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Münster Aasee

It’s summer for just a few more days, so let’s hop over to northwestern Germany for the weekend to enjoy some time by the Münster Aasee. We’ll take some time to explore the quaint city of Münster later on, but for today let’s concentrate on the hotspot just off the city centre, the Aasee. Pronounced “AH-zay” (“zay” rhyming with “say”), this is a lovely artificial lake that measures 5.7 kilometers (3.5 miles) around and offers myriad outdoor opportunities.

On sunny summer weekends, Münsteraners turn out in droves and set up camp around the Aasee for barbecues, kite-flying, and general sunbathing. (On New Year’s, the lake will be ringed with people setting off fireworks – check out the debris the next day.) You can also go out in sailboats or take a leisurely stroll along the path ringing the lake. The path is ideal for runners, and you’ll definitely encounter a lot of them at most times of day.

If you forget your barbecue equipment and don’t feel like exercising, there are a few restaurants and cafes dotted along the Aasee’s shores. From the Aasee it’s also a short jaunt to the Münster Zoo and, in the other direction, back to the city center’s pristine cobblestoned streets and many churches. But for today, let’s find a sunny spot of grass to relax on and watch the people go by.

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All Aboard A Scenic Railroad

I am an explorer; I love discovering what the world around me has to offer. I have done my best to travel the 22,000 acres of the “Emerald Necklace” of the Cleveland Metroparks, sampled the historical Cleveland tradition of ethnic diversity at the West Side Market, and gotten lost in the memories of a magical time period at Stan Hywet Hall and Gardens. Recently, I have boarded another timeless journey: the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad.

From serving as a transportation corridor for the Indians thousands of years ago to later providing settlers with an easy way to move bulk goods, the Cuyahoga River and Valley in northern Ohio has always been an asset to people of all ages. The Valley Railway was primarily built to transport coal from south of Canton, Ohio to the prosperous industries developing throughout Cleveland. Today it serves as transportation through beautiful meadowland, the homes of beaver, fox, deer, and owl, and shopping and lodging destinations. Children anxiously climb aboard the “Polar Express” during the Christmas season and experience a magical trip to the North Pole to visit Santa Claus. Families travel alongside the railway on miles of the Towpath Trail to bike, walk, and even canoe.

With twelve main points of interest and eight stations, the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad stretches across 33,000 acres of our National Park. I have visited and photographed two of the stations including Peninsula Depot and Brecksville Station. Each station offers various forms of entertainment ranging from recreational activities, dining, shopping, and art galleries.

 

Peninsula Depot
The Peninsula Depot sits in the small town of Peninsula that offers various tourist attractions for its visitors of all ages. A few dining options include the Winking Lizard and Fisher’s Cafe and Pub, stores range from Burda Books to Yellow Creek Trading Company, and art galleries include Diane Seskes Photography and Elements GallerySpecial events are held throughout the year and attract families from all over the Midwest. Not only is the town packed with excitement during the day, but it also has a great night life featuring various bars, karaoke events, and live musicians.

While visiting I traveled the Towpath Trails. Not only was I able to observe wildlife throughout the dense forest, recreational activities on the trails, and the beautiful scenery, but I also came across the Canal Feeder Dam, a historical landmark of the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad. While the dam was originally built in 1827 to provide water for the Ohio and Erie Canal, today it functions as more of a memory for the town. Peninsula once greatly depended on this dam and the Cuyahoga River, and many of the buildings throughout the town still stand as to portray the purpose it once served.

I also walked alongside the Cuyahoga River which has created a series of peninsulas over the course of its existence. While the river was once completely polluted and disregarded by society, it now serves a different purpose. I observed two children skipping rocks across the water, a family canoeing on the calm rapids, and a blue heron searching for its lunch.

 

Brecksville Station

The Brecksville Station also offers much excitement for its visitors.  Well known restaurants are just around the corner and offer a wide variety of dining options including Creekside Restaurant and BarSakura Japanese, and The Courtyard Cafe. Shopping centers are within walking distance from these restaurants and feature unique stores such as Riverview House Antiques Gifts and Florals and ABC Art and Coin Exchange. The area also serves as a great recreational destination as people come to hike, golf, play softball, and run cross country.

While visiting I photographed the beautiful fall scenery around the station. The Route 82 bridge spans the Cuyahoga Valley and runs directly over the railroad at the Brecksville Station. Built in 1931 the bridge stands at a height taller than the Statue of Liberty and its unique construction the evolution of bridge engineering.

From recreational opportunities to gourmet dining to experiencing historical landmarks, the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad is truly a beautiful asset to Northeast Ohio. While I have only visited two of the stations, I look forward to exploring and photographing more in the near future. Board the Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad yourself and discover all that it has to offer!

 

~Kerry~

 

 

Check out my complete Cuyahoga Valley Scenic Railroad photography album
on EntertainingYourself.com’s Facebook page!

 

St. Paul's Cathedral as viewed from Millennium Bridge

EY Travel Tips: London

I love exploring new cities on foot. There’s no better way to “take healthy steps” – as my family says – and really get to know a place. You may wonder how it’s possible to explore London, a sprawling metropolis of almost eight million people, on foot. Let me try to convince you that it is easily – and best – explored this way, as long as you don’t plan on trying to walk around the entire city. The Tube (a.k.a. the Underground or metro) system is excellent and a good way to travel longer distances through London, but certain areas are much better enjoyed outdoors at a leisurely pace.

I spent four sunny days in London at the end of March – not nearly enough time to see and do everything I wanted to do, but enough time to stroll around some of London’s many beautiful boroughs. (Visiting London became even more significant because I had learned not long before the trip that I would be moving there after finishing my Peace Corps service.) Here are my recommendations for a few nice walking-sightseeing routes if you find yourself in London for several days.

