A Snapshot and The Scoop: Cat the Bird Whisperer

This raven woke my friend Cat and I up on our very first morning in Moab, UT while we were on our week-long vacation at the desert. We had the rain fly off on our tent, so could see him sitting above our picnic shelter, talking his head off. So: Cat talked back to him. And he responded.  This exchange went back and forth for a time, before the raven got bored and flew off. Ravens became sort of the animal embodiment of our trip, and we commented every time we saw one. This one raven is why I have a small toy raven living above my rear view mirror in my car, so that every time I look at him,  I remember it's the small things that make the trip worth it.

Leave me a comment below and tell me if you associate certain animals with a place or a time.

Descending into the Deep

Capable. Once again, I found myself being shepherded through an air lock door into a dimly lit stone hallway. With hushed voices, the twenty people in front of me huddled together, waiting to see what was next. Our guide pushed his way through the mass of bodies, and turned to address us once he reached the front of our group. Almost as soon as he started talking, I have to confess that I stopped listening. Julia and I were at the very back of a large tour group that had just entered Natural Bridge Caverns, a privately owned  cave just north of San Antonio, Texas. Sure, we got the initial welcome and the history of this particular cave, how it was discovered, what bits were explored, and how it became a commercial cave. Then every single tour guide I've ever followed goes into the formations we see, explaining how each was made, how the cave was made, why it was in that particular area of the country, a bit of geology, ect. 

The Natural Bridge over the entrance to the cave

Now, I love caves, don't get me wrong. But I've been in enough caves that I'm absolutely positive I could guide tours myself. Being at the back of the group (by choice) Julia and I could hardly hear our tour guide anyway due to distance, the acoustics of the cave, and the fact that he seemed to be talking rather quietly. As we viewed different formations from our excellent vantage point, I kept up a running commentary about what each was called and how it formed. I talked mostly to Julia, but I caught several people near us listening in as well. From the little snippets of the tour that we actually did hear I knew I was relaying correct information, and even wondered aloud if there were certain formations in this particular cave that I'd seen elsewhere. 

A stalactite is a stalactite no matter where you go. Flow stone is flow stone. If it's a dead cave, there is no more water flowing through it, dripping from it, or otherwise growing formations. If it's an active cave, there is water somewhere. In the case of Natural Bridge Caverns, there was water everywhere. I have never been in a cave so wet, or so warm. I'm used to typical cave temperatures being somewhere in the 50's, maybe 60's. This cave was nearly 80 degrees Fahrenheit, and it was strange enough to me that I actually asked our guide about it. Apparently the ground temperature in Texas is in the upper 70's, so the cave is warm. Makes sense! As for the enormous amounts of water, that area of Texas had received around two inches of rain within the previous 12 hours, and since caves are underground...well, you get it. It was like it was raining inside of the cave itself. There was even water running along the concrete pathway, and we often found ourselves stepping into standing puddles of water. It was actually pretty neat.

Julia and I took two tours into different parts of the cave, and some awesome formations. We spent just enough time to get a good feel of the cave, and to make me want to go explore the area some more. Next time, I think I'm going to have to shell out some cash and take a spelunking tour.. Tight spaces, near total darkness, and no crowds? Count me in!

What I'm listening to: The World Is Ahead by Howard Shore  

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Climbing the Ladder

Now, you probably know by now that I'm up for any sort of adventure, especially if it makes a good story. Heights, white-water, caves, fast speeds, and bad roads? Yes, yes, yes, yes and yes. I've also confessed here that I'm uncomfortable with airplanes, boats and walking on ice. Well, here's another one: ladders. I've been uncomfortable with ladders for as long as I can remember, and often will bow out of a task if there is a ladder involved. Sometimes, however, I have no choice but to climb a ladder in order to get from Point A to Point B while out on a trail, like the one time I hiked the most spectacular trail ever. And the other time there was one ladder between me and finishing the ascent to Druid Arch. I'll deal if I have to, but I have a mild panic attack while on the damn thing and only breathe once it's behind me. I don't know why I have this problem, because I'm certainly not afraid of heights. Maybe it's because of the man-made structure below me is holding my weight and I'm terrified it's going to collapse while I'm on it and I'll get seriously maimed/die. Man-made being the key difference between that and something natural, I guess. Crazy, I know, but there you go. Two pictures this time, because I need to show my relief at getting to the top! Even though I had to go back down eventually...

Leave me a comment below and tell me if you have the same fear of ladders as I do, for whatever crazy reason!

