My ramblings and occasional wisdom along the road of life.
Author: Heather
I always wanted to grow up and travel and thought that meant going to other countries. While I'd love to do that, I've found my means limit the scope of my travel. It has caused me to embrace more local and regional travel, with the occasional big trips across parts of the country. I love to write, both for my people who enjoy it and also (selfishly) for myself. Writing lets me experience something multiple times: once as it happens, once as I write, and again any time I return to read it. Now that my kids aren't kids any more, my travel experiences are different. Some trips are me & my man in his Mustang. Others are side adventures with one or more of the "kids". It's a rare treat when I get to experience things with all my people.
Beyond travel and writing, I enjoy more things than I have time for. I love listening to music, stargazing, reading, scrapbooking, hiking, swimming, playing music, and just chilling with family or friends.
Thanks for joining me on my journey!
If you live where snowfall is measured in feet and not inches, you’re probably tired of the snow by January. But living in the Deep South, snow is a magical event that only shows up every few years. Mind you, we get flurries and dustings of snow a few times each year. That’s always delightful, but the real magic happens when we get measurable snow. It’s not just the rarity that makes it magical. There’s lots to treasure about a Georgia Snow Day.
Part of the magic is that everything shuts down, well except Waffle House. I live within a few hundred feet of an interstate, so vehicle noise pollution is an unfortunate part of my daily life. All hours of the day, you can hear revving, honking, emergency sirens, and general vehicle noise. On days like today, you might get the occasional ATV or truck testing out the road or an emergency vehicle, but for the most part the roads are empty and it’s amazingly still and silent.
Another piece of the magic happens within the neighborhood. Beyond the quiet of the snow-laden land, you get the muffled sounds of laughter from children young and old. Some are trying southern sledding (where you use anything flat-ish from your house…most often an old packing box or a boogie board). Some are throwing half-made snowballs at anything and everything. Some are building snowmen. As my children are all grown, I didn’t have anyone to play with but made my own snowman (or maybe a gnomeman) and enjoyed a walk around the neighborhood and beyond. I chatted with families on their own walks, made a few snowballs for the “underdog” at one yard, smiled at the footprint evidence of some fun, and cheered on several kids as they made their own snowmen.
Another part of the magic (for me at least), is your pets’ reactions to the snow. My cats both stared out the window this morning and promptly moved to warmer spots in the house to curl up. My dog, Padme, had quite the opposite reaction. She was so excited that she ran out prancing and jumping with delight.
Last, but certainly not least, is the beauty of nature. All the trees and shrubs covered in the fluffy snow look like something out of a fairytale. It’s a rare and enchanting sight to see the glistening frost and stillness, only disturbed by the occasional bird landing on a branch.
By this point, I was cold and wet but fulfilled. 2024 was a rough season, and nothing feels quite right most of the time these days. I needed some of that magic tucked inside a Georgia snow day to be refreshed and reminded of God’s love through the beautiful little things. As I came back towards home, I even got one last little piece of magic…someone built a little snowman next to my driveway for me. 🙂
Once upon a time, I said I would never go out of my way for an eclipse again. I had been so exited leading up to the 2017 eclipse. It was the first time in my life that a total solar eclipse would happen in Georgia and one of the spots for totality was in Sky Valley where my folks have a place. I had fond memories from growing up of partial solar eclipses at school, with our little shoe box to “watch the moon cover the sun”. There were also great times watching lunar eclipses, but a solar eclipse was much more novel, and a total solar eclipse near you was extremely rare.
So, we planned for over a year for the 2017 eclipse. My folks hosted a party, and I took the kids out of school. We packed family and friends onto the property. We had tents, telescopes, and people all over the open field there in Sky Valley. It was a beautiful day as we watched the moon start to cover the sun. Everyone was filled with excitement even to the point of talking about the 2024 eclipse that would be just a few states away. As the sky was getting to a weird dusk-like color, literally minutes before totality, a bank of clouds moved in and covered the eclipse. We prayed, begged, and wished with all our might for that cloud to quickly move. We got some more darkening and some sounds of nightfall (like crickets and such). And then it started getting light again. The field was filled with sighs, tears, bewilderment, and frustration.
Ironically, a friend texted me from the Sky Valley overlook (just a few miles away) with her picture of perfect totality and exclaimed “Wasn’t that amazing?!” And then our clouds rolled away–their task of destroying our joy was complete. I know this highlights my privilege, but I don’t think I’ve ever experienced that level of disappointment. After our dreams that day were crushed, it was hard to be excited about any future eclipse.
Photo Courtesy of Brittany Mitchell
However, after we rolled into 2023, the idea started drawing me back in. I was back and forth about it for a long time. Toward the end of 2023, Lizzy’s boyfriend (now fiancée), Jacob, offered to let me crash at his apartment in Louisville, and the desire to attempt the total eclipse again took full hold. As we got closer to the eclipse date, I started planning and realized that Louisville was not in the path of totality. Jacob was going to have classes on the day of the eclipse, so there was no reason to drive to Louisville. I started looking for the right eclipse spot and realized there were lots of great choices just a few hours from my brother in Nashville. Unfortunately, as we got closer to the eclipse, the weather forecast was looking worse every day. I decided we’d just have to find a location on the fly, based on the weather that day.
Come the weekend before the eclipse, I gave up on the chase. I had been sick for weeks with unexplainable hives that were driving me crazy (and the significant amount of allergy meds made me exhausted). The weather forecast looked bad for anywhere we could drive to. I “knew” it was going to be a disappointing repeat of my last total eclipse experience. Thom took it all in stride and said he would go at the drop of a hat if I changed my mind. All I could see was that we were going to miss work, spend a bunch of money on gas, sit in terrible traffic…and it would all be for nothing.
I guess a tiny part of me still had a glimmer of hope, because early Sunday afternoon, I pulled up the National Weather Service site and saw there was now a forecasted hole in the cloud cover right over Paducah KY, which was in the path of totality.
So, we suddenly jumped into action. We packed, took showers, and had an early dinner with the boys before driving to Nashville. We had a beautiful sunset drive over Monteagle and stopped at my brother’s for the night.
During our Sunday drive, I used my phone and “old-fashioned” maps to hone in on the best potential spots to see the eclipse–looking at all the towns falling in the predicted break in cloud cover, checking mileage, and noting how long totality would last. Early Monday morning, we got up and went into the unknown. We set our sights on Paducah KY, as it was the first town that would be in totality. Paducah was only going to have 1 minute 34 seconds of totality, so we hoped to push further into the zone if time (traffic) allowed. We had two potential “best case scenario” targets: Cape Girardeau MO (4 minutes 6 seconds of totality) or Carbondale IL (4 minutes 8 seconds of totality). They were both about the same drive from Nashville, but were off different expressways once we got past Paducah.
After we got through Nashville’s rush hour, we stopped at Dunkin’ for breakfast (since we don’t eat or drink in the Mustang). That stop (and our later lunch and gas stops) were so different from a normal day. Instead of people just standing in line and keeping to themselves, everyone was talking to each other, sharing excitement about the event, and asking where everyone was from and where they were going for the eclipse. It was electric and alive in such a refreshing way.
Back on the road, we had more traffic than expected. I figured most people would have lodging reservations and would already be in place just hours before the eclipse. However, I think the weather forecast had caused many people to make last minute adjustments. Looking at traffic, Cape Girardeau looked more problematic due to more bridges (which seemed to bring about the worst traffic). Thus, we set our sights on Carbondale and settled into a music podcast interrupted occasionally by GPS alerts stating that there was an “unusual” amount of traffic.
When we finally made it to Paducah, we howled with delight as we knew we were at least in the totality zone. Now the goal was just a matter of getting a longer totality (in an area without cloud cover). We enjoyed several cool bridges in that little stretch of Kentucky.
We crossed over the Ohio River into Illinois and got super excited as every mile was pushing us deeper into the totality zone.
The sky was completely clear above us; I finally started to believe it was going to work out this time. However, we did see clouds in the distance. I got busy on the National Weather Service site and, for a moment, embodied my childhood dream of being a storm chaser. Of course, today I was chasing the anti-storm (aka clear sky). The weather in Carbondale was starting to look iffy and traffic was making that destination improbable anyway. So, I found a new potential spot in Marion IL. They were set for 4 minutes 6 seconds of totality, located right off the interstate, and had lots of shopping center parking lots (for ease of pulling in and setting up without trees). As we pressed forward, we started seeing crowds sprawled out with blankets or chairs at every gas station or restaurant near the interstate. Even the travelers were getting in place, and all eyes were on the first phase of the eclipse. We finally pulled into Marion and chose a field next to a gas station right off the interstate with plenty of room for us and the telescope.
