I haven’t written here for a while—and not because I haven’t had some wonderful wanderful adventures. Or because I didn’t want to or had writer’s block or because haven’t had fantastic ideas and words swirling in my head during the cracks of my day and as I was falling asleep.

I just couldn’t seem to stop to do it.

But sometimes that’s exactly what you need to do.

You just need to stop.

Curl into your favorite chair—the one that fits you just right— and free yourself of the ridiculous lie that you should be doing something else.

This is exactly what you should be doing.

Block out the stupid noise, the bullshit, and the bullshitters with good music.

Or total silence.

And then—then—let loose. Dive back into the reckless adventure of writing the words you love about the things you love.

Restart.

(I’m back, and my poetry has moved to a site that will launch at a later date.)

Four perfect places to spend a Sunday…

It begins with a deliciously lazy sleep-in on a warm, blue-sky November Sunday morning. The stretch and yawn of a slow wake up with no agenda planned, no obligations to dread. Just a blissful day to do whatever you like. Or nothing at all. Or everything.

1. A hike in Shawnee Mission Park.

Well, not really a hike, but a pleasant walk along the shady trails in the burnt-orange and brown autumn-adorned woods. Nyx, the old lady German Shepherd, trots leash-free and happy. She knows the route well, snuffling scents and greeting dog-friends, disinterested in the box turtle resting in our path and ignoring the white pop of a deer tail cutting through nearby brush.

On a warmer day, she would have a swim-game of fetch, loping back and forth from the doggie beach into the lake to retrieve her beloved orange lacrosse ball. But today, she’s content to lead the way as her people chatter along behind her.

2. Bar K near Berkley Park.

Nyx is enjoying herself so much, why not cruise over to Bar K near Berkley Park to continue the lazy, no-agenda day. It’s the perfect place for a canine-addict like me to crack open a cool, fruity adult seltzer, grab a snack, snag a seat at one of the ample picnic tables and get a pooch fix. No need to be a dog-parent to appreciate this genius dog-bar-park combo.

It’s a doggie delight for the eyes and the soul to behold, as pups of all shapes, sizes, ages and states of goofiness romp, race and play. They’re all good boys and good girls, but bark-tenders stroll to keep peace in the land and poop in its place.

It’s inexpensive entertainment for sure, like window shopping. And it’s simply impossible not to swoon when a sweet-breathed, ginger-colored doodley baby dog—all legs and wiggle—makes literal puppy eyes at me and begs for lovies. Impossible not to grin at the brindled old brute who acts tough and aloof—but leans in heavy for more scritches under his collar. Impossible to be angry in a place like this.

3. Knucklehead’s Sunday Jam.

It’s still early afternoon, and this is Dave’s idea. And a good one. This, he warns to manage my expectations, could be really good or a bust. You never know from week to week.

It’s good. Really good. The gritty place is packed. Lines of Harleys rim the poll-barn and patio—the original saloon that makes up the Knucklehead’s compound. It’s a pleasant day, and everyone wants to be out—plus, it’s free. The drinks are cheap and as seats fill up, everyone becomes fast friends in the decidedly not-young crowd.

Anyone can sign up on the white board for a slot to show off a couple songs: Full bands of old friends who anticipate well one another’s musical tendencies, slick licks and cool riffs. Duos who nervously test the waters at the mic—timidly at first, but with their confidence warming as the crowd’s applause and appreciative whoops encourage them. Individuals who plug in ad-hoc, conjuring amazing sounds out of seemingly nothing—like magic. Like they’ve been playing together for years instead of a few minutes. Teenagers who dumbfound us by wailing and slaying a Black Crowes cover. How do they even know that song? Strangers no one has ever heard of. Local legends people have specifically come to hear.

This place is dangerous. I could stay all day to catch whatever act is next. And, like I said, the drinks are cheap.

But… we’re hungry.

4. Ponak’s. ( aka Ponak’s Mexican Kitchen)

Ponak’s is exactly the place to go if you need a solid taco and want to continue a trajectory that teeters on the verge of making bad decisions. It’s exactly the place not to go if you need to actually do something later besides nap in a recliner.

It’s unfussy. And friendly. And wonderful. Always bright, buzzing comfortably with people and clatter. You go in and feel like you’re just supposed to be there.

The food is consistently simple and tasty. The margaritas are consistently lethal and sneaky. They go down easy between bites of chips-and-salsa. Ideas formulate, and pretty soon plans are set in motion. (I’ve known of a few tattoos that originated at Ponak’s. But to be fair, they ended up being super nice tattoos.)

