My Excellent Planning Skills

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The next couple of days in the Three Sister Area (I hear there is a “Little Brother” , a “Wife” and a “Husband” somewhere near-by), I planned to hike two sections of the Pacific Crest Trail. I retrospect, my “excellent planning skills” were questionable. My first hike would start at Devil’s Lake, where I’d pick up the Wickiup Trail which would connect to the PCT in about 2 miles. The second would begin at the Lava Camp Trailhead. I had assumed these trailhead were close to Lava Lake. They were not. Devil’s Lake 15 miles and Lava Camp 75 miles and a 1 hour and 45 minute drive. I felt quite smug though because I learned that hiking in the Central Cascades Wilderness required a permit which went on sale at 7:00 am 2 days prior to hiking date. So I was online at 7:00 am and got my permit and within a couple hours the 90 permit were gone. Clearly I would not be hiking in solitude and I expected crowded trails and plenty of company.

When I arrived at Devil’s Lake parking lot, the lot was packed. Confirmation of my expectation. I set out toward the Wickiup Trailhead expecting a couple mile walk to the PCT (per AI). The hike itself turned out to be as challenging as my questionable planning. From Devil’s Lake Trailhead I used a highway underpass on the Elk-Devil’s Trail to reach Wickiup and hopefully eventually reach the PCT. This is an important fact to remember this as I complain later about distances!!!!

Starting at an elevation of 5460’ the trail climbed gradually, gaining elevation through a Douglas fur and hemlock forest over a surface that alternated between dirt, rocks, roots and occasional stretches of loose sandy pumice soil. At 82, with osteoporosis and asthma along for the adventure, I had to negotiate the trail somewhat differently than I might have in my younger years. No plodding straight up one foot in front of the other but frequent pauses to catch my breath and thus telling myself I am stopping to admire the scenery. This was not a trail however with views to admire, hence few photos, I kept having this conversation between my legs, my lungs and my brain about what I was doing —- with my brain suggesting that perhaps I had made a serious error in judgement. I kept checking the distance traveled: 2 miles, 2.25 miles, 2.5 miles, and finally at 2.75 I finally realized there had been a serious miscalculation and that the estimate was seriously wrong. And the trail was changing its personality! Less forest, more exposure, serious sand, and dust with the sun operating at full capacity. At this point I made the highly strategic position to turn around. I found a shady log sat down, ate my lunch and ruminated over the turn of events.

The return trip was easier in theory since it was mostly downhill but it was still long and  hot.  Eventually I reached the junction of the Wickiup Trail  and the Elk-Devil’s Lake Trail and with supreme confidence turned right and felt elated that I was on the final downhill mile to the parking lot. About a mile later I wondered why I had not yet reached the parking lot. It slowly uncomfortably dawned on me that I had just hiked a downhill mile and would be climbing it back up to the junction that demanded a left turn. I was increasingly clear that navigation was not one of my core competencies.  I would have preferred to make  this discovery earlier.  


By now my “quick five-mile hike” was something closer to 7.5 and never having reached my destination. But I was relieved to be on the correct path. I later came to discover that both Claude and Chat GPT were relying on outdated information when estimating the mileage. After confronting Claude about this error, it researched a bit deeper and found that the path to the trailhead had been rerouted to a new underpass shared with the Elk-Devils Trail replacing the original highway crossing thus adding meaningful distance before intersecting the original 2 mile Wickiup Plains Trail. Claude was not apologetic. Also, as I looked more closely at the Trail head sign at Devil’s Lake today, it indicated that the distance to the Wickiup Trail was one mile!

The first thing I did when I reached my car was open my cooler, retrieve a caffeine-free Diet Pepsi –  my most dependable vice— pour it over ice and drink it far too quickly.  Also, by now I also realized my assumption about the crowds was confidently wrong. I saw only four people the entire time and later realized that most visitors were there for the lake, paddle boarding and swimming. Though hot and tired I was curious about this lake, took a brief stroll to it and discovered all those recreational enthusiasts. Perhaps they had the better idea!

Hot, tired and thoroughly humbled by both distance and directional challenges, I still felt satisfied . I had managed a 7.5 mile hike in the Three Sister and returned without incident, injury, or any further directional challenges. After driving by the Newberry National Monument to scout out some challenges for the following day, it was back to camp for dinner, another magnificent sunset, and a rock solid nights sleep in my cozy little base camp tent with such amenities as a cot, a camp chair, and a jug of water.