We alternated between watching the partial eclipse through our glasses and fiddling with the telescope. In turned out to be quite the challenge to bring the sun into focus. It seemed so obvious–the sun is huge–but using the solar lens or eclipse glasses meant that you either had complete darkness or the full sun and no in-between. We got it lined up a few times, and that was cool, but it would quickly drop out of view. So we stopped fighting that fight and just enjoyed the eclipse with our glasses. As the moon blocked out more and more of the sun, we got to know the other people around us: a family with young kids that had taken the day off work and school, a retired couple on the way back north after their winter in Florida, a father and high school son enamored with the science of the eclipse, a group of college kids making different memories than the classroom could offer that day, and a group of construction workers on break. We all were bubbling with excitement and anticipation.
Suddenly, the world around us started to change as the moon moved across the last sliver of sun. The light became muted like a mixture between where a cloud covers the sun and when the sun is setting. Birds went from singing to cooing. Crickets started chirping. The street lights came on. Then it became twilight. The traffic all stopped on the interstate. The air got noticeably cooler. The birds went silent. The symphony of crickets crescendoed. And, quite unexpectedly, thousands of bats flew by in three different swarms. We only had a moment to marvel at that strange occurrence because in that moment, the moon completely covered the sun and day turned to night.
I can’t possibly do justice in describing the next four minutes of my life. I’m not sure even a wise old philosopher with a rich vocabulary could truly describe the experience. I feel like this is one of those things that you simply have to experience in order to understand. But I’ll do my best…
I took my glasses off and my jaw literally dropped. There was a twinkling diamond-like light emanating from one edge for a moment and then beautiful light bands from the sun’s corona streaked out around the moon’s perimeter in shimmery movements as if they were dancing. Then it was like God pulled back the veil and opened up the night skies. It was dark enough for long enough that suddenly lots of stars became visible and I could even see a planet near the horizon. Somehow, I wasn’t prepared for the starry night sky to show up and it overwhelmed my soul. Tears streamed down my face at the magnificence of it all. I turned my face toward Thom to tell him that was Venus in the low sky and no words would come out. I laughed and tears of delight streamed down my face as I simply pointed at the sky. The world around us was a dichotomy of eerie silence, non-sensical exclamations from the adults, and exhilarated laughter & cheers from the kids. Thom looked back at me with the same teary eyes and inability to speak. We were totally Consumed by this moment that felt frozen in time.
The sparkly little diamond light started peeking out the opposite side from earlier and, just like that, totality was over. We rejoiced with all our new friends and bubbled over talking about what we saw and how it made us feel. I had taken a few random pictures in hopes something would capture even a tiny bit of what we saw, and it turned out I was the only one managing to capture it. Everyone wanted a copy and it was kind of cool to be able to share with our newfound temporary family. There was none of the expected loss of it being over. There was just amazement over how we had just been changed forever.
Once the eclipse was completely done, we said our goodbyes and headed south. We settled in with the traffic and I had the great idea to stop in Metropolis on the way by. It was a super cute little touristy town with an eclipse party going on. We got a picture with the giant Superman statue (who even had his own super-sized eclipse glasses) and shopped in the Superman museum store. There was live music and people hanging out all over the town…happily oblivious to the nearby traffic we were soon to encounter.
Legs stretched and tourist attraction checked off the list, it was time to get back on the road (hoping traffic had thinned out a little). Turns out, we fell into the worst traffic I’ve ever encountered. And I know quite a bit about terrible traffic: I live in the Atlanta area, I drove home from the middle of totality in 2017, I’ve driven through Panama City in summer, and I’ve driven through Pigeon Forge in the height of fall. This topped all of them. Pulling out my maps, I realized the predicament I had placed us in by going through Metropolis. Heading south out of town had multiple major roads merging together and eventually becoming just one little lane to enter the expressway on one of the few bridges crossing the Ohio River. I had thrown us into a terrible traffic funnel that took over three hours to go less than two miles. I knew there was a reason that I didn’t like DC Comics…
After our escape from Illinois, the road was full but we moved along pretty well all the way back to Nashville (and then home). All in all, we met people from 9 states and saw cars from 29 states (plus Ontario). We drove 800+ miles with over 22 hours of actual drive time between Sunday evening to Tuesday afternoon. I know that “on paper” it makes no sense whatsoever, yet those are exactly the kind of things one should do (at least every once in awhile). What’s the point of living if you aren’t going to get out and experience the absolutely amazing wonders of this world?
The events of that first rehearsal were so mentally taxing that I slept like a rock, waking up in the same exact spot I laid down in. That morning, I vowed to start a new habit of actually taking a lunch break each day and using it to study my music. As I started the daunting task of deciphering the “foreign language” of the sheet music received the night before, I became increasingly sure that I needed percussion lessons. I’m normally all about watching YouTube to figure stuff out, but this task was a little more complex than learning how to change toner in a copier (or other random tasks). I’m sure I could learn lots on the percussion video route, but it was going to take a human to teach me proper techniques and give me feedback along the way to make sure I didn’t develop bad habits. I also knew going with whoever happened to be at the local music store was not going to be my best choice. What I really needed was an extremely talented person to help me through the challenging spot I found myself in–a percussion beginner with advanced-level music to play. Even with an amazing teacher, I still wasn’t sure I would be able to pull this off.
Thankfully, I got a “yes” from just the right person. Mr. D had been a shot-in-the-dark when I reached out to various folks. He taught all my kids in jazz band and my boys in concert band at the middle school level. I knew he was still in middle school, in addition to assisting at a local high school, teaching lots of lessons, and having a busy family life. I didn’t expect him to have room for me. However, he knew me and liked what I was attempting to do. While it’s a bit odd to be a student of your kids’ prior teacher, there was some comfort in already knowing him. Plus, anyone who can put up with middle schoolers and actually teach them something would surely have the patience and stamina to deal with the challenge I was bringing to the table. So just a few days after my first rehearsal, the real work began.
Mr. D crammed an incredible amount into that first lesson. We went from how to properly hold drumsticks all the way to playing a roll on a cymbal. He gave me strategies on reading the music and a workbook to help learn mallets. It was mentally overwhelming, physically challenging, and also incredibly rewarding. But the most important thing he taught me that day was that I could do this. For a moment at least, this girl was on fire. I was so excited that I went and bought my first mallets (to use with Brandon’s ancient middle school bell set).
Fast forward a few days (with lots of book work at lunch and practice at night), and it was time for another rehearsal. I was still nervous, although not quite at the level of that first rehearsal. My heart was still pounding in my throat, but I didn’t feel like I was going to throw up at any moment–yay, progress! I didn’t feel nearly prepared enough for the actual music and certainly didn’t expect anyone else to be impressed that I could at least hold sticks properly. I swallowed my pride and asked another percussionist to confirm note placement on the chimes. I furiously practiced the chimes part I had (since I couldn’t fully practice that at home). I was starting to feel like I could pull off at least a few sections of each of my pieces. Then, the conductor walked in and wrote the evening’s pieces on the whiteboard…and my heart sank. Four of the five pieces listed were songs I didn’t have yet.
Flooded with anxiety once again, I collected the new sheet music and found out which parts I would be doing. I fumbled my way through a bass drum part and didn’t do much on the next two, as I wasn’t in a place where I could sight read and play mallet pieces. The fourth song was one I had already been practicing the bell part on at home and had (thankfully) practiced the chimes part at the beginning of the evening. If you didn’t know my ability level, you would’ve rightfully called my attempt a hot mess. But, I came in at the right place (or at least close to it) throughout the piece despite playing parts on two different instruments, and I mostly played the right notes. So, to me, it was a huge accomplishment. We got to the last piece and I knew I was doomed. It was long and complex, over several mallet instruments, and even featured multiple sections of four mallet 16th notes. (I was still learning where to ding out one note at a time…struggling to read the note, find the note, and play the right rhythm, so this was beyond hope.) Then there was a change from treble clef to bass clef…I didn’t have a clue what to do with that. I tried to just visually follow along the music and tap rhythms on my legs. But mostly I just stood there stunned. It must have shown on my face because at the end of the rehearsal, one of the percussionists took that music out of my hand and replaced it with the percussion 2 piece (telling me to practice just the suspended cymbal part).
