TROT Virtual Race #1: Brazos Bend 50K

Self-sufficient. I hadn't exactly intended to run this particular race. I hadn't been planning on running it even before COVID-19 and quarantine and social distancing hit us all. I had been signed up to volunteer at an aid station for the race at Brazo's Bend State Park down by Houston, my preferred place to see gators, but when the race directors cancelled every race from late February through May my volunteering was cancelled as well. Then they rolled out the virtual options for the cancelled races, offering the same distances, bibs, shirts, and medals a participant would receive during the in-person race, with the slight adjustment of letting each person run when they can, where they can. I was sold.

Running a virtual race versus an in-person race is pretty much the same thing: you put one foot in front of the other and run the distance you signed up for in what is hopefully a decent amount of time. There are a few significant differences though, as I discovered during my first TROT (Trail Racing Over Texas) Virtual Run. First and foremost, you don't have the social aspect of the race when you're doing it on your own. In this case that's the whole point, but I found myself missing the other runners and race volunteers, all of whom would normally be ready with an encouraging word and a heap of snacks at the aid stations. The aid stations were another thing I sorely missed; instead of having a table full of a variety of foods, electrolytes, and water refills, I was responsible for my own fuel during my run, carried my own water, and otherwise had to take care of myself. Sure, I could have planned my course so that I did loops or laps that took me back to my car every 5-10 miles so that I could refuel there and not carry so much, but I don't yet have the will-power to keep going when I could easily call it quits, get in my car, and go home. During a virtual race, you are also responsible for planning your own route. While there are advantages to that (hello flat trails and no elevation gain!) there are also disadvantages in the form of poor planning or just plain boring routes. Again, I could have planned my route to take me past my car somewhat frequently, but I didn't want to risk giving up. Instead, I planned a route that would take me 13+ miles away from my car, essentially forcing me to complete the distance so long as I didn't turn around before I hit the end of the trail.

While I would have preferred to run the race on the originally intended course at Brazo's Bend, I think I did rather well for myself considering I changed plans about half a dozen times. When I signed up for this race I had hoped to run it at my local state park, so that I could be close to home and because I already know the trails there. That idea was dashed when Texas closed all the state parks in response to the virus, because apparently people here (and everywhere, really) can't follow instructions to social distance. I toyed with the idea of running on the roads around my house, but I get horrible shin splints when I run on concrete and really didn't want to suffer that much. Then I hoped to run the race on a national recreation trail about an hour south of my house, in the heart of one of four national forests here in Texas, but further digging the night before I wanted to run led to the discovery that most of the 20 mile trail is closed for one reason or another. Finally, I decided to run a trail I've hiked a few times in the past, when breaking my own personal distance records in previous years: Turkey Creek Trail at Big Thicket National Preserve.

I had a pretty good idea of what I was getting myself into for this run. I'd hiked Turkey Creek Trail before, knew it was flat, if somewhat boggy in places, and it was roughly 20 miles from end to end. Hurricane Harvey wrecked havoc on the preserve and surrounding area, though, and did enough damage to the south end of the trail that they had to close it until repairs can be made. This left me with just about 14 miles to work with, running out and back, plus adding another four miles somewhere to hit that 50k mark, or 31.1 miles. I could do it. And I was bringing Ghost, too.

Ghost has found his purpose in life ever since I started running with him. He's a giant baby and hates water and heights, but if I take him out for a run he forgets everything except keeping pace with (or leading) me. We arrived at the northern trailhead for Turkey Creek just before 8am on a cloudy, cool April morning, and set out right after loading up with food and water. Ghost has his own backpack, which allows him to carry his own snacks, water, and bowl, and gives me a break from carrying extra weight. I have my own hydration vest - a gift from Torrey - that is more than sufficient to carry water, sweet and salty snacks, a rain jacket, and other little things that I would otherwise find at an aid station table. I'm generally adamant about being self-sufficient (probably a trait from backpacking and my Type A personality) and while I would have liked to ditch the weight of so many bottles of water and instead filled up at aid stations, I had no issue in relying on myself to provide what I needed. Covered in bug spray and satisfied we had everything we needed, we began.

I am not, and never will be, a fast runner. I am much more invested in distance, in pushing myself as far as I can go, in the mental battle that takes place between the logical part of me that screams what the fuck do you think you're doing, you can't go that far, and the tiny but much louder part of me that crosses her arms, raises her eyebrows, and snaps back yes, I can. I am perfectly happy with a 12, 13, or 14 minute mile. Hell, 12 minute miles are fast for me. I am just fine with power hiking when I need a break. And so I am okay with the fact that Ghost and I started out great with 12 minute miles, then eventually slowed to 16 minute miles, with a few 20 minute miles sprinkled in when I slowed down to eat a bag of M&Ms and a handful of pretzles at miles 5, 15, and 25. And those two 10-minute breaks I took at miles 10 and 20 to change my socks, eat half a Kind bar and a pickle spear, and dig out another water bottle from the bottom of my pack? No big deal.

