Hiking With Friends Quotes

The trees were friendly, they gave me rest and shadowed refuge. Slipping through them, I felt safe and competent. My whole body was occupied. I had little energy to think or worry.

Moving right along In search of good times And good news, With good friends you can't lose. This could become a habit. Opportunity just knocked, Let's reach out and grab it, Together we'll nab it, We'll hitch-hike, bus, or yellow cab it.

Often when it comes to friends. When the rubber hits the road you'll find yourself hitch hiking

Have you ever watched a baby learning to walk? He totters, arms stretched out to balance himself. He wobbles - and falls, perhaps bumps his nose. Then he puts the palms of his little hands flat on the floor, hikes his rear end up, looks around to see if anybody is watching him. If nobody is, usually he doesn't bother to cry, just precariously balances himself - and tries again. Well, the baby can teach us. What you've undertaken...isn't a state of perfection to be arrived at all of the sudden. It's a WALK, and a walk isn't static but ever-changing. We Friends say that all discouragement is from an evil source and can only end in more evil. Wallowing in self-condemnation or feeling sorry for yourself is worse than falling on your face in the first place. . . So thee is human.

The hard silence between frustrated people always feels cluttered. But holy silence is spacious and inviting. You can drink it down. We offer it to ourselves when we work, rest, meditate, bike, read. When we hike by ourselves, we hear a silence still pristine with crunching leaves and birdsong. Silence can be a system of peace, which is mercy, easily offered to a friend needing quiet, harder when the person is one's own annoying self.

We were all tired after hiking and were half asleep, sitting in a semicircle around the fireplace in the cabin, wearing big sweaters and woolen socks. The only sounds you could hear were the stew boiling, the sparks from the fireplace, and someone having a sip of mulled wine. Then one of my friends broke the silence. “Could this be any more hygge?” he asked rhetorically. “Yes,” one of the women said after a moment. “If there was a storm raging outside.” We all nodded.

So I decided to do it [hike the Appalachian Trail]. More rashly, I announced my intention - told friends and neighbors, confidently informed my publisher, made it common knowledge among those who knew me. Then I bought some books... It required only a little light reading in adventure books and almost no imagination to envision circumstances in which I would find myself caught in a tightening circle of hunger-emboldened wolves, staggering and shredding clothes under an onslaught of pincered fire ants, or dumbly transfixed by the sight of enlivened undergrowth advancing towards me, like a torpedo through water, before being bowled backwards by a sofa-sized boar with cold beady eyes, a piercing squeal, and slaverous, chopping appetite for pink, plump, city-softened flesh.

Jiyoung discovered that she wasn’t as introverted as she’d thought she was when she didn’t have the opportunity to think, or form and express opinions. In fact, she turned out to be surprisingly friendly, sociable, and fond of being in the spotlight. And she met her first boyfriend at the college hiking club.

Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born. -Anais Nin

My solo three-month hike on the Pacific Crest Trail had many beginnings. There was the first, flip decision to do it, followed by the second, more serious decision to actually do it, and then the long third beginning, composed of weeks of shopping and packing and preparing to do it. There was the quitting my job as a waitress and finalizing my divorce and selling almost everything I owned and saying goodbye to my friends and visiting my mother’s grave one last time.

Diamonds Are Not This Girl's Best Friend Diamonds are not my best friend but they used to be. It wasn't just jewelry but all the things I bought to lift me up, prove my worth, and demonstrate my love. As I became more and more me and started experiencing the world from this new stuff-less place, I realized that diamonds are not this girl's best friend. My best friend is a magical rooftop sunrise. My best friend is the ocean. My best friend is a hike in the mountains. My best friend is a peaceful afternoon. My best friend is a really good book. My best friend is laughter. My best friend is seeing the world. My best friend is time with people I love. Diamonds have nothing on my best friends.

A favored bit from "A Legend of Good Men" "My mother and I each had our routines. She taught high school, took long hikes in the state parks near our house, read mystery novels, and sometimes disappeared with explanations as thin as, "I just need a few days," or "I'm going to visit a friend." "Which friend?" I would ask. "That's right," she would say.

I’m forever hopeful,” he said. “That’s what friends do. They hope. They have faith in each other.” “Well, I have faith that she’ll forget,” I said, hiking my backpack up onto my shoulders. “You have to be a realist with Caro.” “I’m a hopeful realist,” Drew said. “I’m a healist! Like those guys on TV late at night that cure people of cancer.” He grinned down at me.

Friends think I am free-spirited to have gone on this hike, but in that regard I don’t compare with Andy and others, whom I observe to have much greater skill at the art of smelling the roses.

Note to self: Try to extend positive feelings associated with Scratch-Off win into all areas of life. Be bigger presence at work. Race up ladder (joyfully, w/smile on face), get raise. Get in best shape of life, start dressing nicer. Learn guitar? Make point of noticing beauty of world? Why not educate self re. birds, flowers, trees, constellations, become true citizen of natural world, walk around neighborhood w/kids, patiently teaching kids names of birds, flowers, etc. etc.? Why not take kids to Europe? Kids have never been. Have never, in Alps, had hot chocolate in mountain café, served by kindly white-haired innkeeper, who finds them so sophisticated/friendly relative to usual snotty/rich American kids (who always ignore his pretty but crippled daughter w/braids) that he shows them secret hiking path to incredible glade, kids frolic in glade, sit with crippled pretty girl on grass, later say it was most beautiful day of their lives, keep in touch with crippled girl via email, we arrange surgery here for her, surgeon so touched he agrees to do surgery for free, she is on front page of our paper, we are on front page of their paper in Alps? Ha ha. Just happy.

Ugh. Crushes are the worst, but in hindsight a crush from afar seems so much easier than this. I should stick to making up stories in my head and watching from a distance like a reasonable creeper. Now I’ve broken the fourth wall and if he’s as friendly as his eyes tell me he is, he may notice me when I drop money in his case the next time, and I will be forced to interact smoothly or run in the opposite direction. I may be middle-of-the-pack when my mouth is closed, but as soon as I start talking to men, Lulu calls me Appalland, for how appallingly unappealing I become. Obviously, she’s not wrong. And now I’m sweating under my pink wool coat, my face is melting, and I’m hit with an almost uncontrollable urge to hike my tights up to my armpits because they have slowly crept down beneath my skirt and are starting to feel like form-fitting harem pants.

The AT is no longer the longest hiking trail—the Pacific Crest and Continental Divide trails, both out West, are slightly longer—but it will always be the first and greatest. It has a lot of friends. It deserves them.

Some friends and I once walked the ancient pilgrimage route of the Ōmine Yamabushi (mountain ascetics) in Nara prefecture from Yoshino to Kumano. In doing so we crossed the traditional center of the “Diamond-Realm Mandala” at the summit of Mt. Ōmine (close to six thousand feet) and four hiking days later descended to the center of the “Womb-Realm Mandala” at the Kumano (“Bear Field”) Shrine, deep in a valley. It was the late-June rainy season, flowery and misty. There were little stone shrines the whole distance — miles of ridges — to which we sincerely bowed each time we came on them.

after I took his truck.” “Hiked out. Finally flagged down a logging truck. Took him most of the day to make it home.” “See. The thing is, I don’t know if I coulda been friends with him again, after all I did. Just couldn’t face him.” “I think there was a part of him that knew that. Still, I guess he was hoping you’d call, you know, after you got his

Make no mistake about it; money is first and foremost about freedom. It is not about acquiring things nor flaunting it in front of family and friends. It is all about freedom. Freedom to do whatever you want, whenever you want. Freedom to tell your boss or whoever is running your life to take a hike. The only boss I want to have in my life is money. All the rest is for the birds.