Here I was again, in a kind of shock over being thrown into new, overwhelming music. I hadn’t even suspected there would be more music. At Fellini’s after rehearsal, I asked the question I didn’t really want the answer to–how many pieces are we working on right now?? The response was “15 or so for the spring, oh and there’s a handful of pieces on the regular/permanent band repertoire.” I had climbed a little bit of the mountain only to discover that it was even higher than I thought.
Rolling into winter break week, I had another lesson and learned everything from basic drum rudiments to the oddities of notes (like C flat, which I truly thought was a typo). I learned some concepts behind the structure of keyboards as well as the basics of major scales. We reviewed my new music and talked about strategies to learn the music (such as listening to other recordings and listening for key moments). I learned (or tried to learn) about all the different kinds of mallets, and Mr. D was kind enough to loan me a few mallets since I apparently needed more than just the bell mallets I bought. I lost a little traction while heading out of town twice during winter break, but I practiced where and how I could (even choosing the keys video games, lol). Break happened to be while the band was in transition changing locations. So, they only played two pieces while I was gone and “only” one piece was new-to-me. They canceled the next practice (due to the move), so I got a little extra time to practice at home before the next rehearsal.
My third lesson was just as stellar and overwhelming as the first two. We put all the basics together and found where my weaknesses were. There are so many things to be mindful of–all at once! I learned more rudiments, more scales, and more mallet techniques. I even learned some “Mr. D Yoga”. Every lesson feels like my brain is overly full and my muscles are overly tight (and apparently part of that is because I tend to tense up and hold my breath in the process of concentrating). Mr. D seemed to think I was doing well, so I just tried to lean into that and trust the expert. 🙂
As the wheel kept on turning, it was time for my third rehearsal. I knew I was still woefully underprepared for the music, but I was at least more prepared for the unexpected this time. We were in a new space and had to move all the equipment in and out together. While this was physically tiring, it made me feel more like part of the team and on even footing in some strange way. The music wasn’t written on a board this time, so after each song I held my breath wondering if the next piece was new to me or not. The first piece was new, but I was determined. I glanced to see that my part bounced between xylophone, bells, chimes, and vibraphone. I quickly decided to play the vibraphone part on xylophone to keep focused on the three instruments within reach of one another. I had four measures of rest before I had to play, so I scanned ahead while trying to count my rests. I managed to come in at the right place and mostly played the right notes for a section. Each time the conductor stopped us, I listened but looked ahead trying to decipher my parts. By the end of the piece, I felt like I played decently well given my beginner abilities and the need to sight read on the spot. Once again, I suspect anyone around me would’ve rated my performance as poor, but they didn’t know where I came from.
The next piece up wasn’t exactly new, but it was the piece swapped out to me in the prior rehearsal. I’d heard the band play through this piece, but I hadn’t read or played this part. I was on suspended cymbal and did a passable job. The conductor mentioned the crescendo was good, so I was super excited that I remembered what Mr. D had taught me about dynamics. One of the other percussionists suggested that next time I play the other percussion 2 parts (crash cymbal and triangle) where it didn’t overlap with my suspended cymbal part. While it was a little stressful to have more parts heaped on, I also celebrated the fact that I had done decently enough that I was being given more. I quickly texted Mr. D that I’d need to learn triangle at my next lesson. The final three pieces were known to me, and I managed through them decently enough. I had one embarrassing moment where I needed to share music with the snare drummer (I was on bass drum) and there was no hiding the chaos I was living in. I popped my music up on the stand filled with highlighter on the bass line, and lots of circles, underlines, and notes around every time signature change, dynamics, and unusual note patterns. I held my breath waiting for his frustration in trying to read along on my music, but he just said, “I see…well, you’re really working on this.” I’m taking that as a win.
So here we are, one month in. I went from never playing a percussion instrument to playing bells, bass drum, xylophone, suspended cymbal, and chimes. I went from reading flute music in high school 30+ years ago to the complex world of reading percussion music. I had three rehearsals, three lessons, and over 30 hours of practice at home (plus lots of book work, music transposing, etc.). It’s still a mere drop in the bucket of experience compared to the musicians around me, but I’m so proud of how far I’ve come in this short amount of time. I wouldn’t have gone out on this limb without the encouragement and support of my family. I wouldn’t be in this spot without the chance provided by the band; I don’t understand why they brought me in, but I’m so glad they did. I definitely wouldn’t be where I am without Mr. D. He has pushed me, encouraged me, and given me so many tools already. So here I go, into another month and working towards my first concert.
As I previously mentioned, I’ve been following the Seed & Feed marching band on Facebook for quite awhile and trying to work up the courage to step into that world. I kept coming up with barriers-to-entry in my mind though (traveling to Atlanta, frequency of performances, need to buy an instrument, lack of training, etc.) It’s hard to stand on the precipice of something, feeling like everything points to why you shouldn’t take that next step.
While scrolling Facebook one night, someone posted under a Seed & Feed post noting that Callanwolde Concert Band was still in desperate need of more percussionists. I jokingly commented “What about wannabe percussionists?” which led to some discourse and, ultimately, a link to an online interest form. The online banter was fun, but looking at the form brought me to a sinking reality as I suddenly felt like these desires were ludicrous. I knew no one was going to want my lack of skills, but I filled out the form anyway. I wrote everything with stark honesty:
My primary instrument was flute but I wanted to play percussion.
The last time I performed in an ensemble was over 30 years ago when I was in high school.
For the instrument I wanted to play, my experience level was none.
What I could bring to the band? Nothing–I could only offer the desire to learn and eventually play.
I knew I wouldn’t hear back from anyone, as I didn’t have anything they needed. However, I got an email the next day from the flute section leader thanking me for the form, copying in the percussion lead, and telling me they had a desperate need in percussion. I thought, well that’s nice, but there’s no way the percussion head is going to be desperate enough to take me. So, imagine my surprise when the percussion lead called me later in the day to chat…ultimately asking me to come to the next rehearsal in a few days.
It was both exhilarating and terrifying to know I was diving into these unknown waters for real. I couldn’t believe they called me back, much less invited me in. I also had a certain amount of dread. What if I was terrible at this? What if they turned me away after seeing that I truly had zero experience? What if I didn’t actually enjoy percussion? The what-ifs took over my brain those few days before the rehearsal. It was a ridiculously busy week at work, so at least I had some distraction from the never ending worries. When the day finally arrived, I felt sick to my stomach all day. I even developed new worries, like what if some of the other band members would be angry that someone would dare walk into their group without proper experience. Was I inadvertently making a mockery of all the years and efforts of these true musicians? Would my (certain to happen) mistakes make things harder for those around me? I’ve always struggled with imposter syndrome, but it was smacking me in the face constantly now.
I got home from work and pretty much had to head straight out to ensure that traffic didn’t make me late (as I was heading all the way from Kennesaw to Decatur). I was so anxious that my stomach was in knots the whole drive. As I pulled into the parking lot, I fought the desperate urge to just keep driving and bail out of the whole thing. I’ve spent a lot of my life forcing myself into uncomfortable situations, in an attempt at personal growth. I tried to remember that this initial difficult moment wouldn’t last forever. So, I parked in a spot, took a deep breath, and walked through the doors into the unknown.
The people I had talked to (over email or phone) weren’t there yet, so I nervously went up to the percussionists who were there and introduced myself. They were busy setting up, so I promptly found myself awkwardly standing there not knowing what to do. Panic was knocking at my door, so I texted Brandon. I offloaded my stress and he fed me positivity.
Each second felt like eternity, but soon enough the head percussionist showed up and took me around for some introductions. It was quick and intimidating, but put me a tiny bit at ease. It also helped me realize that what I read as unfriendly was simply busyness in setting up. Then the conductor stepped up to start the rehearsal and one of the percussionists handed me a sheet of music saying “This should be super easy.” He handed me a pair of mallets and a whole new level of panic hit me like a wall of bricks.
I hadn’t even imagined that I would be thrown into playing right on the spot. I looked at that sheet music (which might as well have been hieroglyphics) and at the instrument in front of me (that I’ve never played), and I knew there was no way I was playing along with the band in a few moments. I also knew I couldn’t just stand there doing nothing. So, I decided to pull out a pencil and start deciphering the music at whatever level I could. Thankfully, some of my ancient music knowledge came back to me as I stared at that page. I recalled the good old acronyms of Every Good Boy Does Fine and FACE, so I started writing note names under each note. I somehow remembered the key signatures and remembered the flat order of BEADGCF and started writing flats next to the appropriate note names I’d written. I started circling repeats and dynamics. I was perplexed by the time signature (which I had never seen before) and texted Brandon who gave me a quick response about Cut Time. I sent him a picture of my quick transcription to get confirmation that I was on the right track. We also had a quick photo exchange where he helped me get straight all the different instruments. Brandon was a life saver in these moments.