But no more plans for today. Today’s no-plan plans are done. It’s time to rest. Today, a perfect margarita and a perfect taco (well, two tacos… and maybe it was two margaritas) will cap a perfect Fall Sunday in Kansas City.

Let the good times roll, New Orleans…

Everyone’s a tourist looking for a little fun in New Orleans. It’s not the place to try to blend in, hold back, diet or deny yourself whatever indulgences you desire. And as soon as you figure that out, why fight it? Why not fall into the heat and the history and the carnality of the city and just let the good times roll?

Let the powdered sugar dust your black shirt and coat your lips sticky as you bite into a fresh-hot pillowy beignet. Or two. Or four. Try them at Cafe Beignet and Cafe du Monde. No need to choose one or the other. 

Let Bourbon Street beckon you back again. And again. And again. Pulling you like a magnet. Doesn’t really matter where you started, because you’re going to end up there anyway –  in a dive bar drinking cheap beer and shooting the shit with strangers for a few hours and likely, at some point, in a dark corner of Lafitte’s Blacksmith Bar to at least begin the night’s cap-off with a proper Hurricane.

Let the electric twang of a couple guitar players messing around lure you into Bourbon Heat, and find yourself glued to your seat at the bar, mesmerized as a jam session morphs into a phenomenal duel of musical masters. And since you’re stuck to your barstool anyway, why not suck up a sweet melon liqueur, creme de coco, pineapple and vodka concoction garnished with a candy eyeball while you’re at it?

Let yourself stare. And laugh. And delight in the characters. The cowboy proudly strutting his boots in his magenta fishnet bedecked legs, matching garter and thong. The second-line paraders bellowing and bopping to “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and the drunken crowd whooping and trailing behind. The cranky bartender at Coterie slinging drinks and fresh-shucked oysters with a side of snarkiness that bites her patrons like the good sting of Tabasco (they love it).

Let your mind open as Madame Marie reads your cards in a warm, dim room, heavy with incense and interpretations of an other-world intensity. Let curiosity take you into a voodoo shop or to a seat at a palm reader’s table.  

Let yourself nap deliciously on a Saturday afternoon and wake, still too lazy-drunk paralyzed to put pants on and venture back out into society. But answer your travel partner’s knock at the door; and note that he’s got a wicked glint in his eye, because he snuck out while you were sleeping to nab two boxes of greasy, salty Willie’s Chicken Shack fried goodness to sop up the booze from your foggy brains.

Let the breeze wrap you in welcome coolness as you stroll along the roll of the Mississippi Riverfront. And while you hold the hand of joy for the present and future…on that walk also let memories of a past trip to this magical city flood over you with sadness and wash you in remembered love for a dear lost friend. 

Because even mourning is a beautiful indulgence in New Orleans.

Laissez les bon temps rouler.

Let loose your taste buds and eat everything and everywhere. The gooey-rich gumbo slow simmered in the flavors of creole tradition. Crusty Po’ Boys loaded with shrimp that pop in every bite. Savory Boudin Balls and mile-high stacked Muffulettas. Pralines. Chicory coffee. And jambalaya. 

Polish off a jazz brunch with a warm bread pudding hug at Antione’s while a table-side trio serenades “Satin Doll.”  Try the sherry-tanged turtle soup at Commander’s Palace, and then walk it off breathing in the filé wafting from kitchens as your explore the Garden District and plan your next meal. 

Let the purples and golds and greens and feathers invade your eyes. The bright colors of local art bringing to life the Crescent City culture. The buskers tap dancing in tennis shoes and beating out the city’s heartbeat on buckets.

Laissez les bon temps rouler. Dance. Sing so loud in the piano bar that your voice scratches the next day. Drink sazeracs and sugary cocktails as you slowly spin on Hotel Monteleone’s Carousel Bar. Catch and adorn yourself with shiny beads hurled down from balconies. Buy a feathery, mysterious mask. Don’t worry about doing things that are too “touristy,” because you are a tourist. Be silly. Have fun. Enjoy life in the Big Easy.

Let the good times roll.

Let yourself…go.

Special thanks to Kasey, Lori and Jennifer for so many great NOLA suggestions and to Dave for buying me Willie’s Chicken Shack, which I secretly wanted to try the whole trip but didn’t mention.

There is a delicious anonymity in traveling alone; a stranger among strangers, each with a unique purpose of destination, connected only for an instant or a few hours in life’s commute from here to there.

As an introvert, in general and on most occasions, I loathe the exercise of small talk. Socializing exhausts me. But put me on a plane, in an airport bar or in line at a coffee shop in any random city, and it’s game on for chit-chat. I can even become, dare I say it, loquacious and maybe even charming. 