Well, this girl, this Ashford or whatever her name was, looked like a hippie. She was wearing a very pretty pink flowered skirt that was full and so long, it touched the tops of her shoes, which I soon realized were not shoes, but sort of hiking boots. Her blouse, loose and lacy, was embroidered with pink flowers, and both her wrists were loaded with silver bangle bracelets. Her hair, which was almost as long as my friend Dawn's and was dirty blonde, was pulled into a big fat braid (which I might add, was not held in place with a rubber band or anything; it sort of trailed to an end). But the amazing thing was that because of her hair was pulled back, you could see her ears and she had three pierced earrings in each ear. They were all silver and all dangly, but none matched.

Sugar,” Jake said, “I’ve wanted you since the first time you sassed me.” “I wanted to punch you in the nose.” He laughed and kissed her forehead. “My advertising skills left something to be desired.” “You rooked three unsuspecting women.” “I know.” He kissed her lips, taking his time. “I’m offering you a chance for payback.” “And that payback is sex?” He smelled awesome, like a hot, sexy man who’d been in a kitchen trying to please her. Or maybe please himself. With Jake, you never knew. He pulled her tighter against him, kissing her slowly, thoroughly. “I’d do my damnedest to make you a happy woman the second time I sold you something.” Sugar looked into Jake’s eyes. He was too hot, too sexy, almost taking her breath away. “I think your gravy’s burning.” “Nice try. I turned it off.” He tugged her hips against him, kissing her as if he’d never tasted anything as good as her mouth. Sugar moaned and let Jake hike her up on his waist. “If I’m moving too fast, say so. I’ll back off and feed you the best shrimp and steak dinner you’ve ever had. Just good friends breaking bread together.” Sugar gasped as Jake sank his teeth gently into her lower lip. Heat and warmth filled her, stealing her desire to tell him no about anything. “I’m not really that hungry.” His smile turned dangerous. “I am.

Be bigger presence at work. Race up ladder (joyfully, w/smile on face), get raise. Get in best shape of life, start dressing nicer. Learn guitar? Make point of noticing beauty of world? Why not educate self re. birds, flowers, trees, constellations, become true citizen of natural world, walk around neighborhood w/kids, patiently teaching kids names of birds, flowers, etc. etc.? Why not take kids to Europe? Kids have never been. Have never, in Alps, had hot chocolate in mountain café, served by kindly white- haired innkeeper, who finds them so sophisticated/friendly relative to usual snotty/rich American kids (who always ignore his pretty but crippled daughter w/braids) that he shows them secret hiking path to incredible glade, kids frolic in glade, sit with crippled pretty girl on grass, later say it was most beautiful day of their lives, keep in touch with crippled girl via email, we arrange surgery here for her, surgeon so touched he agrees to do surgery for free, she is on front page of our paper, we are on front page of their paper in Alps? Ha ha.

The ground is unrelenting. We can leave it — and that’s its own kind of shock, an elated rush of triumph. Flight is easy when it’s beautiful. It’s easy when it’s washed in the calm, golden glow of sunsets, and our view is vast, and we are in the company of clouds and vultures and our friends who can also fly. But we must come back down. When the impact is ugly, demeaning, when it slows down time and splits your senses, you don’t just have to come down, you have to come back together, and then you have to hike back up and take off again, now knowing more precisely what you risk.

AUTHOR’S NOTE Dear reader: This story was inspired by an event that happened when I was eight years old. At the time, I was living in upstate New York. It was winter, and my dad and his best friend, “Uncle Bob,” decided to take my older brother, me, and Uncle Bob’s two boys for a hike in the Adirondacks. When we left that morning, the weather was crisp and clear, but somewhere near the top of the trail, the temperature dropped abruptly, the sky opened, and we found ourselves caught in a torrential, freezing blizzard. My dad and Uncle Bob were worried we wouldn’t make it down. We weren’t dressed for that kind of cold, and we were hours from the base. Using a rock, Uncle Bob broke the window of an abandoned hunting cabin to get us out of the storm. My dad volunteered to run down for help, leaving my brother Jeff and me to wait with Uncle Bob and his boys. My recollection of the hours we spent waiting for help to arrive is somewhat vague except for my visceral memory of the cold: my body shivering uncontrollably and my mind unable to think straight. The four of us kids sat on a wooden bench that stretched the length of the small cabin, and Uncle Bob knelt on the floor in front of us. I remember his boys being scared and crying and Uncle Bob talking a lot, telling them it was going to be okay and that “Uncle Jerry” would be back soon. As he soothed their fear, he moved back and forth between them, removing their gloves and boots and rubbing each of their hands and feet in turn. Jeff and I sat beside them, silent. I took my cue from my brother. He didn’t complain, so neither did I. Perhaps this is why Uncle Bob never thought to rub our fingers and toes. Perhaps he didn’t realize we, too, were suffering. It’s a generous view, one that as an adult with children of my own I have a hard time accepting. Had the situation been reversed, my dad never would have ignored Uncle Bob’s sons. He might even have tended to them more than he did his own kids, knowing how scared they would have been being there without their parents. Near dusk, a rescue jeep arrived, and we were shuttled down the mountain to waiting paramedics. Uncle Bob’s boys were fine—cold and exhausted, hungry and thirsty, but otherwise unharmed. I was diagnosed with frostnip on my fingers, which it turned out was not so bad. It hurt as my hands were warmed back to life, but as soon as the circulation was restored, I was fine. Jeff, on the other hand, had first-degree frostbite. His gloves needed to be cut from his fingers, and the skin beneath was chafed, white, and blistered. It was horrible to see, and I remember thinking how much it must have hurt, the damage so much worse than my own. No one, including my parents, ever asked Jeff or me what happened in the cabin or questioned why we were injured and Uncle Bob’s boys were not, and Uncle Bob and Aunt Karen continued to be my parents’ best friends. This past winter, I went skiing with my two children, and as we rode the chairlift, my memory of that day returned. I was struck by how callous and uncaring Uncle Bob, a man I’d known my whole life and who I believed loved us, had been and also how unashamed he was after. I remember him laughing with the sheriff, like the whole thing was this great big adventure that had fortunately turned out okay. I think he even viewed himself as sort of a hero, boasting about how he’d broken the window and about his smart thinking to lead us to the cabin in the first place. When he got home, he probably told Karen about rubbing their sons’ hands and feet and about how he’d consoled them and never let them get scared. I looked at my own children beside me, and a shudder ran down my spine as I thought about all the times I had entrusted them to other people in the same way my dad had entrusted us to Uncle Bob, counting on the same naive presumption that a tacit agreement existed for my children to be cared for equally to their own.

Do you remember when your mom made you and your friends take Trevor and me hiking with you last summer?” she asks. “You let us do everything. You let us get close to the edge of the cliff. Climb boulders. You let Trevor swear . . .” Her fingers curl into my back, clutching my T-shirt. “But you wouldn’t let us go too far. You said we needed to save our energy for the return trip. That’s how you are.” “What do you mean?” She inhales a deep breath and then exhales. “Well, it’s like you’re saving your energy for something. Holding back,” she says, nestling into me and getting comfortable. “But it doesn’t make any sense. Life is one-way, and there is no return trip. What are you waiting for?

Bowl? The Getty pavilions? LACMA? The Theatricum Botanicum? The Bob Baker Marionette Theater? The Watts Towers? The Museum of Jurassic Technology? Did Sadie have magic friends and had she been to the Magic Castle? Had she tried green juice? Had she ever gone to the donut place that looked like a donut? Hot dogs were gross, but had she been to Pink’s? Had she taken one of those tours of celebrity homes on the double-decker buses? Had she been to the restaurant that was built around a tree? What was her favorite place to hear live music? The Whisky a Go Go? The Palladium? The Troubadour? What was her favorite part of town? Which canyon was her favorite for hiking? The sun was always out and it never rained, wasn’t that so great?