I took the social distancing orders to heart on this race, and only saw three other human beings during the entire 31 miles, and all of them were at the trailhead as I was finishing up. On the trail itself, other than a plethora of bugs, I saw two other living creatures: a young coyote who we surprised as we rounded a bend in the trail, whom I locked eyes with before it turned tail and fled up the path before disappearing in the brush, and a copperhead snake (yes, one of the venomous ones here in Texas) whom Ghost stepped right over before I even saw it stretched across the trail, whom didn't even move as I gave a dramatic gasp and jump away from it, yanking Ghost by the leash. Neither the coyote nor the snake bothered us, and we went on our way though I was decidedly more vigilant after seeing the copperhead. I had been in a headspace that's almost a trance, the meditation state that I fall into during long runs where I'm just aware enough to keep to the trail but also removed enough to not notice how my muscles ache, how my toes are sore, how my heartbeat throbs in my fingers. After the little reminder that there are things in the woods that could send my day into a downward spiral of awfulness I was a little more aware of my surroundings, and definitely kept my eyes on the trail both in front of myself and in front of Ghost.

We reached the beginning of the trail and my car at mile 27, right around seven hours after setting out. After a quick refill of water bottles and a purging of empty ones, reapplying bug spray because the mosquitoes were swarming after the repellent wore off after twenty miles and Ghost and I were being eaten alive, plus ditching Ghost's pack, we ran back to the trail. I needed to hit 31.1 miles to reach a 50k distance, and so needed to run out and back just a couple of miles. I was in no danger of quitting, despite being near my car; I was only four miles from finishing this, I felt great, and Ghost was happy to be without his pack. We were good! It's almost stupid to admit, but the only concern I had was my phone battery dying. I used my phone to track my distance and time, and if it died on me before I finished I wasn't sure if it would record my run or if it would be lost. I ran my fastest four miles at the very end of the race, desperate for my phone battery to last. I had 10% charge, and watched that number drop at an alarming rate during the last mile. I all but sprinted it, huffing and puffing through a stitch in my side and burning calf muscles, Ghost loping alongside me with his tongue lolling out of his mouth. I'm sure I looked like a lunatic as I ran circles around the tiny trailhead parking lot, trying to hit the last two tenths of a mile that would push me firmly over to my 50k distance. When I saw my distance numbers roll over I practically sobbed with relief, sprinting over to my car to plug my phone in while also hitting "finish" and "save workout" on the running app.

Only once I was sure that my phone was charging and my run was saved did I allow myself a little happy dance for completing my second 50K ever, my fourth race total. I showered Ghost with love and treats, so incredibly proud of him for not only finishing his first 50K distance but leading me for the entire way. He never once dragged behind, never once showed any sort of wish to slow down or stop. There were even times when he would pull insistently on the leash, clearly wanting to go faster, and it is probably because of him that I managed to shave 12 minutes off my time for that distance, finishing this 50K race in 7 hours 46 minutes. We will definitely be running a 50K together again, and it just so happens that I'm signed up for two more virtual races of that distance, with plans to sign up for four more once registration opens next month. While I might not have originally intended to run the Brazos Bend 50, and although I missed some of the things that come with a supported in-person race, virtual racing has definitely grown on me, and I'm absolutely sure Ghost enjoys it too.

Natural Bridge Caverns Trail Run: Race #2

Jaunty. Months ago, right after I had recommitted to running a half-marathon trail race, a conversation with my long-distance running buddy led to the discovery of a race that began in a cave right here in Texas. For the adventurous spirit inside me it was a siren call too enchanting to resist, and I had signed up for it almost before I knew it. Of course, the fact that it was one week after my 54k (which happened to be my first race ever) was something that slipped by me in my enthusiasm. Would I still have signed up for both anyway? Yeah, probably. Would I have at least stopped to consider if that was a good idea? Meh, maybe. The thing is, I had been toying with the idea of running one race per month in 2020, and the 54k was in January, and the half-marathon cave run was in February, and we all know those are two different months. Realizing they were a week apart didn't dampen my excitement; if anything, attempting two races basically back to back was a challenge I was determined to overcome.

It was with no small amount of anticipation that Julia and I found ourselves in the wild country north of San Antonio at the beginning of February as we followed our fellow runners, descending single-file into a hole in the earth. We trailed along, strung out on the path as we turned our heads this way and that, trying to take in as many cave formations as possible. They began runners one at a time due to the cramped quarters, and we had a few minutes stopped in a small tunnel to chat and take in the fact that we were about to run a race through a cave. Julia and I made sure to take a picture together as we waited for our turn to begin, our excitement at this novel experience palpable.

Then it was our turn! Julia went first, for the sole purpose of me getting a picture of her beginning the race. I hadn't carried my phone for my last race, and I ended up regretting it because I would have loved more pictures. I learned this time around, and although it wasn't ideal to hold my phone in my hand the whole time I absolutely had easy access to take any picture I wanted! And yeah, I took a ton (it's me, come on). Most of my pictures I took while on the move, but there were several places where the formations or the scenery prompted me to stop in my tracks as I drank in everything around me. I absolutely squeaked with overwhelming excitement and joy after I was allowed to begin, running to catch up with Julia so we could experience this together. We ran past stalactites and stalagmites, past smooth flow-stone and fragile straws, along deep pits, and finally up steep switchbacks as we neared ground-level.