It took me a while to figure out why: It’s the anonymity. 

With anonymity comes the freedom from the fear of having to relive a conversation later on to re-evaluate, with dread, that maybe I’ve said the wrong thing or offended someone. The freedom from having to invest in remembering someone’s birthday or their kids’ names. Or what exactly they do for a living.

The freedom to just “be” in the moment shooting the shit, enjoying the scenery unfolding around me. The freedom to be a spy, watching and delightfully imagining other peoples’ lives.

Which is part of the reason I ❤️ New York. 

It is easy to be anonymous in New York, and for someone like me, it’s amazing to be anonymous in New York. Where else on Earth can someone be amongst millions of beautiful, fashionable, exotic and wonderfully diverse people. And electric excitement. And noise. And chaos. 

And at the same time be profoundly and perfectly alone.

So this is what I like to do when I’m in New York (and other cities, by the way, but especially in New York). I like to put on my AirPods and dial up whatever music fits my mood. Then I hit the street with my own soundtrack flowing into my brain; the city becoming the backdrop in the private show I’m creating for myself.

The Lovers in the Rain

As I walk up 5th Avenue beside Central Park on a gloomy drizzly afternoon, I’m listening to “Amazing” by the One eskimO. I watch the drama of two lovers huddled under a shared umbrella, one of his arms clutched around her waist, the other keeping the umbrella steady as they walk in rhythm. It looks like new love. They don’t mind the rain and chill. They’re laughing, and they welcome the warmth of one another as their strides match to ensure their bodies are as close as possible. Where are they going, I wonder? An aunt’s birthday, perhaps? I notice she’s carrying a yellow gift bag, tucked close to keep it dry. Yes, that’s it, that’s the story. It will be a lovely party and a day they’ll remember later when they reminisce about love’s early days.

The Old Friends

At the Met, I walk slowly, savoring this hallowed place and its hallowed contents. I watch two elderly men, both bent over from age’s cruel toll on their spines. Walking is not easy for them, and there is a lot of ground to cover at this fantastic place where one gallery opens into yet another gallery, and another and another, like a mirror reflecting on the infinity of another mirror. 

The three of us have wandered into the same 19th Century European gallery, and they hover very near the Picasso that found a place in my heart: Head of a Woman. I think these men have waited a long time to come to the Met. I think they saved their money for the trip and the admission ticket and the expense of New York. 

I’m listening to “The Blower’s Daughter” by Damien Rice. 

I think they are friends who live a long way apart and have had a shared longtime dream to one day explore this treasure trove of art, and they have cashed in on their dream. They were art students together many years ago. They talk. They admire. They move carefully from one piece to the next, giving each its proper homage. I think they will have a nice dinner a few blocks away and they’ll say their good-byes knowing they had the experience they wanted together. One day one of them will close his eyes for the last time and fall asleep dreaming of that day with his friend at the Met, when they saw the work of the masters as they’d always planned to do.

The Family

Like a hungry hunter, I stalk 9th Avenue, skirting Hell’s Kitchen in search of the right slice of pizza. I open the door to Fiorentina Pizzeria, greeted by garish too-bright fluorescent lights and hugged by the smell of hot pizza slathered in tangy sauce and basil and bubbling mozzarella. The place is packed, and taking up most of the table space in the back of the room is a large family. There must be 10 of them, mom and dad and kids of all ages, enjoying eating away from their kitchen table with glee.

I recognize the hand-me-downs and rareness of the experience from my own childhood. It’s a special occasion, because it’s expensive to eat out. They’re celebrating something. Someone got good news worth the splurge. It’s a happy moment I’m glad to witness from a few tables away, stealing greedy glances at the joy. I’m listening to “My Repair” by the Hot Gates. I’m remembering a dinner when I was 12 at Red Lobster, an evening when there was good news worth the splurge, worth dressing up and going out. 

The family files out the door parading in front of me, all grins and satisfaction and it makes me smile. I see the father clap the shoulder of a young man in proud affirmation, and I think this was the source of the celebration. His son. Good job, young man, I think to myself.

The Tourists in Time’s Square

Time’s Square assaults my senses in too many people and too many lights. I love it. The tourists and the nuttiness of it all. People newly arrived from every nook and cranny of the world—no locals—all hyped up and overstimulated by the neon buzz of the flashing screens. They want to see it all: Broadway, the Late Show, Magnolia Bakery, the Naked Cowboy. 