A Sandhills Journey: A Quest for Historical Markers Across Northern Nebraska

Purposeful. Our adventure was characterized by looming thunderstorms, bright sun, cool mornings and miles of open road. My dad, sister and I took off for a four day trip through the northern third of Nebraska, on another quest for Nebraska State Historical Markers that took us to some amazing places. Who knew Nebraska could be so diverse, or have so much history! Our journey started by heading North out of Lincoln, two days after I arrived for a visit from Texas. I had already spent 740 miles in the car, what was a couple thousand more? We drove the highways along the eastern border of the state, stopping at historical markers along the way. As was typical for our trip last October, some of the markers were set right on the side of the highway, others we had to search for in whatever little small town they were illustrating.

You never know what you're going to find

We reached our destination for the first night, O'Neill, on the edge of a severe thunderstorm that produced some amazing mammatus clouds. After a quick trip to scout out the town's access point to the Cowboy Trail, we headed to a hotel to get some sleep. The next day started way too early. Dad and I were up before dawn and headed to the Cowboy Bike Trail while my sister slept in. I left town at 6am, on a solo journey with the goal to bike from O'Neill to Valentine (115 miles) in one day. Dad and Alisha backtracked to the eastern part of the state and continued the quest for historical markers. You can read the story of my bike trail journey here, but just let me say it was one of the most mentally challenging activities I have ever attempted. They picked me up towards the end of the day and we found a motel in Valentine, and after I cleaned up we went to get some good ol' Nebraska steak.

Our third day started slowly, with me sleeping as much as possible and moving as little as possible. Dad's truck is huge, and I had to use my arms to pull myself into it every time. Getting out of the truck was pretty much a controlled fall. We continued our trek West, driving through some of the most stunning sections of Sandhills in Nebraska. Our road led us through small town after small town, and nearly every person we passed on the highway acknowledged us with a one-finger wave. Also, they all drove Ford trucks. Anyway, we reached the fairly good-sized town of Chadron at lunchtime, and stopped to eat and check off historical markers as we found them. We planned to stay there for the night, but continued on down the highway toward Fort Robinson State Park.

Bison. NOT Buffalo

While driving down a small town just outside of the park's borders on the hunt for an elusive marker, we passed a house where a person was laying on their porch. Dad and Lisha spotted them, and thought it odd enough to warrant a second look. As we swung around, it became apparent that an elderly lady was lying on her stomach, her walker on it's side and her front door wide open. My sister and I jumped out of the truck before dad even fully stopped, and I moved faster than I thought was possible given how stiff I was from my ride the day before. The lady had clearly fallen, and as we sprinted across her lawn we saw she couldn't move much, and she was bleeding from where she had hit her chin and nose. I shouted for dad to call an ambulance and Lisha started talking to the lady, reassuring her we had help on the way and starting to assess where she was hurt. We retrieved a pillow from inside, trying to make her comfortable but afraid to move her. The lady's elderly daughter came down the stairs after I called through the house to see if anyone else was home. We stayed with them until the sheriff, then the ambulance and medical team arrived. As we drove away after giving our information to the sheriff, we saw them gingerly rolling the lady onto a stretcher. By the time we found our marker and returned to the main road, the lady and ambulance had gone.

 With that excitement on our minds, we continued on to Fort Robinson, and nearly became overwhelmed with the multitude of historical markers scattered through the park. We drove all of the park roads, and nearly every time we turned around there was another marker. We figured it might take us two days to track down and visit every marker. We located and photographed all but one of them in less than two hours.

Sure, let's drive over a flooded road. Only my father.

When we couldn't easily find the final marker, we continued up the highway and drove straight into a torrential downpour, only to drive out of it minutes later. We had a couple of outlying markers to get, one of which was so close to the Wyoming border that we couldn't resist but to cross over and add in a visit to that state. As we returned to Fort Robinson we explored the side roads that we had passed over during the storm, and finally found our final marker. We reached our motel for the evening, tired and pleased about how the day had gone, though I wondered how the elderly lady was doing. Our fourth and final day was a long one. We started our morning early, making the drive down a bad road to Toadstool State Park. Remember how much I love bad roads? They almost always lead to a spectacular destination, and Toadstool was no exception. I almost forgot I was in Nebraska.