Who’s that hot piece of cowboy standing with Nathan?” She pointed toward one end of the barn by a stack of hay bales. A scowl tightened all the muscles in his face as he followed the length of her arm to the direction of her fingertip. Before he could answer, she was already pulling him again. This time toward his cousin. “Nate, who’s your friend?” she asked, not bothering with hellos. Letting go of Caleb’s hand and leaving him feeling empty, she shifted her weight to her toes when she stopped in front of Preston. “Your eyes remind me of those old Sprite bottles. I found one at a flea market once. I think it’s still lying around somewhere in my room.” Nathan’s chuckle caught her attention. “Diana Alexander, let me introduce you to Preston Grant. He’s a childhood friend of mine and Caleb’s. Pres, this is Didi.” “Can I paint you naked?” she asked, unabashed, looking up at him. Nathan’s chuckles became full-blown laughter. She hiked her thumb at Caleb. His scowl deepened. “This one’s too shy.” “It’s nice to meet you, Didi,” Preston said. He seemed unperturbed by her request. The bastard. She danced to Nathan’s side and leaned in conspiratorially, not taking her eyes away from Preston. “Between you and me,” she whispered loud enough for Caleb and the object of her fascination to hear, “just how far does his tan go?” That had done it. The words came out of his mouth without thinking. “If you’re going to paint someone naked, it will be me.” With impatience running through his veins, he laced their fingers together and tugged. “Come on.

Nonconformity is an affront to those in the mainstream. Our impulse is to dismiss this lifestyle, create reasons why it can’t work, why it doesn’t even warrant consideration. Why not? Living outdoors is cheap and can be afforded by a half year of marginal employment. They can’t buy things that most of us have, but what they lose in possessions, they gain in freedom. In Somerset Maugham’s The Razor’s Edge, lead character Larry returns from the First World War and declares that he would like to “loaf.”23 The term “loafing” inadequately describes the life he would spend traveling, studying, searching for meaning, and even laboring. Larry meets with the disapproval of peers and would-be mentors: “Common sense assured…that if you wanted to get on in this world, you must accept its conventions, and not to do what everybody else did clearly pointed to instability.” Larry had an inheritance that enabled him to live modestly and pursue his dreams. Larry’s acquaintances didn’t fear the consequences of his failure; they feared his failure to conform. I’m no maverick. Upon leaving college I dove into the workforce, eager to have my own stuff and a job to pay for it. Parents approved, bosses gave raises, and my friends could relate. The approval, the comforts, the commitments wound themselves around me like invisible threads. When my life stayed the course, I wouldn’t even feel them binding. Then I would waiver enough to sense the growing entrapment, the taming of my life in which I had been complicit. Working a nine-to-five job took more energy than I had expected, leaving less time to pursue diverse interests. I grew to detest the statement “I am a…” with the sentence completed by an occupational title. Self-help books emphasize “defining priorities” and “staying focused,” euphemisms for specialization and stifling spontaneity. Our vision becomes so narrow that risk is trying a new brand of cereal, and adventure is watching a new sitcom. Over time I have elevated my opinion of nonconformity nearly to the level of an obligation. We should have a bias toward doing activities that we don’t normally do to keep loose the moorings of society. Hiking the AT is “pointless.” What life is not “pointless”? Is it not pointless to work paycheck to paycheck just to conform? Hiking the AT before joining the workforce was an opportunity not taken. Doing it in retirement would be sensible; doing it at this time in my life is abnormal, and therein lay the appeal. I want to make my life less ordinary.

Your character and soul, intelligence and creativity, love and experiences, goodness and talents, your bright and lovely self are entwined with your body, and she has delivered the whole of you to this very day. What a partner! She has been a home for your smartest ideas, your triumphant spirit, your best jokes. You haven’t gotten anywhere you’ve ever gone without her. She has served you well. Your body walked with you all the way through childhood—climbed the trees and rode the bikes and danced the ballet steps and walked you into the first day of high school. How else would you have learned to love the smell of brownies, toasted bagels, onions and garlic sizzling in olive oil? Your body perfectly delivered the sounds of Stevie Wonder, Whitney Houston, and Bon Jovi right into your memories. She gave you your first kiss, which you felt on your lips and in your stomach, a coordinated body venture. She drove you to college and hiked the Grand Canyon. She might have carried your backpack through Europe and fed you croissants. She watched Steel Magnolias and knew right when to let the tears fall. Maybe your body walked you down the aisle and kissed your person and made promises and threw flowers. Your body carried you into your first big interview and nailed it—calmed you down, smiled charmingly, delivered the right words. Sex? That is some of your body’s best work. Your body might have incubated, nourished, and delivered a whole new human life, maybe even two or three. She is how you cherish the smell of those babies, the feel of their cheeks, the sound of them calling your name. How else are you going to taste deep-dish pizza and French onion soup? You have your body to thank for every good thing you have ever experienced. She has been so good to you. And to others. Your body delivered you to people who needed you the exact moment you showed up. She kissed away little tears and patched up skinned knees. She holds hands that need holding and hugs necks that need hugging. Your body nurtures minds and souls with her presence. With her lovely eyes, she looks deliberately at people who so deeply need to be seen. She nourishes folks with food, stirring and dicing and roasting and baking. Your body has sat quietly with sad, sick, and suffering friends. She has also wrapped gifts and sent cards and sung celebration songs to cheer people on. Her face has been a comfort. Her hands will be remembered fondly—how they looked, how they loved. Her specific smell will still be remembered in seventy years. Her voice is the sound of home. You may hate her, but no one else does.

Stop tagging everyone into your life's profile. For all you don't know, some will neither comment nor commend you; some may not like or hike with you! Evil companies corrupt good morals... Watch who goes with you and why! ...live life soooo well!!

Judy Pilger—and we followed them, crossing back and forth in a rowboat. But it was Frankie and Chris Nucci my sisters and I had crushes on, and mostly Frankie. Frankie had a speedboat and took his friends waterskiing up and down the creek. He sat on the top of the seat back to drive, one leg propped on the dash, coolly checking the skier behind him. He had silky hair and brown eyes and trickled a sultry cool through our world. The boys were more interested in my older sister than in me. She knew how to smoke and inhale. But I tagged along anyway wherever they went. We hiked down the falls to Tarzan’s Pit and spent the afternoon jumping off the cliff into the water. Then we’d climb up to the rickety wooden trestle that hung over the tiny waterfall to drink beer and wait for the trains to come. We’d show off for one another and stand up as the trains came roaring by with their whistles screaming in our ears. We hung

Salt Spring Island is a jewel, Quinn," Paul said. "A real jewel. Right up your alley. There's cycling, hiking, scuba diving—and great fishing. No problem for you to occupy yourself.

She released her frustration in one telling breath. “Okay, you win. I’ll do it God’s way, not mine. Satisfied?” “Nope. You can’t. You’re not capable.” “What do you mean I can’t?” She rose up in her chair, ready to take him on. He grinned. “I mean you haven’t made him Lord of your life. Oh, you’ve danced around it plenty this last month, digging into the Bible, praying more, and talking about doing things his way, but the truth of the matter is, you’ve never invited him in.” “What are you talking about, ‘invited him in’?” e leaned back and studied her for a moment, then took a deep breath and planted his arms on the table. “I mean you’ve never given your life to him, Charity. Not completely. Never made the decision to live for him instead of yourself. You know, no more doing things your way, out of selfish motivation?” He hiked a brow while a smile fidgeted on his lips. “You want God’s blessings in your life? You have to obey him. Deuteronomy 30 in the flesh, my good friend. And there’s only one way any human being can even hope to make an attempt at obeying him. And that’s to make him Lord of their life.

Tori sighed. “And now I’m friends with a woman who wears makeup and new hiking boots on a wilderness adventure.” “The better I look, the better I feel and I thought I’d need the boost.” She looked down at her feet, trying not to wince. “Pretty sure my blisters are reaching horror movie proportions, though.” “I told you it would be better to wear sneakers than brand-new hiking boots.” “I wanted to be fashionable.” “Yes, because limping is totally the new black.