I listen to “Beggin” by Maneskin, and I bop and weave through the crowd of dazed and confused people. At an intersection where I wait for the signal to walk, I spy a middle aged couple snapping a selfi with the Time’s signature screen tower illuminated behind them. They’re from the Midwest, I think , and they waited for their kids to grow up and leave the house and their bank account so they could finally afford the trip they always wanted to take. They booked tickets to see the “Book of Mormon” and “Kinky Boots” well in advance, as well as a reservation at Sardi’s. They will leave the city with matching “I ❤️ New York” T-shirts and a secret, knowing glance they’ll exchange in the future to inspire a spark.

The Woman Walking Alone in New York

I walk past an empty Radio City sidewalk at midnight. A sidewalk that just hours earlier was crammed with people eager to catch a glimpse of Little Nas X or participate in Jimmy Fallon’s shenanigans. But now it’s quiet, as I watch a woman, still dressed in a business-smart outfit from a day at the office, walking with purpose toward her destination. Home. I think. I’m listening to “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby” by the Counting Crows. 

She’s going home to her apartment. To the tiny space in one of thousands upon thousands of buildings—the space that’s just hers in this enormous, overpopulated city. It’s been a long day, and when her key snaps the door open and she steps inside, she’ll breathe a brief sigh of relief. It’s been a good day. She’s done well and performed as needed, and she’ll do it all again tomorrow.

But for now, she is glad to be home. To kick her shoes off, look out the window into the bright bright lights of New York, and be anonymous in her city.

My colleague Emily describes Las Vegas as a woman who’s trying too hard.

And that, she is.

Too much hot pink lipstick. Too many sparkly rings and baubles. A gaudy, cheap dress that’s too short and too tight.

Too much booze and food and vice.

The first time I lose I drink whiskey, the second time I lose I drink gin. The third time I lose I drink anything, ’cause I think I’m gonna win.

But the house always wins in Vegas. It wins your money, your deepest secrets and at least a small piece of your soul.

And yet, you’ll have a great time – for a time – giving away those precious things to the Crystal City.

You’ll reel in delight spinning those ravenous slots. Sunning under the palms by a cool pool at the Mirage. Falling into hypnosis amid the electric theatrics of Freemont Street. Eating warm, gooey, table-side made mozzarella while a tie-died astronaut saunters by in the psychedelic Superfrico restaurant.

What to do next? What to eat? What to see? The options are as endless as they are endlessly over-the-top.

See a show. It will be great. Acrobats will fly from the ceiling in feats unreal for a stage. You’ll be entertained and laugh so hard your cheeks will hurt. Or cry because the music was beautiful and reminded you of somewhere and some time that’s not Vegas and not now.

Eat the ramen at Momofuku. Eat the sushi at Nobu. Eat the expensive bloody steaks and fresh popovers at BLT. Eat a greasy egg sandwich at Denny’s in the middle of the night. Eat the crap sweating in steam trays on one of the infinitely available buffet lines. Eat. Eat. Eat. Eat.

Wash it all down your throat with cheap beer or wine served in a disposable clear, plastic cup. Or drink up exotic cocktails that smoke and sting your tongue and make you thirsty for bad decisions.

Then wander the fake streets of Paris, Venice and New York, cramming more and more and more into your overstimulated senses as you slink into the shadows of the casinos…

…only to discover that you can’t find your way out, because the hotels and casinos are expertly and specifically designed to keep you in. Which way to go? It’s all a gamble, and the odds are decidedly not in your favor.

This city – so gluttonous that it diverts and sucks water into a desert purely for the sake of pleasure – has swallowed you whole.

The Queen of Spades is a friend of mine. The Queen of Hearts, she’s a bitch. And someday when I clean up my mind, I’ll find out which is which.

And it never fails that there will come a point in Vegas when you turn over one too many cards, have one too many drinks. You lose. And the reality of the stale cigarette stink turns into a hazy backdrop as you slowly, painfully, begin to crawl out to your senses.

It’s time to go. Time to leave this wonderfully outrageous and awful place, collect what’s left of your dignity and sanity, and go home to repair the damage.

Every time I hit your Crystal City, you know you’re gonna make a wreck out of me.

“Food is everything we are. It’s an extension of nationalist feeling, ethnic feeling, your personal history, your province, your region, your tribe, your grandma. It’s inseparable from those from the get-go.” –Anthony Bourdain

Food is, without a doubt, one of the best ways to explore a culture.

This is why I’m grateful for my parents’ rules on food: 1. You must take at least a little of each thing offered at the table—even just a spoonful, and 2. You must eat what you take.

I travel with these rules, which have opened my tastebuds and my heart to sample so many cool, new experiences. To taste the local food of another land is to taste the pride of local life.