DAY 1

Marylebone/Fitzrovia and Regent’s Park

At the Marylebone Farmers’ Market

This posh, neighborhood-y area is known for its proximity to peaceful Regent’s Park. One of the friends I was visiting lived in this area, on Weymouth Street just a few blocks from the Sunday Marylebone Farmer’s Market, which even in late March was already full of gorgeous greens, plenty of parsnips, delicious homemade goat cheese, and the best carrot cake I have ever had. I recommend trolling for postcards and souvenirs on Marylebone Road – if you like wax figures, also check out Madame Tussaud’s – before ducking into Regent’s Park for a stroll around the lake or a run on the many winding paths that offer glimpses of the London Zoo’s residents.

Bloomsbury and Russell Square

Enjoy a picnic lunch in Russell Square

After your morning stroll through the park and farmers’ market snack, walk east out of Fitzrovia to Bloomsbury, the district from which the early 20th-century Bloomsbury Group – the Woolfs and E.M. Forster were some of its prominent members – took its name. Drop into one of the many Sainsbury’s grocery stores to pick up picnic fare, then take it to Russell Square – most famously featured in Thackeray’s Vanity Fair – and enjoy people-watching while you nosh. Once your legs (and stomach) feel rejuvenated, walk one block to the British Museum. If you don’t have time for the whole museum you must at least stand gazing upwards in the glass-domed atrium for a few minutes. If you’d like to continue your literary tour, walk east on Guilford Street to Doughty Street, where you’ll find the Charles Dickens museum, situated in the house where Dickens lived for much of his life in London.

The British Museum atrium

DAY 2

Tottenham Court/Charing Cross Road to Trafalgar Square to Whitehall; the Houses of Parliament; Westminster Abbey to Buckingham Palace, St. James’ Park, and The Mall           

If your feet feel up for it, use a leisurely second day to take in many famous sights. Start on Tottenham Court Road in Fitzrovia and walk south; when you cross Oxford Street it will become Charing Cross Road in Soho. Take your time to stroll along, pop in and out of bookshops, and check out what’s playing at the theaters. Not far from Leicester Square you’ll run smack-dab into Trafalgar Square (contrary to popular belief, when I was there people actually outnumbered pigeons). If the weather is nice, grab a bite at Pret A Manger and people-watch while sitting on the steps of St. Martin in the Fields; if you’re lucky you’ll catch a choir rehearsal or concert in the church.

Westminster Abbey

 

When you have sufficiently refueled, walk south through Trafalgar Square to what becomes Whitehall Road; you will be flanked by tall, white buildings and soon will glimpse the Houses of Parliament and the famous clock tower known as Big Ben. Pause for some photos and then swing right to Westminster Abbey. You can pay to see the entire Abbey, but if you’d rather get a feel for it without shelling out any pounds, walk around to the west entrance and sit in on Evensong or Evening Prayer (check the schedule first; they offer free services and small concerts every day).

 

From the Abbey, continue walking west toward St. James’s Park, in the center of which you will find Buckingham Palace and the Queen Victoria Memorial. Walk away from the Palace along The Mall; you’ll eventually come out under the Admiralty Arch and find yourself back in Trafalgar Square. Stop in at the National Gallery or Portrait Gallery if you have time.

 

DAY 3

South Kensington and Chelsea

Start in Chelsea’s Sloane Square and visit the Saatchi Gallery, an art gallery that had an exhibition of contemporary German art when I was there. Even if modern art is not your cup of tea, the gallery is free and worth spinning through for its gorgeous design and use of space. Do you prefer shopping to art galleries? Walk up Cadogan Square to the famous department store, Harrods, where you will find anything you could ever want.

 

Prince Albert Memorial

From Harrods, it’s a short walk down Brompton Road to South Kensington and Exhibition Row, an area also known as “Albertopolis” for Queen Victoria’s establishment of museums, concert halls, and colleges in honor of Prince Albert, her husband who died too young. You could easily spend the rest of the day here in the Victoria and Albert Museum and the Natural History Museum. Take some time to walk up to Kensington Gardens/Hyde Park to see the ornate Albert Memorial and the spot of the 1851 Great Exhibition’s Crystal Palace.

DAY 4

City of London


 

 

If you still have energy after the previous three days, start this day in the one-square-mile City of London, the oldest part of London and now the financial center. Spend some time at the Museum of London, free and chock-full of London’s history from the earliest times to today. When you feel saturated, walk south and follow your eyes to St. Paul’s Cathedral. Ogle at its dome and design – if you want to spend some money you can go inside – before continuing south to pedestrians-only Millennium Bridge, leading straight to the Tate Modern art museum. While crossing the bridge you will see the reconstruction of Shakespeare’s Globe Theater. If you have time, catch a performance at the Globe after enjoying some modern art at the Tate. (Unfortunately I didn’t have time to do either of these things on my visit.)

St. Paul’s Cathedral as viewed from Millennium Bridge

Obviously, you cannot see all of London in four days. But if you like to walk, admire architecture, and really get the feel for a city, I recommend the four above walks as good starting points. I look forward to discovering many more great London walks after moving there – perhaps I shall share them with you. If you have suggestions for other walks, feel free to leave them in the comments section. Happy exploring!

~Tammela~

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Over The Rainbow

Photograph of LA, taken by Martin Mudry

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If this picture is to be believed – Then “YES” the  pot of gold really is in California!

Last time Martin was in LA, he captured this rainbow over Hollywood while he was looking out his window.  Stunning isn’t it?  And is it any wonder  he can’t resist returning?

Interested in EY’s West Coast Adventures?  Here are a few stories from our archives worth a(nother) read!

