Hiking, Part 31

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

Autumn is my favorite time of year, and October is for me the best month.  Regular readers of this blog are undoubtedly heartily sick of reading those words, but repetition doesn't make them less true.

Today was a gorgeous picture-perfect early fall day. The sun, after a solid week of clouds, wind, and rain made a return appearance and brought with it a soul-satisfying 70 degrees.  My wife and I had intended to hike together, but a last-minute obligation kept her otherwise occupied.  She asked me to stay fairly close, so I made the short trip down the road to the Manassas Battlefield National Park.  The park contains some 5,000 unsullied acres preserving the sites of the first two major Civil War Battles in 1861 and 1862.  There are two trails, one of them a 5.5 mile loop on the east side of Sudley Road, and the other a 6.5 mile loop on the other side.  The character of the topography has been preserved, and where there were woods and fields in 1861/1862, woods and fields remain today, one of the best preserved of the battlefields from that war.  The two trails are loops, and if I had to return home early, there was the ability to cut cross-country back to the parking lot.

I arrived mid-morning, and the air which had been distinctly chilly had begun to warm nicely.  The sun's angle was notably lower in the sky, even as noontime approached and those low slanting rays gave the light that distinctive autumn feel.  The grass had begun to acquire that tawny look that so characterizes this time of year and while the leaves are still largely green, there were isolated patches of color to catch the eye.

Life and Disaster

Joaquin stalkin' across the Caribbean

© 2015 NOAA

It looked like it would be an interesting week. Last Monday, two rather grim forecasts began to approach a disturbing symmetry. First, an epic Nor'easter, one of those legendary Atlantic coast storms, would slam into the local area bringing tropical rainfall, high winds and certain flooding. Then, the day after, a full-fledged hurricane, at one point a vicious Cat 4, would storm ashore, making landfall right over the nation's capitol region. And after the Nor'easter's 6 to 10 inches of rain, the hurricane would dump an additional 10 to 20 inches along with a 10-foot storm surge into the Chesapeake, up the Potomac River, and into downtown Washington DC. Historic communities like Georgetown and Alexandria, cities with an almost 300-year history, would be inundated and destroyed. Freeways, bridges, roads, and the Metro light rail would be washed away, effectively paralyzing the entire region. Government would be forced into Continuity of Operations mode, shifting control and authority to remote scattered classified sites. First responders, overwhelmed by the disaster, would require the military to regain and maintain control. Hundreds of thousands would be made homeless; hundreds would die. The entire area would never be the same

No, this wasn't the script for a new disaster movie. This was the actual forecast faced by the six million people who live in the DMV, local shorthand for DC, Maryland, and Virginia.

But as time unfolded, both events turned out to be pretty much a local fizzle. The Nor'easter was far milder than forecasted. Don't get me wrong, we still got a ton of rain, up to 6 inches in some places, and pretty good winds. Trees were knocked down, some power was lost in the region, and there was some road damage. The beach areas along the Eastern Shore were beat up some and shoreside communities had some flooding. The hurricane, responding to a couple of pressure systems in the atmosphere, peeled off to the northeast and is headed steadily into the colder waters of the North Atlantic where it will meet its eventual demise.

All things considered, we were lucky. Some areas in the Carolinas took up to 11 inches of rain from those systems, and a lot of damage was done there. But it could have been much, much worse.

Hiking, Part 30

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

Today we went back to Harpers Ferry, but instead of tackling the precipitous ascents of either Loudoun or Maryland Heights, we decided on a much easier trek, the C & O Canal Tow Path.

The Chesapeake and Ohio Canal was one of several projects envisioned by George Washington as a way to connect the east coast with the Great Lakes and Ohio Valley.  The C&O, or "Grand Old Ditch" as it came to be called, was built for the express purpose of transporting coal from the Allegheny Mountains eastward.  It was started in 1828 and completed in 1850, stretching 184 miles from what is now the Georgetown area of DC to Cumberland, Maryland and operated until 1924.  The route resulted in elevation changes totaling 605 feet, requiring some 74 locks and 11 aqueducts.  The boats were long and narrow, usually around 60 feet long and 7 to 10 feet wide, and could carry up to 130 tons of cargo. The unpowered boats were moved up and down river attached to teams of mules who were led along the towpath alongside the Canal.  

Floods were the bane of the Canal's existence and it was a major inundation in 1924 and the onset of the Great Depression of 1929 that put the final nail into the coffin of the Canal.  It languished for a number of years until 1938 when it was acquired by the National Park Service.  Eventually, some 22 mile of the canal from Georgetown was restored and in the 1940's, passenger boats were plying the waters north of Georgetown.  In 1961, President Eisenhower designated the Canal a National Monument, and by 1971, Richard Nixon signed into law the act creating the C & O Canal National Park. The canal's zero mile marker is on the Potomac River directly opposite the historically infamous Watergate Complex, a name that probably came from the opening gate to the canal, literally a "water gate."  This is especially ironic when you consider that it was Nixon who signed the law that created the Canal park.

9/11 and The Inevitable Fade of Memory

Photo © 2011 by Ralph F. Couey

"Time moves in one direction;

Memory in another."

--William Gibson

Copyright © 2015

By Ralph F. Couey

Tomorrow marks the 14th anniversary of the events which transpired on September 11th, 2001.  On that bright, beautiful late-summer morning, terrorists took command of four airliners.  Two were flown into the twin towers of the World Trade Center in New York City.  A third crashed into the Pentagon in Arlington, Virginia, and the fourth dove into a old strip mine near Shanksville, Pennsylvania after passengers and crew, alerted by what had already occurred, assaulted the terrorists, nearly reclaiming control of the aircraft.