In Italy, it’s a toothsome pizza slathered in tangy tomato sauce or olive oil. It’s the rich, creamy  simplicity of cacio e pepe; sweet fresh squeezed orange juice; and mozzarella di bufala oozing with milk that invite a visitor into the ancient kitchens of ancient cities where recipes—simple, perfect recipes—and traditions have been handed down for centuries.

In Spain, it’s salty razor-thin slices of jamon Iberico that melt in your mouth. Marinated olives unlike anywhere else in the world. Savory paella divvied up on plates. And piles of cheese, bread and a smorgasbord of tapas complemented by bottles of Rioja, laughter and music shared among friends.

It’s piping hot fish and chips baptized in vinegar and salt from a humble chip shop in England. A steaming bowl of umami pho goodness for breakfast in Cambodia, chased by velvet coffee made all the more splendid saturated with sweetened condensed milk. It’s fresh-caught salmon grilled on a cedar plank in Seattle. Just-sweet-enough dainty macarons in Paris. Thick and hearty homemade lamb and veg stew slow cooked with love in New Zealand. And fat, doughy cream-stuffed “Long John” donuts painted with chocolate or maple in my hometown, Middlebury, Indiana.

The flavors. The stomach-growl inducing scents. The textures and unique freshness of foods. These are cultural experiences spooned through the mouth and into the heart.

Getting hungry?

Here’s the thing: I’m usually not asked what the best thing is that I’ve eaten in my travels. More often, it’s “what’s the strangest thing you’ve eaten?”

The answer is: It all depends on your definition of “strange.” Strange, as in, odd? Or, strange, as in unpleasant?

By both definitions, the “strangest” happened in Ecuador. That’s where I ate tripe for the first (and likely last) time. And guinea pig—odd, but not unpleasant. The tripe, I don’t need to taste again, even though it was cooked in bacon. The guinea pig was nicely seasoned and slow roasted over a coal fire in a small village. I was a guest, and though I had been warned against eating guinea pig (known locally as “cuy”) I knew I could not refuse. This was a very special meal prepared for me, a special guest. It tasted like chicken. (They insisted I leave with a takeaway portion for later.)

But Ecuador was also the first place I tasted the fresh lime-chilled goodness of ceviche and sweet, ripe, juicy—ugly looking—cherimoya fruit, flakey meat-stuffed empanadas and luscious, cool avocado and cream soup.

There was crispy duck tongue in Cambodia. Savory deep-fried cod tongue in Newfoundland. And beef tongue in, well, lots of places.

There was haggis in Scotland (not bad) and horse meat stroganoff in Switzerland (chewy). There were many attempts at pâté, which I didn’t like until I tried it in Paris; and many attempts at briny oysters on the half shell, which I only swallowed out of polite duty until I ate them with a friend in Boston—who taught me the right way to eat oysters.

There was canned grass jelly drink in Cambodia. I don’t need to repeat that one. It tasted just like it sounds: A flat soda with cubes of black gelatin flavored like…grass? I’ve never eaten grass, so I’m just assuming. Supposedly, the drink is good for you. And there was the time I played Russian Roulette with a vending machine on the streets of Tokyo and ended up with a can of something undrinkable that I can only describe as dirt pop tea. But at least I tried it.

One of the first things I ask a cab driver in a city I’m visiting for the first time is: Where and what should I eat while I’m here. What is this place known for? A cabbie in Edinburgh had a quick answer: Eat everything brown. He wasn’t wrong.

Food brings us into a culture, and it brings us together at a table. Bowls of steamy ramen brought me closer to my dear friend Kasey as we explored Tokyo’s alleyways. And more memorable than the weird grass jelly drink in Cambodia were the stories swapped at a table between new friends at a restaurant rest-stop.

Visit another place. Resist the familiar chains and ask the locals where they go. Pull up a chair at a local pub, food stand or proper restaurant and taste life.

I recently pulled up my photos from a week in Tokyo back in 2014. Nearly all the photos were of noodles or temples.

For me, that’s not a bad thing. It’s just telling about a few things I hold sacred, especially in travel: good food, history and peaceful places.

The trip to Tokyo followed a Kiwanis convention in nearby Chiba. Lucky me to be not only in a once-in-a-lifetime location for work, but also to be there with one of my favorite partners in crime, Kasey. It was a no-brainer to tack on a few personal vacation days to explore Tokyo on our own yen and unwind from the stress and controlled chaos of convention work.