I was able to recall the layout of a keyboard and started tapping a few notes of the music with my hands before the band was done with that piece and ready to move on. I took a breath of relief that only lasted a moment, as I was then handed another piece of music and told to play bass drum. And this is how the evening progressed–sight reading to music I didn’t know, playing on instruments I’d never touched, and realizing how hard it was to count the rests (with all the changing tempos and time signatures). It was an emotional roller coaster of anxiety with each new piece and brief relief at the end of each song. By the end of those two hours, I had been given five pieces of music playing on bells, bass drum, suspended cymbal, chimes, and xylophone. I tried to play where I could, but it was super messy at best. It was an exhausting experience that was a true trial by fire.
At the end of the evening, I was invited to join in their tradition of Fellini’s pizza and drinks after rehearsal. I was mentally spent and had a long drive home, but I said yes. Driving over to Fellini’s, I was certain I’d be told “thanks for your time but this isn’t a good fit”. Surprised again, the head percussionist told me that he wanted me to join them. I told him that I was worried about how long it would take me to get up to speed, but he just said I was going to be fine. I left Decatur with a mixture of exhaustion, excitement, bewilderment, and worry. I got one moment of clarity and realized that my next step had to be percussion lessons, so I started sending emails to anyone I thought might be available to teach me. As I crawled into bed that night, I knew this was a huge mountain to climb, but a tiny part of me felt like it might actually be possible. Thus the journey truly began.
I have one of those classic ’90s motivational posters hanging up at home with a closeup picture of a magnificent wave. It simply says “Challenge: The greater the difficulty, the more glory in surmounting it.” I started out liking this poster simply because I love the ocean, but it has stuck around over the years because it seems to sum up part of my approach to life. I seem to take the more difficult path, and that does seem to be more satisfying. It’s not all that different from my favorite poem, The Road Not Taken: “…I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference.” Given all that, I’ve recently taken another difficult path that hearkens back to my childhood. Soon, I’ll write more about what I’m doing, but for now, I thought it might be good to share some back story.
Way back in elementary school, after “successfully” playing the recorder, we got to pick a “real” instrument. My grandma wanted me to play saxophone like she did, and my mom shared her terrible tales of the saxophone, so I didn’t even consider a reed instrument. I didn’t like the buzzing feeling, so brass was right out. I was enamored with percussion, but was discouraged from that. So, I landed on the flute and, despite being told my mouth wasn’t right for it, enjoyed playing for the next five years. I remained intrigued by percussion, but the closest I got to it was teaching myself guitar and enjoying the thumping incorporated into some popular songs at the time (eg, “More than Words”). Fast forward to 10th grade and band became a miserable experience. The band director decided to put me on piccolo, because I was good at it and he needed it…but I absolutely hated it. I tried everything to get back into flute, but he wasn’t having it. So, when we moved to Peachtree City my junior year, I quit band.
Many years later, I found myself with musically-inclined children who all sang in chorus and also wanted to play instruments. Ironically, each one of them went into the instrument test-drive wanting to play percussion. They all did well enough to be allowed on percussion, but Brandon was the only one who forged that path. Alex went with trumpet and Lizzy went with oboe (that is, until she was forced to walk into the orchestra room the first week of school and fell in love with the bass). So, I journeyed alongside my kids doing chorus, band, and orchestra.
As Brandon moved into high school, I continued volunteering wherever my kids were and thus, was welcomed into the tightknit family of percussion moms. It was loud and hard work to help support these kids. However, it was thoroughly enjoyable to be on the sidelines of rehearsals, concerts, and marching band. Now that Brandon’s in college, I still get the concerts and the drumline performances, but it’s not quite the same as being in the thick of it.
With the youngest child off to college, a lot of my volunteer roles diminished or vanished. My calendar starting having free time after work and on weekends. People started asking what I was going to do with my time. Of course, time has a way of filling itself (at least for me), and the adjustment to a new season is gradual. It’s certainly weird to spend so many years pouring into your children and then to realize that chapter is complete. It occurred to me that I could do some things just because I wanted to (and not feel selfish about it). So, I started trying new things….stuff I wasn’t sure I could do, wasn’t sure I would enjoy, and wasn’t sure I would be able to do when I got older.
I came across the Seed & Feed marching band on Facebook and something clicked. There were opportunities to play music again and a chance to jump into percussion. I’ve enjoyed their performances at DragonCon every year for several decades, but then I started following them more closely nearly two years ago. At Con last year, I watched the parade with an exhilarating thought that maybe I could be part of that some day. Thom has known about this weird percussion fascination for a long time, and has always encouraged me to jump in. He thinks I can do anything, but I doubt myself in everything. After Con, Brandon started in on the encouragement too. That definitely tipped things, as I wouldn’t ever want him to feel like I was stepping on anything he was doing. We talked frequently about the prospect, with me seeing every wall and him telling me those walls could all be overcome. Finally, just before Christmas, Brandon went with me to the music store and we got a practice pad and drumsticks. He told me I was going to play somewhere somehow in 2024. Life got busy with Christmas, backpacking, and a hectic January at my school, but then things suddenly fell into place when I least expected it…
Upon climbing into our sleeping bags, we had a good long talk about Scouting and it’s history in our family. It seemed a fitting topic since we likely wouldn’t be out backpacking except for the peppering of Scouting throughout our family history. We talked about how my dad and uncles were involved at different parts of their lives. We talked about my brothers’ mixed experiences. We talked about how Mr. Wells was going to give Brandon hell for leaving our water behind. We even got into a discussion about why Alex didn’t start Cub Scouts until 3rd grade. I shared how young avid-reader Alex had picked up one of Pawpaw’s adult Scouter magazines and read an article about the importance of taking scouts winter camping so they could conquer the difficulties of such an experience. Alex’s takeaway was that he didn’t want to “build his character”. In light of our current frigid December experience, this story was extra funny.
We then reminisced about all our adventures through Brandon’s scouting–first as a sibling then as an official Scout. In talking about camping and the funny (in hindsight) things that went sideways on each campout, we remarked how Mr. Gelder always helped us while also good-naturedly giving us grief. It made us a little sad, as Mr. Gelder left this planet too soon. Yet, we also had quite the laugh about what he’d have to say about our misadventures this time. We then got hysterical thinking that he might be up there in Heaven watching this play out like a TV show…or maybe he got God to send us this crazy weather. The laughter was exactly what we needed to warm us up just a little bit to settle into our sleeping bags for the night.
I knew camping this time of year would be colder than I wanted. Of course, that’s when I expected upper 40s and certainly not the 33 degrees we got that night. I had a 30-50 degree bag, but I obviously needed something better. I had prepared (or so I thought) for this and had gone on many long night walks leading up to our trip, often in the low 40s. On those walks I would unbundle myself, as the walking warmed me up. What I should have done to prepare was to sleep outside at home or at least lay still outside for awhile in the cold. That’s a whole different beast. That last night on Cumberland Island felt like the longest night of my life. Sleep didn’t last for long periods and was fitful. Deep in my bag wasn’t too cold and I even had a ski mask on, but the cold hitting my tiny bit of exposed face sent chills down my body. We both found ourselves moaning and groaning as we would wake up and try to get warm. Brandon put on my extra pants (that I thought I left at home), I had all my clothes (extra socks, underwear, shirts…everything) on, and we had several “hot hands” activated in our pockets and bags. I prayed for God to let that be the very moment that menopause would come to me so I could have one of those hot flashes I hear women complain about. That didn’t happen, so we alternated between sleep and watching the time tick by as the moon moved across our tent. It was our night of character building.
Once the sun came up, we climbed out of the tent. Actually, I crawled out of the tent and used the tree next to us to pull up. My old MCL/ACL injuries had come back to life overnight. There wasn’t time to focus on this though, because it was COLD. We jumped into action with water cooking and oatmeal. Brandon’s method of making it in the packet was brilliant, because it warmed our hands while we warmed our tummies.
As soon as we finished eating, we worked together to take down camp and pack our bags. Then we were back on the trail for our final day. We took the Willow Pond Trail again (the only trail we duplicated) and trekked through the swamp. It was still beautiful, but it was harder to enjoy because it was quite challenging with our backpacks on. The boardwalk felt more like a precarious tightrope as we navigated through the low hanging tree branches.