As the images of the disaster poured out of our televisions, America was stunned.  We knew that terrorists did attacks, but they were always far away; Europe, Africa, the Middle East.  Surely, this couldn't happen here.  But on that day, the shock, sorrow, and anger that had been felt by others was brought home and deposited squarely in our laps.


America has been surprised before, most notably at Pearl Harbor in 1941, and again in Korea in 1950, and the question of "how?" is always asked.  The answer is usually tied to failures of intelligence or training and leadership.  But there's something larger at work, from a purely philosophical context.

Hiking, Part 29

 Harpers Ferry south

Elevation Profile

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

Photos and written content

Today was hot.  Today was humid.  Today was not a good day to hike.  But I was feeling very restless, and decided, perhaps rashly, to hit the trail, rationalizing that I would be in the shade for most of it.  So I got my hiking stuff together and hit the road.

I had been eyeing the Harpers Ferry area for some time.  The area has a lot of trails, even if you don't necessarily want to do the AT.  Loudoun Heights and Maryland Heights, where Stonewall Jackson's men hauled their artillery during the first Civil War battle fought here in September 1862.  It wouldn't be the last, as the town changed hands eight times by the time the war ended in 1865

Harpers Ferry sits at the confluence of the Shenandoah and Potomac Rivers which meant that the area was always fated to be important both economically and strategically.  Quaker colonist Robert Harper received a patent in 1734, giving him control of 125 acres between the rivers.  He established a ferry across the Potomac, making the location the gateway to the agricultural treasure of the Shenandoah Valley.  Settlers who intended to carve out a plot of land in the valley rode the ferry across the river.  In 1763, the Virginia General Assembly officialized the settlement under the name, "Shenandoah Falls at Mr. Harper's Ferry."  Thomas Jefferson, when he visited in 1783, was awed by the sight.  He called it, "...perhaps one of the most stupendous scenes in nature."

Loving the Enemy We Don't Want to Think About

From Wajahat Kazmi

Copyright © 2015

By Ralph F. Couey

Written content only,

except quoted and cited passages.

"You have heard that it was said

'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.'

But I say to you, love your enemies;

Bless those who curse you;

Do good to those that hate you,

And pray for those that spitefully use you

and persecute you."

--Jesus Christ

Over the past few weeks, I've been engaged in what is called a "Life Audit."  It has been an interesting journey, to say the least.  In this process, I've been confronted with questions that required a deep, introspective, and sometimes troubling exploration of the innermost parts of my attitudes and personality.  This is not an exercise for the faint of heart, or for those who lack courage.  An honest question requires an honest answer, even when that honesty is distinctly painful.

The list of questions posed required me to spend quite a bit of time poking into some of the darker places of my mind and heart, and that is difficult, for it required me to dredge up and face aspects of my heart that I would have been much more comfortable ignoring.

One of the things I found was that when I get angry, frustrated, or just grumpy my zone of awareness shrinks down to a small circle which more often than not is occupied only by me.  In that state, I am unable to acknowledge, or even see anything pleasant or positive.  I become very sensitive to those things that I already know will upset me even further.  The result of that being that I isolate myself away from others because I already know that in that state I am not pleasant company.

I was asked what, during the day, motivates me to be positive, and what I look forward to each day.  I was also asked what constituted a perfect day, and a perfect week.  I took this seriously, and in the deep contemplation of those questions, I found some things which I nicknamed my "inner uglies."

Once I dragged them out, it was very uncomfortable to look at them.  I had thought that those kinds of things were not a part of my makeup, but there they were, red-eyed and snarling, staring me down.  It was kind of like biting into a slice of bread and tasting mold.

Hiking, Part 28

Copyright © 2015 

by Ralph F. Couey

We went back to a put-in from two weeks ago, mainly because the time restrictions from that day meant only a limited foray down that particular segment. We drove to the small parking area located at VA route 55 and route 725, about 40 minutes from home. We geared up and set out, finding the trail about 10 yards to the west of the parking area. It was a spectacular day. The overnight passage of a cold front left a sky of brilliant blue and an cooler atmosphere almost bereft of humidity. The forecast called for highs in the mid-80's but very comfortable.

We headed down the path to a small wetlands, helpfully bridged by a plank walkway. Once through the fen, we crossed a set of railroad tracks and began the first ascent. Now just because it was less humid didn't mean we wouldn't sweat. That first climb ascended some 650 feet in about a mile. The trail helpfully switchbacked, but it was still a daunting climb. About three-quarters of the way up, we entered a very rocky and bouldered area. It was here that I had mistakenly gone off-trail on the last visit, so today I paid close attention to the white blazes on the trees. The path zigged twice through this area, so rubbled that the trail, at least from the ground perspective, seemed to vanish.

The Dumb Things We Do

Yep.  Dead.

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

Doesn't matter how smart one is.  Or how educated.  Or incisive.  Experience, wisdom, whatever else a person may have, it will never save us from that one stupid act.

Monday was a brutally hot and humid day here in Virginia.  The temperature was in the mid-90's and with the humidity, the heat index was into triple digits.  So after running a couple of errands, we decided to spend the balance of the afternoon in the neighborhood pool.  We changed, slathered on some sunscreen, gathered a couple necessary items, and headed out in high anticipation of cool waters.

Once there, I put on my reef walkers, remembered to take my ID wallet out of my pocket, and walked into the water.  It was, as anticipated, a glorious feeling.  After stretching my legs, I started swimming some slow laps.  My mind was happily empty of any worry or burden, and I had thus enjoyed myself for about 30 minutes and on one return lap, my vision fell on the table where we had placed our stuff.  Suddenly my brain went on high alert.  As I neared the wall, I reached for my waistband, and sure enough, my trustworthy, advanced, and very expensive Note 3 was hanging there.