The transition from cave to sunrise air was shocking enough to prompt exclamations out of both of us; the caves in south Texas generally stay a consistent 70 degrees Fahrenheit, but a late winter Texan morning hovers right around 40. The difference was enough to see the condensation forming in the air in front of us through the doors at the surface, and as we passed through it we felt the drop in our bones. It didn't take long to forget about it, though, as we turned a corner and ran into the sunrise.

From the cave, the course looped through a great example of south-central Texas hill country, known for its rolling hills, little canyons, rocky trails, and (in the springtime) its wildflowers. We were a few weeks too early for flowers, unfortunately, but the crooked oak trees and little pastures more than made up for it. We ran up and down hills, along a dry creek bed, through tunnels of trees just waiting to burst into bloom, and across pastures that were already a green spring carpet beneath our feet. We had one major descent (not counting the cave) and I was able to let go and allow gravity to take the wheel. I've found I absolutely adore downhill running; I somehow know exactly how to place my feet to keep my legs under me, how to angle my body so I don't face-plant and skid in the dirt, and when I give it my all I feel like I'm flying. Of course, we went down so eventually had to go up, and I am significantly less adept at that. I power walk to the best of my ability, but holy cow do I suffer for it.

Even with a bit of walking, stopping to take pictures, and a near-constant flow of conversation, Julia and I managed to keep a steady pace throughout the 13.1 miles. As soon as we hit the pavement that signaled we were close to the finish line Julia asked how far I thought we had left to go, and I knew that was her way of asking if we could have it all out in the last few steps of the race. We saved it until we could see the bright red finish line arch at the bottom of a hill, next to the cave entrance where we had begun our race. Once we did, we sprinted, a giant grin on my face as I reflected that this was my first official half-marathon, that I had finished, that I had done it a week after an ultra-marathon, and that I felt like a million bucks even at the end of the run. Julia crossed the finish line less than four seconds before I did, and after catching our breath we set out to grab our finisher medals and snag some food as we came down from the exhilaration of finishing.

I absolutely did not take this race seriously. I was still somewhat recovering from my ultra-marathon (stupid knee) and I had plenty of time to complete the run, the course began in a cave then looped around a bit of privately-owned Texas hill country which meant there was plenty of scenery to gawk at, and I was running with one of my best friends whom I was determined to chat with the whole time. Despite my irreverence I somehow pulled off my best pace yet for that distance (asphalt and trail running combined!), finishing the half-marathon in under two and a half hours. Far from punishing my body with a bad race, running two races a week apart seemed to work out perfectly well for me, and I'd be lying if I said I'm not curious (or ambitious, or perhaps crazy) enough to try it again. I've got a bit of a break before my next race - I'm signed up for two more at the time of publishing - but I have every intention of hitting the trails between now and then just for fun, as well as a couple of non-running adventures planned. I have to say, it is certainly good to be back.

Running The Rose: My First Race

Able. This all began with a stupid deal, made in a fit of irritability and pique directed at the low-hanging clouds and the drizzling white mist swirling around us, soaking through our clothes and shoes as we traversed the final miles of the Buffalo River Trail in northern Arkansas. I don't even remember most of the conversation - or lack thereof - other than at one point I burst out that if we managed to finish the trail by noon I would run a race. Torrey, one of those crazy people who run ultra-marathons for fun, immediately shot back that it would have to be at least a half-marathon, and it would have to be on a trail, not a road. Still wet, cold, and irritable, I agreed. When we finished that trail with four minutes to spare I wasn't thinking anything beyond being grateful that we'd reached the warm, dry interior of our car, and as the months went on I hoped Torrey had forgotten about our deal. I wasn't that lucky, however, and during our Colorado adventures last summer Torrey had the grace to remind me of our bargain in as tactful of a way as possible. Not being one to go back on my word, I began training when I got home at the end of August.

Five months later, what the fuck was I thinking played on repeat in my head as I walked from my car to the starting line for my first ever race. I definitely still would have been thinking those words regardless of what distance I was running, but they were especially poignant because for some stupid reason I had decided to go for broke and sign up for an ultra-marathon distance of 54K, or 33.55 miles. Did I mention it was my first race? The small handful of 5ks I did years ago where I walked the vast majority of the distance don't count, because I certainly wasn't timed for them, and I'm not even sure I received a race bib or finisher medal. I'd never ran a timed 5k, a 10k, a half-marathon, or a full marathon, but I'd spent the past five months working hard on my own to improve my distance endurance, and when I found a race close to home I jumped at the chance to go for it. I spent every weekend for a month training on the course trails at my local state park, learning the route and pushing my own limits up to 22 miles (or two of the three loops of the race course), because I'll be damned if I was going to give up.

