, but wind chill kept me inside. By yesterday, though, temps edged up to the high 30s, and I was itching to leave the house. Would the Reston trails be clear? 

Some were, and those that weren’t I avoided, snapping a photo instead. 

I trod paths I haven’t walked in a while, passed the “laughing tree,” which now sports a white mustache. 

There was a thin layer of frosting on bowed limbs, like a squiggle of toothpaste on a toothbrush. 

I hiked for more than an hour. I was not alone.