We spent our limited time wisely, quickly mastering the (surprisingly easy) subway system to zip around the massive city and zero in on a few sites and must-dos:

• See the young-energy electric glitz of the Shibuya district
• Visit the Sensō-ji Temple and vendors in the old historic neighborhood of Asakusa
• Eat sushi (Kasey)
• Eat as many noodles as possible (Amy)

(I do love noodles. All noodles.*)

We did all of those things, and here are some photos to prove it:

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

• 

But Kasey and I are both also excellent wanderers and finders of lovely accidental experiences.

That’s why we happened upon the 600-year-old Zōjō-ji Temple in the Minato-ku district, attracted to its ancient gates during a stroll near our hotel. As with many temples around Tokyo, the Zōjō-ji Temple property opens one layer into another layer of wonders as you move through the gates and gardens to discover statues, fearsome gate guards, artwork and vendors.

• 

• 

• 

• 

Zōjō-ji has all of that. But it also has something unique that made me stop in my tracks and catch my falling heart: The Garden of the Unborn.

The Garden of the Unborn is carved into multi-tiered mazes of Jizo statues—stone homages to children who were stillborn or miscarried. Loved ones honor their unborn children by adorning the Jizo with knit caps, clothing, flowers, pinwheels and other gifts. Visitors can also leave offerings for Jizobosatu, protector of women and children, to ensure they find their way safely in the afterlife. Adjacent to the garden, a small shelter offers a place for prayer and to hang written prayer notes.

• 

• 

Parents go to the Garden of the Unborn to grieve, to remember. To find peace.

It was a still and quiet place. And I grieved and remembered the baby I lost to miscarriage over 10 years prior.

Even after a decade—now nearly two decades—a mother remembers her lost child. Miscarriage is a common, yet bafflingly hushed experience for many women. Those rows of decorated Jizo are yet another reminder that we often don’t know the private pain and perpetual healing of the people around us.

Kasey and I walked the garden silently; respectfully. I thought of who my son or daughter might have become. I thought about those horrible days and the crushing understanding of what was happening. Understanding that there was a biological, scientific reason the baby wouldn’t grow and live, but being unconsoled by those rational matters of fact anyway.

I thought about friends and family who have suffered far, far greater losses. And I thought of my strong, healthy, funny and bright children, Chloe and Andrew, who were allowed to be born into this world—the loves of my life.

The Garden of the Unborn wasn’t a sad place. It was a beautiful place to reflect. To soak in some introspection and perspective. To feel. To find peace.

• 

This isn’t the Tokyo many visitors describe. I saw that Tokyo, too. The lights and ultra-paced, ultra-modern life. But I also was lucky enough to see this “other” Tokyo. This gentleness. This quiet pause.

*My love of noodles is second only to my love of any bread or pastry product containing savory meat or veg, including, but not limited to, samosas, empanadas, kolaches, steamed bao buns and dumplings.

Do not climb if unprepared to hike back down.

Those are the parting words on a sign just before the trailhead to the Crags, Devil’s Playground and, ultimately, Pike’s Peak in Divide, Colorado.

Do not climb if unprepared to hike back down.

• Sudden changes in weather may create high winds, lightning, rain, hail, snow, freezing temperatures and ice covered rock at any time.
• Do not depend on services, shelter or transportation at the summit.
• Be willing to turn around at any time.
• Your life depends on your ability to hike back down.

Your life depends on it. You are your own rescuer.

But that is exactly how I like it. I prefer to hike alone.

I love the disciplined solitude.

No AirPod-piped music or podcast—because when you hike alone, you must always be aware and alert to the wildlife and hazardous people and changing conditions that could, for real, kill you if you’re not paying attention. So it’s just the songs and mantras that play in my head, pacing my footsteps, moving me forward. The free flow of my thoughts keeping me company.

The personal test of self-propelled endurance.

No coach or chatty hiking partner diversion. Just my own mental gymnastics motivating my own body beyond pain and fatigue and toward a summit. 50 more steps. One more mile. Just one more. Just a little further to see what’s around the next corner. Just one more climb. Keep going. Just. One. More.

The hyper-connection of my senses to surroundings.

My eyes, my ears, my nose, my pores absorbing it all, so that it becomes a part of my soul, a part of who I am. The crisp smell of pine and the yellow-fire scent of sunshine-warmed granite and earth; the acrid warning-odor of big cat urine. The bone-chilling shriek of a marmot. The stark sapphire of a Colorado sky against the brown-dry Armageddon landscape above the tree line.

I greedily take it all in and let it become authentically part of me, these unique senses and experiences unadulterated by other peoples’ voices and opinions, unstained by someone else’s color commentary.

The challenge, accepted and accomplished.

Will I hike with you? Yes, of course. And we will have a lovely time. We’ll make memories and laugh and swap stories.