Hiking, Part 27

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

"Come by the hills to the land where legend remains.

The stories of old fill the heart and may yet come again.

Where the past has been lost

And the future is still to be won,

And the cares of tomorrow can wait 

'till this day is done."

--W.Gordon Smith

We pass our days consumed by the pressures of commitment and requirement.  Our vision becomes restricted to the time between now and the next place we have to be.  Thus chained, the hours pass unnoticed; life goes by unheralded, until the moment when we stop, look around, and mourn the waste of the gift of time.

That was me.  I was trapped on that treadmill.  I watched the days slide by, frantic to lose them, but utterly unable to stop them from their inevitable fade.  But I found a way to pause time.  I found a place where clocks were irrelevant, where the very air carried the scent of serenity.

Last year, I took a walk in the woods.  It wasn't very far or ambitious, but I found that in that relatively short space of life, I was able to let go...and just be.

Virginia is full of such places, but my best days have been spent on parts of the Appalachian Trail that passes through this Commonwealth.  From Harper's Ferry in the north to Damascus in the south lies 550 miles of meandering trail lined with dense forest, bright meadows, imposing rocks, and wildlife.

Alex Gordon, Len Dawson, and Defeating Adversity

© 2015/ Jamie Squire, Getty Images. 

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

It was a Wednesday night, the 8th of July, just before the All Star break.  The Royals were in first place in their division, proud owners of the best record in the American League, and the second-best in baseball behind only that other team from Missouri.  But in the space of less than a minute, everything went sideways.  Tampa Bay Rays' Logan Forsythe launched a drive to deep left field.  Alex Gordon, as he has done so many times before, took off in pursuit.  Usually such a play ends with the ball in Gordon's glove as he slams into the wall.  But this time, as he approached the wall, he tried to pull up.  And then he went down.  I, along with a few tens of thousands of other Royals' fans listened, quite fearfully, as it appeared at the moment he may have suffered a season-ending, if not a career-ending injury.  Later, we were told that what we initially thought might be a blown knee or broken leg, has been diagnosed as a grade-2 strained groin muscle. This is a painful and serious injury to be sure, but one that has a better and brighter light at the end of the dark tunnel of his absence from the lineup.

In the hours following that moment, I endured my worst fears. But out of the depths of the past came a memory of September 1969. The Chiefs were off and running on what every instinct in your body knew was going to be The Year. Then Len Dawson went down with a knee injury.   All the hopes and dreams for a season of glory seemed to have collapsed.  At least for the fans.

Hiking, Part 26

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

It was a typical Virginia summer day.  Which is to say very hot, oppressively humid, not usually a good day for hiking.  But there was no severe weather in the forecast, which has not been the case in the two-and-a-half weeks since we returned from Paris.  After perusing some options, we decided to go east instead of west, heading into, or at least close to D.C. to tackle the Mount Vernon Trail

The Trail is a paved multi-use path running from Alexandria down to George Washington's Mt. Vernon estate.  Usually, a trail like this includes the risk of running afoul bicyclists who, in their minds, believe they're on part of the Tour de France.  I've run into (or more accurately, been run into) by users of this ilk while running the W&OD trail through Vienna. With this in mind, I decided to put in at Fort Hunt Park, a good 14 miles south of DC proper.  I'm not the only one who shares this opinion.  Websites like Yelp are full of caustic and vitriolic comments about the few racers who frequent this trail, all of whom are universally described by a rather earthy word that begins with D.

Normandy

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

The overcast which had been persistent all morning was reluctantly giving way.  The sun pierced the clouds occasionally, the light giving color to the land.  It was cool and breezy, but this was June.  And this was Normandy.

Places where violent death has occurred have the same feel.  There is a quiet that is somber, yet meaningful.  The same atmosphere exists in places like Gettysburg, Antietam, and Shanksville, PA, where a group of airline passengers fought the first battle in the War on Terror.  These are places where heroism was defined; where violence and valor defined the day.

We stood atop the windy bluff, my wife and I, looking down onto what, on another June day, had been designated Beach Easy Green.  It was a bit of a misnomer, "Easy" being the phonetic expression for the letter "E".  In truth, there was nothing easy about that beach on June 6, 1944.  Today, we stood and watched as the waters of the English Channel whispered across the sand.  In the quiet, we contemplated the meaning of courage.

71 years and 13 days previous, the quiet morning was rent by the roar of tens of thousands of guns, from officers' pistols to the giant naval rifles of the battleships.  By the hundreds, landing craft hit the beaches, dropped their ramps, and for the first time in that war, Allied soldiers poured into Europe.  

Superbly trained thought they were, only a few were professional soldiers.  They were coal miners and cab drivers; farmers and financial managers; college students and cowboys.  Also present in abundance were the boys fresh out of high school who would today lose their lives before they had even started. Some were cut down inside the landing craft, sawed by German automatic weapons before their boots even touched the sand.  Some died on the sprint across the beach, others as they courageously fought to open the beach exits.  Still others would die on  the uplands behind the wall of pillboxes and emplacements, including the Airborne troopers who had jumped in the night before, some of them executed in their chutes as they mistakenly dropped into the charnel house of Ste. Mer Eglise.  

But others -- many, many others -- would survive.  They would cross the beaches, climb the hills, kill the enemy and start that long, bloody march that would end 10 months later in a ruined city called Berlin.