While George fell asleep in the back of the bus, I examined his outfit, noting that my strange American friend had now got his ‘world traveller’ apparel down to a fine art. His compact munchkin figure wore a short-cropped jeans jacket from Nepal over a ratty pink T-shirt he’d picked up in Bangkok which was decorated with the simple message, ‘Fuck You.’ Beneath a pair of worn out, fashionably torn Levis from Dharamsala poked a brace of dusty hiking boots obtained second-hand from a hill porter in Manali. All this was topped by an expandable Afghani hat, into which he tucked his long, matted dreadlocks. As for his bespectacled features, these were rendered quite dwarfish by a wispy little beard, cut short at the cheeks and running wild below the chin. A glittering array of chunky ethnic rings adorned each finger. He actually had an extra one—fortunately out of sight—which had been inserted into his penis during his last foray into Paharganj. Around his neck hung a final touch: a valuable Zzi-bead necklace purchased from a Tibetan family in Ladakh for the considerable sum of 1600 dollars. Nobody looking at him would have guessed that this was the foremost wholesaler of hippy goods into America.

In the daylight, we were lucky enough to spot a sheep trough not far from where we’d camped. This trough didn’t have a float valve, so it had overflowed and made a bit of a pond around itself. With all the sheep coming and going, the “pond” was more like thick, oozing mud than water. In spite of the obvious challenge of getting past the mud, I was determined to take advantage of a nice tub. As the only woman on the trip, I pulled the whole “ladies first” thing and headed off. I was excited as I hiked over with my toothbrush, soap, and shampoo. But as I arrived I was greeted by the overwhelming smell--a sheep had gotten bogged down in the mud and died some time ago. Its body was partially liquefied and teeming with maggots. Ignoring this little friend would be difficult, but I had no idea when I’d get my next chance to clean up. I picked my way around the mud and balanced precariously on the edge of the concrete slab that the trough rested on. The water was dribbling in slowly from the bore pipe, and three-quarters of the surface of the water was covered in an algae-like slime. After removing a patch of the green goo, I stashed my clothes on a dry corner of the concrete and eased myself in. I tried not to think about the water bugs nibbling on me, and I made a real effort not to stir up the sludge on the bottom of the trough--remnants of dead birds that had drowned. Put it out of your mind, I thought. As I held my breath, I went under. I resolved that I wouldn’t wash my hair again for a week. It was so icky to stick my head clear under! I finished up and let everyone have their turn. I suppose it was better than not bathing at all…perhaps.

Paradoxically, shared silence also creates harmonies. Silences in our culture and families are often a bad sign, that we’re not speaking to each other, and silences can be hollow, as in childhood when we were sent to our rooms, or as in adulthood, with words that cannot be spoken. The hard silence between frustrated people always feels cluttered. But holy silence is spacious and inviting. You can drink it down. We offer it to ourselves when we work, rest, meditate, bike, read. When we hike by ourselves, we hear a silence still pristine with crunching leaves and birdsong. Silence can be a system of peace, which is mercy, easily offered to a friend needing quiet, harder when the person is one’s own annoying self.

I rode home from rehearsal that day on the 101 Freeway, and my sense of loss about John and the loneliness that I was feeling triggered memories of my time with Ione and how I’d had this beautiful angel of a girl who was willing to give me all of her love, and instead of embracing that, I was downtown with fucking gangsters shooting speedballs under a bridge. I felt I had thrown away so much in my life, but I also felt an unspoken bond between me and my city. I’d spent so much time wandering the streets of L.A. and hiking through the Hollywood Hills that I sensed there was a nonhuman entity, maybe the spirit of the hills and the city, who had me in her sights and was looking after me. Even if I was a loner in my own band, at least I still felt the presence of the city I lived in. I started freestyling some poetry in my car and putting the words to a melody and sang all the way down the freeway. When I got home, I got out my notebook and wrote the whole thing down in a song structure, even though it was meant to be a poem to deal with my own anguish. “Under the Bridge” Sometimes I feel like I don’t have a partner Sometimes I feel like my only friend Is the city I live in, the city of angels Lonely as I am, together we cry. I drive on her streets ’cause she’s my companion I walk through her hills ’cause she knows who I am She sees my good deeds and she kisses me windy I never worry, now that is a lie. I don’t ever want to feel like I did that day Take me to the place I love, take me all the way It’s hard to believe that there’s nobody out there It’s hard to believe that I’m all alone At least I have her love, the city she loves me Lonely as I am, together we cry. I don’t ever want to feel like I did that day Take me to the place I love, take me all the way Under the bridge downtown Is where I drew some blood Under the bridge downtown I could not get enough Under the bridge downtown Forgot about my love Under the bridge downtown I gave my life away

I don’t mind,” I said. “My mom was a really good athlete. She liked to go on these exotic trips with her geologist friends. Dad didn’t like going so much. He’d stay home with me. That was before he had all these long business trips. Anyway, Mom spent months preparing for some hike in Antarctica. She was so excited. Dad and I were following her trek in the cold, through this awesome video feed, when a snowstorm hit . . . It was really bad. We could hear yelling. Then the yelling got drowned out by the wind. Dad says I started screaming, like I knew what was about to happen. The screen turned totally white . . . and then nothing . . .

3 Reasons Why You Should Visit Galapagos Islands Are you have been planning to spend their vacation in most of the beautiful place in the world. Then the Galapagos Islands is one of the most beautiful places in the world. The famous archipelago in the Pacific Ocean is a demand and desired destination for travelers all around the world. The Galapagos isn’t probably the easiest and cheapest accessible place in the world but still attracts huge numbers of visitors, although there is a limit on how many people can arrive in the Galapagos. These are not budget-friendly travel destination Islands, but there are some ways how to arrange your week in paradise from cruising the living onboard and archipelago to making the day trip from one of the islands. You have most already heard or read all superlatives Galapagos Island can offer many visitors. But if you hesitate if the time and money will be worth it, we’ve put a list of three reasons why we should visit the Galapagos Islands. After reading these reasons, we believe that there won’t be any hesitation. The Galapagos Legend should be on every traveler. Pristine beaches You come to Galapagos Island to see fantastic wildlife but firstly mention the beaches. The stretches of fine white sand are on every island, and although you won’t have that much time to relax and lay down here just because of that there is so much to do, so we are looking at you sea lions only walking on those beaches from one to another end is a great unforgettable experience. Never expect deck chairs, bars, or umbrellas beaches on the Galapagos have nothing familiar with those touristy and crowded places form travel catalogs. Wildlife When we think and talk about the Galapagos Islands, we have a suspicion that the wildlife would be something marvelous and unique. What we never know was that these superlatives would get a new dimension on the Galapagos. All the wildlife animal species from iguanas, birds, tortoises, sea lions crabs to fish are incredible, and nothing can make you on their natural behavior that is dissimilar from the animal's behavior we know from our countries. The Galapagos animals never feel fear human at all, so you can get close to them and take images of a lifetime. Island hikes There are many designed ways on islands of Galapagos that will help you to walk through a unique landscape and will also help you to understand the evaluation process better, evaluation of not only the islands but also of the flora and fauna which live here in unbelievable symbiosis. The hikes are short, so visitors are allowed to walk on the island on their own so that you want a certified guide to show you around. Hikes were one of the best activities we did on the Galapagos as it combined the exploration of almost barren volcanic islands and watching wildlife. Galapagos Legend help you plan the trip you have dreamed about. You can choose onshore activities that cater to your interests, from a wildlife safari to a side trip to the fabulous annual Carnival in Rio, Brazil. As you stay on shore before and after your trip, you have the option of staying at a delightful boutique-style hotel or in a 5-star hotel setting.

Friends would hear our plans and say, ‘Oh, we tried camping ten years ago. It was pouring ran, we got soaked, and we’ve never gone back. It was a disaster.’ We felt like they were asking the wrong question; they’d based their evaluation on whether or not the weekend was comfortable. From that perspective, the poor weather and planning certainly made it a disaster. But if they were to instead ask themselves, Was this weekend a moment in our best story? Then the fact that they were still talking about the experience ten years later indicated that it had the type of disruptive potential that all good stories are made of.