The minute I walked up to the starting area I heard my named called over the PA system by the race director, asking me to come see him as soon as possible. Dread hit my chest and lodged in my throat, because I'm an extreme introvert and had absolutely hoped to avoid any sort of attention during this race. It would be just my luck that a hundred or so people would get to watch me walk over to the race director while I internally freaked out over what could possibly be wrong. When I reached him he smiled at me and reached out to touch my shoulder in what could only be a described as a bracing way as he explained to me as apologetically as possible what had happened. I burst out into full body laughter, the kind that hurts your stomach and makes your shoulders shake, the kind laced with just a little edge of hysteria, because raccoons decimating my drop bags overnight would happen only to me. I had carefully planned what I was going to put in my bags, which would go to each of the three aid stations on the course where I could grab a snack, some electrolyte tablets for my water, address any blisters that might have popped up, and otherwise support myself during the race. I had gone overkill, which I tend to do regardless, because the aid stations were all well-equipped for any needs a runner might have, but I had wanted to be prepared with my own stuff just in case. After learning my bags were next to useless, I knew I was going to be relying on the aid stations for most of my needs. The only thing I really cared about were the change of socks I knew I absolutely needed to have, and it was with no small amount of relief that we found my socks were spared from the raccoons' rampage.

So here's the thing: in previous posts I've discussed how good I am at avoiding things, of ignoring problems, of pushing it all down into the back of my mind and pretending it doesn't exist. I seem to be learning there is no end to the amount of shit I willingly ignore about myself, because it is only recently that I learned I've been having panic attacks for months and have been doing my utmost to ignore what my brain is putting my body through. I probably still wouldn't know if I hadn't had one in a therapy session, where it became difficult to breath and my hands were shaking and my throat was dry and I couldn't string words together and my shoulders and whole legs were tense, where I began sweating and alternating between rubbing my face and pinching my arms. All of which I had literally no idea I was doing until my counselor made me stop and breath, walked me through grounding exercises, then had me describe the physical symptoms of what I had just endured. I. Had. No. Idea. I still don't know all of my triggers, though now that I'm (mostly) aware I can pinpoint the thoughts or words that might induce one of my attacks. And being called to the front of a large crowd of people where I don't know a single person to be told my carefully prepared bags are worthless due to a freak occurrence should have sent me into a panic attack, but it didn't. For reasons I'm not sure I understand, the circumstances made me truly laugh instead, accepting it for what it was and moving on. Maybe it was because I was focused on the monumental task of finishing a 33 mile race instead of the little side details, or maybe it was because I expected a panic attack and was therefore prepared for one, but I surprised myself and stayed calm. I had my socks, the aid stations could provide the rest, now all I had to do was run.

I had this. I knew I did. I was well prepared, knew my body and, at least in this case, my mind. The first 11 mile loop all but flew by with my best pace yet, and it was with a certain amount of fondness that I looked forward to my favorite parts of the trail. Isn't that something, for me to realize I had favorite spots on a running trail, and when I reached them a tiny little smile crossed my face, even on my third and final loop. Not once did it cross my mind that I couldn't do it. Not once did that doubt leach into my head, even when I was tired and walking up the steepest hills. I knew I could do it, that no matter what, even if I had to crawl, I could finish that race. I had plenty of time, hours well into the night, but I knew I could finish before sunset. I wasn't overly concerned about my pace, just going at what I knew I could handle while always moving forward. I found a few people to run with here and there, before eventually either they or I would run on ahead, each of us determined to finish at our own pace. I was pleasantly surprised to see a few familiar faces, people who I'd seen and talked to and even ran with on training runs on that very course, and with just a passing fist bump or a "hey, you got this!" I felt my resolve grow. The hiking community in general, which I've been a part of for years, is usually very polite, exchanging hellos and little bits about the trail in passing; the running community, at least for this race, was so incredibly encouraging it kind of blew me away. Nearly every time I passed someone or someone passed me it was always accompanied by "way to go," "good job," "keep it up," or some other little phrase designed to keep the other person's spirits up. I can't speak for everyone, but I genuinely wanted everyone out there to do well, to be their best, and wanted them to finish their race. Very few people go out there looking to actually compete; most of us just want to go out and run for the sake of running, or for ourselves, or maybe to beat a personal record, or to run with friends.

Trail running wasn't a hard stretch for me, for someone who loves to hike and explore as much as I do, trail running is just a faster way of seeing more. It's the "faster" part that held me back from trying it, and it took an incentive in the form of my best friend making a dumb deal with me to get me to go for it. And there I was, at top form during the first two loops, feeling good and showing that with my pace. I slowed down on my third loop, which I expected, but I still felt good despite being tired. I kept pushing, though not as hard as I could have, content just to have begun the final loop knowing that I would finish it no matter what. Somehow I managed to keep my feet the entire race, and despite the few times I tripped over a rock or root I never went down, which is way more than I can say than during any of my training runs, where my shins and knees and hands still bear the scars of one too many falls. At one point or another during my passes through the aid stations, while scarfing down a cookie or pretzels or pickles or whatever else caught my eye, I had mentioned it was my first race to the volunteers. On my final loop they all remembered, and their encouragement to keep going and finish strong gave me that little extra boost I needed to do exactly that. While I didn't care how long it took me, or whether I would be dead last across the finish line, I had hoped and hoped that I might finish in under eight hours. I wouldn't even call it a goal, because I wasn't actively striving for it when I began; it was just something that would be nice if it happened. When my watch died just before the final aid station, with a little over three miles left to go, I let that hope go, not knowing if I could pace myself without some way of telling time. I did, however, ask the volunteers the time when I left on the last leg of the course; I had 45 minutes to make it to the finish line if I wanted to make it under eight hours. And I honestly wasn't sure that I could, but hot damn did I give it my best shot.