Day 4 -- Paris Again

 Eglise du Dome Church

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

This was our first day on our own, with the departure of our son's family for Korea.  It's always sad to be away from grandchildren when you've gotten used to having them around.  But, this was vacation, so we soldiered on, albeit with slightly empty hearts.

We decided to take a bus tour, as it would be the best way to see the most sites in the least amount of time.  We went online and bought tickets, which we printed out at the computer in the hotel lobby.  Taking the train in, we debarked at the station nearest the Notre Dame Cathedral.  According to the map we had, it should have only been a block to where we could pick up the GO-GO (Get On, Get Off) bus.  Easier said than done.  It took the better part of an hour to locate the stop.  It didn't help that neither the website or the flyer off the website showed what signs to look for.  After chasing those yellow busses up and down the streets, criss-crossing the Seine several times, we finally found the proper signage.  After a few minutes, the bus came by.  We presented our vouchers to the driver, who gave us back our tickets, a very informational flyer, and--lo and behold--a map of all the stops.  It would have been nice if that had been on the website.

We were issued earphones, those rock-hard earbuds that simply don't fit my ears.  The plug-ins were against the outer wall of the bus, which meant the cord (never long enough) had to stretch across my seat-mate, an elderly lady who regarded me with barely concealed contempt.  An American, of course.

Once settled on the upper deck, I was able to sit back and enjoy the city as it rolled past.  The heavy traffic meant that the bus was going slow enough to make picture-taking a fairly easy task.  The day was picture perfect, the sky a clear and beautiful blue and the sun pleasantly warm.  As much as I enjoyed the ride, the earphones made it difficult to understand much of what was being said.  Still, Paris is a beautiful thing to behold, even if you don't know what you're looking at.

Day 3 -- Paris Disneyland

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

This would be my fourth Disney park, after Anaheim, Orlando, and Tokyo, so I didn't expect any real mysteries in our visit.  But I discovered that there are differences, enough to make the day interesting and fun.  We went with our son and his family, and at our age, the fun is not so much us riding rides, but watching our grandchildren have the time of their lives.

It began as Euro Disney, but eventually became its current moniker, Paris Disneyland.  The park opened in 1992 to less than rave reviews.  Attendance was very low, but in all fairness opening something like this in the middle of one of the biggest recessions in recent history didn't help.  In 1995, the park opened Space Mountain, that iconic roller coaster ride.  It was an immediate hit, and by the end of that year, the park showed a profit for the first time.  By 2006, Disney Paris was the leading tourist draw in France, outselling the Eiffel Tower and the Louvre.  The French, at least the intellectual community, had little good to say about the place until the government announced that the park had generated over 37 billion Euros in economic benefits to France.  After that, smiles all around.

Still on US east coast time, we didn't get up until almost 11am.  But fortunately, the shuttle bus picked us up right outside the hotel, and in about 10 minutes, we were at the park.

There are two facilities, Disneyland itself, and Disney Studios.  The Studios portion is vaguely like the California Adventure part of the Anaheim park, although somewhat truncated.  But it was the first place to visit, since it had shorter operating hours than the main park.  We found Robbie and family eating a late lunch.  We visited the Studios, and then crossed over to the main park.

The park entrance is styled after the palace from Beauty and the Beast, which as you recall did take place in France, so it was an appropriate way to entre vous, as it were.  Once inside, we passed under the trestle for the train, and found ourselves on Main Street, USA.  Same...but still somehow different.

Paris - First Two Days

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

I am, what you might call well-traveled. Circumstance has provided me with the opportunities to visit far-flung places on this planet and in the process the experience has broadened my horizons and altered my view of life.

My Dad was a professional minister who usually had a heavy schedule of church camps throughout the summer. I spent a couple of summers traveling with him and in the process managed to pass through some 30 states before I turned 16. At 25, married with a young child and with the nation was mired in the last throes of the Carter economy, I enlisted in the Navy.

Through the next 10 years, I planted my foot in the soil of 18 different countries, and in the years since have added another 8. I’ve never lost that itchy foot and the curiosity that drives my desire to travel refuses to wane.

Earlier this year, the opportunity to visit France arose. Our daughter-in-law was going to take the kids to Korea for the summer to spend time with her family. The airline routing they chose sent them east instead of west, with a layover in Paris. She discovered that she could extend that layover into a week with no additional charge. After some discussion, my wife and I decided to go along.

All my globetrotting to this point has been confined to the Pacific and Indian Oceans. When you spend a certain amount of time in a region, you develop knowledge and expectations which remain level regardless of which country you visit. Neither of us had ever been to Europe, so we really were at a loss even as to how to prepare.

Fortunately, the Internet is an inexhaustible source of information and we assiduously plumbed the depths of travel websites, learning and preparing.

The Call...And the Truth

The Play...and The Call

From Matt Weeks' Hubpages

No attribution listed, but I suspect Sports Illustrated

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

Written material only

Tuesday night (June 2nd) at Kauffman Stadium in Kansas City, the Royals and Indians were entangled in a tight game, tied 1-1 going into the 8th inning.  The tribe got men on base, but with one out, Jose Ramirez grounded into what should have been a double play, and a ticket out of a tough inning against one of the dominant relief pitchers in baseball, Wade Davis.  On the throw to first, the first base umpire started to call Ramirez out, but switched his call almost in mid-motion to call him safe.  The replay, played in super-slo-mo for the benefit of Royals' fans seemed to show definitively that Ramirez was out.  But after a long review, the word came back from New York:  Safe.

After that, second baseman Omar Infante muffed another sure double play ball, and eventually Michael Brantley's base hit scored what would prove to be the winning run.