We ended at the main road again, but this time went south. The road had the benefit of being wider and taller, so no branch or downed tree maneuvering was required. But it was a little uneven, there was gravel mixed in with the sand (thus somewhat tougher to walk on), and there was the occasional car that would come by so you’d have to move over into the brush. It definitely felt like the tour road in Jurassic Park, so we stayed vigilant for any dinosaurs that might show up and entertained ourselves humming the JP theme and recounting the JP and JW movie storylines. While we didn’t see big creatures, we did see some big trees that dwarfed even my tall son!
Our travels took us past the Heron Pond, and not a single bird was in sight on this bitterly cold morning. We went past several private homes that still exist on the island, before having a break at the Stafford Cemetery. It was tucked away in the maritime forest and surrounded by tabby walls. You see lots of tabby (a mixture of sand, shells, and lime) on the buildings on Cumberland. Most of the graves were indecipherable, but we could make out most of the writing on Robert Stafford’s grave, born & died on Cumberland Island in the 1800s. It was cool to know that there is still part of the Stafford family living on the island today. As we came out of the cemetery, we spotted something that made me sad–bamboo was growing across the road. That stuff (while pretty) is an invasive abomination. It led to a lively environmental discussion that helped get us a little further down the road…
Shortly thereafter, the landscape made several rapid changes. We came up a big, flat, open field with an airplane on it (so obviously a landing strip). Then the field became more like a retired farmland, with little mounds in the landscape, a scattering of brush, and prairie grass. It’s there that we came upon a horse of a different color, as all other horses we spotted were black or brown. And then we were suddenly back in the live oaks, this time with a natural archway to walk under.
Pretty soon, we came to Stafford Beach Road. We paused a moment and considered going back to hopefully recover the lost water bottle. It would be a mile and a half round trip. There was not much hope it would still be there (as signs posted said anything left behind was cleared out at night). And we were starting to physically drag. As we stood at the literal crossroad, we noticed the most unusual plant thus far. It looked like a house plant or maybe a hosta, and definitely didn’t look like something that would grow naturally out in this wilderness. It looked so out of place and was the only one of its kind. These are the quirky little things you would never notice unless you were out in the wilderness on foot. We decided against the side journey and kept heading south.
After what seemed like forever, we saw the beginning of Pratts Trail. It then dawned on us that we still had two miles to go. I started having that defeated feeling again and our pace got slower and slower. Finally we had a rare treat on this main road: a nice big log on the side of the road. We pulled off our packs and sat for a long snack and water break. I didn’t want to leave and started wondering if one of the occasional vehicles would just take us down the road. But we persevered. We got back to walking and started encountering bikers who’d just gotten off the morning’s boat. We must have looked done for, because several folks yelled out that we were almost there. (Almost…if we were on bike, Brandon mumbled.) I went from lead hiker to next to Brandon to falling behind. I was starting to walk at a snail’s pace. I was wishing for another log but there was nothing but dense forest. And then suddenly we came across a glorious sign pointing to Sea Camp Dock. There was a light at the end of the tunnel.
We got to the Dock area and were promptly blasted by strong winds. We enjoyed the luxury of clean water and bathrooms and then had lunch at one of the picnic tables for our coldest & windiest meal yet. The downtime had rested our bodies a little bit, and it was clear that we didn’t want to stay in that spot for hours (it was just barely noon!), so we left our packs and headed to the south end of the island.
We took the River Trail down to the Dungeness Dock and explored the Ice House museum. Then we walked down the Dungeness trail to see the “main attraction” of Cumberland: the Dungeness Ruins. It was kind of funny that we saw this last, as day visitors often just see this (and then the beach). After seeing Plum Orchard, in all its restored glory, this fell a little short. It was still amazing to see what was once a majestic road up to the mansion. Although most of the mansion was destroyed by fire (and then the elements), it was still cool to see the bones of the structure. (My previous recollection was that you couldn’t get close to the mansion as it was covered by tangles of thick brush, but maybe I made that up in my mind?) We strolled around the historic houses surrounding it, saw the remnants of their magnificent gardens, and marveled at the mostly destroyed structure that was the recreation building. Oddly enough, you can still find bits of glass from the squash court and pieces of porcelain from the heated indoor pool It’s like little pieces of history just lying in the sand and marking a time gone by.
With the wind whipping us nonstop (and keeping us from being warmed by the sun), we decided to head back down the River Trail to our dock. The trail was quite pretty, as you could see out to the St Marys River a little, but there was just enough tree cover to block much of the wind. Being a touristy area/trail, there were benches every so often so we stopped at nearly every one and took in the nature around us one last time. We watched as hundreds (?) of birds flew overhead and landed in the tree above us, chirping and swaying in the windy branches before all taking off. We got still enough at one bench for an armadillo to come right toward us, jumping and scurrying away once he finally smelled us (I’m guessing). And we watched some horses come through the trees and cross the trail near us as we sat at our last stop. We marveled that we had walked our longest day yet–9 miles. These moments together in nature was what this trip was all about. The nights were bad, we were cold, our stomachs were frequently rumbling with hunger, we weren’t drinking enough water, every bone & joint hurt…yet all that mattered and all that stuck were these magical moments together.
We got back to our dock in time for water, restrooms, and a nature talk with the park service ranger. We discovered that there were more animals than we saw on this cold trip. In addition to the feral hogs we didn’t see, there are deer, alligators, bobcats (including one with a long tail that everyone thinks is a panther), and coyotes. Funny enough, it was a little bittersweet when it was time to board the ferry. The typically still water was super choppy, so I put on my motion sickness bands, took some Dramamine, and sat outside on the boat despite the cold. That last stretch of discomfort was blessed as we watched the sun get low, the marsh light up with the last of daylight, some dolphin frolic ahead of the boat, and then sunset. We looked at each other in disbelief that we had completed three days backpacking and walked 23 miles together. As the sun set on our adventure, I asked the question I was sure I wouldn’t ever ask…”When should we backpack again?”
I’m not gonna lie, our first morning waking up in camp was rough. The fitful bouts of sleep had not been restorative in the slightest. I didn’t want to lay in the tent a moment longer, but I didn’t want to move either. I spent more time than I should have, just laying there being grumpy. I was irritated that the forecast had changed on us. I was annoyed that my bones hurt. Every blast of wind through the well-ventilated tent made me frustrated that we were using an “all season” tent (which I then discovered means all seasons but cold). I was defeated by the mere thought of having to go start the day using the bathroom in the forest. When I finally forced myself up and out, I again became sad that we couldn’t make a campfire and angry that there was so much tree canopy that we couldn’t get the sun.
While we didn’t speak our feelings much in that moment, Brandon’s face told me he felt similarly. That actually made it slightly better…at least I wasn’t alone in my suffering! We had the same campsite for another night, so we didn’t have to break camp. However, we knew that movement and a change of scenery was the only thing that would help our demeanor. So, I got busy packing up day packs and he got busy making us oatmeal. We had breakfast sitting on our little camp log, and discovered some fragile little mushrooms growing out of one end of the log. That sight made us both laugh about our mushroom adventure and broke the angst we were holding on to. We cleaned up and heading out on a new trail.
We headed west on the Willow Pond trail and quickly came to an enchanting boardwalk over swamps and under many low-hanging branches covered in moss. It was freeing just to wander without the backpacks on and it was nice to warm up some from the sheer act of moving. Our only firm plan for the day was to head to Plum Orchard. My brother Christian told me we should take the tour there, so we were heeding his advice. Brandon wasn’t terribly excited about touring a mansion, but was happy to go along. We knew the beach was too windy, we weren’t sure of how much hiking we could accomplish, and we knew staying around camp wasn’t a good option. On the plus side, we knew Plum Orchard would have real restrooms, potable water, and (hopefully) a little bit of sun.
Our trail ended into the service road, which we promptly decided was the Jurassic Park tour road. It was still beautiful and lush, but with such a wide clearance that it felt a little more mundane than the trails. Just as we thought it was predictable terrain, we turned a corner and crossed over White Branch. This looked like more than just a branch or even a creek in my estimation; it looked more like a small river. It was also interesting how different it was on the two sides of the road. On the east, it seemed still and brackish with moss-covered trees leaning over and into the water. On the west, it seemed to be moving with clearer water and was open and sunny. Although the sun was finally shining on our faces, the open wind countered any sort of warming effect the sun had. So on we went towards our destination.
Soon we turned onto Table Point Road, which was a shell road leading alongside the Brickhill River and up to the beautiful grounds surrounding the Plum Orchard Mansion. It was so bizarre to see this big, ornate mansion in the middle of this wild, natural island. We took in the view and watched some horses go by before getting to the important business of water and restrooms.
