Protest poster for the March for Science on April 22, 2017. Feel free to use the image. I am planning to go to the satellite march in Boston.
It’s dizzying to see the atrocious news spewing out of the White House hour by hour.
I was offline for about 90 minutes the other day and a cottage industry of memes ridiculing Kellyanne Conway‘s comments about the fictitious “Bowling Green Massacre” had popped up while I was away. The criticism spread humorous glee about how badly she “misspoke,” but she didn’t misspeak; she said it during three different interviews. Her false claims fit in with Trump’s false claim that the media wasn’t covering terrorist attacks.
I had never been someone who writes my Senators, calls my Representatives, attends huddles and marches, but I’m trying to do my part now. My little actions are drops in a bucket, but millions of drops add up, I keep telling myself.
I’m getting a mini-course on how to be an activist by committing to the Women’s March campaign of “10 Actions for the first 100 Days” of Trump’s presidency.
I don’t want Pence for president either, but Trump must be removed. This snowball of destruction is picking up speed. I can’t believe everything that’s happened in only three weeks. My prediction is that Republicans will have to turn on him eventually, hopefully sooner than later. What are they waiting for? What sort of good outcome do they think could possibly happen? I’ve read commentary that Republicans keep supporting Trump, even though they must know he’s dangerous and deplorable, because after their unrelenting years of gerrymandering their greatest threat comes from even further right wingnuts in primary challenges. We’re bound to reach a tipping point soon where the cost of supporting this lunatic is greater than the cost of going against him. Right? Right? Right?
“First, we marched. Now we huddle.” — A group meeting in Cheshire, CT on Feb. 11, 2017
I blogged the least in my sixth year of blogging, but I still love this spot as a space to publish my writing and document the things going on in my life. In the heyday of this blog, I was completing my list of 101 things in 1001 days, and since then I’ve done fewer tasks like those sorts of challenges (milk a cow, take a trapeze class, to name two favorites).
I feel like the blog still reflects trying not to be “too timid and squeamish,” though, in that I’m now doing things that represent substantial changes to myself as a person, such as socializing more with a wider community, speaking out politically, and taking some small steps toward activism. Like millions of Americans, I’ve been consumed by the terrifying turn our country has taken with the rise and election of Donald Trump, and I’ve found myself focusing on the news and little else during the last year.
Funny Search Terms
Days can go by now without my checking my stats (now there’s a substantial change!), but
I still get a kick out of some of the search terms that bring people to my blog.
she loves her milk straight man from the cow
sounding sticks too timid
tame your tiger now
wow head christmas riddle
was prufrock timid
nude girl milking a cow
tiger image dangers
nude cow girl with milk drop drink man
best way to tackle timid and squeamish
bad poker face rage comics
keep your tiny hands off our rights (not funny at all, tbh)
I started a Photo a Day project on the first of the year, and I’m not sure yet whether I’ll keep it up, but I’ve been enjoying this bit of microblogging through the month of January.
Thanks to the readers who have come along for the ride during my sixth year of blogging. You’re one of my favorite parts of blogging, and my life is enriched by the peek you give me into different parts of the country and the world.
P.S. I updated this on 02/02/17 with an illustration of one of the funny search terms that I bought for five bucks on Fiverr, which has been a yearly tradition since my first blogoversary. (Not planning enough ahead was not part of the tradition, though.)
At the Boston Women’s March yesterday, I joined thousands and thousands. At one elbow stood an elderly woman, worried about health care and the loss of common decency, and at the other stood a male M.I.T. student, worried about the rights of others being threatened. I stood amid people from diverse backgrounds, crowded peacefully in a historic park, with bursts of pink all around proclaiming support for women.
The turnout exceeded all expectations, not just in Boston, but in cities throughout the U.S. and around the world. Some commentators speculated that this was the largest single day of protest in our nation’s history.
On the stage, the speakers implored us to fight for American values of equality, tolerance, and diversity, to stand up for the vulnerable, for the planet, for science, and for our rights.
One of the speakers on the Boston Common invoked the revolutions and protests that have happened on that same patch of land throughout American history, going back to the earliest days of the American Revolution, and linked the Women’s March with our country’s other historic fights for justice.
I went into Boston with my husband, and we met up with our son who attends college nearby. In a minor miracle, he found us among the cheerful crush of humanity. We stayed glued to our spot near the fourth tree from the flag and guided him to us over the course of an hour.