The incident brought immediate memories of another memorable blown call 30 years ago, as several of my friends who are St. Louis Cardinal fans eagerly reminded me.  They took delight in sending emails and texts, all essentially of the same theme:  "How does it feel?"

They say that time heals all wounds.  

Not this one, apparently

Time, Tides, and the Big 6-0

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

A few days ago, I passed a sort of a birthday milestone, number 60.  We spent the day driving through the Valley of Fire state park about an hour north of Las Vegas.  It was a useful retrospective, since while 60 years is a pretty good hike for a human, it's less than a flash of light to rocks whose ages are measured in tens of millions of years.

There was a time when I thought 60 was ancient; right up there with the rocks.  I couldn't imagine myself being that far along.  And as I over-ate my way through my 40's, there was a time when I frankly assumed I would have boarded the bus before that point. But there was an intervention, a massive weight loss, and here I still am.

One of my favorite original aphorisms is that while ageing is inevitable, being old is a choice.  My experience in life has brought me into conversation with two types of old men.  One is the type who reaches a certain point -- different for each man -- where the infirmities of age have filled the conscious mind, when mortality has become painfully apparent.  This is the man who sits around, groaning about his aches and pains and is simply waiting to die.  The other is the man who, while suffering from the same maladies, refuses to allow them to imprison him.  He stays active, both mentally and physically, and enthusiastically lives life, as they say, like there was no tomorrow.  I've wanted to be that second guy.  

Many of my friends tell me that I don't act my age.  I take that as a compliment.  I ride a motorcycle, I run 20 miles every week, and I hike at least one of those days.  I remain a voracious reader, and delve into crossword puzzles whenever I can.  I write, pursuing that dream of freelance writing.  I have promised myself that I will have a book published before I depart this life.  I do look forward to retiring in six years, but not because I'm that interested in not working, but because I want to have the free time to pursue all these interests.  And travel.

I do struggle.  I am neck-deep in the prostate years.  Arthritis affects my hands.  Every morning, it takes 10 to 15 minutes of dedicated exercise to loosen up the lumbar muscles so that I can stand fully upright.  There are times when my conversation halts in midstream while I search frantically for a word, or try to keep my train of thought from disappearing over the hill.  My intake of sugars and carbs has to be strictly monitored.  Appointments are sometimes hard to remember.  And then there are those 5 stents in my heart.  But I work through those because I don't want those things to control what I can and cannot do.  

Hiking, Parts 23, 24, and 25

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

Words and pictures

My wife and I make at least one trip to Las Vegas every year, sometimes more than one.  Usually those trips are co-scheduled with her family who fly in from Hawaii.  In case you ever wondered where people who live in paradise go on vacation, it's Vegas.  The clientele is so large that three of the local hotels, the California, the Main Street Station, and the Fremont have discovered a very fruitful revenue stream catering to vacationers from the Islands.

Normally, we engage in the usual Vegas-ish types of activities, gambling, entertainment, gambling, eating, gambling, sight-seeing, gambling... well, you get the picture.  Until I discovered hiking this past two years, it never entered my mind that there was anything else to do.  In preparation for this trip, which we coordinated with our middle daughter and her family, I searched for and found a book called "Hiking Las Vegas."  The author, Branch Whitney, researched, hiked, and described over 80 different hiking routes in three areas, Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area about 18 miles to the southwest, Mount Charleston about 40 miles due west, and Lake Mead about 35 miles due east.  The hikes range from easy one-milers suitable for young children, all the way to double-digit highly technical Class 5's which usually involve ropes and pitons.  

We arrived a day early and did the first hike by ourselves.  This 4-mile out-and-back is called "The Muffins," named for a group of conglomerate rocks that somehow ended up atop Blue Diamond Hill. Since conglomerates always form at the bottom of things, their placement there is something of a geological mystery.  To get to the trailhead, we drove out Charleston Road, which becomes Red Rock Canyon Road, past the Visitors Center to the Cowboy Trail Rides stables.  I should have parked in the dirt area just off the highway, but instead drove on up to another parking area near the corral.  This would later prove to be a mistake.

We got out of the car, geared up, and started out.  This particular area is criss-crossed with abundant mountain biking trails, which carry quaint names such as "Boneshaker" and "Bob Gnarly."  Hence, for the first-timer finding and staying on the correct path can be a bit difficult.  I missed a trail fork just past a dry wash and we ended up walking, not towards the clearly visible goal, but into a deep box canyon.  

 Looked pretty simple at this point.

Hiking, Part 22

Copyright © 2015

By Ralph F. Couey

Words and photos

This weeks sojourn took me back to one of my favorite places, the Appalachian Trail south of U.S. 50.  This hike, while containing some steep climbs, is one of the easier stretches of this great trail, leaving the hiker with energy and time to take in the wonder.  This route goes along the ridge part of Sky Meadows State Park and then into the Thompson Wildlife Preserve.  It varies from forest to meadow, and the path is well-marked and not nearly as rocky and rooty as other stretches. It is a pleasure to hike.

There is a small parking area at the foot of Liberty Hill Lane, all but invisible from the highway.  For hikers going north, there lies the dangerous crossing of US 50, a four-lane racetrack split by a grassy median, before tackling the infamous "Roller Coaster" heading towards Virginia Route 7.

My route south began with a steep climb out of the parking area, ascending to the top of the ridgeline.  As I climbed, I happily saw that the spring wildflowers were still in bloom, including this beauty...

Hiking, Parts 19, 20, and 21

"With the coming of spring,

I am calm again."

--Gustav Mahler

Copyright © 2015

Words and images

by Ralph F. Couey

Once the holidays pass, winter is something I just endure.  Throughout those long, cold months, I yearn deeply for the days when the air turns warm, the world awakens, and color returns to the landscape.  It seems that the older I get, the more impatient I am, waiting for the return of the season of life.