I love you, Ellen Markham.” He kissed her cheek. “When are you going to tell me you love me?” “How can you be sure I do?” Val hiked a leg across her thighs. “First, you are sending me away. This is proof positive you love me, for you are trying to protect me from some sort of grave peril only you can perceive.” Ellen’s breathing hitched, and Val knew his guess had been right. Gratified by that success, he marched forward. “Second”—he slipped a hand over her breast—“you make love with me, Ellen. You hold nothing back, ever, and are so passionate I am nigh mindless with the pleasure of our intimacy.” He punctuated this sentiment by dipping his head and suckling gently on her nipple. She groaned and arched up toward him. “I make my point.” Val smiled in the dark and raised his head. “Third, there is the way I make love with you.” “And how is that?” She sounded more breathless than curious. Val shifted his body over hers. “As if I trust you. I know you are human, and you will do what you think best, but you do it with my interests in mind, Ellen. I don’t have to watch myself with you, because you love me, truly. I know it. It isn’t the way my siblings love me, though they are dear. It isn’t how my parents love me, which is more instinct than insight. It isn’t the way my friends love me, though they are both dear and insightful.” “So how is it?” Ellen asked, slipping her legs apart to cradle him intimately. “It’s the way I want and need to be loved,” Val said quietly, resting his weight against the soft, curving length of her. “It’s perfect.” “But I am sending you away,” Ellen reminded him, her fingers at his nape. Val levered up on his forearms and began to nudge lazily at her sex with his erection. “So you’re running out of time to tell me the things that matter, aren’t you?” If she was going to use words to answer, Val forestalled her reply by kissing her within an inch of her soul. Her response was made with her body, and to Val’s mind she told him, as emphatically as any woman ever told her man, she did, indeed, unequivocally love him. And always would. “What

I may be small in size, but inside I feel incredibly large! I Am Sequoia, A Pinecone's Adventure Written and Illustrated by E.P.Clanton

Crash Into Me" You've got your ball You've got your chain Tied to me tight tie me up again Who's got their claws In you my friend Into your heart I'll beat again Sweet like candy to my soul Sweet you rock And sweet you roll Lost for you I'm so lost for you Oh, when you come crash into me And I come into you And I come into you In a boy's dream In a boy's dream Touch your lips just so I know In your eyes, love, it glows so I'm bare-boned and crazy for you Oh, when you come crash into me, baby And I come into you In a boy's dream In a boy's dream If I've gone overboard Then I'm begging you to forgive me Oh, in my haste When I'm holding you so, girl Close to me Oh, and you come crash into me, baby And I come into you Oh, hike up your skirt a little more You show the world to me Hike up your skirt a little more You show your world to me In a boy's dream In a boy's dream Oh, I watch you there Through the window and I stare At you wear nothing But you wear it so well Tied up and twisted The way I'd like to be For you, for me Come crash into me, baby Come crash into me, yeah Crash into me Crash into me Crash into me Crash into me Oh, you know I'm the king of the castle You're the dirty rascal Crash into me Please, crash into me I see the wave coming crash into me See the wave coming crash into me Crash into me Dave Matthews Band, Crash (1996)

Robbie could never be still. She had boundless energy and endurance. She sang in the temple choir and the San Francisco Symphony choir. She would come back from a hike and go bicycling. She would get off the airplane in New York to visit her brother and immediately go jogging. Nevermind it was dark and she didn’t know the neighborhood and there were no streetlights. There was no deterring Robbie…she brought her knitting when she went sailing. But for all her extroversion, for all her overwhelming friendliness, her welcoming of strangers into her house, her fearlessness in tackling the world, Robbie rarely let her friends scratch the surface. She maintained that things were always wonderful, and, even when others knew they weren’t, she protected herself so valiantly from letting them see deep inside. Robbie was alone with her torment.

Was it ghastly?" I remembered the sunlit summer of 1940, the crowds rushing from Paris, as from a fire, to join the snake-like lines of mattress-topped cars that drove slow, slower and slowest of all just before their closely packed passengers scattered into ditches where the dive bombers still found them. I remembered Nice with its sea and sky and palm trees still as bright as new travel posters and its sidewalks crowded with the most typical of twentieth-century tourists: displaced persons. I remembered the sensation of living in a dull fear-encircled vacuum and the incredulous joy with which I greeted my husband when he arrived hollow-eyed from his narrow escape and long hitch-hike across two countries. I remembered Lyons in the unheated winters, the wind scything between the cliff-like gray houses and inserting itself into the city's labyrinth of passageways. I remembered the turnip meals, the recurrent colds and chilblains, the disinclination to wash in icy water, the sordid temporary lodgings and false identity cards, the drearily uncomfortable atmosphere, and the exhilarating meetings with friends who had also escaped arrest. And then I remembered my husband's arrest and the nightmare that followed. "Yes," I said, repudiating stiff upper lips, "yes, it was ghastly.

When we take a monotasking approach to our walks, including the preparation that happens before we put our shoes on or go outside, we can come up with creative solutions. Walking inside is one option—plan a route through your home, walk in the hallways or stairwells where you live or work, or use the space of a nearby mall or shopping center to walk. Safety concerns may be overcome by walking with friends, taking daytime walks on your day off, or taking a trip to a well-populated and brightly lit destination. Many of these approaches will create distractions of their own but that will encourage you to elevate your monotasking.

One of the most common sentiments one hears about the Appalachian Trail is how it restores a person’s faith in humanity. It is no understatement to say that the friends I made, and the experiences I had with strangers who, at times, literally gave me the shirt off their back, saved my life. I owe a great debt to the through-hiking community that welcomed me with open arms, that showed me what I could be and helped me when I faltered. There is no impossible, they taught me: only good ideas of extraordinary magnitude.

The kid burst through the front door, with a stainless-steel bottle looped through one finger and what looked like two granola bars in his other hand. “You don’t care if he goes?” was the quiet question that came at me. “Not at all,” I confirmed. “If you’re okay with it.” “You’re only going for a hike?” “Yes.” I saw him hesitate before letting out another one of his deep breaths. Then he murmured, “I need a minute,” just as Amos stopped in front of me and said, “I’m ready.” Was… was Mr. Rhodes coming too? He disappeared into the house even faster than his son had, his movements and strides long and fluid considering how muscular he was. I needed to stop thinking about his muscles. Like yesterday. I knew better already, didn’t I? Subtle, I was not. “Where’s he going?” Amos asked, watching his dad too. “I don’t know. He said to give him a minute. He might be coming too…?” The kid let out a frustrated sigh that made me side-eye him. “Change your mind?” He seemed to think about it for a second before shaking his head. “No. As long as I get out of the house, I don’t care.” “Thank you for making me feel so special,” I joked. The teenager looked at me, his quiet voice back, “Sorry.” “It’s okay. I’m just messing with you,” I told him with a grin. “He said I couldn’t go out with my friends so….” “You’re hanging out with chopped liver?” I could only imagine the kind of relationship he had with his dad if he wasn’t used to being picked on. “I’m messing with you, Amos. I promise.” I even nudged him with my elbow quickly.