Crossing that final line with a grin on my face, with absolute relief that I had done it, that I had accomplished a task I had repeatedly told myself I was crazy for even considering, was one of the best feelings I've ever felt; it was the same feeling of overwhelming gratitude and relief and triumph that I feel when I summit a mountain, or when I crested the rim of the Grand Canyon after hiking across it, or when I see my car at the trail head after days of backpacking in the desert or the mountains. I didn't even look at the time when I crossed, too overwhelmed to make sense of anything more than the finisher medal in my hand and the applause and cheers from those at the finish line who didn't even know me but were happy for and proud of me for completing the race. It wasn't until later that night when I remembered to look up results online that I discovered I had finished my race in 7 hours, 58 minutes, and 37 seconds. Goal: met. With one minute twenty-three seconds to spare.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Kitten's First Beach

I went to the beach! While spending a weekend on the Gulf Coast of Texas there was no way I could pass up camping on a beach. Callie has been to the beach with me a few times, but this was Hoodoo's first trip . . . and it didn't really go well. My cat has no problem with water, but he really doesn't like the wind, and guess what happens on the beach. When he wasn't distracted by blowing feathers and flying bugs, Hoodoo made it pretty clear he had no desire to hang out in the wind. He was fine in the tent and behind something blocking the wind, but if he was exposed he meowed his displeasure. The only exception to that was just before sunrise, when I went for a walk with him and Callie before the world woke up. Hoodoo was thrilled to chase the bubbles in the surf, even braving a small wave that wet his paws. He pounced at the washed up sea grass and pawed at shells and took more than a few swipes at Callie when she shook the saltwater out of her fur after taking a dip. All in all, though, I probably won't be taking my cat back to the beach unless I can stop the wind, but I suppose there has to be some places that Hoodoo just isn't a fan of.

Leave me a comment below and tell me if your pet has a place that they don't seem to like. Where is it?

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Find the Gator

A recent weekend spent down along the Gulf Coast of Texas yielded more than even I had hoped when planning my get-away. The first stop of the day was Brazos Bend, my go-to place for alligators. These living dinosaurs live in the park year-round, as they do in most of east and south Texas, but heading there in the winter when the plant life has died back a bit makes the gators even easier to see. I saw eleven gators on this trip, including a huge one out of the water just off the trail. I had both Hoodoo and Callie with me, but I kept them in my arms while skirting the edges of the lakes and sloughs, not at all interested in losing one of my babies to a hungry gator. While I am absolutely positive there were way more than eleven gators who could see me, their camouflage and general lack of movement made them less than easy to find. A little thrill of excitement shot through me every time I managed to spot one, looking more for their angular head or their serrated tail than anything else.

Leave me a comment and tell me if you see the gator in the photo above! I have several more photos of gators that are hidden even better!

Four Years in Texas

Settled. I moved to Texas four years ago today, but who's counting? I am, apparently, even though this year I had to go back and double check the date I moved, way back on that blustery winter day. I guess the number of years I've spent down here aren't feeling as relevant to me anymore as I settle deeper into life with my husband, pets, home, and career. And I don't think that's a bad thing; the more I lose track of the time, the less I feel like a transplant trying to grow roots. At the risk of a bad analogy, my roots have finally dug deep into the red dirt of the Piney Woods in East Texas. And so, what has the last year brought for me?

Jared and I have finally settled in to our new house. Everything's unpacked, and if it's not unpacked it's because we rarely need it and it's sufficiently organized. I've been working on home improvement projects that make our house more of a home, including finally putting together a vegetable garden. I've wanted one for years, though we weren't quite settled enough by the time growing season in Texas came around last year for us (read: me) to be able to plant anything. This year's my year, though! I've been prepping my not-so-little garden plot since September, and already have potatoes in the ground for the spring/summer growing season. If I do things correctly I should also manage to hit the summer/autumn growing season for most veggies, and get even more out of year one.

Our personal zoo is thriving. While we unfortunately lost a few within the last year, including my first hedgehog, Chesler, we also added to the family. Hoodoo and Rey, a brother/sister pair of kittens came to us at the end of July. Just this past weekend, I traveled up to Julia's house in Oklahoma to pick up our newest adoption: Bullet! Julia has been fostering this German Shepherd pup for a local (to her) rescue, where my husband saw his pictures. Jared saw something in Bullet that called to him, and so he applied for adoption. A couple weeks later, and here we are! Ghost and Bullet are around the same age (and size) and we expect them to get along like brothers. Speaking of dogs, we're almost at the one-year mark since Marley's last seizure. Marley seizured frequently after moving to Texas, but his last seizure was six weeks after we moved into our new house. Our lives have changed drastically on so many levels since moving that we can't pinpoint a single thing that may have been triggering those terrible fits, but if he's no longer having them I am definitely not going to question it.

Jared and I both still work at Tiger Creek, which really has been business as usual.  I never, ever want to take my experiences for granted, but working with and raising new animals has become such an integral part of my life that I can't imagine myself without it. We raised a lion cub, you guys. A lion! And a cougar cub. And a lemur. And I may or may not be able to scratch an itch and go to work to get raccoon cuddles whenever I want. Because I love domestic animals with all my heart, but the wild ones are something special.