The size of the crowd made logistics a challenge, with long waits in gridlock to line up for the march, but the peaceful crowd stayed patient.
Singing and chants broke out here and there, a respite from the brutal, depressing year of Trump’s campaign of hate, as well as from his inaugural address the day before, which painted such a grim, illusory portrait of America. While home sick during the inauguration, I watched it on television and worried that my impulse to bear witness would give him one little piece of the ratings he so craves. I heard him take the oath and saw the rain start to fall with my own ears and eyes, but somehow I pushed it away from myself as I let out a sob.
Only a day later and a few hours north, I looked deep into the crowd and couldn’t see the end of it, saw kindness and hope and grit and resolve, all just one part of a vast movement to reclaim America.
At home that night, I saw my Facebook feed flooded with photos from marches all across the country, and on the news I saw reports of the huge protests all around the world.
As I turned off the light for bed, I noticed my cheeks had turned a little pink, that even in the darkest of winter a few hours in the sun will have an impact.
A million seeds of resistance were planted yesterday. May they bloom.
“First, we marched. Now we huddle.” — A group meeting in Cheshire, CT on Feb. 11, 2017
Update 3: Hear Our Voice
From the Women’s March organizers: “Click here to listen to a recording of the kickoff tele-townhall, with Senator Kirsten Gillibrand, Cecile Richards of Planned Parenthood, Leah Greenberg of Indivisible, leaders from the United State of Women, and Women’s March co-chairs Bob Bland and Carmen Perez, about how you can take local action to stand up and fight for equality, justice and freedom.”
Even better than our long-standing tradition of making a paella on New Year’s Eve may be having a big pot of leftovers ready to go for a lazy New Year’s Day and beyond. My husband Randy and I started this tradition in a different house with different cookware when the kids were small. Some years guests join us, other years the kids do, some years feature lobster, other years mussels, some years we skip the whole rigmarole, but a few constants always remain during the years that we do it: saffron-infused rice, sausage, chicken, and seafood, cooked late but before the ball drops, with good cheer as we celebrate the coming of the new year.
001/365 New Year Paella
I decided my first photo for the 365 Project would be a bowl of leftover paella I had for lunch on New Year’s Day. I will do this project for at least two days and see if it grabs me.
I’ll post here: marcy0414; let me know if you do a similar project, and I’ll follow along.
Do you have a New Year’s Eve tradition? Have you done a photo-a-day project?
This painful post sat in my drafts folder for over a year while I agonized over whether to publish it. I don’t understand exactly why, but the urge to publish it would not go away and seemed to block me from writing anything else until I did:
“Growing up, Steve was a proud misogynist, calling women ‘Ws’ for ‘wenches,’ as in this I-swear-it’s-true command to an old girlfriend: ‘W, get me a beer,’ in front of our family while watching football.
I’ve rarely made political comments on my blog, but this anti-Trump post just bubbled up out of me and needed to be published, no matter how tiny its impact. I wrote at least 2,000 extra words and cut it down for days. My take considers Sandy Hook deniers, science fiction, and Trump:
“We’ve now entered the post-truth era, where facts no longer matter to nearly half the country, and the bad news keeps on coming as Donald Trump puts together his team…. With the choice of Rick Perry for Energy, the department he famously forgot of the three he had vowed to eliminate, I keep expecting Trump to jump out from behind a barrel like Allen Funt and yell, ‘Smile! You’re on Candid Camera.’” (Continue reading)
The worst moments can make for the funniest stories, and readers seemed to like the telepathic horse I featured in the tale:
“I’d given the horse a little kick, as instructed, and here it was a mere two seconds later and everything had changed, all confusion, like a wave knocked me over from behind and its pal the undertow snatched me and dragged me away.” (Continue reading)
This little post answered the prompt “Where did the time go?” in the required 42 words. Many of the responses to the prompt considered lost decades, but I tried to show the micro adjustments needed in the moments a tennis ball approaches. Tennis continues to enchant and baffle me:
“The ball springs off his racket toward my sweet spot; I’ll smash a forehand down the line: racket back, turn sideways, little steps, line it up, track it…” (Continue reading)
With the start of the academic year a few months ago, I became an empty-nester and started cooking fancy meals for my husband and me more than ever, I guess to fill the empty space in my heart with delicious noshes my picky eater wouldn’t eat. This post from February marks the start of it all, back when we still had a high schooler at home:
“By getting my husband on board to hang out and help, cooking at home on a Friday night transformed from an exhausting chore to a fun event.
