Entering the last of the four airplane hangers, I could feel my mouth fall open as I stared at the presidential airplanes. Not one but four presidential aircraft. After a day of so many types of aircraft, seeing four large planes in one building with room to spare, my head spun. I had only a half hour before closing so I made my way up the steps and through the immaculately preserved pieces of American history.
I watched the monitor as the elevator descended. The park ranger stood quietly by as my ears popped. 30, 40, 50 and so as the elevator ticked on. When we reached the bottom at 79 stories, the ranger reminded us of the low light and gently directed us to the beginning of the self-guided tour. I adjusted my backpack and cane as I stepped into the gloom of Carlsbad Caverns.
I drove the narrow winding road leaving the dessert and entering a white wall of sand. The dunes towered above me with their grains blowing in a constant river of white across the road. The brilliant blue cloudless sky met the white in a glare that confounded the senses.
I shivered in the massive sterile feeling room. Surrounded by large pieces of equipment, I stared up at the domed ceiling soaring high above. I could feel the airflow as the aperture opened and the dome rotated on giant rolling pins. The 160-ton Harlan Smith Telescope hung over us. I could imagine the astronomers at night programming in the coordinates and beaming the image to a distant astronomer in another part of the world. A fellow tour group member beamed as he pressed the dome’s giant stop-and-go buttons under the watchful eye of our tour guide.
I stood under the moonless sky gazing at the stars through the leafless trees. The inky black December night was spooky as we looked around noting the lack of artificial light. Our breath bloomed in front of us as we snuggled into our winter coats. My son turned to me and asked, “Do you think this is what they saw at night while traveling the Natchez?”
Perched on the edge of a rock wall with our feet dangling over the San Antonio Riverwalk, my son and I watched the people weaving through busy crowds. Holiday lights dangled from the tall trees and a quiet blend of music drifted from the long line of restaurants tucked into the bottom of historic buildings. The air was soft and I pulled my sweater close. This was our last night in San Antonio and my feet hurt. It was the second week of January 2024 and despite the chill, I welcomed the 60 degrees.
Mindful of the 45 mph speed limit, I drove along the deserted road in the early morning. I planned to make it back to Del Rio by the end of the day and did not relish the lonely drive along the main paved road in western Texas – Highway 90. I hoped to see the dinosaur exhibit on the two-hour drive to exit the park. As I began to brake for a rare stop sign, a large mountain lion strolled across the road. My mouth open, the tawny cat looked at me curiously as if daring me to leave the campervan. Enormous, I could see the muscles ripple under their fur. As quickly as it arrived, it disappeared into the cactus undergrowth leaving behind the feeling of untapped power.
Sitting on a park bench as close to the trading post as I could find, I connected to the WiFi to check my messages. Along with the handful of other campers, the trading post was the only spot in a hundred miles with connectivity. No cell reception. No towns. Just swamp. I was bleary-eyed from staying up the night before enjoying the Leonid Meteor Shower Star Party and didn’t immediately notice the dark lump moving slowly in the nearby water. First I heard a shout from a young boy yelling “There’s one!” And then the lump moved with ferocity snatching the fish from a fisherman’s line. Before he even knew he had caught one! The crowd slowly stood as we gazed transfixed at the dark lump now lazily moving from the lagoon down the canal with the tip of its snout above the water to the swish of a tail trailing a dozen feet behind.
The traffic was heavy for Thanksgiving week so I breathed a sigh of relief when I found a parking spot at the far end of the tiny island. Within minutes I was walking pristine sands and watching families dig for clams. As I admired the lighthouse across the bay, I heard a horse whine behind me and I turned to see an entire tour group of twenty horses riding in a line along the beach. Children laughed, parents photographed and the birds flew in lazy circles around the group. Everywhere I looked was a multi-generational photo op.
I inched my blanket back a foot to capture more shade from the single tree on the steep hill. Below me, tie-dye-shirted people flowed up the hill carrying bags, baskets, and blankets. Children rolled down the middle of the hill and dogs chased butterflies along the edge of the crowd. The sky was a brilliant lack of pollution blue and the forest colored a dark evergreen. My companions laid back lazily chatting in the way of new friends sharing previous memories of their time on the hill. Suddenly, trumpets sounded and all of the 1,000-plus crowd came to attention focusing on the circus below.
I shouldered my day pack and considered my route. A simple mile. Right through town. My hiking shoes were tied and I elected to use both canes instead of hiking poles. The day had dawned with pain and while the trail was mostly through the town, there was unfamiliar terrain leading up to the town. I was going to hike the middle mile of the Appalachian Trail in Duncannon, Pennsylvania.
I zipped my heavy fleece and tugged on my winter gloves. The wind was brisk and blew through my layers stinging my eyes and cheeks. I stood on the overlook looking over the edge and marveling at the difference in the weather. At the base of the mountain, the temperature was a lovely 72 degrees; at the top, it was 34 degrees. I made my way back inside the building and held the door for a long line of Appalachian Trail thru-hikers who all gave me a weary smile and thanks. It was mid-August.