But for me, the payoff is a little more delicious, the endorphins a little more potent, when I know the accomplishment is mine and mine alone.  

For this, I am unapologetically selfish.

I don’t go into a solo hike blind—I plan my routes and calculate my risks, the timing and the tests I’ll encounter. I carry my gear, my weight, my fears on my own back. I step willingly onto a trail knowing that whatever distance I go forward or up, whatever hardships I face, my own feet will need to bring me back.

There’s a thrill in all of it; a slow-earned adrenaline rush.

I love that it’s never easy.

I was about a third of the way into the steep descent on the Pike’s Peak trail back to the trailhead when I slid on the slick granite pebbles, fell and crashed my already aching knee into a rock. I was hot and exhausted. I wanted to cry. In that moment, I thought about how good it would feel to lie back on the grass, close my eyes and just sleep. I knew I was almost tapped out of core strength, let alone the balance I’d need to navigate the miles yet ahead.

I also knew I had to get back down the trail before the sun set, and I was running out of time.

Do not climb if unprepared to hike back down.

Your life depends on it.

You are your own rescuer.

I had accepted the challenge.

I had gotten myself up the mountain, and it was up to me to get myself back down.

And I did it. I pulled myself up. I limped along until my knee and cramped muscles loosened again. I sang some Tracy Chapman songs to the wildlife and to soothe my beating heart. I grabbed the outstretched hands of evergreen saplings when I needed an assist on a few daunting steep areas. I gradually picked up my pace, my balance and my confidence. I rejoiced in the car with abundant water and an apple and an overwhelming sense of pride and power.

And though my legs ached, I got up the next morning, and I hiked another summit.

Blissfully alone.

Sometimes I lose perspective, and life or some challenge or setback or negative feedback sends me into the Pit Of Despair.

And then I remember that last summer, I climbed Pike’s Peak.

I (f&#%ing) climbed Pike’s Peak.

Alone.

That wasn’t even the hike I was planning that day. Which, in retrospect, probably makes it a stupid thing to have done. But I didn’t die or get eaten by a bear or even mauled, so there’s that.

I’d set out for a shorter “moderate” rated hike from the same trailhead to The Crags on the Divide, Colorado, side of the mountain. The plan was to hike shorter out-and-backs Friday and Saturday, leading up to the bigger Pike’s Peak trail Sunday if I felt up to it. I’d only been in Divide a little over 24 hours, and the elevation effect on the lungs and heart is no joke.

So, early that morning, I’d packed up water, snacks, bear spray and other necessities for a couple moderate miles, shoved on my sneakers and headed for the Crag’s trailhead.

But here’s the thing. That’s also a trailhead that leads to Pike’s Peak via Devil’s Playground.

I’d studied the maps and All Trails guides. I was aware of the challenges if I took that fork in the path: the relentlessly steep trail. A poorly marked boulder field. The infamous “rock scramble” to the summit. The potential for bears, snakes, mountain lions and hazardous people. The unpredictable weather near Devil’s Playground, so named for the lightning strikes that jump on the rock in a barren area where there is no cover. The sudden storms and wind common if you get to the top too late.

There is a warning sign before you step foot on that trailhead. It tells of all those things and reads: Do not climb if unprepared to hike back down.

They mean it. See previous blog.

I heeded the warning, and off I trekked toward the Crags as planned, huffing and puffing up the incline like an old lady who’d just gotten off the sofa for the first time in a decade. But somewhere along those minutes, not even a mile in, I started thinking, hey, this ain’t so bad. And it’s a nice day. And who knows what the weather will be like Sunday. This might be my only shot if I want to try Pike’s Peak. This seems like a good idea.

So when I got to the fork to Devil’s Playground, I took it, and up I went. And I do mean up, because once you turn onto that path, it’s a strenuous, steady 4,400-foot elevation gain over 7-8 miles.

It’s also beautiful and worth every step. Even the painful ones.

And it’s an exercise in patience and a trial of optimism.

The first miles aren’t easy, but it’s a lovely shaded evergreen-scented walk dotted with wild mountain flowers and interesting rock formations. There are plenty of places to take in one amazing vista after another.

I recall resting as I got near the end of the tree line. I’d been hiking a couple hours. I could see miles upon miles below; and ahead, it looked like maybe the surrounding summits marked the edged of the end.

They did not mark the edge of the end. I wasn’t even close.

I gradually left the trees behind, and again, when I reached Devil’s Playground, I thought I had to be near the peak. I even smugly scoffed at the tourists who had either hiked or driven that far and were queued up to take a shuttle the rest of the way. Quitters, I thought.

Turns out I was not near.