Actually I had planned for Perrumal mottai trek with a plan of staying in cold, evergreen and rainy forest and cliff, but since permission denied, I only went unto Sathuragiri. Approximately 3500 feet above sea level, 45 to max 75 degree inclination, `10 to 12 km walking distance that comprises of 7 small and big hills , I started up by 7 AM and finished down by around 11.15 AM. After 7 years to high altitude trek, it was good experience, I was missing talkative people while hiking, some people talked while trekking but no same minded people I met, while returning there was a young lady who was smiling at me, when I looked at her she put her head down, there was her friend who called that girl as Valli (Wife of Karthikeya), then I realized that she is my bhabi, And shopkeepers kindly note, not only me anyone who comes to hotels or restaurants are there eat anything they wish, and they pay money for what they eat, so you can not suggest someone to eat what you wish for, it is their wish, I hardly get anger, that is why I did not scold much, And I will never go to that hotel again, Note - Valli that girl I saw today in Bus was too beautiful but you are my bhabi, Just Diary for my memory power in future, wherever I go, I can read it back and smile.,

Goodreads is becoming my diary- When I joined Nalanda by 2018, Ritika Rajput, Myself and Urvashi punia bishnoi were almost inseparable friends for three months, wherever we go, we go together, we eat together, we fight together almost whole Nalanda could not separate our friendship until two people entered which I do not want to mention. When we were close friends Shubham das and Shalini Chauhan were seniors to us and introduced us into trekking and hiking in and around Rajgir. But Ritika did not like that I even talk with Shalini Chauhan. Once Shalini invited me to visit Banaras with her, but Ritika asked me not to go with her, I did not want to mess up within friendship so I did not go. After Myself, Ritika and Urvashi broke apart in friendships , Shalini was always there to support me without any expectations. Yeah there were few more friends or seemed like friends Rashmi Singh, Rakhi Kashyap, Deepa kundu, Kajal, Madhuri and all of them were making troubles instead of peace. Shalini was the only peace lover at that time in the campus, but second year she went abroad and then I could not see her even until now Just diary of memories

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Later, when I was able to walk, I went hiking through a North Carolina forest with my friend Laura to tell her the long story of how I was coming undone but I was not unmade. "Then please don't fuck this up, Kate," she said sagely, which sent me into hysterics. She is a therapist and one of the wisest Christians I know, so she is keenly aware that a well-placed expletive is better than all the inspiration in the world.

Maybe the path went in a circle. Maybe there was a more gradual, friendly slope back up the mountain so he wouldn't have to double back. He could keep moving forward but still end up home.

We just need help. Like my friend said--” “Town’s that way.” He pointed south. “About twenty kilometers.” “Which is a very long hike, sir.” Daniel met the old man’s gaze as he kept walking forward. “We’re really tired and we don’t have any food or water. If we could just ride in the back--” The man pulled a switchblade from his pocket. “Don’t come any closer, boy. Not you either, girlie. I got robbed on this road once. Not going to happen again.” “Please, sir,” Daniel said. “We aren’t--” The man darted to the driver’s side and leaped in as Daniel raced around the van. The man slammed it into gear. The van lurched forward. I grabbed Daniel and yanked him out of the way as the van swerved onto the road. Corey came out from behind the bushes as we walked back. “Next time, we consider my plan?” “I think so,” Daniel mumbled. “At least he told us there’s a town along this road,” I said. “Same way we’re heading.” “How far?” Corey asked. “He didn’t say,” I lied. “But it can’t be too far.” Daniel glanced at me, then nodded.

She tells of an emotionally powerful event in her life: “sitting in a hospital waiting room after the sudden death of a dear friend. Everything about that time was surreal, of course, with people coming and going, some of them familiar–her family members and some of our mutual friends–and others who were complete strangers. These were the ones who confused me. Didn’t they know that I was the number one friend, the one who knew Ginny the best? But here they were, unaware of me and just as stricken by shock and loss. All those people know different sides of my adventurous friend.. They had climbed rock walls or hiked the Rocky Mountains with her, sat in her writing classes, or taught with her at different times in her life. My friend Ginny was the writer and hiker, the scholar with the ironic sense of humor. I had written books and organized conferences with her, chatted for hours over cups of coffee and plates of Indian food. Their friend was someone else entirely, the Ginny who spent the summer in a chalet high up in the Alps reading French novels or Ginny the neighborhood mom. And unless I was prepared to share my friend with other people, I would never really know her. . . . That experience of the familiar suddenly becoming strange . . . is why we need to know the stories of the past. (p. 48)

effect are base lies, I'll have you and your friend know! However—" he yawned again "—I've been up all day and so, purely coincidentally, I do find myself just a bit sleepy at the moment. The which being so, I think I should take myself off to bed. I'll see you all in the morning." "Good night, Alistair," she said, and smiled as he sketched a salute and disappeared into the night with a chuckle. "You two are really close, aren't you?" Benson observed quietly after McKeon had vanished. Honor raised an eyebrow at her, and the blond captain shrugged. "Not like me and Henri, I know. But the way you look out for each other—" "We go back a long way," Honor replied with another of her half-smiles, and bent to rest her chin companionably on the top of Nimitz's head. "I guess it's sort of a habit to watch out for each other by now, but Alistair seems to get stuck with more of that than I do, bless him." "I know. Henri and I made the hike back to your shuttles with you, remember?" Benson said dryly. "I was impressed by the comprehensiveness of his vocabulary. I don't think he repeated himself more than twice." "He probably wouldn't have been so mad if I hadn't snuck off without mentioning it to him," Honor said, and her right cheek dimpled while her good eye gleamed in memory. "Of course, he wouldn't have let me leave him behind if I had mentioned it to him, either. Sometimes I think he just doesn't understand the chain of command at all!" "Ha!" Ramirez' laugh rumbled around the hut like rolling thunder. "From what I've seen of you so far, that's a case of the pot calling the kettle black, Dame Honor!" "Nonsense. I always respect the chain of command!" Honor protested with a chuckle. "Indeed?" It was Benson's turn to shake her head. "I've heard about your antics at—Hancock Station, was it called?" She laughed out loud at Honor's startled expression. "Your people are proud of you, Honor. They like to talk, and to be honest, Henri and I encouraged them to. We needed to get a feel for you, if we were going to trust you with our lives." She shrugged. "It didn't take us long to make our minds up once they started opening up with us." Honor felt her face heat and looked down at Nimitz, rolling him gently over on his back to stroke his belly fur. She concentrated on that with great intensity for the next several seconds, then looked back up once her blush had cooled. "You don't want to believe everything you hear," she said with commendable composure. "Sometimes people exaggerate a bit." "No doubt," Ramirez agreed, tacitly letting her off the hook, and she gave him a grateful half-smile. "In the meantime, though," Benson said, accepting the change of subject, "the loss of the shuttle beacon does make me more anxious about Lunch Basket." "Me, too," Honor admitted. "It cuts our operational safety margin in half, and we still don't know when we'll finally get a chance to try it." She grimaced. "They really aren't cooperating very well, are they?" "I'm sure it's only because they don't know what we're planning," Ramirez told her wryly. "They're much too courteous to be this difficult if they had any idea how inconvenient for us it is." "Right. Sure!" Honor snorted, and all three of them chuckled. Yet there was an undeniable edge of worry behind the humor, and she leaned back in her chair, stroking Nimitz rhythmically, while she thought. The key to her plan was the combination of the food supply runs from Styx and the Peeps' lousy communications security. Her analysts had been right about the schedule on which the Peeps operated; they made a whole clutch of supply runs in a relatively short period—usually about three days—once per month. Given

In my midthirties, I realized that my parents would die soon. Not like a terminal illness. I just mean in the flow of time. It hit me hardest when my mother turned seventy. I did a quick bit of math. I go home to see her twice a year. The average American woman lives to be seventy-six. If that was how it went for her, I might see my mom only twelve more times. It is a quaking discovery to watch “Mom” becoming an old woman. Not that she looks like one. Or acts like one. Every day she seems to be on some new hike, at some new party, or laughing in a car packed with friends. But that number, seventy, has its connotations. The timeless force of nature, the mother, who exists outside of real human relationships, more an element than a person, will leave you.

,Heather Oesterreich is a noted educator who has been widely published in top tier journals and given presentations and keynote addresses throughout the United States. She has served on the editorial boards of the Journal of Latinos in Education and Physical Education and Pedagogy. Away from work, Heather Oesterreich enjoys hiking, kayaking, and visiting state and national parks throughout the United States with friends and family.

He’s my best friend. His name is Dane, he owns a coffee shop near my yoga studio. I’ve known him for a few years, since he opened the place. We go to movies, sometimes we hike, we have long talks, political arguments, discuss books we like. When there’s live music around here, we try to go.