“We listened to music and had some wine while we cooked scallops with asparagus, a splurge for a home meal, but a pittance compared to if we’d eaten out.” (Continue reading)
The pork bánh mì is so, so good. My obsession with this Vietnamese sandwich started with a little shop hidden in the back of a jewelry store in New York City’s Chinatown:
“How good could this sandwich possibly be, as you find it, pass the glass cases of jade bracelets and gold necklaces, and finally get the food in some bags to go, only to wander around the bustling streets of Manhattan for another half hour looking for a place to sit down and eat? (Continue reading)
This short post about a trip to the dentist flowed out of me fully edited the moment I got home. I shared the feeling of peace I got from letting go of a grievance.
“I stare at a spot on the ceiling, bright blue sky, white clouds, pink spring blossoms in the corner of the light box. I once would have clung to this, a haven in my anxiety, but now I don’t care. Throw whatever you want at me. Pain. Blood. Small talk. Scheduling. I’ll endure. I tell myself, ‘You think this is bad? This ain’t bad.’” (Continue reading)
I mused about getting an old roll of film developed in these days of digital photography. After my dad had passed away that nearly forgotten day at his backyard pool loomed large:
“Years after my father died I found an old camera with a half-used roll of film from an afternoon my kids and I spent with him in his backyard pool. I had switched to a digital camera and never finished the roll. After my nostalgic afternoon going through the drawer of old photos, I shot off the rest of the roll and dropped it off to be developed.” (Continue reading)
I told about a bumbling Mount Washington hike in a 33-item list:
“3. Arrive at noon when it’s 100 degrees and the exact worst time to begin hiking a mountain.
“4. Gasp for breath at 12:10 p.m.
“5. Ask yourself why you are doing this at 12:11 p.m.
“6. Stop hiking to take a photo to fool your husband into pausing so you can catch your breath.
“7. Stop hiking to take a drink.” (Continue reading)
An awesome, challenging hike to the top of New York state really, really will be my retirement from challenging hikes (?):
“I love the beginning of every hike. The buzz from the road quickly fades away and is replaced by the gurgles of streams and the rustling of the wind through the trees. For long stretches of time, the cares of the outside world fade away too, with the only concerns being which line of stones to take across a stream, or the looming thunderstorm that quickens my steps.” (Continue reading)
I published this post before Westworld came into the world, and I am now thinking of the Turing Test more than ever:
“After watching the fascinating film Ex Machina, I fell into a rabbit hole reading about the Turing Test, sidled over to whether the Blade Runner replicant test counted as a Turing Test, and ended up scoring a 54 percent likelihood that I myself am a replicant. It’s a simplistic test, so I wasn’t too fazed. That is, I wasn’t too fazed until my husband scored as more likely to be a human than I.” (Continue reading)
On Christmas morning I looked through photos of Christmas past while the rest of my family slept in, and I thought about tradition. As my little boys turned into adults, Christmas became less about the presents and more about spending time together, and that was true again this year.
We started off as we always do, with a breakfast casserole that I assembled the day before and just had to throw in the oven.
My son Dan helped me assemble our special treat for the day, an ambitious one this year: milk and cookie shots, in which the cookie is a shot glass for the milk. Years ago Dan had given me some coupons as a present, and I still have some for him to be my sous chef. Best present ever.
Two years ago, I had bought Christmas crackers, a British noisemaker with little treats inside, for decorating the table, and the pack of eight was now gone. I felt frivolous spending money on these reindeer antlers and knew my grown children wouldn’t be into them, but by adding them to an Amazon cart they earned me free shipping. I practically made money on them! Really, it would have been foolish not to get them. Plus, everyone played along better than I could have hoped.
[Spoiler alert for Stranger Things, “A Sound of Thunder,” and the feeling that everything is going to be all right.]
I walk into the kitchen as my husband rushes out the door for work. “I’m halfway through an article on the Sandy Hook hoaxers,” I say. The article tells how conspiracy theorists are harassing the parents of 20 first-graders who were murdered at school.
“Why?” he asks. “Why would you do that to yourself?”
“They’re… they’re….” Words swirl and tears come.
“They’re crazy,” he says.
I try to explain the misery that’s consumed me since the election and how this horrible topic is connected to it, but I just cry instead.