Ready for more walking, lol, we set out on the tour with the park service volunteers. The first piece of information was quite disappointing–there are no plums to be found. No one knows why it was called Plum Orchard as there’s no evidence of ever having an orchard, much less plums. Apparently it was named that from the earliest land maps and so the name stuck. I’m bad at recalling details (even when I’m fascinated in the moment), so you should at least read the basics on the NPS site. Basically, we learned a lot about early feminism (as I see it) through stories of the formidable Lucy Carnegie. She enforced her will but was also giving, yet made sure you remembered who buttered your toast (like with her pictures up in the homes she gave to the favorites of her children).
The Carnegies obviously liked to flaunt their wealth in every facet of this mansion. The original burlap wallpaper is still there, with the stamped Gryphon as their symbol of power (yet not a true coat-of-arms…simply a crest they chose and placed on many of their items). The hand-painted linen ceiling tiles are incomprehensibly intricate. The Tiffany lamps are surprisingly bright and beautiful. They flaunted the ability to have indoor plumbing by having all the pipes exposed and displayed. The bathroom even had a special device that would mix your shampoo and water together so you wouldn’t have to make the extra effort. Original menus showed that there was always a cold menu item, to show the wealth in having refrigeration. They had their own bell stamped and inserted into the home to signify the start of fancy parties and exquisite meals. They had an indoor squash court and a huge impractical indoor pool that had to be drained and cleaned by hand frequently. It’s mind-boggling to think how things like indoor plumbing were a luxury while also funny to think about how things we take for granted were once flaunted as a status symbol. It’s downright crazy to think about how much money was spent on some of the most opulent luxuries. As you might say, “they spared no expense.”
One uncomfortable, but interesting, part of the tour was discovering the systems in place for servants (slaves at one point, then as indentured servants, then as paid labor). I couldn’t believe it when we saw that the front section of the house was for family life and entertaining, while the back section (across the entire house) was an elaborate way to keep servants accessible but hidden. There were multiple series of hallways and rooms with hidden doors into much of the house. The secret entrances extended under the house and there was even an elevator (run by water) so no servant would be seen on the grand staircases. Even more bizarre, the side of the house for servants was built differently: bland paint instead of wallpaper, raw wood around the doors instead of ornately carved wood on the other side, and even different doorknobs on each side of the same door. Everything was set to make it clear which side everyone belonged on. The expectation of being waited on in all ways at all hours is so inconceivable. They developed an inter-island phone line so items or services could be called to any of the mansions at a moments notice. They created an intercom of sorts that was staffed 24 hours in case the family suddenly wanted something. Even a French pastry chef was on call in case someone “needed” a macaron at some random time of day. The picture this painted in my mind was a stark reality compared to the world I know. I was so surprised by this way of life, that I didn’t even take pictures of half of what I’m describing. I’m not here to judge how people were in a different era; I just can’t fathom a life like that.
Suffice it to say, this tour was way more interesting that either of us expected. It gave us a lot to think about and discuss for the rest of the day. We got pictures of several Carnegie recipes and meal plans, so we talked about what we would make at a later date. (Brandon owes me some Icebox Cookies.) After the tour, we sought out a sunny spot to have a picnic lunch. We found such a spot, but the wind beat down on us as we wolfed down some delicious bagel sandwiches. After eating, we quickly gave up the spot and looked for somewhere sunny yet protected from the wind. We found our place right on the front steps of the mansion. The Carnegies would’ve been aghast as we pulled off our shoes to stretch ourselves out right there on the steps. Never has concrete been so comfortable. We talked about hiking up the Table Point Trail loop, but doing that (and working our way back) would’ve added 8 miles to our already 3 mile hike back to camp. Ultimately, we decided that sun, a comfortable spot, clean water, and restrooms was our plan for the afternoon. We sat there for a solid two hours: talking to each other, meeting people coming and going from the tours, and watching the horses graze & frolic. It was simple yet glorious. It got up to a whopping 50 degrees, so we never got completely warm, but the sun made for a great reset on the trip.
We finally had to start heading back towards camp, as we didn’t want to run the risk of hiking those trails in the dark. Never wanting to duplicate our walks, we headed out on Duck House Trail. As you may have guessed, we found some more varieties of mushrooms and came across more horses on the trail. We even found the sign pointing to water “near” our camp, despite it’s best efforts at camouflage.
Once we reached the Yankee Paradise Campground (just as deluxe as our campground), we headed south on a new section of the Parallel Trail that would take us back to camp. Although this last trail was only a mile and a half, it was quite challenging. The terrain was still flat, but the trail would “go missing” in spots. The palmettos, ferns, and underbrush were quite thick on this trail and there were many leaning or downed limbs. There were some spots that were hard to navigate just hiking, so once again I was quite thankful not to have the large backpack on during this trek. There were more mushrooms (of course!) and even a tree that looked like it was shedding. We were adjusting to this difficult trail and starting to enjoy the puzzle of finding the trail when suddenly we came to a wall of jumbled, downed trees. We couldn’t figure out if the trail turned or was simply blocked. We worked together, keeping our orientation on the way we came but walking around the jumble (through dense forest)…encountering one obstacle after another for a long five minutes. Brandon finally was able to spot what seemed like the trail further down. We nervously took it and hoped for the best. If it was wrong, we would have to backtrack many miles to take another route. Onward we went, in silence, until we were finally relieved to find our site.
We got back to camp and celebrated our six mile trip with snacks. We sat on our little camp log and marveled at simple things such as the birds in the trees and the ants on the ground. We made a little impromptu D&D game with our natural materials at hand. A whelk shell was our die (it only rolled to three positions, so we called those a 1, 10, or 20). Playing with mostly critical ones or natural twenties leads to a wholly unbalanced adventure, by the way. We fought a stick monster and then a moss monster and won easily. However, we lost to the ant army. Ah, such silliness in the moment that will bring a smile to both of us for a long time. After fooling around awhile, the sun was once again low, we were thoroughly cold again, and it was time to cook dinner. While Brandon was getting down the bear bag, a horse wandered right past our site! It paused a minute (not ten feet away), looked at me, and moved along. It was both scary and mesmerizing, as it didn’t make a noise. If I hadn’t the last bit on video, I might would think I had hallucinated in my tired state. Back to dinner…all blessings to Brandon for taking care of us, but we both agreed our macaroni and spam meal, while technically filling, was not a hit. All good-we had our little portion of Raisinets to end the day before quickly getting into the slightly warmer tent. I had packed cards, so we played cards for as long as we could sit cross-legged and then we climbed into our sleeping bags for long conversations and and even longer night.
Never did I ever think I would have backpacking on my bucket list. Yet I have this crazy inner battle that encourages me to step outside my comfort zone and force myself to grow. It’s a weird thing that I can’t fully explain but wholeheartedly endorse. Part of it comes from a song lyric from Cruxshadows that grabbed me long ago and drives me: ”Look at your life, who do you want to be before you die?” It’s embedded in the goth version of a birthday song, so maybe not cheery, but it hits me at my core. So I fight my inner being filled with self-doubt and anxiety, and I push to be the confident adventurous person I want to be. The other part comes from knowledge that God created so many amazing things, people, & places on this Earth; I want to experience as much of it as possible.
My dad loved backpacking and my boys did plenty of it through Scouts. I enjoy tent camping and day hikes, but never even considered pioneer camping, much less backpacking. It seemed unapproachable, undesirable, and beyond my physical ability. So how did this happen, you ask?? Back in late October, Thom & I went for an impromptu drive to chase the sunset, so to speak. I watched the sun set through the trees while we drove along the curvy roads of GA 60. As the light was nearly gone, we pulled over to a little parking area to enjoy those quiet moments between day and night. I was intrigued by this parking area in the middle of nowhere and had the realization that the AT (Appalachian Trail) probably crossed through the area. I pulled out my flashlight and investigated the area until I found a trail sign indicating we were at Woody Gap. The sign noted that we were 20 miles from Springer Mountain. I can’t explain it, but something took root in my mind as I remarked that Springer was the beginning of the AT and maybe I could do 20 miles.
I promptly texted Brandon and asked if he wanted to hike the first 20 miles of the AT. He quickly responded “Sounds like a party.” Over the next few days, we decided we needed a test-run backpacking trip (as maybe 20 miles on the AT for a first time was not the best idea). We quickly honed in on Cumberland Island for a first trip due to mostly flat terrain and multiple options for stops/routes. I’ve been there for day trips before and loved it. Brandon went as a little guy and didn’t remember it at all. Last year we talked about planning a family trip to Cumberland, but that had fizzled out. I knew that December/January were the best months for Cumberland (due to ticks, mosquitos, etc) and that lined up well with us having time off from school & work. So, I put a bunch of gear on my Christmas list and we started planning.