And that particular stretch is, in my experience, especially grueling. Not because it’s steep or tricky, but because the dusty brown treeless landscape that late in the hike is soul sucking.

Then there were the goats.

There’s a place beyond Devil’s Playground where the trail crosses a road before you enter a grassy field full of boulders and mountain flowers. A gang of mountain goats did not want me to go that way. The closer I approached, the more their body language made it clear they weren’t budging and they wanted me to go away. I, too, wanted to hold my ground and for them to go away; but there were more of them. Plus, they’re wild animals, and they have horns.

What I now call the Great Goat Detour, cost me time and energy. I misjudged where my detour would cross the road, and where I entered the boulder field, I lost the trail. I could see where I needed to go, but it was frustratingly difficult to find the path to get there.

I thought about making my way back to the road. It’s illegal for hikers to walk along the road there, so I’d either need to find a different way to the proper trail or give up. I was weighing my options, when by some miracle, I spotted a cairn.* I was at least generally in the right place, and aided by the cairn, I regained my way to the last part of the climb—the true end before the summit, and the only point I had dreaded in advance: the rock scramble.

The final climb to Pike’s Peak is essentially ascending half a mile up a pile of broken-up granite—a talus slope—under full sun exposure. I had read reviews from other hikers who’d hated it, and now, as I stared it down, it looked miserable.

It was one of my favorite parts of the hike.

The only way to navigate it is to look for cairns, which, in this case, means looking for piles of rocks on top of, well, a pile of rocks. Scan the scene, find a cairn and pick your route on and over the granite chunks towards it. Find the next cairn and pick your way to it. Repeat as you climb up, up, up to the summit. Each cairn turned out to be a fun puzzle to reach. I actually enjoyed it, and the views over the Colorado Springs side of the mountain are stunning.

Pike’s Peak is at 14,115 feet, making it a famed Rocky Mountain “fourteener.” You can actually drive a car part or all the way to the top. That means there are a lot of visitors (boo) but also that there are amenities (yes!), which include a little restaurant that serves fresh-made high-altitude donuts. (Supposedly, if you take the donuts back down the mountain, they flatten out. I was too hungry to test the theory.)

At the top of Pike’s Peak, I celebrated. I ate some donuts. I took selfies and explored the views.

I let myself feel proud. But just for a moment. Because as I turned around to start picking my way back through the cairns, through the rock scramble and down the mountain, I knew I still had one hell of a hike ahead of me.

*A cairn is a pile of rock created by a previous hiker to mark a good path or indicate that you’re on the right trail.

Last post on hiking in Colorado. I pinkie promise.

I spent a lot of time in my own head hiking Pike’s Peak. So, when I returned to the house (after a good shower, some good Rioja and something like 3 packages of Ramen noodles*) I sat down to try to wrangle some of the musings and metaphors that had kept me company.

Here are a few thoughts that bounced around in my brain. Some of them could be hokey leadership seminar themes or maybe even a motivational poster at a mall kiosk. Some are practical. Some have been omitted, because my parents read my blog. Here you go:

• If the people who went before you cut a good path and maintained it well, you can spend more of your time looking up and ahead—instead of at the ground.

• More often than not, those who created a trail had the next hikers’ best interests in mind. It’s not usually a trap.

• A log in front of what looks like a path means “don’t go that way.” See above.

• It always seems hardest to get to the top—and it is hard; you should take time to rest and celebrate at the summit. But always remember that going back down the mountain is sometimes just as hard. (Do not climb if unprepared to hike back down. You are your own rescuer.)

• Drink lots of water.

• Hiking shoes are for hiking. Running shoes are not.

• Balance poles are for everyone. They are not a sign of weakness.

• When you hike in Colorado and you catch a familiar whiff but aren’t sure if it’s an animal, relax. Chances are, it’s other hikers. Because, well, Colorado.

• Be nice to other hikers.

• Always share warnings, good advice and good vistas. Do unto others.

• “You’re almost there; keep going” is one of the kindest things you can say to oncoming hikers on the trail. The last stretch is always the hardest.

• Sometimes what looked like it would be the hardest is also the most fun, most satisfying, most rewarding.

• Bring an apple. It’s the most satisfying snack when you need a break.

• On the way up—especially when the air is thin and the climb is steep—take it a few steps at a time, and you’ll get there.

• All pain is temporary. Count it out. Get to 25, 35, 50, steps and rest. Then go again.

• A little fear is healthy.

• If there are donuts at the top, eat them.

*It’s a rule: When you hike Pike’s Peak, you get to eat whatever you feel like. I felt like eating 25-cents-a-package Ramen. Don’t judge. Do your own 14’er.