Jumping In California Style

 

Don’t Knock It If You Haven’t Tried It

 

The Key to Sea Kayaking Part 1

The Key to Sea Kayaking Part 2

Road Trip West – Part 4 

 

Sunny Spot – Mountain View, CA 

 

Who’s Guarding the Roost?

 

 

Megan Kayaking

The Key To Sea Kayaking – Part 2

Part 2 of 2 by Megan Ritchie

(continued from Part 1 of 2)   After an hour on the water sea kayaking, I was all calm now, a real ocean woman. Sure, I come from the middle of an enormous continent, and have lived in landlocked cities my whole life, but here I was, at my true roots.  I was an ocean conqueror! A Californian!!   Suddenly the waves lurched in front of me, taking my boat with them. An enormous wave  overtook my boat and spun it parallel to the shore, like a crazed giant with a toy top, before flipping me over into the waves. There was a flash of panic as I tumbled out, and the waves ripped away my sunglasses, ponytail binder, and the sassy bandana I’d tied into my hair that morning, and carried them to somewhere far away.  I kicked hard away from my boat, all the while thinking “Don’t let it hit my head. Please don’t let it hit my head.”

Wave after mighty wave ground me into the sand. I struggled to stand against them – I was only a dozen feet off the shore by then and the water wasn’t deep – and finally, gained my footing. I plodded up to shore.

On shore, Sarah was doubled over with laughter. “That was….gasp….the biggest wave….gasp…I have ever seen,” she said as she scrambled to grab my paddle out of the still pummeling waves. Adrianna, the wench, had made a successful landing on shore unscathed, and helped me pull my boat up onto drier ground, before we all collapsed into laughter.

“That was amazing,” Sarah said, once we’d all caught our breaths. Sarah pointed up to the pier. “There were even guys up there at the restaurant who were yelling suggestions to you, but once that wave came up, you didn’t have a chance.”

I tapped my head, trying to get some water out of my ear. “I’ve always known I’m really gracefully,” I said dryly. “But I think I may have outdone myself on that one.”

We decided to eat our lunch on the beach before heading back out for another round of kayaking. We scurried up to the parking lot and I reached into my running shorts to grab the key – we’d locked our lunches in the trunk. But the key wasn’t there.

“Oh. No.” I said.

“What is it?” asked Adrianna.

“The key. I put it right here,” I said, motioning to the little pocket stitched into my running shorts, “But when I fell, it must’ve…it must’ve gotten pulled out.” We all looked out onto the waves.

“Oh shit,” said Sarah.

“Yeah.”

We ran down the stairs again, looking around in the sand. But, like my sunglasses and bandana, there was no sign of the car key. I’d taken it off from my lanyard, so it was easier to tuck into my running shorts; our hunt was literally looking for a needle in a haystack…or a car key in an ocean. Sarah said she’d keep looking along the beach while Adrianna and I clambered back up to the parking lot. We debated what to do for a moment, before appealing to the parking attendant to use his phone. After explaining what had happened, he said matter-of-factly, “Oh, you should never take your keys out with you. Everyone just checks them here with me or at the Surf Shack. That way, you’ll never lose them if you hit a wave.” I looked at him. Paused.

“That’s good advice, I’ll be sure to do that next time,” I said through clenched teeth. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but my own (and maybe that big wave’s) that we were in the situation, but it wasn’t particularly helpful to be reminded of a wiser alternative.

Adrianna and I came up with a plan: I had a Triple A membership and could get them to unlock the trunk, which had my purse and phone. Then, I’d call one of my roommates, all of whom I’d met only six weeks earlier, and convince them, beg them really, to drive across the entire Los Angeles metropolitan area on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon with my spare car key, only to turn around and drive home. I sighed. There went the afternoon, and a nice chunk of my dignity.

Triple A said they’d be there in 45 minutes. I handed the parking attendant back his phone and thanked him for his help. He shrugged and gave me a “You sure are dumb” look. Helpful. Adrianna went to go check in with Sarah, and came back saying there was still no sign of the key along the beach. Just then, the surfer dude from the Shack, the guy who’d helped us carry the kayaks down to the beach what seemed like days ago, passed by, helping another couple with their boats.

“How’d it go?” he asked. “You didn’t die, I see.”

“Oh, it was really fun,” I said, trying to reassure his latest victims. “Except, well, I managed to horribly flip my kayak and lose my car key in the ocean.”

The couple, still fresh, looked a little alarmed. “Oh God, that’s horrible,” said the surfer dude. He shot me a sympathetic look as he kept walking past. Adrianna sighed unhappily.

“Are you sure it’s not in your shorts?” she asked.

I shook my head as I poked around in them again, adding “groping myself” to my long list of how uncool I looked/felt at that moment. They were the type of shorts that had built-in underwear, the better to run in, I suppose, and I fiddled around with the liner.

“No, I don’t see—“ And then there, at the very bottom of the shorts, at the very bottom of the liner, I felt something: The key.

I pulled it out, looking very much like a proud hen that had just laid an egg, or, in this case, a Ford Focus key. “I found it! I found it!”

After high-fives all around and a quick phone call to cancel the Triple A locksmith,  we settled along some rocks for a victory lunch. Maybe I wasn’t a Californian just yet, maybe I hadn’t yet mastered sea kayaking or waves or heck, checking my car key with the parking lot attendant, but one thing is for sure: I am really good at storing stuff in my underwear.

 ~Megan~

Megan Kayaking

The Key To Sea Kayaking – Part 1

 

By Megan Ritchie

About a month after I moved to Los Angeles, a friend and her girlfriend, Adrianna, invited me to go sea kayaking with them in Malibu. I’d been kayaking a handful of times, most recently on a family vacation to Lake Superior last summer, and was really excited to try it in the ocean.