My traveling hasn't stopped. As a matter of fact, my (new) fridge is already becoming overwhelmed by the magnets I collect from the places I visit. I'm actually looking at magnetic alternatives, because I might be running out of room. You can read about the last year's adventures here, but suffice it to say I'm still travelling at every chance I get, with or without a partner. I've been developing my style as a hobby photographer as well, focusing on landscape but also fairly proud of my animal photography. It takes a certain amount of skill and no small amount of cooperation from your subject to get a good photo of an animal, whether in the wild or in captivity, and I feel like I'm taking strides in learning how to do so.

I remember those first few months after moving down here and feeling like my life never settled down, even though I expected it to. Now, I feel like my life has settled, but at a faster pace. Not so much a high-speed wobble anymore, more like cruising along the interstate with nothing in your way to slow you down. And I don't intend to slow down. I enjoy being busy, always having something going on, whether it's work related, something to do at the house, seeking new adventures on the road, or caring for animals (which can be either work-related or personal - or both). I am somehow managing to balance my home life, my work life, and my travel life, with a fair amount of finesse. I'm not saying it's perfect; I'm not saying me taking off on my own is easy for Jared, left to take care of all our animals, go to work, and come home to do it all over again by himself. I'm not saying I don't miss him, my animals at home, and my animals at work when I'm gone. And as much as we try, Jared and I still slip up and bring work home with us, especially if there's an animal that requires extra care. But we make it happen. I am able to work, yet I have a life at home, and I'm able to be home, yet still travel to my heart's content. And all the while there are threads of something animal-related in every aspect of my life. And I wouldn't have it any other way. Four years in Texas. Here's to another one.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Davis Mountains State Park

On a whirlwind adventure last spring I found myself deep in the Chihuahuan desert in southwestern Texas, at Davis Mountains State Park. Western Texas is full of little desert mountain ranges, and while yes, it was definitely desert, I was more than a little suprised to find an abudance of grasses covering the mountains. It even rained a little during my visit; not enough to do much more than wet the earth, but hey rain is rain in the arid southwest. The rolling mountains and little canyons boast a wide variety of wildlife, including a booming population of cougars to the point where you're warned not to hike alone. I didn't instead opting to stick to the roads and other people during my one-night visit to the park, but I couldn't help but wish I'd seen one of the elusive cats. Despite my years of travelling and years of working with them, I've never seen a cougar (puma, mountain lion, catamount, pather, etc.) in the wild. Perhaps someday I'll get lucky, but I know more than likely I'll get a glimpse of a dark tufted tail disappearing into the bushes and that'll be it. You never know!

Leave me a comment below and tell me if you've ever seen a cougar in the wild! I work with them, and I'm not sure I actually want to come face to face with one on the trail..

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Government Ditch

If you ever get a chance to take a boat tour on Caddo Lake in East Texas, do it! I had the opportunity to go this summer, and it was fantastic! Our boat guide was incredibly knowledgeable, and took us on a route through the swampy lake that he clearly knew by heart. The "ditch" pictured above was cleared out by the government in order to make room for steam engines, which at that time were the primary mode of transporting goods, and involved tearing out the cypress trees and dredging the canal to make it deep enough to get a boat through. A lot of Caddo Lake is a mixture of shallow waters and sopping wet land that rises just a few inches above the waterline, surrounded by the world's largest cypress forest. At any given time the land could be submerged or truly dry, depending on the water levels of the lake. Caddo's history is rich, and I wouldn't do it justice to try to summarize here. From the Caddo Native Americans to the wild west pioneers, to the civil war soldiers and the Great Depression's Civilian Conservation Corp, and the World War that followed, Texas history permeates even the air you breathe. Do yourself a favor, and if you're in my neck of the woods take an hour or two and get out on the lake. Who knows, you may even see an alligator.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Balmorhea

Welling up from the San Solomon Springs at the foot of the Davis Mountains in southwestern Texas, the waters at Balmorhea State Park weren't always contained in what amounts to a swimming pool filled with fish. The spring used to release into a wide wetland until the Great Depression, when FDR's New Deal created the Civilian Conservation Corp. One company was stationed at Balmorhea and it is their labor that created the state park as we know it today. Limestone and adobe buildings line the contained spring, who's waters are so clear you can see every little fish and turtle that calls the area home. The water stays a constant 74f, the ground temperature in the area, and it makes for a refreshing respite from the Chihuahuan Desert heat.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Close Encounters of the Armadillo Kind

A get away to South Llano River State Park in southwest Texas came with a cute little visitor in the form of a curious armadillo. I hadn't been at camp long after hiking a mile and a half from the trailhead to one of the five primitive sites in the park, and had thrown my gear all over the place as I set up for the night. One second I had my back to my picnic table, the next I turned around and found myself five feet from an armadillo who had come to investigate my stuff. Of course, I reached for my camera and managed to snap a few pictures of my visitor before it wandered off into the bushes, but I could hear it rustling around my camp for the rest of the night, and when I woke up in the morning there were freshly dug holes all around my tent. I hope it had a successful foraging night!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Right Turn Only