I turned to hiking last year mainly for exercise and to reduce the pounding on my joints that comes with running.  But I found something unexpected.  The peace and solace of the woods.

I'm covering three hikes in this posting, mainly because Cheryl and I are in training after several months away from regular exercise.  Plus, she is breaking in a brand new set of boots.  Next month, we go to Las Vegas and will spend a day or two hiking in the mountains south and west of the city.  Looking at the trail guides, those treks will involve a completely different kind of terrain than what we have grown used to here in verdant Virginia.

The Bluebell Loop

This past Sunday, once we had discharged our responsibilities at church, we managed to squeeze a little more time out of the lengthening day for a short jaunt.  We drove down south to the Bull Run-Occoquan trailhead, an easy stretch for a couple of aging boomers.  Just off the main trail, their is a spur called the Bluebell Loop.  Aptly named, for the landscape in spring is liberally sprinkled with those bright blue beauties, as well as another lovely bloom called Wild Blue Phlox (photo at the top of this post).

America and the Bus Ride

From Travellerspoint.com

Copyright © 2015

By Ralph F. Couey

Except cited image

There is a road.  It doesn't seem to have a beginning or an end, even though logic and reason mandate such bookends.  No one can remember the history of the road, only that it's always been there.

It's not a terribly remarkable stretch of pavement, as roads go, in that it is in some places straight and wide, and narrow and twisty in others.  It climbs hills and descends into valleys.  It passes through verdant forests, empty deserts, along shorelines and coastlines.  It bisects endless acres of stolid corn and dancing wheat, and witnessed by grazing animals in vast meadows.

The road is heavily traveled because it is a vital artery; the only way to get from where we've been to where we're going; an endless ribbon connecting departure and destination.

On this road is a bus.  It is owned by a bus line, whose owners and operators superficially acknowledge that they're providing a service.  But they are obsessed with profit; they want to always have the newest, the fanciest buses not because of the passengers, but because it makes the other bus companies look bad.  They advertise for passengers, but when their motivations are revealed, they are simply searching for the perfect way to con people into allowing the company to take them for a ride.  

Like all the other vehicles, this bus is traveling along this eternal highway.  But in looking closer, it is apparent that the bus's course is far from straight.  Inside the bus are not one, but two drivers, both fighting desperately for sole control of the bus.  As a result of this dispute, the bus is veering all over the road, first lurching to the left, and then to the right.  It's a dangerous way to drive, one that endangers the bus, it's passengers, and the other vehicles on the road.  But that doesn't matter to either driver.  The only thing that matters to them is to be the only hands on the wheel.

Forgive Others, Because He Forgave Us

Image from kevinsandlin.com

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

except quoted and cited passages

and sourced images.

Jeremiah 31:34

And they shall teach no more every man his neighbor, 

and every man his brother, saying, 

"Know the Lord: for they shall all know me, 

from the least of them unto the greatest of them," saith the Lord: 

for I will forgive their iniquity, 

and I will remember their sin no more.

I’m going to ask you to do something that may cause some of you some pain, and for that I apologize in advance. If you don't want to participate, I'll understand.

Close your eyes. But stay awake! Look into the past, through the years of your life. Find an event in which someone really hurt you. Not a momentary or passing thing, but an act of hate or even betrayal that cut deep into your heart. For a moment, try to re-experience that hurt, that pain, and that anger. Whatever that person or people did to you, it changed your life. You could almost say that your life exists in two parts, before that incident, and afterwards.

Now. Take a deep breath. And forgive that person.

Now, put yourself on the other side of that line. Think about the absolute worst thing you've ever done or said to another person. Granted, it may have felt good in the heat and anger of the moment, but it has chewed at you ever since.

How badly do you want that person to forgive you?

Now, think about God. Think about the millions of times and billions of ways humans now and in the past have done things to him, or in his name that would have destroyed any of us. What would he say to us?

Ephesians 2:1-22

And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked, 

following the course of this world, following the prince of the power of the air, 

the spirit that is now at work in the sons of disobedience

—among whom we all once lived in the passions of our flesh, 

carrying out the desires of the body and the mind, 

and were by nature children of wrath, like the rest of mankind. 

 But God, because of the great love with which he loved us, 

 even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ. 

 For by grace you have been saved through faith. 

And this is not your own doing; it is the gift of God.

We take things personally. It’s part of our human nature. And we also transgress, also because we’re human. Being a husband, I am intimately familiar with that. One of my younger colleagues, recently married, asked me what the secret was to a successful marriage. I replied, “Liberal use of the words, “Honey, I’m sorry. You were right all along.” He asked, “But what if you are right?” I said, “Irrelevant and immaterial, counselor.”

A Dream, a Door, and a Decision

"Hold fast to dreams'

For if dreams die,

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly."

--Langston Hughes

Dedicated to Luke Mitchem
who answered the call of his dreams
and chose the open door.
 

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

except quoted and cited passages.

Dreams.

We all have them.  Some arrive with birth, born within as we enter this life.  Others we pick up as we traverse the pathway that defines our journey.  Some dreams are small; transient thoughts about what could be made better.  Others are big; transformational, yet seemingly unattainable.

They are with us every day, it seems; sitting on our shoulders, whispering in our ears.  Beckoning, seductive, causing an itch we can never quite reach to scratch.  

Most of us brush off or even ignore the dream and the accompanying temptation.  We'd rather live a safe life, one with security and predictability, and a regular paycheck to fund the car payment, the mortgage, and groceries.