On a Sunday afternoon, we drove the twenty or so miles from my house on the east side of Los Angeles, across the city and up the coast along the Pacific Coast Highway (or PCH, to us “locals”). Parking on the PCH, which runs right alongside the ocean, is impossible, but we eventually found a parking lot right next to the beach and dropped the ten bucks to park there. After locking all of our possessions in the trunk, I tucked my car key in a little pouch in my running shorts (pay attention to that detail – it comes in later), and set off. We scampered across the highway to the Malibu Surf Shack, which rents surf boards, paddleboards and, you got it, sea kayaks. After we ducked in to the little shop and our eyes adjusted to the dim light, the guy behind the counter asked if we’d been sea kayaking before. Sarah and Adrianna both nodded, yep, they’d been once before at the Surf Shack a handful of months earlier. I hesitated, and then said, “Sure, I’ve kayaked before.” Technically not on the ocean, but so be it.

“Well, good,” said the guy, who was every bit a surfer dude. “Wouldn’t want an inexperienced kayaker out on those waves today….they’re reaaaal rough, even for someone who knows what they’re doing.”

My heart began to pound as we signed off the waivers and put down the deposit.  Sarah, clearly the brains behind the operation—or at least the bravest of us all—led us out of the little shop. Adrianna and I both began talking about how we weren’t exactly “experienced kayakers.”

“Oh, we’ll be fine.” Sarah said, brushing us off.

Feeling that familiar rush of adrenaline and fear I always get from any rule-breaking or risk-taking because I am a coward and a square, I followed her around the side of the shop. We grabbed paddles and damp lifejackets and then waited for a lull in the traffic before running across the highway and back to the beach. The sea kayaks in bright citrus colors were stacked high in a trailer parked alongside the road. Another surfer dude from the Surf Shack helped us carry three down to the sand.

The waves were pounding along the beach. Adrianna and I gulped. Sarah, all confidence, tried to reassure us. I turned to the Surf Shack dude.

“Tell us, honestly,” I said. “Are we going to die?”

“What? No. You guys will be fine.”

“But we are not experienced sea kayakers, man.” I added the “man” there to let him know that even if we weren’t regular wave-paddlers, we were far from dorks. He seemed to pick up on how cool we were, because he said next in particularly soothing tones:

“Look, you’ll be fine. I promise.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but Adrianna and I were willing to be reassured by anyone, dude or otherwise.

The guy continued, “All you have to do is wait for a lull in the waves and then run out as fast and as hard as you can and hop in the boat when you can’t run any farther. The waves here in Malibu come in bursts—they’ll be a couple minutes of hard waves and then they’ll die down.”

We all paused to look out on the waves. They did seem to be dying down. Sarah took the moment to leap into the water and run out with her boat. When she reached waist-height, she leapt into her boat and paddled out. She looked cool.

I’d missed my window at that point, and had to wait for another round of boat-crushing waves before I too took the plunge. Once the water calmed again, I pushed my boat into the water and high-stepped as far as I could. I leapt into my boat not as gracefully as Sarah but I got in all the same, and paddled quickly past the waves’ breaking point. Alright, maybe I wasn’t going to die. Maybe I was all drama, it was all in my head. There is no spoon. Adrianna and I exchanged a nervous laugh – we were just being silly, everything was fine.

I should note that this was only the second or third time I’d even seen the ocean, let alone been on the water. I’m from Minnesota originally and so “the beach” to me means a day near a lake where the biggest waves we get are from a passing speedboat pulling a couple kids on an inner tube behind it. So my cowardice, while a little pathetic, wasn’t entirely ungrounded.

We paddled our boats out past the wooden pier. There were fishermen with long poles standing at the end of  it, and a few of them waved at us as we passed. It was a gorgeous afternoon, with barely a breeze and a cloudless sky. I looked around at the gentle waves and the rocky coastline, and kept having to tell myself “I live here now. This is my home now.” Sometimes, I find it amazing how huge the United States really are. I marveled how the beautiful coastline I was kayaking along was part of the same country as the rolling hills of prairie grass and wildflowers I’d ridden past only a few months earlier on bike rides in Minnesota.

As we made our way up the shore, we saw surfers up ahead; there was some kind of surfing competition going on up the beach. We paddled out farther to avoid them, and because (understandably) the waves looked even bigger there. We paddled for an hour or so before deciding to come back in and have lunch along the shore.

For the approach back to the beach, we were to do the same strategy as our way out: wait for the waves to calm before paddling. Sarah turned to us. “All you have to remember,” she said, “is to keep your boat at a 90 degree angle to the beach. Just head straight in. See, watch me.”

Sarah paddled forward hard for thirty or forty feet before sliding her boat gracefully onto the sand. Easy. Adrianna and I hesitated. She looked at me nervously. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said, thrusting my chin forward bravely. I looked behind me to try to gauge if the waves had died down. Things looked fairly calm so I paddled toward the shore, making sure to stay perpendicular to the shoreline, as Sarah had instructed.

Adrianna followed suit, looking anxious. After my hour on the water, I was all calm now, a real ocean woman. Sure, I come from the middle of an enormous continent, and have lived in landlocked cities my whole life, but here I was, at my true roots. Humans emerged from the ocean thousands of years ago, shook off their gills and claimed their spot on land. And now, here I was, returning to my ocean homeland, victorious. The forces bigger than me were to be conquered, to bow before me. Yeah, I was an ocean conqueror! A Californian!!

I paddled harder for shore. Suddenly the waves lurched in front of me, taking my boat with them. I glanced over at Adrianna, who was struggling to keep her boat’s bow heading straight for shore. Her kayak pushed toward mine, and I paddled even harder away from her, trying to avoid a collision.