Name: Ava Mage Sign: Virgo Birthday: September 21st Pronouns: She/her Sexuality: Straight Appearance: [ Mackenzie Foy Net (hide spoiler)] Face Claim: Mackenzie Foy Personality: She's generally outgoing and somewhat hyper. She's quiet when she's upset and is a good listener. Because of her past she gets triggered by certain smells like stale alcohol or cigarette smoke. She loves being outside and in nature, especially camping. She is loyal to those she loves and will never let you down. History: Ava Mage was born on September 21st and put straight into the foster care system where she was her entire life until she emancipated at 16. Each household she was in got progressively worse as she got older. As soon as she got out of the system she learned self defense so she would never be taken advantage of again. She bounced around for a little while not really making any friends. She's found a place to settle down and is an event planner/photographer. Likes: Photography Cheesecake Camping Hiking Coffee Dancing Fall Animals Reading Dislikes: Green beans controlling people Love language: Words of affirmation/gift giving/ physical touch Style:[ Drink Coffee Read Books Be Happy Sweatshirt Book Shirt - Etsy (hide spoiler)

Therefore we have to watch carefully to see if Obama is actually doing these things. Of course, those who have no clue about his ideology will always seek to explain his actions another way. Liberals in general view Obama as toeing the liberal line, or compromising away from it, even when many of Obama’s actions fit neither characterization. Conservatives in general view Obama as a bungler: he doesn’t understand that tax hikes don’t promote economic growth; he misses the fact that government control over banking, health care, energy, and other industries makes them less efficient; he is blind to the reality that Syria and Iran are not our friends; he cannot see how his actions are isolating Israel in the world; he is dangerously naive in reducing our nuclear weapons in the expectation that this will inspire Iran and North Korea to reduce theirs; and so on.

Constant lack of support is a big issue in Asperger marriages, that’s why I’d like to extend this a bit further with another analogy. Imagine that you are going for a hike in the mountains with two other couples. You are planning to stay overnight in a hut and return the next day. The climb up to the summit is very hard and strenuous. Your girl friends, who are wearing sandals, soon feel exhausted and the husbands decide to give them a piggyback. You’re also tired but your partner doesn’t seem to care, instead he lets you drag him up the hill. You might be annoyed and resent the fact that you have to climb up by yourself, but don’t forget in the end it will make you stronger. If you climb a mountain knowing that your husband suffers from asthma, you wouldn’t expect him to carry you. Instead you would slow down and make sure that he doesn’t exhaust himself. You’d realize that in pushing him to accelerate or, even worse, carry you, he might suffer an asthma attack. Surely you wouldn’t want that. So don’t expect to be carried, instead wear good shoes, take food and drink along and be strong enough to reach the summit without your partner’s help.

tiny seed of doubt sprouting inside her gut. Could this life-altering affair be nothing more than a one-sided mirage? She couldn’t keep her journalistic instincts from attempting to connect dots. She recalled every possible aversion of her lover’s eyes, each word of affirmation that may not have been as sincere and heartfelt as the previous. And now this. Karina released an audible breath and brought her hand to her head. She felt the sharp edge of her one-quarter-karat, pear-shaped diamond engagement ring, and thought about Reinaldo, her Brazilian husband of the last ten years. There had been some good times … moments she’d always remember. But as she recalled the hikes up Pikes Peak, the mountainous bike rides, and games of pool while drinking a few beers, she admitted that Reinaldo had been nothing more than a friend—a convenient friend at that. But one who had helped her produce two kids, two adorable little rug rats. Would they ever look at Mommy the same way, if they found out who the real Karina was? When they found out. Karina couldn’t let her insecurities question her new path in life—a path she’d ignored far too long. Determined to make this relationship work, her mind sharpened, and she leaned over the side of the bed and snatched her smartphone from the back pocket of her khakis. No sweet text messages. She licked her lips, then scrolled to her contacts and tapped the cell number. “Hi, Karina. Miss me already?” the voice on the other end asked. Karina couldn’t help but smile. “I just wanted to hear your voice again before I packed up my things and strolled back into my old life.” “I know what you mean,” Karina’s lover said. “You don’t have a spouse and two kids,” Karina said with a tone more harsh than she’d intended. “Oh, sorry.” “Not a problem. I get it. I really do.” A wave of emotion overcame Karina. A single tear bubbled out of the corner of her eye and she sniffled. “Are you okay, dear?” “I …” “You can tell me, Karina. We share everything.” “I just wanted our evening together to be special. You mean so much to me … how I see myself. How I see our future.” “I’m so sorry my work got in our way. Just know that you hold a special place in my heart.” Karina could hear sincerity, which warmed her heart. “I love you.” “I love you too, Karina.” Muffled sounds broke Karina’s concentration. Was that another person’s voice? “What was that noise? Where are you?” Tension rippled up her spine. “Oh, I just walked in my door. I’m exhausted, dear. Let’s make plans for early next week. We can both relax and have some fun at my new place. We can talk about our future.” The pressure in Karina’s head eased. They kissed into

So?” I say, kneeling down on the floor and sticking Charade in the DVD player. “So you don’t have any friends. You don’t know what it’s like.” Mom unfolds one of Gran’s afghans and drapes it over the back of the couch. “That’s not true. Alex has friends.” Claire fists her hands on her hips. “Name one.” Mom’s face goes a little blank as she thinks about it. Then she says, “Paisley,” and smiles at me. “She sits next to you in Sunday School.” I turn my head to the side so she can’t see me grimace. Paisley isn’t exactly my friend. She does sit next to me in Sunday School, but we never speak. She’s weird, even for my standards. For one, she always wears flannel pajamas and hiking boots. To church and to school. And two? She always has a handful of mayonnaise packets in her backpack. Which she snacks on. During class. I shudder just thinking about the sound she makes sucking on those packets. “And what about Jensen?” Mom says. “He’s been your friend since you two were in the church nursery together.” I roll my eyes. “Mom, just because Paisley and Jensen are in my general vicinity at church and school doesn’t mean they’re my friends.” “See?” Claire says.“Jensen isn’t her friend. She just has that huge crush on him still.” I don’t even attempt to dispute it like I normally would. Claire’s like a pit bull when it comes to arguing. Once she sinks her teeth in, she doesn’t let go. And I don’t have the energy to spar with her tonight. Besides, it’s not like my crush on Jensen was ever a secret in this family. Even Pops knows about it. He used to pinch me right above my knee where it tickles, and if I laughed, it meant I was “boy crazy.” Boy crazy for Jensen Peters. I laughed every time, dammit.

need sleep? I need to do whatever it takes to restore physically. 2. Have I been reading my Bible? Even if it is putting an app on my phone with a voice I can listen to while still in bed in the mornings or at night, I need to hear from the God who walks through these valleys with me. 3. Do I feel alone? I need to call someone who is a spiritually engaging friend, one who loves God, loves me, and whom I can completely trust. I will meet that person for coffee or lunch to share my heart and to ask for prayer. 4. Am I watching my health? Exercise is a stress reducer and helps happy hormones to develop. I have developed the habit of walking and hiking. 5. How can I get help? Is there someone who can help me clean my home? Do I have a friend I can ask to keep my kids, so I can have a little time away? 6. What do I need to invest in the joy factor of my life? Am I creating spaces of beauty for my own soul—candles, music, fresh flowers, and other such life-giving things? Perhaps it’s as simple as going to a movie with my husband or friend, or buying a new scarf.

I went hiking with my sister and a friend on the Appalachian Trail for 7 days. No change of clothes, no hot shower, no bed. By the end of it, I was thankful for just a hot cup of coffee and a shave. As they say, “Absence makes the heart grow fonder.” This is true of people, possessions, and experiences.