White clay mounds broken by rusty striations stretched out in front of us as we reached the single sand road that leads to the park. We parked and started on a short hike through the wet clay and squishy grass of Ogallala National Grassland toward the whimsical geology of Toadstool State Park. Great slabs of rock rested precariously atop white clay hills, and it was easy to see where the name of the park came from. With all of the rain the area had been getting, the usually semi-arid region was soaking wet and muddy. We didn't even go half of a mile before we reached a little creek cutting through the milky clay, and our hike came to an end. Lisha and Dad didn't want to get wet and muddy, plus we still had our quest to finish.

 I conceded, but made the promise to myself that I will go back and hike the whole loop some day. It looked awesome! We drove the bumpy, washed out road back to the highway, and continued on our journey. Several historical markers and hours later, we found ourselves within two hours of home, and even though it was late enough that we'd be getting back after dark, we headed on home. We found many markers on our quest, and had some great bonding time. I don't know when I'll be able to go back, but I'm sure we'll have another quest to fulfill eventually. After all, there is still plenty of Nebraska left to be discovered.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Wintertime Fun at High Elevations

I have been determined enough to get away from home and experience life that I have been able to see this part of the world in more than one season. Rocky Mountain National Park is one of my favorite National Parks, and experiencing it during the winter season is something that I have every intention of doing again. Less people translates to having more time to enjoy nature alone, which is something I need to experience in order to be a happy person. Winter offers a variety of activities that only those who don't mind the cold can enjoy: skiing, snowboarding, snowshoeing, sledding, and ice skating to name a few. I can't wait to go back and try my hand at cross country skiing, and maybe some winter backpacking!

Leave me a comment below and tell me about your favorite winter activity.

Reflections on Visiting Home

Sentimental. Overall, moving to Texas has been the best decision I have made, and I am incredibly happy with what I have in my new home. I have an awesome boyfriend, all of our pets, two great jobs, and ample opportunity to continue my travels to some fantastic destinations not too far from home. I feel happier than I have ever been, and I can't wait to see what's next. I recently spent eight days back in Nebraska, and while I love living in Texas, there are certain things about my home state that I really miss, and didn't realize I was missing until I came back for a visit. It was also really weird to be in Nebraska as a visitor, not a resident. I know all of the roads around town by heart, yet subtle differences made me feel out of place. The Texas license plates and driver's license didn't help. This post is going to be a sentimental/whining ramble, so unless you're prepared for that you might as well stop reading now.

First and most important, I miss my family and friends. Sure, down in Texas I have Jared and am starting to make new friends, but I miss going to Sunday dinners with my family, calling up childhood friends and randomly going to each other's houses on a whim. I have Skype, texts, Facebook and Snapchat, but those social media platforms aren't a substitute for seeing people in person. My family is very close, and we're always there for each other. Except it's hard to be when I'm 740 miles away. I plan on making the effort to go back for every major event, but what defines "major" and "event," never mind how I'm going to get the time off of both jobs to go visit.

Parts of me miss my hometown, Lincoln. I miss easy access to bike trails, plentiful areas to hang out and grab coffee or ice cream, and weekly farmer's markets. I really, really enjoy fresh produce and farm-fresh eggs, and love winding through the vendors and checking out hand made crafts and jewelry. I know my area of Texas has similar markets, but I miss the familiarity of my hometown and the surrounding area. You know, I hardly ever see dirt roads in Texas. The only one I can think of is the driveway from the highway to the visitor's center at my work. Country/county roads? Dirt in Nebraska, paved in Texas. It's really weird.

A large part of me had been craving a good, old fashioned Nebraska thunderstorm. Of course Texas gets rain. We've had plenty of it. If we get much more, I'm going to need a boat to get around instead of a car. But the difference is, where I live in Texas we're surrounded by hills covered in trees. While I really do love living in a forest, it kind of makes it difficult to watch thunderstorms roll in, or retreat into the distance. You can't see anything until the storm is right on top of you, and by then it's grey rain and the occasional lightening. I want to see the thunderhead building, pulling in warm moisture and billowing up at the top into a towering, awe-inspiring spectacle. While I'm talking about the weather, there is something in Nebraska that I hadn't realized I don't have at home: wind. Sure, there's a breeze, but other than during thunderstorms there really isn't a near-constant wind like there is around Lincoln. I'm not sure I really miss the wind, but it's an absence I only realized while visiting Nebraska.