The waves were now coming in even harder, rolling us closer and closer to shore. Suddenly, an enormous wave overtook us, and took my boat and spun it parallel to the shore, like a crazed giant with a toy top, before flipping me over into the waves. There was a flash of panic as I tumbled out, and the waves ripped away my sunglasses, ponytail binder, and the sassy bandana I’d tied into my hair that morning, and carried them to somewhere far away.  I kicked hard away from my boat, all the while thinking “Don’t let it hit my head. Please don’t let it hit my head…”

…to be continued  

 

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Road Trip West: The Grand Canyon (Part 3 of 4)

(Part 3 in a 4 part series)

Onward…

By Megan Ritchie

The next day, Day 4 for those counting, Chris and I awoke, sore from our wigwam slumber and hit the road once again. It’s at about this time in a road trip, I think we can all agree, when real life starts to feel like a foreign thing, and all you have is a car, a radio, and, inevitably, an interesting collection of empty fast food containers crammed in various recesses throughout the vehicle. Yep, we were feeling the miles.

Thankfully, we were just in time for a detour of grand proportions. Now, when Chris and I were originally planning the trip’s route we were all, “Rockies! Rockies!” and my dad was all, “You’re insane and will kill yourselves/the car!” so, as I mentioned before, we chose the southern route. As a compromise of sorts we decided we would take a detour of about 100 miles, give or take, to see the Grand Canyon because, after living abroad for a year, all I wanted was some good old American splendor. And Chris and I, Midwesterners that we are, had never been to the Grand Canyon. And it’ the Grand Canyon, you guys. 100 miles ain’t nothin’ for something that awesome.

 So, over the river and through the woods, to the Canyon we went. When we arrived and hoisted our creaking bodies out of the car, the sun was blistering hot. Armed with sunscreen, sunglasses and some stylish hats, we made our way into the park office. After a few hasty conversations with people giving us impressively mismatched directions (“Isn’t this one of the biggest tourist destinations in the country? Shouldn’t this be more straightforward?” we asked ourselves), we managed to find our way onto a shuttle that would take us into the Grand Canyon National Park.

The bus ride was rather pleasant, mostly because we weren’t the ones responsible for driving. I kept craning to see the canyon, but it was shy and kept itself hidden from the road the entire time. In fact, it wasn’t until we were dropped off that I got my very first view of the canyon. We scuttled up a trail and spread out in front of us, stretching as far as we could see in both directions, was the Grand Canyon.

It was utterly breathtaking. For those of you who haven’t seen it, it is truly one of those places that photographs do no justice. In fact, trying to flatten out something so dimensional, so expansive, so rich in color and shadow and texture, seems borderline insulting. Not that I didn’t try. But after a few pictures, including one on my horrible camera phone for the fans back home (“Hi Mom!”), Chris grew a little antsy and so we headed down the trail.

It seemed the deeper and deeper we got in the canyon, the more beautiful it became. I was snapping pictures left and right, some of the canyon itself, but many of us with the canyon: Chris in an arch, me near the edge, Chris gazing out over the canyon; just call me Annie Leibovitz guys, ‘cause it was a regular Vanity Fair cover shoot.

I clicked on and on and–wait a second: Life was (somehow) continuing on the trail beyond our photo-shoot. In fact, the more we tuned in to our fellow National Park trail enthusiasts, the more we realized that everyone seemed to be from out-of-town. And, while we (obviously) were too, everyone around us seemed to be from a bit farther out-of-town…as in, out-of-country. Nearly everyone on the trail around us were speaking various European languages, and striding purposefully up and down the trail. The Americans, large and in charge, were up above on the shuttle buses, breathing heavily behind their digital cameras, while down here, svelte and workin’ it, Europeans were showing us who was boss. Chris and I decided we were done with the photo-shoot—we needed to pick up the pace…for America! We cruised down the trail a handful of miles to our turn-around point, a sturdy-looking outhouse with a water-pump nearby. It seemed to be a popular spot to stop and find some shade, no matter your country of origin.

After a quick bathroom break and a few swigs of water we looked around, glanced at our watches and decided it was probably time to head back up—we still had over 200 miles to drive before our stop for the night in scenic Needles, CA and the road was calling our names. So, up we went.

The hike down was easy-peasy, but the hike up, well, it. was. hot. Chris quickly ditched his shirt, and I just as quickly regretted having brought my stupid, heavy digital camera along (call me Annie Leibovitz, guys, but only if she comes with a camera caddy who carries all of her equipment for her). Cheeks blazing red, we strode along, and in a competitive push, passed a group of German tourists and an elderly French couple with walking sticks in one sweep, before collapsing in a heap on the side of the trail.

The Europeans quickly re-passed us.

Yet, after a few moments, or perhaps more than a few, we dusted ourselves off, took a final sip of water, and climbed back up.

The trail winded far more than I recalled it doing as we’d walked down, let’s put it that way. Finally, mercifully, at last I began to recognize some arches and vistas from our descending photo-shoot from what seemed like so long before (It had really only been about 90 minutes). We paused a moment to “take in the view” (ahem, for a breather) but were brought out of our reverie by voices behind us. Was that Italian? Without looking back, we quickly scrambled up the rest of the way to the edge of the canyon before enjoying a lazy, air-conditioned shuttle bus ride back to the car.

~ Megan~

Part 1 – Road Trip West

Part 2 – Wigwam Motel

Part 4 – The Wildfire

 

See also:

In Defense of the Family Road Trip

grand_canyon

In defense of the family road trip:

Like many moody teenagers, I dreamt of suing my parents, but never more than after our first family road trip. I imagined bringing my mom and dad to the courthouse of public opinion in my mind, but I thought, why stop there? Why not sue my two sisters and make it a clean sweep? Maybe, just maybe, I could prevent these people from ruining any more lives.