Upon making reservations on Cumberland, there were only two spots available and they were for the Hickory Hill camping area. It’s listed as 5.5 miles from the dock, so we knew we were in for a minimum 11 miles. It was both exciting and intimidating to study the map and look at possible treks over our three days on the island. The closer we got to the trip, the more anxious I felt. Some well-intentioned friends questioned the whole thing, but others were encouraging and supportive. I knew Brandon had lots of experience backpacking and he thought I could do this, so I leaned into his encouragement. We headed down to St. Marys on December 27th and had a big meal and a hotel stay the night before. The next morning, we checked in at 8am and prepared for the ferry ride over to the island.
This is a good point to reveal a few things that already went sideways. First, I made an error in packing. I bought a second pair of cargo pants at the last minute, so at home I pulled out my backup leggings and replaced them with the new pants. When I double checked my backpack in the hotel, I realized I had not pulled out my black leggings but had instead pulled out my black turtleneck (my only long sleeve shirt). So, I got myself an early souvenir at the ferry check-in: a long sleeve shirt. Additionally, the forecast had changed a bit as we approached the trip, but things were still looking like the averages we expected: low chance of rain, lows in the upper 40s and highs in the upper 60s. The day before our trip, the forecast shifted significantly to be wetter and colder with high winds on days two and three.
We pressed on and boarded the ferry for a 45 minute journey along the St. Marys River and across the Cumberland Sound. The water was shockingly still, it was chilly, and the cloudy skies looked ready for rain. Despite the nerves and the conditions, it was an enjoyable ride filled with bird sightings and even a few dolphins swimming ahead of the boat. We got off the ferry at the Sea Camp Dock amongst a driftwood beach, went through camping orientation, participated in the raising of the flag, and began the adventure.
Based on the updated forecast, we decided that we’d better head over to the beach on our first day since it was likely the only day without high winds. (If you’ve been to a windy beach, you know that the sandblasting you receive is not enjoyable.) We headed off toward a lunch stop at Stafford Beach. The temperature was quite comfortable (low 60s) but it drizzled rain off and on throughout the day. We made it over the access trail to the Parallel Trail and were barely underway when the chest strap on my backpack broke. This was the strap that kept should straps flat against my chest, so while it wasn’t the end of the world, it certainly made for some extra difficulty over the next few days. We pressed on and, unlike our normal day hikes, we fell into a comfortable silence. It wasn’t long before Brandon stopped and pointed at the bushes. He heard and then spotted the first of many armadillos we would see during our days on Cumberland. They were funny little creatures scurrying along through the brush in search of bugs. If they spotted you, they would gallop away for just a moment before returning to their work. The island was spectacularly beautiful; we wandered among live oaks, Spanish moss, palmettos, ferns, and a wide variety of mushrooms. We encountered spaces where the jungle seemed to end and a pine forest would start (almost like someone drew a line in the land). We would go a little ways and it would suddenly change back. We encountered many branches stretching across the trail, some where you would have to climb over them and others where you would have to crawl under (which is challenging with a 35 pound bag on your back). As we crossed over to Pratts Trail, we decided to take a snack break at one of these areas with a low branch inviting us to take a load off. Our break tree also had a funny little branch with a “face”–there were fun details everywhere if you took the time to look. A mile later, we were at the Stafford Beach Campground where we could take our packs off, refill with potable water, and use a “real” bathroom.
After a short rest and water, we headed down a boardwalk and over the dunes onto the beach. Our exhaustion vanished and the sun came out for awhile. We were the only people in sight on the massive natural beach. We wandered for a good hour gathering shells and enjoying the sea air. Brandon found a bivalve-type shell that he thought might have an oyster (but only had a tiny crab). We took pictures of our findings but left most of them (as they surely wouldn’t survive the backpack). We did bring back two of the coolest (empty) whelks. Although we could’ve stayed all day, we knew there was still a little bit to go before making camp. We went back to the Stafford Campground bathroom area and enjoyed the chance to sit on the decking and have some lunch. (Every day we had bagel sandwiches with Goober Strawberry.) Once fully revived, we headed back over to the Parallel Trail towards camp.
Exhaustion quickly caught up to me after the excitement of the first stretch and the natural high of the beach excursion. We also discovered that we had an extra mile than expected upon realizing our initial planned trek in was not the advertised 5.5. miles but it was actually 6.4 miles using the trails (apparently the 5.5 is if you went on the service road).
We enjoyed lots of new sights on the last stretch of the day: An oak with a horizontal low limb that stretched almost like a board over 25 feet, a field covered in tiny little moss balls, plants in a sunny area that looked like we jumped ahead to spring, a shady area with lots of golden trees that felt like we traveled back to fall, and wild horses. The horses were eerily quiet and would just come out of the trees and onto the trail in packs. There was danger hidden behind their beauty, so you just had to wait for them to move on. They were also way bigger than you would think–many of them would be approaching eye-to-eye with Brandon (who’s 6’6″) and many were quite muscular.
While all this was amazing, it was fighting against my discomfort. Brandon taught me how to alternate my weight distribution between the shoulders and the hips, but I found myself constantly adjusting, questioning if we missed a turnoff, and wondering if I would make it to camp. I finally halted us and tossed the dang backpack on the ground. I know, stopping just makes it harder, but I felt done. I was pondering just setting up camp right there in the middle of nothing because I didn’t know if I could go further. Brandon was patient and encouraging while I had some water and a brief mental breakdown. Then we heard the most awful howling & screeching noise I’ve ever heard. I knew it must be the wild boar and it didn’t sound terribly close, but it was enough to motivate me to put the backpack back on and hustle away. Ironically enough, we rounded two more turns in the trail and found ourselves at our camping area, Hickory Hill.
Campsite is some loose terminology for this area of the wilderness. There were a handful of semi-cleared spots in the general vicinity. Tired as we were, we knew we had to set up camp since darkness would come early. We found a spot (just beyond the camp sign) that had: no tree stumps, no anthills, no animal footprints, and was surrounded by a low canopy of bent tree branches. So, we set up the tent and Brandon rigged up the bear bag. Then we discovered a big mistake in our day. A hiking crew that we had run across back at the Stafford Camping area came by and asked if we left a large Berry water bottle. Yep, we left our biggest water vessel 3 miles back. Sadly, but understandably, no one brought it with them, and we weren’t trekking 6 miles roundtrip at dark to get it. This led Brandon to promptly crash laying half in the tent for a bit. I already had my moments of frustration, so I left him alone and scoped out our area to be familiar with the nearby trail crossings and to find the “perfect” bathroom spot that I would inevitably need. (More on that later) We didn’t have the luxury of chairs, so I sat on a nearby log until that got uncomfortable and then just sat on the ground. I was mesmerized watching an armadillo scour the bushes all around our camp until I realized the sounds of the forest were turning to evening sounds and the sun was nearly gone. So, I woke Brandon up to have dinner while there was some light. Our little camp stove worked great and he made some delicious chili ramen with beef jerky pieces. Thanks to Alex’s suggestions, we took a little chocolate (a box of Raisinets) and thus had a little something sweet both nights. We took it as a good sign when I got a heart-shaped one!
As the sun set, the clouds went away and the temperature went down. Since you can’t have fires in the wilderness section, there was nothing to do but go in the tent (at like 5:30pm, lol). The nearby group went on a night hike over to stargaze at the beach, but I couldn’t fathom the 2 mile roundtrip in the cold dark. We spent awhile smashing mosquitos (they apparently were around in the cool weather and filled up the tent while we were setting up). Then we sat talking with the flashlight until sitting on the ground became tiring. Then we settled in way too early for a way too long night that was chillier than expected at 40 degrees. While physical discomfort was part of the scene, we made the best of it with some great conversations. We reminisced over the highlights (and low points) of the day. We congratulated ourselves on 8 miles of backpacking that day and talked about plans for the next day. We marveled over the fact that there were mushrooms of every color and noted that some of them were reminiscent of the Last of Us, which sparked a whole conversation about the what-if of some apocalyptic event happening from our mushroom exposure that day. After the Covid experience on my cruise in February 2020, it feels like any crazy thing could happen. We finally fell into that realm of half sleep and nonsense talking to your tent mate. I think we both woke up dozens of times in the night to animal sounds, moonlight, the cold air, and the sound of big winds moving in. It wasn’t so much as restful as it was a time to be tired in other parts of your body. Yet we had completed day one and had each other, so it was good in a different way.