We’ve now entered the post-truth era, where facts no longer matter to nearly half the country, and the bad news keeps on coming as Donald Trump puts together his team. A fossil fuel crony who denies climate change is to be put in charge of the Environmental Protection Agency, a man who ran a white supremacy website is picked as chief White House strategist, and a man deemed too racist to be a federal judge is picked for attorney general. With the choice of Rick Perry for Energy, the department he famously forgot of the three he had vowed to eliminate, I keep expecting Trump to jump out from behind a barrel like Allen Funt and yell, “Smile! You’re on Candid Camera.”
For those who don’t remember Funt, his pranks were done in the spirit of fun, not designed to destroy the whole world.
Trump continues to tell lie after lie. The last month, punctuated by victory rallies and petty tweets, has only been an extension of a campaign built on lies, racism, and misogyny.
I often wonder if I could just sit down and talk with Trump supporters whether I could make it clear how wrong his actions are.
In the Sandy Hook article, the father of a murdered six-year-old tried to talk with the hoaxers, offered his time and his patience, along with his son’s report card and death certificate. He got this message: “Wolfgang does not wish to speak with you unless you exhume Noah’s body and prove to the world you lost your son.”
As my mind reels from this surreal reality, it touches down on science fiction.
In Netflix’s Stranger Things, I see a conspiracy theorist’s dream. A grieving mother refuses to accept that her son is dead, as the whole town pities her miserable denial. She fights on in the face of overwhelming evidence, sees her boy’s dead body in the morgue, and shouts, “I don’t know what you think that thing is in there, but that is not my son.” And in a twist worthy of the Sandy Hook hoaxers, it turns out she’s right. The thing is a shoddy rubber knockoff that’s part of a vast conspiracy to cover up the truth, that a monster in the Upside Down is being hidden in a government facility.
That’s the level of craziness rational people are now up against in what Time called the Divided States of America when it named Trump the person of the year. The choice against Trump was so obvious that most people didn’t believe he could win, until about 63 million Americans voted for him.
Trump hasn’t denounced Alex Jones, who pushes Sandy Hook denial and other conspiracy theories. Instead, Trump praises him and tweets out some of Jones’s fake news stories as “evidence” to back up his own lies.
I retreat to sci-fi again. In Ray Bradbury’s “A Sound of Thunder,” a company arranges time travel safaris to take down the ultimate big game, a T. rex. Before the safari, the office chatter is about how a laughably unelectable fascist candidate lost the election, to the relief of all who are rational. On the safari, the hunters are warned to never leave the levitating path. A tiny change in the past could reverberate through the ages with unknown consequences for the present. A hunter panics, though, and runs through the dirt, and when they return to the present, the fascist has won. They find a tiny crushed butterfly in the dirt of the hunter’s shoe, a tiny change in the distant past that elected a fascist in the present.
What was our butterfly that made the country turn upside down?
Thirty years ago, an unhinged conspiracy theorist could stand on a street corner with a sign, screaming inane nonsense, and people would lower their eyes and move along. Now he has a website that spreads lies and hate. Now he is taken seriously as an opposing viewpoint. Now he prepares to enter the Oval Office with the most powerful man in the world.
After my foray into science fiction, I face reality again. I finish the Sandy Hook hoaxer article, and as soul crushing as its topic is, it manages to end with a sliver of hope. People on the side of sanity are having some success fighting the hoaxers by exposing them to the light.
The majority of voters did not support Trump, and in no way does he have a mandate to pursue an agenda so at odds with what the majority want. To oppose Trump, we can support organizations that are threatened by him, such as the ones recommended by John Oliver that have seen a surge in donations since the election. We can support the real media and stop spreading fake news. We can join progressives who are mobilizing to influence members of Congress and follow steps detailed in “Indivisible: A Practical Guide for Resisting the Trump Agenda.”
We can’t run away from the rise of Trump, a new truth that’s stranger than fiction. Now is not the time to compromise on the values that make America great. Being rational isn’t enough against people who don’t believe in facts. It’s time to fight, and we must not stray from the path.
I grab a grimy ball and shuffle to the lane. Visualize! Firm wrist. Go straight. Follow through. The little ball finds the gutter. Again. A groan escapes my lips. I could be home on the couch.
Middle-aged and empty-nested, I’ve flung myself into a duckpin bowling league, and I come in last almost every week.