Through all of my travelling, especially within state and national parks, I've developed a system that ensures I see as much of the park roads as possible, with little risk of missing anything important. Whenever I enter a park, starting at the entrance gate, I take as many right-hand turns as possible. From full on scenic drives to little overlooks, if I consistently take in the scene on the right side of the road I am almost guaranteed to hit every point of interest in the park. More than likely the park road either loops in on itself, or hits the other side of the park and you have to turn around in order to get back in the way you came; either way, if you stop or turn only on the right side of the road you won't be able to get lost, or miss anything you might want to see. As long as you heed warning signs such as a private residence, maintenance, employees only, or whatever, and stay on the roads you're supposed to be on, you're golden. Of course, there are going to be times where you just can't turn right, but that's ok. My general rule lets me see as much as possible, and it's a strategy I will always use when exploring a new park. Gotta love those roads!

Leave me a comment below and tell me how you explore new places. Do you plan it all out, or do you just go on a whim?

A Snapshot and The Scoop: He Filled Those Straps

Look at how big Ghost has gotten! Just six months ago he was a tiny little puppy who was swallowed by this backpack (check out the picture here), and now look at him! He's completely grown in to it, and he'll continue to grow a little more for a few more months yet! I took Ghost and Callie on an adventure in West Texas and finally got to put Ghost's backpack to good use - he carried all the dog food, bowls, and their water! I was so proud of him, he kept step with me every inch of the way and the backpack didn't bother or slow him down at all. My little grey adventure pup isn't so little anymore!

Leave me a comment below with a picture of your adventure pup in their travel gear!

Capable and Competent

Assured. I've got a new one for ya: somehow, I had to convince the man standing in front of me to let me backpack. I had arrived earlier than expected at Monahans Sandhills State Park, tucked back in the Chihuahuan Desert in western Texas, and decided to make the most of my time by backpacking out onto the dune field to spend a night among the sands. For past trips, if I had to talk to anybody at all it was just to talk to the wilderness ranger and receive my permit. This time, I had to convice the park ranger in front of me that I was a capable and competent backpacker - something I had no idea how to do. I understood his position: the dune field stretches on for hundreds of miles north, east, and west, with very few distiguishing features to navigate by and even less water to support survival in the desert heat, with no shelter to hide from the sun, storms, or wind. Simply put, he didn't want to have to look for me if I failed to check out in the morning. I was lectured about the importance of navigational experience, being able to keep my head, and was warned on more than one occasion that backpacking into the dunes was not something they let just anybody do. Apparently I convinced him I was capable, because twenty minutes later I was filling up my water bottles and loading my pack for an overnight in the dune field.

Talk about a huge confidence (and ego) boost for me! Some time in the last few years I've developed from a novice hiker with no experience and only book smarts to a seasoned backpacker confident enough to take friends with me on crazy adventures and to hold my own on trips that would leave others hoplessly lost. How did that happen without me noticing?!? My spirits soared as I began my trek into the dunes. I had meant to get out to Monahans for ages but never made the time; now I'm wondering what took me so long. I mean, the desert is less than six hours from my house! Comforting and familiar, the dunes reminded me of one of my favorite national parks in Colorado, though they're smaller here, with more vegetation and I didn't get the mountain vistas, but they are definitely sand dunes and I couldn't have been happier. I want to hike every mile of that park, to find every water seep that makes life possible, to feel the hot surface give way to cool sand under my toes.

Callie, Ghost, and I had a lazy afternoon, hiking about a mile and a half through loose sand and thorny vegetation before I let the dogs pick a spot to camp. The first dune bowl they both went in to after I was ready to find a site became our home for the night. The dogs ran loose, kicking up sand as they flew up and down the dunes around me while I set up the tent. I'm pretty certain they were just as excited to be camping and hiking as I was. We explored all around our camp, rolling and played in the sand with abandon. I let the sun warm my bones, the last of my stresses drifting away with the breeze as the afternoon wound down and the sun slowly sank toward the horizon.

Night on the dune field wasn't too dark, even with no moon. In the reflected glow of the stars we listened to coyotes calling around us, though none of the packs came close enough to alert the dogs. A restful night was followed by a cool dawn, and it didn't take me too long to pack up and begin our hike out. Through the whole trip I'd been sure to mark any significant landmarks within eyesight, including an oil pumpjack, a windmill, and a strip of power lines. I followed the landmarks back to the lot where I'd left my car, trailing behind the dogs as they ran circles around me in the soft sand. Upon my return I made sure to check out with the rangers so they knew I was safe and sound, and grateful for the night in the dunes they'd let me have.

What I'm listening to: Show Us The Way by Patrick Doyle

A Snapshot and The Scoop: The Forgotten Luxury of Car Camping

I can't believe I'd forgotten how nice it is to car-camp. In my quest to hike as much as possible and sleep under as many different trees as I can, I seem to have dismissed the luxuries of car camping. What do you mean I can overpack and not be punished for it by lugging it miles on my back? I don't have to anticipate how cold I'll be at night, because I can just grab extra blankets? What?? And the food! Let me just say: YUM! Having everythign I need and more available to me by just opening the trunk of my car - what a neat concept! Of course, I car camped one night on my most recent trip out West, then immediately set off backpacking the next night, but oh well. It was nice while it lasted!