This is my story. The story of the worst, most humiliating two weeks of my life. I’d change the names, but it would only protect the guilty.

***

William Kennedy: Your honor, I present the ladies and gentlemen of the jury evidence that, following a game of highway bingo on August 15, 2001, my sister did punch me in the left side of the head. This unjustified and unladylike assault occurred at Deadman’s Summit on Route 395, so named because of a corpse found there in the 1860s. (See, I still have a bruise.) I also submit that this corpse, though dead and headless, was far luckier than myself because it never met the aforementioned sister.

Furthermore, I contend that I did win the game of highway bingo, that the bird observed on the roadside was in fact a crow, not a raven, and that this sister, one Jane, was entirely unfounded in her refusal to accept defeat and proclaim me champion of the family van.

Judge: Mr. Kennedy, I can’t see any possible relevance in these remarks.

WK: Your honor, if you will indulge me, the above incident served merely as a jumpstart to the injustice and downright terribleness to come on this family road trip—a trip that had just begun when the punching took place, one that still had one week and 1,750 miles to go. From my experiences I have no doubt the jury can only conclude that all future family road trips must be postponed indefinitely or canceled outright, while awarding me a settlement of $50,000 for emotional and physical trauma.

Judge: Well, it’s highly unorthodox, but I’ll allow it.

WK: Thank you, your honor. I call my first witness, Robert Kennedy.

Robert Kennedy takes the stand.

Isn’t it true, Dad, that not once, not twice, but thrice you crashed the brand-new family van, and that on the third instance the door jammed, setting off the ‘door-ajar’ alarm, so that everyone in the parking lot stared at us?

Robert Kennedy: Yes, but…

WK: No further questions. Let me remind the court that sitting in a hot parking lot inside a beeping white van with a broken door is incredibly uncool. Next, I call Jane Kennedy to the stand.

Jane Kennedy takes the stand.

WK: Tell me, Jane “Worst Sister in the Universe” Kennedy—where were you on the evening of August 15 at 4 p.m.?

Jane Kennedy: I’m not talking to you.

WK: Answer the question, please.

JK: Nope.

WK: Your honor, permission to treat the witness as hostile, annoying and spoiled.

Judge: Granted.

WK: I’ll tell you then. You were running away! That’s what you were doing, further wrecking an already hopelessly bad vacation.

JK: Yeah, ‘cause you were a jerk.

WK: Am not!

JK: Are too! You called me fat.

WK: Well, I…

JK: And you threw up on me.

WK: That was an accident.

JK: And it was a raven!!!

WK: For the zillionth time, it was a CROW and I won! You’re such a… Ahem, pardon me your honor, no further questions. For my penultimate witness, I call Helen “Second Worst Sister in the Galaxy” Kennedy.

Helen, you’re probably too young to fully comprehend the psychological damage caused by our road trip, but please tell the good people of the jury…”

HK: It was fun.

WK: What?

HK: Yeah. Except you were in a bad mood. Maybe because you didn’t eat anything.

WK: Helen, be quiet.

HK: And then we finally found organic avocados and bread that you would eat, but when we sat under that big tree by the Native American museum, it shed fur all over your sandwich, and then you looked at us and said: “I hate this family.”

WK: But what about all the hours in the car? When Dad wouldn’t stop to let you use the restroom? Those Utah people thinking Jane and I were your parents?

HK: That was funny.

WK: What about when you made us get out in Yosemite because you saw snow for the first time? And then, when you wouldn’t leave after two hours, we dragged you away screaming and crying, and people thought we were kidnapping you?

HK: I like snow.

WK: Grrrrr. No further questions. For the final witness, I call Maria Kennedy.

Maria Kennedy takes the stand.

WK: Mom, I’d like to take a minute…

MK: Actually, I wanted to take a minute to show you something.

WK: Mom! I’m supposed to be asking the questions.

MK: What’s this in my hand?

WK: Mom, please, you’re really embarrassing me right now!

MK: What is it?

WK: It’s a photo of me, Jane and Helen laughing … under some really cool rock formations near in Zion National Park.

MK: And what’s this?

WK: It’s me pretending to throw Helen in the Grand Canyon.

MK: And how ‘bout this one?

WK: That’s you and Jane helping me write a letter … to my girlfriend. But Mom, pictures don’t tell the whole story!

MK: What about the time you hiked with your dad to the top of Angel’s Landing? Or your bike ride in Moab? Or when we all went river rafting with the guide who loved the A-Team almost as much as you.

WK: OK MOM! No further questions. Your honor, I’d like to request a brief recess before my closing remarks.

***

Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, I came before you today originally to sue my family and argue for the dissolution of the institution of family road trips, but I can no longer in good conscience continue. The testimony we’ve heard reminded me that yes, much, and possibly most of what goes on during a family road trip is awful and humiliating, but there are also wonderful moments.

It’s a right of passage, especially for teenagers, to go to a place, be really embarrassed by family members, and promise never to return. And it’s a source for stories that the family will find funny at some point in the very, very, very distant future.

I hereby formally submit to end the proceedings, but leave you with this final insight. Go on that road trip with the whole family, but just the once; it’ll be more than enough.

~Will~

 

028

I survived Dog Sledding in Mongolia

~ OR ~

…How to put what’s left of a good face on travel adversity

“So I went to the doctors,” Bijani said.

“Oh good, what did they say?” The phone-line went quiet for a few seconds.

“Well, that I’d probably lose my big toe and parts of both ears.”

“What?!”

“Yeah, they’re pretty black and peely right now. You know marshmallows, after they’ve been on fire? Kinda like that.”

“Oh—that’s bad! Did you get a second opinion?”