Of course, I already knew the basics, to roll the ball down the lane. Unlike when I brought my kids ages ago, though, no handy lane bumpers ward off the gutter balls. And, yep, gutter balls happen.
Still, I show up each week and give it my best.
I work on the simplest details. What’s so hard about not flopping my wrist? Yet it flops, over and over. While I focus on this new physical skill, my rusty brain’s on heightened alert: Wrist, arm, back, hips, and legs all have to work together to get a mark. I try to believe that every gutter ball carves not just a path of humiliation down the lane, but also a new path in my brain’s neural network, maybe even replacing an obsolete one or two.
Each week when Monday rolls around, I spend the day yearning to quit. I stink. I don’t know most of the women. I hate leaving the house. Yet those same reasons keep making me go. Every autumn the urge to hibernate hits hard, and I just want to hunker down in my safe and cozy home. So I grab my car keys and go, lace up the borrowed bowling shoes and pick up a ball.
Sometimes, I get a strike. I tend to follow up a strike with two gutter balls, and all those bonus points that dangled before me just a moment ago vanish in the silence like a firework that never went off.
What the duckpin!?
As I walk away from the still-standing pins, I take in the encouraging looks from the other women, shrug my shoulders, and smile.
As fall marches toward winter, I’ve been getting out when I can. With a return to work after a long summer and both boys now away at college, I’ve not been doing much except for getting my work done at school and cooking some good meals here and there for just my husband and me. We always have plenty of leftovers these days in our empty nest. Some odds and ends from fall…
We grilled crisscrossed pork steaks, pungent with an Asian marinade amid the parked cars and tossed footballs, and set the grilled pork slices atop another star of the bánh mì, crusty bread slathered in a secret sauce of mayo with hoisin and sriracha (the secret is out!), which was grilled up too, and joined by pâté, pickled carrots and radishes, jalapeño, cucumber, and cilantro.
We tailgated with diehard Syracuse fans at a UConn-Syracuse football game. Dressed in orange, they got some dirty looks from the UConn fans, but the crowd overall was friendly. They said they’ve had bottles thrown at them in the past. Nobody needs that. They do need a bánh mì, though.
I love how the light is shining down on the sandwich in this photo:
Tailgating in paradise with a pork banh mi: perfection encapsulated in one spicy, sweet, crusty, salty, crunchy, creamy bite, in crisp and sunny fall air amid good, although orange-clad, friends.
2. A Nut
For my husband’s birthday, I made him a photobook of our trip out West. Admittedly, it was one of those gifts for him that was really for me, but he liked it all the same. Here’s a page featuring “A Nut” from when we went searching in Colorado for hidden treasure, and I’ll leave it to you to decide which aspect of the photo earned that caption.
P.S. I took a mirror image of the old, rusty nut (well, one of them) for a Macro Monday challenge on Flickr:
I liked trying the mirror reflection technique. Here was my set-up:
3. And Speaking of Macros: A Star is Born
Above is another macro I took for a photography challenge, featuring star anise lit from below by a flashlight. My set-up:
4. Quack, Quack
We got the whole family together only one time this fall to visit our older son at Tufts. We took a Boston Duck Tour, a great mix of history, sightseeing, and quirky fun, in a World War II vehicle that maneuvers on both land and water. I recommend it, especially if you don’t know Boston well.
5. A Few Meatless Gems
I don’t stick to meatless on Mondays anymore, but I keep adding to my collection of good meatless meals. Here are a few hits from my Meatless Monday page: Cuban black beans, layered salad (for a summer potluck), and salad with hummus and baba ganoush.
“And we’ve got to get ourselves back to the Garden”
— Crosby, Stills & Nash (Joni Mitchell)
Trip report for Mt. Marcy, the highest peak in New York state, elevation 5,344 feet (climb of 3,121 feet), Aug. 21-23, 2016
Day 1: 3.5 miles from the Garden parking lot to Johns Brook Lodge
Day 2: 11 miles to Mt. Marcy summit and back (Hopkins Trail)
Day 3: 3.5 miles from Johns Brook Lodge to the Garden parking lot
I love the beginning of every hike. The buzz from the road quickly fades away and is replaced by the gurgles of streams and the rustling of the wind through the trees. For long stretches of time, the cares of the outside world fade away too, with the only concerns being which line of stones to take across a stream, or the looming thunderstorm that quickens my steps.