But even within that bubble, we still yearn for something different, a life with some adventure, some risk, something that doesn't involve a commute, a cubicle, and a computer.  In those random, ephemeral moments, we realize that even the most opulent and comfortable cage...is still a cage.

Then one day, out of the clear blue, something happens.  Perhaps a job eliminated, a salary cut, an intolerable change in circumstances.  The path of predictability has veered.  We feel a gust of air, spin around and see that a door has magically appeared before us.  And it stands open.

Hiking, Part 18

Copyright 2015

By Ralph F. Couey

Words and pictures

Today we were lured to Lake Accotink Park by the rumor of nesting eagles in the area.  Alas, we were disappointed by the absence of the great raptors, but had a great hike anyway.

Lake Accotink is a reservoir surrounded by a 500-acre piece of paradise plunked down amidst the urban bee hive of Fairfax County.  The park lies less than 2 miles (as the eagle flies) from one of the busiest freeway interchanges in the entire Washington DC area, I-495 and I-66.  Stitched through the hills and around the lake are a multitude of trails that branch off the main path which widely circles the lake itself.  Accotink Creek was dammed to create the lake and the area has been a government facility, a camp during World War I, an Army officers' retreat, and finally a county park.  The main trail follows parts of the old railbed for the Orange and Alexandria railroad, an important Union rail line.  Today, a massive concrete and steel Norfolk Southern bridge crosses the creek in the place where a log trestle stood during the Civil War, at least until Jeb Stuart and his cavalry burned it down.

This trail shares space with the Fairfax Cross-County Trail, a conglomeration of interconnected trails which runs some 40 miles from Occoquan Regional Park in the south all the way to Great Falls Park, where it joins with the Potomac Heritage Trail

The weather started out cool, but warmed pretty quickly, although the wind retained a bit of a bite.  This would be Cheryl's first time out on the trail, so I thought this might be a good way to start the season for her, especially as she's breaking in a new pair of Merrill hiking boots.

There are several ways to approach the park.  We chose the route through the Ravensworth Farm neighborhood off Braddock Road.  We parked in the first lot we came to and after gearing up, went down an asphalt path to the marina.  Here was a beach, a carousel, a couple of snack bars and several picnic shelters, from the looks of things a very busy place after Memorial Day.

The path leaving the marina was wide and in excellent shape.  It undulated a bit as we walked along, but nothing like the steep climbs we had experienced in other places.  

Marketing and the Octane Myth

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

I admit it.  I fell for it.  I believed it, that myth that was promulgated by gasoline retailers about octane.  I thought that the higher the octane rating, the more power I'd get out of the engine, and when you're a teen-aged boy with a brain bathed in testosterone, power is everything.

Even as an adult, I persisted in my ignorance.  Now, age doesn't always make you smarter, but in my case the facts finally caught up with me.

In the 1950's and 1960's, gasoline retailers used to duel with each other in advertisements about the octane rating of their product.  The way the adverts were worded, it was easy for the consumer to misinterpret the meaning.  Also, since high octane gas was more costly, it did handsome things to the company's bottom line.  In the '70's, (especially after the oil embargo) smaller cars with smaller, less powerful engines began to hit the roads.  Now, the tune changed to miles per gallon, and eventually the value of detergent additives.  Even to this day, however, if you were to ask the average Joe/Josephine on the street what octane is for, you'd likely get the wrong answer 9 out of 10 times.

Octane is a chemical which is added to gasoline for specific reasons.  It's sole purpose is to raise the compression ratio, and therefore the ignition point (when it catches fire), of the fuel.  Car and truck engines are not the same.  The game little 4-banger in a Dodge Neon, for example, is vastly different than the 12-cylinder monster that Lamborghini drops into their cars.  One of the most basic differences is in compression.

Civil War: Events of May 1865

On May 3rd, Georgia Governor Joseph Brown called a meeting of the state legislature when word came through that Confederate General Joe Johnston had surrendered.

The next day, Confederate General Richard Taylor surrendered the remaining troops in Alabama and Mississippi.

A man named Phillip Henry Mulkey was arrested in Eugene, Oregon on May 6th after he publicly shouted "Hurrah for Jeff Davis!".  A pro-union mob stormed the jail, but Mulkey escaped.

After nearly a month of eluding U.S. soldiers, Jefferson Davis is captured near Irwinville, Georgia on May 10th.

Also on the 10th, the Confederate vessel CSS Imogene became the last known ship to successfully run the Union blockade.

Confederate Vice-President Alexander Stephens was arrested at his estate, Liberty Hall, in Crawfordville, Georgia by the 4th Iowa Cavalry.

May 12th and 13th was the last significant battle of the Civil War at Palmito Ranch along the Rio Grande river east of Brownsville, Texas.  Union Colonel Theodore Brown, perhaps grasping for one last shot at glory, attacked a Confederate camp near Fort Brown, despite the unofficial truce that had been observed between the two sides.  Confederate Colonel John Ford successfully resisted the attack and the battle is generally considered a Confederate victory.  Perhaps the most significant event to come of this battle was the recording of the death of Private John J. Williams of the 34th Indiana Regiment.  He was the last combat death of the war.

Civil War: Events of April 1865

On April 1st, a Union combined force under General Phil Sheridan met and defeated Confederate General George Pickett's combined force at the strategic Five Forks.  The Southern withdrawal left in jeopardy the Southside Railroad, one of the few remaining lifelines for the Army of Northern Virginia.

From April 2nd through the 9th, Union General Edward Canby led a successful attack on Fort Blakely in Baldwin County, Alabama.  The defeat opened the doors for the occupation of the vital port of Mobile on the 12th.