Leave me a comment below and tell me if you've ever had that "Ah Hah!" moment when you rediscover something you'd forgotten was a luxury. I'll try to remember just how much I enjoyed it!

Desperate to Escape

Frantic. It had been way too long since I'd travelled, and I was desperate. Life had caught me up in its grip, and where I can usually carve out a weekend for myself once in a while, that just hadn't been possible for nearly three months. What with us buying a house, packing, moving, unpacking, and general busy-ness I couldn't even take a break for two days to get the recharge I knew I needed. I become a grumpy, moody bitch when I am stuck in one place too long (ask Jared, I'm sure he'll tell you how bad I can get, and why he practically pushes me out the door when I do have a trip planned) and I had reached that point and far surpassed it sometime in January. It wasn't until the middle of February that I got a chance to run away for a weekend, and I jumped at it.

I had a general plan in mind to hit as many state parks between home and the western border of Texas as possible in two days, and so took off immediately after work on a Friday to put some miles under my tires. Of course, leaving after work meant I hit Dallas in all its Rush Hour Glory. I'm pretty sure I spent as much time at a stand-still on the interstate bisecting the southern part of the city as I did driving from Tyler to Dallas. I'm not the most patient person, especially in bumper-to-bumper traffic, but keeping the fact that I was finally travelling and would be snoozing in a tent sometime that night in mind allowed me to overlook my annoyance and just be happy I was with my adventure pups in a car on my way to somewhere beautiful. I felt my anxieties drain away as the miles between home and I increased. It was good to be back on the road.

The first thing I saw when I got to Abilene State Park was a herd of deer flanking the shoulders of the road, followed immediately by a wild hog running for the cover of nearby bushes. It was well after sunset when I arrived, and I took longer than normal to figure out where the hell I was supposed to pitch my tent on the dark, poorly marked park roads. After I finally figured out where the tent-only area was, set up was a cinch even though it'd been three months too long since I'd last camped. I guess pitching a tent is kinda like riding a bike - muscle memory takes over and you don't need to be retaught how to do it! Callie was just as tired as I was, patiently waiting to climb into my sleeping bag and promptly passing out. Ghost, however, was still wound up, listening to every night noise around us, especially the coyotes. He just wouldn't settle and kept circling the confines of my small tent, looking for reassurance and giving hugs until he finally lay down by my head. Did I mention my tent is small? It's built for two adult humans, and pretty much nothing else. Ghost's body touched both tent walls as he curled up around my head, but at least I was warm and toasty. As I tried to get comfy and use him as I pillow I reflected to myself that teaching Ghost "Hugs" may have been a bad idea... I know most people don't appreciate an 80 pound dog jumping up on them, but I absolutely love his cuddles, and enjoy being able to nearly look him in the eye when he stands up and puts his paws on my shoulders. To each her own, I guess.

Only after we were all snuggled in to the sleeping bag did I realize it was way earlier in the evening than I thought it'd been. That's one of the things about winter camping - it gets dark early. Sure, you can stay up and make yourself a camp fire (if they're allowed where you are), or read, or play cards, or write, or whatever you want, but sleeping has always been my favorite way to pass the evening hours of a winter trip. Where at home I'd be up till ten o'clock or so, when I'm travelling and the sun goes down at six or seven I'm ready to hit the sack. I was doing just that, on cusp of sleep in that lucid state between reality and dreams, when Ghost let out a booming bark and I bolted upright with a jolt of adrenaline coursing through my veins. Even Callie let out a muffled growl from the depths of the sleeping bag, though she didn't stir otherwise. More tent campers had arrived, choosing a site across the deserted tent-only area, but still close enough to catch Ghost's attention. It took me telling Ghost to stand down several times before he finally settled again, though a growl rumbled against my ear every time a voice lifted enough to be distinguishable from the activity of unloading their gear. Trusting Ghost would wake me if anybody bothered us, I let myself drift off. I slept like the dead.

What I'm listening to: Song of Mor'du by Patrick Doyle

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Big Spring Overlook

Big Spring State Park is a day-use-only drive around "Scenic Mountain" overlooking the city of Big Spring, Texas. The highest point in the area, the overlooks offer unparalleled views of the Chihuahuan Desert flat lands stretching towards the horizon. The park itself is small and almost completely surrounded by the city, but if you're in the area and looking for a pretty drive it is well worth the time.

Leave me a comment below and let me know if you've heard of this little park in West Texas! I hadn't before I planned a visit!

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Deserted Swim Beaches

Have you ever been to a swim beach in the off-season? Usually in the winter, when it's too cold to lounge around in swim suits, or otherwise everyone is in school or at work and nobody has time to play. As someone who immensely enjoys traveling during the off-season I've seen my share of near-empty places that are "supposed" to be full of people. Usually this doesn't bother me (yay quiet and solitude) but there is just something about empty swim beaches that is disconcerting. I can't put my finger on why this bothers me so much, but I know I don't like to linger in these places.

Leave me a comment below and tell me if you know the feeling I'm talking about. Are you uncomfortable in similar situations?