We’d arrived in the Adirondack town of Keene, NY, in the early afternoon and had 3.5 miles to hike to the Johns Brook Lodge. By staying at the lodge, we shaved a few miles off the trip to the fairly remote peak of Mt. Marcy. I’ve “retired” from hiking a few times, after summiting Katahdin pushed me to the utter edge of my abilities and the Inca Trail was so amazing it seemed like the perfect capstone. I’m not someone who naturally loves hiking — I’m miserable pretty much the whole way up, and I am clumsy and scared when climbing on rocks — yet I love being in the woods, taking on a challenge, and sharing the experience with my husband, who loves hiking. So I came out of retirement at least one more time for the mountain that shares my name and a peak I’ve always wanted to climb.
Thunderstorms were forecast for the afternoon, and we tried to outwalk the rain, but we were stuck in it for about 20 minutes before we arrived at the Johns Brook Lodge, not too bad since the hard rain was still to come.
Adirondacks in the Adirondacks
The lodge is beautiful and well-run, and a friendly staff of young women served up a delicious hot meal of chili and rice for dinner. It was fun to hang out and relax with other hikers and hear about their adventures. The lodge is in the heart of many high peaks and several of the people we talked to were working their way through the 46 Adirondack High Peaks.
And how often these days can you look around a room full of people and not see one person on his phone? No signal, no distractions.
We took the Hopkins Trail up the mountain and had 5.5 miles to hike to the summit. We were warned it was the “messier” of the two ascents, and with the previous night’s rain, it was indeed a boggy, muddy mess. A rivulet flowed down our trail for hours, and I methodically picked my way from rock to rock.
We made slow but steady progress throughout the morning and talked with a “summit steward” at the edge of treeline. She was there to remind people to stay on the rocks and not step on the fragile plants in the alpine zone above treeline.
She said she would usually be on the summit, but with the extreme cold and strong winds up there, she was huddled at the edge of the little dwarf trees. We had 0.6 of a mile left to the summit.
We added a fleece and a jacket and headed upward. Once above treeline, the wind instantly became cold and fierce. We passed several pairs of hikers coming down who all commented on how strong the wind was up ahead. Those final six-tenths had long stretches of steep (to me) slabs of rock to climb.
I did pretty well and only got foolishly stuck on my hands and knees once when I got a little panicky about where to place a foot. I was keeping a running tally of how many times I’d whined during the hike in an effort to stay positive. I only had one whine up until this point, but I racked up five in quick succession. The wind was so strong and cold, and each turn was another false summit of steep rock. I was actually OK with going up, but my fear was building about going down the steep ledges, which always scares me. At one point I said to my husband, “Well, we can kiss dinner goodbye!” (scheduled for 6:30 p.m.) as I imagined myself crawling the whole way back down.
Onward I went. We finally reached the desolate and deserted summit at about 1 p.m. We took a quick selfie and a few other photos while in the middle of a freezing cloud with absolutely no view.
I now faced descending the steep ledges of rock. I wish I had photos of this area to show, but my hands were blocks of ice, my camera was stowed away, and time was ticking! I’m proud to say, though, that for the first time in my long history of semi-inept hiking I made genuine progress when I was finally able to use my hiking poles and descend face first, rather than my usual technique of climbing down backwards or scuttling on my hands and feet like a crab. Randy even got a laugh out of me at one point when he noticed my ease descending a stretch of rock and blurted out, “Timid no more!”
Once below treeline again, we had a long and tiring slog down and back to the lodge. Within about half an hour, the skies started to clear, and it was beautiful for the rest of the day — pretty disappointing, I guess, but I was so grateful that it wasn’t raining that I didn’t mind that much.
Gray skies are gonna clear up. Put on a happy face.
The hike back to the Garden was easy as pie, which we treated ourselves to for lunch, having heard about a local diner renowned for its homemade pies. One slice of blueberry, hike safely completed, and a cup of coffee: Heaven.
I’m still ambivalent about hiking and don’t know whether I have more challenging hikes on my horizon. Eleven miles was longer than I’m comfortable hiking in one day, but for this remote peak, that was the closest we could get.
All in all, I’m grateful I was able to have a few days in the woods with the beautiful and formidable Mt. Marcy. Was I a beast? Maybe not, but she sure was.
For my Fitbit friends
38,000 steps! (The miles are over-represented by my little steps on every rock. With the 11-mile hike and the rest of my day, I probably walked about 12 miles.)