“I think it’ll be ok,” Bijani laughed. “They found a doctor who’d lived in Alaska, and he says as long as everything stays warm I get to keep my nose, earlobes—all that good stuff.”

“… Does your mom know?”

“No—but she’ll kill you when she finds out.”

***

I’m a thoughtful dude: I do dishes; I put the toilet seat down at night; onetime I read the Little Prince and told people I liked it. So, never, in a million years, did I imagine this could happen to me.

Even Bijani’s mom’s parting words didn’t offer a hint. “Mongolia’s not the world’s safest place,” she said. “Don’t let ANYTHING happen to my beautiful daughter.” Frostbite would surely count as a kind of “anything”—and on her second-to-last-day, all because I’d agreed to have “fun” against my better judgment.

Oh, we’d had fun before—my kind of fun—the kind that involves working long hours at a newspaper office and watching Singapore-based sports TV in an apartment. But given her imminent return to California, I couldn’t say no. For our last, most memorable adventure in the land of Genghis Khan, Bijani chose dog sledding.

***

“At least the dogs were cute,” Bijani said.

“Oh yeah, great.”

“And I liked Noel.”

“That crazy French guy? He’s insane—case of permanent brain freeze.”

“Look on the bright side…”

“Easy for you to say. You just got frostbite. I’m going to be murdered by your mother.”

“Well…”

“Aghhhhh. How did this happen?”

***

It started with us setting off for sledding on one of those unusually mild, Mongolian January days. It was zero degrees. For the first time in three months I felt overdressed in long underwear, snowpants, gloves, and two jackets. One small victory in the battle of Man vs. cold.

The Silver Storm company van drove us out of Ulaanbaatar city northeast toward Terelj National Park, while I sweated past wrecked cars that served as “don’t drink and drive” reminders, through stiff yellow hills and finally the famous rock that looks like a turtle happily sunning itself.

We arrived and I couldn’t help feeling a little optimistic about the expedition. Three felt tents beside a log shed made up the camp, where lean, eager huskies and the bemused voice of Noel, our energetic guide, greeted us.

“Is zees all you brought?” he prodded our clothes dubiously and left, returning a few moments later with massive, traditionally-pattered wool jackets and pants.

“Now you will not freeze,” he said.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was colder by the banks of Terelj River than in the city, but I felt impenetrable in my woolen armor. Noel wore a jacket, ski-pants and a fleecy headband. I figured we were being treated with big, woolen, kiddie mittens.

We met Black and White, the skinny lead dogs, and learned the essentials—hold on, lean left to turn left, right to turn right. And that was it—we mounted our wooden sleds and plunged down a powdered ice ramp onto the hard river.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The stony riverside and lines of crisp alpines whipped by at seven miles per hour. Black looked over his shoulder as if to say: “Isn’t this fun?” It was fun, for five minutes.

Then I felt something else. Pain.

Freezing pain.

***

“Remember how the wind cut through seams in your clothes and your boots?” Bijani asked?

“Oh yeah, but how’d it get through both pairs of socks?”

“Weird, huh?”

“You should’ve said something; we’d have gone back.”

“I just couldn’t make myself do it, but I wanted to turn around so badly,” she said.

“I wanted to cry, but my tear ducts froze.”

***

At some point, we stopped for a third time. Bijani started with a neat fur hat and scarf wrapped around her face. Now frost caked her eyebrows and yellowing scarf; the hat was long gone, blown off and replaced by my lopsided wool cap. She looked like the disconsolate runner up of Miss Abominable Snowwoman 2008.

I should have given her my balaclava, but it was too cold to really be considerate.

“Should we keep going?” I asked.

I wanted her to say no. She opened her mouth and nothing came of it, just a headshake. (Later she’d tell me her brain had lobbied for a nod, but some frozen synapses misfired).

“Only 15 kilometers to go!” Noel said.

I knew we would die. Black glanced over his shoulder again, and I saw resignation on his face. “Yes, you are going to die,” his look said. “And if no one’s looking, I’ll probably eat you. No hard feelings, though.”

The wind howled. We crossed more frozen water. Sometimes it made cracking noises and we could see the water running under our feet. Sometimes rocks or debris formed a line across the icy track and we had to get off and run behind the sleds. I cursed nature. Bijani fell. She fell again.

She looked at me and I’ve never seen a face I know registering that much pain.

At last we reached the halfway point, a river bend that provided some shelter from the wind. Noel lit a fire and heated mutton dumplings and tea. I thought it was the best meal I’d ever eaten.

“At least we won’t die hungry,” Bijani said.

Miraculously, the wind at our back made the homeward journey easy. Bijani got a lift in Noel’s sled. I laughed the whole way to camp, partly from relief, partly from borderline hysteria that made me careless with the reins a few times. Black peeked at me, looking concerned and a little disappointed. He licked his lips.

Once inside a safe felt tent with a dung fire going, we took off our huge coats and pants and took stock of our situation. Bijani removed her hat.

“Uh oh,” I said.

“My ears feel funny,” she said.

They were humongous. The backs had bubbled into deep purple blisters.

“Is this going to be ok?” I asked Noel.

“Oh that,’ he laughed. “That iz just from the cold. The elephant ears. You feel just like an elephant because ze are so…”

“Floppy?” Bijani offered

“Floppy!” He made wiggly elephant ear motions with his hands.

“Will she be ok?”

“But it iz nuffing. It’s happened to me at least five times.”

Noel’s headband remained conspicuously over his ears for our entire visit. We drove back in the dusk. Against the frozen brown backdrop that signature rock looked like a turtle trying to squeeze out of its shell and run, run for the hills, far away from its angry, future mother-in-law.

Things looked even worse when we got home and Bijani took her shoes off. The big toe on her right foot was black. I spent the evening breathing on her feet trying to keep them warm.