Now, I absolutely love living in a forest. I love the trees and the green light and the abundance of birds and other wildlife. But occasionally, I'd like to see some agriculture. Who would have thought that something as simple as baby corn plants growing in a cornfield would fascinate me when I came for a visit? It's been a while since I've seen cornfields, and when you grow up living near one, it becomes a sight you just assume is normal everywhere. Except it isn't. And not only that, but the growing season up in Nebraska is different. There were irises blooming in the front yard when I moved to Texas at the end of February. There were irises blooming in Nebraska at the end of May.

Other than the family/friends one, none of these things are major. Just little differences I've noticed in the three months I've lived in Texas. I really do love living in Texas, and I have no intentions of moving back to Nebraska (sorry, Mom!) I'll be able to come up for visits to see everybody I care about, and still highly encourage my friends to come see me. I'd love to show people around my chosen home, and hopefully help them understand why I've come to love this place, despite some of the things I miss about my childhood home.

A Snapshot and The Scoop: Walking on Thin Ice

I've been told on multiple occasions how confident, brave, bold, gutsy, ect. I am. Yes, I try to be that way. I certainly try not to say "no" when an opportunity arises to do something I've never done before. There is, however, a limit to that confidence. Heights? No problem. Airplanes? Thanks anyway. White water rafting? Sure! Boats/canoes? Not a fan. Walking over a frozen lake that is unknown depth in the middle of winter with the only way out another mile-plus walk back to the car through a snowy mountain landscape? I get a little uncomfortable. So much so that I'd rather bushwhack my way around the lake than go straight over it. Of course, on our way back to the car I was tired and cold (story here) and decided that the fear of falling into the lake was less than my desire to get back to my warm car, but you bet your ass I went as quickly as I could across that lake and breathed a huge sigh of relief when I knew I was on solid earth.

Leave me a comment below and tell me about something that makes you uncomfortable. It'll help me feel better about having a few fears!

Lessons Learned on the Trail: One Girl, One Bike and Ninety Miles of Hating Myself

Mush. My brain seemed to stop functioning logically after about mile 30 of my 90 mile bicycle ride on the Cowboy Trail across the northern Nebraska Sandhills. I knew what I was getting myself into when I decided to attempt the trail back during this winter, and it lived up to the hype I gave it in my head. My day started before dawn in O'Neill, Nebraska at the small town's entry point onto the trail. I was soon waving goodbye to my dad, who had dropped me off, and headed west. The trail through town was paved, and I had no problem achieving my average speed, flying past the sleeping houses and businesses typical of small-town, Nebraska. And then I hit the crushed limestone of the trail that follows an old railroad corridor through the sparsely populated northern third of the state, and I ran into trouble. It had been raining off and on for weeks, and the trail was soggy with moisture. I had hoped that it would dry out in the sunshine the day before, but no such luck. I was forced to make ruts in the trail as my bike sank an inch and a half into the muddy mess, and my average speed was drastically cut in half. My hopes of finishing the 115 miles in 9 or so hours sank, just like my bike.

The evening before my ride. Way too much enthusiasm...

I pressed on, keeping myself moving forward at an agonizingly slow pace purely by force of will. I wanted to quit less than five miles into the ride. I kept hoping the trail would improve, dry out, and stop sucking so much of my energy, but I was disappointed over and over. Around mile 10, after battling the muck, I gave in and headed to the highway that parallels the trail for the majority of the section. Finding another burst of energy, I made good time as I flew along, getting blown about like crazy by semis headed the opposite direction. Then the trail turned away from the road, and because I had committed myself to biking the Cowboy Trail, not the highway, I re-entered the trail and experienced yet another drastic decrease in speed and energy. It was around mile 30 that I started to get upset. I am a very positive, confident person, or at least I try to be, but some times I reach a breaking point and I can't turn back. I was so fed up with the trail, with the mud, with the rain, and most of all with myself. I have never in my life been so negative about myself. Thoughts such as "why did you think you could do this trail" and "you don't have the skills or the ability to even start it, let alone complete it" circled around in my brain until I realized that I was having difficulties seeing the trail through tears.