I arrived in Bucksport Maine on the day of Maine Maritime Academy’s 2018 Graduation. Little wonder that all the hotel rooms for miles around were taken but I had lucked out again when I booked a room at the Spring Fountain Motel, just east from Bucksport, on the coastal route, U.S. Hwy 1. It had been a long day meeting, greeting and talking to owners of bookstores between here and Portland but I was happy at how successful my day was. Bucksport had not changed much from 60 years prior. I remembered how my friend and classmate Robert Kane, and I hitch-hiked through here in 1953. Add it up and you’ll see that a lot of water has flowed under the Verona Island Bridge that dominates the landscape but the town of Bucksport has steadfastly refused to change. Read on from page 376 in “Seawater One – Going to Sea” or pages 121 in “Salty & Saucy Maine –Sea Stories from Castine” and now yet another class of midshipmen have graduated! Talking to the new Innkeeper of the Spring Fountain Motel, I found that he had been a professional soccer player in South Africa and had recently lived in New York City. An interesting young man, originally for Pakistan he was working hard to live the American Dream! When I told him my story he didn’t hesitate to order a dozen copies of my books. Displaying the popular “Salty & Saucy Maine” near his cash register is just the latest way my book will become available to the summer tourists. In Bucksport it is also available at Andy Larcher’s cozy bookstore “Book Stacks” and is also at the local library which has all of my books on its shelves. “Salty & Saucy Maine!” Is catching on as a bestselling book in Maine!

A second famous person became involved with the Manson Family around the spring of 1968. Two of the Manson girls, Patricia and Ella Jo, were hitch-hiking on the Pacific Coast Highway when Beach Boy Dennis Wilson picked them up and invited them to his house. The girls complied, and after spending an afternoon with Dennis, they returned to Manson and told him about their famous new friend. Over subsequent days, Manson managed to worm his way into Dennis’ life, taking advantage of his extreme generosity to move his family into Dennis’ house. Manson also hoped that Dennis would be able to help him boost his music career, a dream Manson had never let go. But any opportunities Dennis threw Manson’s way, he squandered. It became clear to anyone with musical training that Manson could only play a few chords on his guitar and none of his songs were good enough to record. After a few months, Dennis was desperate to part ways with Manson and even moved out of his own home, leaving his landlord to deal with evicting the Manson Family.

son of the old woman. They may have had a prearranged plan.’ ‘How do you mean?’ asked Dick, looking puzzled. ‘Well – the old woman’s son, Dirty Dick, may have known that when the bells rang out, this fellow was making a run for it – and would come to bring him a message. He was to wait in the barn at night if the bells rang, just in case it was Nailer’s friend who had escaped.’ ‘Yes, I see,’ said Dick. ‘I think you’re right. Yes, I’m sure you are. My word, I’m glad I didn’t know that fellow at the window was an escaped convict!’ ‘And you’ve got the message from Nailer!’ said Anne. ‘What a peculiar thing! Just because we lost our way and went to the wrong place, you get a message from a prisoner given you by one who’s escaped! It’s a pity we don’t know what the message means – or the paper either.’ ‘Had we better tell the police?’ said George. ‘I mean – it may be important. It might help them to catch that man.’ ‘Yes,’ said Julian. ‘I think we should tell the police. Let’s have a look at

I value experience more than money, and cherish the love of family and friends above all.

I didn’t expect you to call me,” Ashton said softly while studying the plate of biscuits in her hands. I’d had a moment of intense weakness when I’d woken up form an incredibly good dream she had starred in. All I could think about was being near her again. “I hated the way we left things last night.” She blushed and glanced up at me. “I’m really sorry about how I acted.” Damn, damn, damn, I wasn’t going to be able to resist her. Pushing Sawyer to the deep, dark forgotten part of my mind, I walked over to her, took the plate of biscuits, and put them down on the counter. “I told you last night: I started it. I should be the one apologizing.” She let out a small laugh and stared down at her feet. “No, I distinctly remember it being my leg that was hiked up in your lap and my hand that was up your shirt. You had completely stopped touching me. Thanks for trying to take the blame off me, but I was there, Beau.” I slipped my arms around her waist and pulled her to me. Right now I didn’t care who she belonged to. I wanted her and I couldn’t see past my need. “Look at me,” I whispered, slipping my finger under her chin and tilting her face up so I could see her eyes. “The only reason I didn’t grab you and haul you onto my lap last night was because for the first time in my life, I want something that belongs to the only person I love. I started touching you last night because I couldn’t keep my hands off you. I thought if I could touch you just a little bit, I’d be able to handle it. But then you didn’t react the way I expected.” I stopped and closed my eyes. Staring down at her while I talked about her reaction to my touch was difficult. Those big, innocent green eyes soaked in every word out of my mouth. God, she was perfect. “And my good intentions were fading fast. If you’d kept touching me for just a few more seconds, I’d have lost it. I was hanging on by a thread. A very thin thread.” She stepped back out of my embrace and gave me a little grin. “Okay. Thank you for saying that.” She turned and walked over to the counter then began taking the plastic wrap off the biscuits. “We both love him. Neither of us wants to hurt him. But…we’re drawn to each other. We have history. The three of us. For the past few years, it’s been just me and Sawyer. I didn’t want it to be that way; it just happened. I think we can all be friends again. I want us to be. So while he’s gone, let’s just enjoy being friends. I promise to keep my hands to myself if you promise the same.” She peered at me over her shoulder as she moved to set the biscuits on plates she’d found in the dish rack. Telling her how I’d do anything she asked wasn’t exactly the best move. I nodded and went to get glasses and orange juice so we could eat breakfast together. Just like we use to.

How do I know I have lived? How can I be certain my days were not squandered? What criteria, which principles qualify life as lived? Certainly, I have endured trials and troubles, and I learned from life’s lessons. I grew wise as well as empathetic. But is edification and its accompanying traits the ultimate aim for living? I have traveled. Oh, I have seen marvelous wonders in this world. Skies that were artic blue, emerald green, soft lilac, and rosy red. Mountains fixed like monuments to the gods. Waters as clear as crystal, as blue as larimar, deeper than a leviathan’s lair, and as vast as the night’s sky. I have witnessed pyramids and castles, colosseums, great walls, and temples. Is this living? To travel, to see, to awe at the world’s aesthetic wonders? I have experienced great joys in my days: laughter, kindness, fun, love, thrills, successes. I have suffered a great many sorrows: sickness, loss, pain, cruelty, vengeance, disparagement. I have valued the good and abhorred the bad. Is this the ultimate feat of living? I have been actively doing: from sailing to flying, acting to singing, hiking to biking. I have dived, danced, drummed, battled, built, raced, and used my incredible body to perform every activity I desired. I gained strength and endurance in the process. Is this a sure sign of living? I have been part of a family and raised my own. I have formed lasting, loyal friendships that have passed the test of time. I have felt what it means to sacrifice for loved ones, shared in their joys and sorrows, prayed for tender mercies and miracles in their lives. I have loved and been loved in return. Is it connection to family and friends, the relationships developed between kindred, is this what it means to truly live? How do I know I have lived? As my days near an end, how can I be certain my life was worthwhile and not wasted? Did I accomplish what life mandates of those who truly live? What qualifies life as lived?

Sounds of the river and wind, the tickling of the butterflies, the ice cold water and the company of some of my closest friends, what else would one want in life, whether fictional or not? Ah, to be as light, beautiful and carefree as this elegant winged creature!

WUI” (rhymes with phooey), an acronym for “wildland-urban interface” (though some call it “wildland-urban in your face”). On a map, the WUI represents the fault line between the forest and the built environment, but over the past thirty years it has also come to represent the sweet spot in North American real estate development: hiking trails out the back door and a scooter-friendly cul-de-sac in front. Today, more than a third of American homes and more than half of Canadian homes are located in the WUI. It is a beautiful place to live, until it goes feral.

Kat headed out into the fresh air. She loved New York. Friends tried to get her to see the joys of the woods or the beach and yeah, sure, maybe for a few days, but hiking bored her. Plants, trees, greens, fauna could be interesting, but what was more interesting than faces, outfits, headwear, shoes, storefronts, street vendors, whatever?