General Grant finally achieved his breakthrough at Petersburg on April 2nd.  The Confederate lines crumbled as Lee frantically sent the remnants of his Army of Northern Virginia in the direction of Appomattox.  Upon receiving word that Lee was abandoning his positions, President Jefferson Davis ordered the evacuation of the Confederate government.

Also on the 2nd, Selma, Alabama fell to Union forces under James H. Wilson, defeating Confederate legend Nathan Bedford Forrest.

Union troops occupied Petersburg and Richmond on April 3rd.  The next day, Union President Lincoln arrived in Richmond to the sounds of cheers from hundreds of freed slaves.  Lincoln went to the Southern White House and sat at the desk that had belonged to Jefferson Davis.

The Union army now in full pursuit of Lee's Army fought a series of engagements between the 4th and the 7th.  In the Battle of Saylor's Creek, 8,000 Confederate troops surrendered.

Hiking, Part 17

Copyright © 2015

by Ralph F. Couey

Pictures and written content.

The forecast called for sun and 70 degrees.  Of course, they lied.  Or guessed wrong.  At any rate, I squeezed a few hours out of my other duties to make my first official hike of the season.  I decided to jump in with both feet and tackle a section of the Appalachian Trail which runs between Virginia Route 7 on the north to US Route 50 to the south.  This section is familiarly known to local hikers as "The Roller Coaster."  For good reason, as the trail continually climbs and descends.  Rather than start at US 50, I decided to get on at a different place.  

I headed out about mid-morning bound for Ashby's Gap rolling down my window to luxuriate in air that seemed actually warm.  But about halfway out, the wind appeared with a vengeance.  I frowned, thinking I had not seen that in the forecast. I got to my turnoff, Blue Ridge Mountain Road, one of my favorite motorcycle rides, and headed north.

About halfway up Blue Ridge Mountain Road, their lies the infamous Mt. Weather FEMA facility, ensconced behind chain link, barbed wire, and an assumed host of sensors.  Directly across from the front gate is a dirt path carrying the grandiose name of Virginia Route 605.  About a mile or so down (and I do mean down) that road is where the AT crosses.  There is a shallow pullout on one side of the road, and on the other side an elevated sort of grassy road meant to service the power lines that snake alongside the road.  

The Godfather and the Secret Life of Men*

The Don and his sons.

(Paramount Pictures publicity still)

*Somerset, PA Daily American

May 29, 2010

as "A Great Man Movie"

Copyright © 2010 by Ralph Couey

Written content only

In 1972, a movie hit American theaters that had a defining effect on our culture. “The Godfather” chronicled the story of a Sicilian-American organized crime “family,” the Corleones.

The story captivated the public to be sure, but men especially were riveted by the story. The characters were larger than life, and in a twisted sort of way, became role models. Suddenly, the Mafia had become cool. And in the decades since, the Godfather Saga has become irretrievably etched into our lives, to the unending exasperation of Italian-Americans across the nation.

Women are almost universally repulsed by the movies, due mainly to the violence and the portrayal of the female role in that that culture. My wife bought me for my birthday, the latest DVD incarnation of all three movies with the proviso that I could only watch them when she was out of the house.

Men, on the other hand, embrace Godfather, as Tom Hanks put it in the movie “You’ve Got Mail,” “the I Ching of life.” He was referring to the ancient Chinese “Book of Changes,” that helped people deal with life changes by providing solutions and a measure of solace. The aphorisms that the film created have found their way into the daily lexicon from the Boardroom to the ballfield:

“I’m gonna make him an offer he can’t refuse.”

“Go to the mattresses.”

“It’s not personal; it’s business.”

“Luca Brazi sleeps with the fishes.”

“I want you to see what he’s got under his fingernails.”

“I heard you were a serious man; to be treated with respect.”

“You have to answer for Santino, Carlo.”

“Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.”

“Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.”

They’re great phrases, adaptable to any number of situations and because they’re so well known, the intended meaning is instantly clear.

As to why males find the story so fascinating, the answer to that question I believe lies in the culture of manhood.

Opportunity: Waste Not, Want Not

Winter.  Ugh.

© 2015 

By Ralph F. Couey

The hardest part -- okay, ONE of the hardest parts of winter is how the cold keeps a person from being able to enjoy outside activities. I really don't like being forced inside for my entertainment and exercise.  I have written extensively of my absolute detestation for treadmills, comparing them to an earthbound form of purgatory.  I can (and do) run or hike outside on days when the temps range into the upper 30's, but those gems are few and far between this year.  

Let me hasten to extend my sincerest condolences for the poor folks in Boston and New England who are, at this moment, watching another round of the snowiest year on record.  We here in the DMV (D.C., Maryland, and Virginia -- this is Washington, so acronyms are required) have amassed only around five inches total for the entire season.  Last week, Boston saw that in just one hour.  You-all have my sympathy and respect.  First the Red Sox, and now, snow.

But the persistent cold has been frustrating.  So earlier this week, we had a day when the thermometer soared into the upper 50's, almost spring by comparison.  I could have (should have) gone running, but standing in the garage, my attention was drawn to my other passion, my motorcycle.  Since late November, the bike has sat quietly, the battery percolating on the tender.  I've started and run it at least once a week, but the cold weather and the overly enthusiastic application of sand and salt by VDOT has kept me from riding.  But that day was an opportunity which, judging by the latest long-range forecast, would not come again for several weeks.  So I dug through the pile of stuff in the garage and managed to find all the parts to my riding gear, including the liners.  I cleared the accumulation of flotsam that had piled up around the bike, backed it out, fired up the engine, and for the first time in three months, I took a ride.