Never, in all of my hiking, biking, rafting, or any other crazy adventure I've decided to do, have I told myself that I couldn't do it. Shit, I decided to break my hiking distance record on a whim. I rarely even have the thought that "maybe this isn't a good idea." Sure, I take risks, but they're calculated risks that I am confidant I can match and overcome. And here I was, on the bike ride that I have wanted to do for three years, came back up from Texas in order to finally accomplish it, and I was telling myself that I couldn't do it, and that I shouldn't have ever thought I could. And what's worse, I believed myself. I spent half of my morning alternating between trail and highway, and was on the highway when the rain shower in the distance became the rain shower that dumped on me, making me cold and wet, on top of everything else. I spent most of twenty miles crying, pushing forward purely because I couldn't face myself if I failed at accomplishing my goal. I am not the type of person to give up, and if I have my mind and heart set to something, I find a way to get it. Around mile 57 I thought that I would have that glass-half-full mentality again, that I'd find my groove and be relieved that half of the ride was over. Once I actually reached 57, I wanted to quit. Again. Still. The only thoughts in my head were about how I have 57 more miles of that shit to look forward to, how I was making absolutely horrendous time, and that I would be lucky to reach Valentine and the end of the trail by dark. But I kept going, because that's what I do. I'm stubborn to a fault, and despise failing; if I seriously don't think I can do something, I don't even bother starting it. Why waste my time?

So I kept pedaling. Around mile 60 I finally relaxed a little bit and actually noticed that the surrounding landscape had changed. I got a, well, not second wind, maybe a twenty-third wind, but I got another burst of energy and a little bit more optimism. At mile 70, when I passed the last significant town before Valentine, I recommitted myself to my bike and my journey, and sent my dad and sister a text saying that I was definitely going to finish this, that I was going to make it, even if I had to crawl and drag my bike along behind me. And I was going to be treated to one of the fantastic Sandhills sunsets while riding through the grass covered dunes. And then I managed to ride my bike straight through the biggest patch of thorns in the whole frickin' world, and my fragile optimism and self esteem blew out with both of my tires. I pulled over from the trail to the shoulder of the highway so that I wouldn't re-puncture my tires if I ever got going again, and settled on the pavement to remove my bike tires, tubes, and start finding and painstakingly removing each and every thorn in both treads. I lost count of the thorns after I pulled 51 out of my my first tire. I don't know how I managed that, but unfortunately it's not an exaggeration.

I sat my sore butt on my backpack and kept plucking thorns out with my multi-tool. Less than five minutes after I stopped biking, a gentleman in a truck stopped to see if I was ok and if he could do anything. He went to the last town I passed, telling me he was going to go get his air compressor to help speed things up when I was ready to inflate my new tire tubes (which I was carrying.) Not ten minutes later, another older couple stopped and asked if I was ok and if I needed help. In all, six different cars with various people pulled over and asked if I was alright and what I needed/if they could help. I explained what had happened every time, as I held up the tread I was working on and showed them the thorns. As one of the men went on his way after determining that I had what I needed, I thanked him for stopping and checking on me. He answered with a wave and "That's Nebraska for you." How true of a statement is that? I was and still am astounded at the friendly, helpful attitude especially prevalent in the western part of my home state. I am thankful for every single person who stopped to help, whether they were actually able to help me or not. It was honestly just the thoughtful concern of strangers that made my whole day better. One mother, Lucy, and her son Kirby stopped, and after I explained what had happened went to their home, brought me some tire sealant and an ice cold water and sat down on the side of the road to help me get tubes back in my treads and the tires back on my bike. As we were finishing re-installing the tires, the first man who had stopped came back with an air compressor and helped fill my tires up. Another man stopped at the very end and gave me a cleaner that helped get the dirt and grease off of my hands and arms, so that I wouldn't get my handlebars slick.

Guys, I know I moved to Texas, but Nebraska is awesome. With many thank you's, I finally headed up the road to continue on my journey, but I had wasted a significant amount of time with the flats. Not even five miles from where I started again, my dad and sister drove up behind me and pulled over. I stopped to talk, to tell them what had happened, and to discuss the rest of my journey. I was exhausted, still frustrated with the trail, extremely sunburned, and still had many miles to go before I got to Valentine. At the pace I was going, there was no way I would make it to the end of the trail before dark. And biking on a unfamiliar trail at night, alone, wasn't the best situation for me to put myself in. With a lot of disappointment, I admitted defeat and recognized that I wouldn't be finishing my goal of 115 miles. However, I still was determined to beat my biking distance record, so shortly after stopping to talk to my dad and sister I got my ass back on the saddle and rode on, pushing myself as hard as I could to just beat my own record. Dad and Alisha drove back and forth, sometimes keeping the slow pace with me as I used every ounce of energy I had to make it to my secondary goal. As I crested the last hill, I saw them pulled onto a little side road, marking the end of my ride. 90.22 miles after starting my trip early that morning, I pulled up next to the truck and at least beat my own distance record. Next time, I'm doing the whole damn thing.