“This is just the romantic last evening I wanted,” Bijani said.

We got advice ranging from ‘put the affected areas in snow’ to ‘pray,’ to ‘everything will be fine.’ The next day, Bijani left for California with burn traces clearly showing on her face. She called me 20 hours later.

***

“So you’ll really be ok,” I asked.

“I think so.”

“I am so sorry. What a perfect end to a perfect stay, huh?”

“You know, I actually had a lot of fun.”

“Really?”

“Ha ha ha. Of course, didn’t you?”

“Except that it was the most awful, difficult, painful experience of my life, yeah, I guess I did.”

“Good. Plus we have a great story and I’ll have cool scars to prove it.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“It won’t be so bad. They won’t last more than a few months. Speaking of which, when are you coming home?”

“Dunno, after your mom has cooled down for a year or two… “ There was another silence on the line. “So, where to next? Somewhere really nice like Iceland, Antarctica, the frozen void of space …?

“Don’t get any ideas, buddy. I’m taking you somewhere warm.”

 ~Will~

For more on Will’s escapades in Mongolia, check out these additional EY articles:

Second Chances: UB Mongolia

EY Travel Tips: MONGOLIA

and coming soon:  TAJ MONGOLIA

Some say adversity is the fuel on which true love feeds…it certainly seems true for Will & Bijani who continue to surprise, delight & inspire us at every turn!  Read more about their engaging love story here.

 

Martin Examines Hops

Foraging For Hops

Sadly, I’m not a big beer drinker.  And I say sadly, because I seem to be surrounded by people who really know and love their beer.  My sister’s fiancé, Joel, is a brewer at the one and only Great Lakes Brewing Company, and my good friend, co-filmmaker, and current roommate, Alex, is experienced in the art of home brewing- he even took an online course.  So between them it is as if I’ve been adopted into beer culture.

For the most part this has worked out well enough. They’ve been able to get past my comments such as “I think my favorite beer is Coors Ice- Coors Light poured over a big glass of ice,” and I’ve been able to ignore their Indiana Jones like reactions in beer shops to a rare “one of a kind” find.  But this weekend a connection was made – I have now become a beer “forager.”

It all started a few years ago- Alex had discovered wild hops growing near Colorado Springs.  He had seen it for a few years and after many smell tests found when it would be most ripe for harvest.  It just happened to coincide with this past Saturday, so Alex, Maddy (Alex’s girlfriend), Dan (another beer advocate) and I hopped into the car.

We arrived at a familiar running spot, and started hiking up the road keeping our eyes peeled for what I perceived to be these “illusive” hops.  On the way, I found my eyes (and mind) wandering away from the task at hand, to the crags and rock walls along the path, wondering which I could climb.  I pointed an especially nasty looking one out to Dan, (an experienced climber) wondering if I’d be able to attempt the route while being securely roped up.  Reading my mind he declared: “That’s about the limit of what I’d do without a rope!”  Instantly I was in disbelief and awe for it was 100 feet of near vertical and overhanging rock. We continued on, me pondering Dan’s skill level and the rest of the group searching for the still undiscovered hops.

The trip was not without treasures. We did stumble upon a rare squirrel that looked like a cross between a bunny and the devil.  We photographed the demon and moved on.

Throughout the search, I was completely ignorant to what hops looked like and imagined us gathering long stalks of brown wispy wheat-like plants.   Our prospects weren’t looking too good until finally Alex spotted the “elusive” hop.

I could not have been more surprised.  Rather than brown, tall and thin, it grows as a vine and has little buds ranging from ½ to 1 inch long.  We smelled them and were mildly impressed but moved on to see if there were more.

BOOM- we found the bumper crop.  A small pine tree was covered in them.

This bunch smelled different and we all went back and forth, on which we liked more.  In the end we gathered half a plastic bag full of both varieties and headed to the home brew store.

 

 

And despite the excitement of our find, I was still pondering Dan’s declaration about the rock climb, so before we reached the car I convinced Dan to try and “free solo” (climb unroped) his peak, except that I was horrified when he actually took up my challenge and started up.  I thought my stupid dare was about to lead to the witness of my friend falling onto the sharp rocks below.  Luckily, fear or reality got the better of him and he decided ascending in sandals sans rope was not the best plan.

The adventure continued as we drove way out east of the mountains to the plains.  The homebrew store was a combination of a warehouse and bar.  Across the street was a strip club.  We entered the store and Alex and Dan rummaged around, selecting their special ingredients (malted barley extract, yeast) and tools (tubing, buckets). Alex and Dan already had much of the gear but after two batches of last year’s brew had resulted in explosions, Alex wanted new tubing to prevent another round of infection, which he speculated might have been caused by wild yeast entering the beer.

The owner rung us up and delighted in informing us that tax was only 4.7% – we were out of the city now where tax was 9.8%!

“Gotta love being right on the border” he joked.  “But the winter was a drag, snow plow didn’t even plow the street.”

“But you gotta love that tax,” I told him, “hell, I bet you’ll put the plow on your truck and make your own path.”

He gave a hearty laugh, it appeared I hit the nail on the head.  (I wondered if he had a deal with the strip club guy).

Fast-forward to the next day and our cottage was transformed into what could easily be mistaken for a meth lab.  Tubes, and buckets everywhere with a big vat of wort (beer before it has fermented) on the stove.

 

The smell was… interesting, but it grew on me and over all the hops smelled great.

Alex and Maddy did most of the actual brewing, while I hung around on the sidelines, watching in wonder.  Now, after all the excitement and activity, for once I can honestly say that I’ve never been so excited to crack open a beer.  I’ll let you know how it goes in 4 weeks!

~Martin~