Side Story: If you’re squeamish or not a fan of bodily function discussions, just don’t read this last section. Come back later and read about day two. Otherwise, I have to address the elephant in the room. First, because anyone close to me knows it was my biggest worry. Second, because maybe my experience will help someone else freak out less. I’m not so girly that I’ve never peed in the woods. However, I generally try to avoid that experience at all costs. Until recently, I’ve never had to experience anything more than peeing in the outdoors. However, I was hyperfocused on the disasters that could be part of having to handle all of nature’s functions out in the wilderness. I asked women hikers I knew, and I dove into the Reddit holes of women in the wilderness and decidedly wasn’t ready for all of the stuff some women were embracing. However, one suggestion of a Kula Cloth was great. This is an antibacterial cloth with a little hook to put your finger through that you can easily wipe with after peeing. It clips back on itself and clips onto your pack. It keeps you from having to dig/bury toilet paper or from being unclean for days (leading to chafing or UTIs). It stayed with my daypack that had toilet paper ziplocs, women product ziplocs, a trowel, extra headlamp, and hand sanitizer. So, I wouldn’t call that fun, but it worked. I also discovered that leaning my back against a tree was super helpful: it gave support as all my old joint/bone injuries showed up and it helped prevent too much “splatter”. (Brandon was intrigued by all of this and remarked that guys have this process so much easier). I was still worried about number 2, but thankfully (?) I never had to deal with that. Due to my sulfur allergy (and the sulfur content of water in the area), my Reddit friends had suggested two Immodium before heading out on the trip…I think that stopped number two for a few days inadvertently. I was most freaked out about period issues as (of course) my period decided to be late in December despite being regular for years. I only had to deal with this the first day and it was minimal so thank goodness for ziploc bags to pack trash out. I had been desensitized a little bit on this one before heading on the trip. My November period brought the adventure of a car ride with the only bathroom for miles being closed, and the unfortunate adventure of absolutely having to change a tampon in the woods. I wasn’t prepared for that horror, but I learned that I could survive it. For the record, I still am not thrilled about the outdoor bathroom but it won’t keep me from backpacking again. For your comic enjoyment after enduring this paragraph, here’s a picture of our “Pee Tree” near camp–trail side for Brandon and hidden side for me.
Our last night away was in the super-cool Hotel Frederick in Boonville MO. The Kelleys had recommended this as a great hotel and area, as well as a halfway point on a two-day drive from Colorado Springs to Kennesaw. We rolled in pretty late last night, but the Brick Room was still hopping with live music. We had to take off this morning before the adjacent town got moving, but the whole area seemed great for wandering, shopping, and playing. I wish we had an extra day for this Missouri to Georgia stretch for more sight-seeing, but work calls us both back tomorrow.
Our main stop for the day was the Gateway Arch in St. Louis. On a short road trip with the kids in summer 2021, we visited the Arch and rode a river boat down the Mississippi. Thom wasn’t able to join us on that trip, and he didn’t really want to go up in the Arch today, as he hates heights (and had his fill of heights on Pike’s Peak). But, you have to stop and marvel at this 600+ foot tall structure that’s the largest arch in the world. Although it’s known as the Gateway to the West, it is (for us) the gateway back east. I walked poor Thom to death in search of the proper park entrance for the Arch, but we ended up seeing the Federal Reserve building, making me think of dad. We left the Arch before it started raining and stopped at Raising Cane’s for a Father’s Day lunch. 🙂
We thought about stopping in Metropolis (IL) to see the touristy Superman stuff, but the pouring rain shut that idea down. It’s hard to complain about the weather, as we were blessed with mostly great weather for nine days. We had a few showers here and there, but we’ve seen really bad weather right behind us or right before us yet missed the bad stuff.
We were able to enjoy numerous bridges from Missouri to Kentucky crossing more big rivers, including the Missouri River, Mississippi River, Ohio River, & Tennessee River.
As we rolled into TN, it felt more like home than a road trip. I’ve made the Kennesaw to Nashville/Smyrna drive more times than I can count to see family. If you haven’t driven this path, it really is beautiful. The drive through Monteagle goes over the Cumberland Plateau and then across Nickajack Lake. There are some stunning vistas to enjoy if you’re not the driver. It doesn’t seem nearly as large and the road doesn’t seem dangerous now that I’ve been out west, but it’s still an enjoyable stretch of road. As you come off Monteagle and head towards Chattanooga, you get some great valley views and (my favorite part), you get to follow the curves of the Tennessee River for a bit. As we leave TN and into GA, I definitely feel home already.
I think it could go without saying that I’m glad Thom made this trip happen. We were in a weird place in life with the “baby” graduating high school last spring and launching into adulthood. There have been so many changes in how our day-to-day lives operate now that the kids are all doing their own things. (Speaking of which, yes, I know I need to update my profile on this blog!) Thom and I have embraced driving adventures together this year (around home base), and that’s been really good having something we do, just the two of us. While we’ve had a weekend away together here and there, we haven’t really traveled just the two of us on this scale. We’ve enjoyed this trip all the way from months of planning together to the very last moment of this last day.
All in all, we traveled 15 states, 7 of which I haven’t been to before. We crossed the Continental Divide twice and crossed most of the major rivers in the country. We saw car tags from all the states except Hawaii and Alaska although we stayed at a B&B with folks from Hawaii. We spent over 100 hours in the car, either traveling or sight-seeing. We drove right about 5000 miles over the past 10 days. We laughed over the different GPS warnings across the country (like “roadkill ahead” or “pothole in road”–that last one would go off all the time if people chose that alert in Atlanta). We listened to music spanning many decades, enjoyed hours of podcasts (mainly “A History of Rock Music in 500 Songs”), and connected with one another through great conversations. I got to take pictures and write & Thom got to drive the Mustang. We had nearly all our preconceived notions blown away. We found beauty along many roads (okay, but it’s true that Kansas, while pretty, became monotonous fast). We also met amazing people all along the way. We basically experienced three seasons and an incredible amount of variety in the geology and landscapes. So many moments were beautiful and breathtaking.
It truly was grand–an epic journey with the love of my life. Here’s ’til I travel again.
It was so nice getting to stay two nights in one place, and the “Bed & Brunch” place we stayed at was pretty cool. We stayed in Casita #2 but spent most of our working hours in the common area. They encouraged the communal living space, even more so than a traditional B & B. It also embraced the CO legalization lifestyle, so there was a “munchie bar” 24/7 and hors d’oeuvres at 4:20 every day. The munchies included typical packaged snacks but always also had fruit, warm cookies, and/or homemade danishes and muffins. There was also always french-press teas and coffee. They had a chef managing a huge kitchen that was open to a large bar, table, and living area. As best I could tell, Chef (as everyone called him) was always in the kitchen tending to anyone’s needs as well as being a social director of sorts. Whether it was 8am or midnight, there was always a group hanging out talking, playing games, working on a puzzle, etc. As you can see below, we ate well at this place that felt like a home away from home. If we’re ever out this way again, we would definitely stay here again for a few days.
It was certainly hard to leave, as these last two days are mainly about getting home. We lingered at breakfast too long, so we didn’t make it to Spicin’ Foods in Kansas City before they closed (to get some hot sauces, including Da Bomb–featured on Hot Ones). However, we had some fun along the long drive. We marveled at how quickly the Colorado landscape changed from massive mountains to farmland or prairie. We got to see windmills again and, once in Kansas, saw oil drilling stations peppered throughout the land. We had a delightful picnic at the Kansas welcome area, featuring some fresh cherries right off the tree (from our first B&B in Colorado). I hadn’t made the Kansas/Wizard of Oz connection for some reason until we saw the feature in the rest area. So, of course, I had to get a photo with Dorothy and the gang. (I tried the whole heel clicking thing to get home, but it didn’t work. Must be the shoes…)
Our last adventure of the day was to acquire Kansas City BBQ. The welcome center had recommended Joe’s Kansas City Bar-B-Que, so we headed there. It had a line wrapped around the outside of the building, so we settled in for a wait. After about a half hour (still waiting outside), Thom got an alert that his car was tampered with. So we stepped out of line to go check things (all was fine…so whoever it was had left without damaging anything). We didn’t want to get back in line, so we decided to try one of the suggestions Chef had made: Jack Stack BBQ. This place was a little more elevated, but the food was amazing. It was almost too good, as we still had 90 minutes to drive to our hotel, in the dark due to all the delays of the day. I highly recommend this place if you’re ever in Kansas City.
Standing Strength 