Roughing it — with an iPad

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On Monday, August 3, I hopped into Lady Spitfire, once again packed as though I were permanently moving into the wilderness, and headed through Central Oregon toward Lava Lake, which would be my base for exploring the Three Sisters area. I had first become aware of this unique volcanic landscape while reading my son’s Pacific Crest Trail hiking journal and now eager to see some of it myself. My plan was to day hike a couple of sections of the PCT that winds through this area.

The drive was pleasantly uneventful along two lane forested roads.  Fortunately, there were enough passing lanes that I did not have to become the crazy woman driver trying to pass everyone who wasn’t traveling at what I deemed the acceptable speed.  There are things about camping I am willing to endure but driving behind someone going 20  miles under the seed limit it definitely not one of them.

I had deliberately chosen this National Forest Campground because of its location —- and because I have learned the best way to avoid the RV-and-generator  crowd is to seek out campgrounds without electricity.  This one was essentially a tent only campground along the shore of beautiful Lava Lake with a view of South Sister rising across the water.

Arriving in the early afternoon, I was quite pleased with my spacious.  campsite. Camp set-up was remarkably smooth since I had the good sense to practice setting up the tent before I left home.  The campground was still relatively empty but as the afternoon wore on, a couple of other camping parties arrived and naturally selected sites right next to mine. I have to wonder why it is such a great idea to leave the comfort of my home, rummage around in the dirt, and then listen to somebody else’s  conversation while smelling and watching them preparing a delicious meal with a plethora of cooking equipment and later enter their three room two story tent that makes my own supplies look positively primitive. Still my tent was set back enough that I didn’t feel particularly exposed.

The there was the matter of electricity. Or, more accurately the lack of it. It had seemed like a good idea when booking. Almost immediately I began what would be a recurring obsession through the entire trip: How am I going to keep all my electronics charged?

My iPhone. My iPad.  My AirPods, My Portable Power Station.

At least I wisely left my computer at home. The portable batter pack did a decent job of keeping things going but eventually the battery pack needed to be recharged. That mean plugging it in to “cigarette” lighter in Lady Spitfire. The the inevitable question: If I’m not actually driving anywhere, am I really going to leave the car running just to charge my electronics with the exhaust spewing into the campsite? I will leave you wondering. I hate to admit but almost everything I do for entertainment is on that iPad: games, books, and news— all siting inside that glowing rectangle. Why did I think a non electricity campground was a great idea?

One settled, I took a lovely walk around the area.  I found the camp store for essentials like ice, groceries, maps etc. I did a two mile walk to Little Lava Lake. By then it was time to commence cooking a meal and there would be no elaborate camp cooking for me. The evening’s gourmet creation consisted of boil-in-a- bag instant cooked rice, some already prepared ground turkey mixed with taco seasoning with a bit of cheese as a topper! DONE! 

The darkness settled over Lava Lake and all felt right with my world. As the sun dipped below the horizon, the lake turned to liquid gold. The silhouette of South Sister faint in the distance, the landscape softened by the haze of wildfire smoke, and a duck family drifting through the sunset glow captured everything that made the day of driving, hiking and camping feel worth it.

But reality then set in. Now for the hopefully final challenge and hardest part of this entire experiment: getting myself in and out of the tent and then figuring out how to get  myself comfortably situated on my cot, settle in with my iPad, and convince my self that this is actually a relaxing way to spend the rest of the evening

I had staked a ground cloth in front of my tent to minimize the amount of the fine silty dirt that seemed to blanket this site and puff up with every I step took. The dirt was not content to stay outside either. It began sneaking out from beneath the tent and onto the ground cloth at the entrance, intent of finding its way inside. I quickly discovered there were couple of techniques for entering my tent. One option was to remove my Crocs, kneel on the ground sheet, assume something resembling the yoga table pose, and crawl forward into the tent. Another involved standing, bending at the waist until I was essentially at a right angle, stick my head through the tent opening, lifting one leg behind me and shaking off the Croc, stepping the foot into the tent, grabbing hold of the cot for support and balance , and then repeating this maneuver for the other foot. This I assume would need to be repeated to exit. I am sure there were other possibilities but at this point I had not discovered them.

 It was only the first night.  I was wondering if I was having fun yet?




Apparently I still Think This Is a Good Idea! @82

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It had been over two years since I had packed up my camping gear and headed into the wilderness. As someone who loves camping, I was feeling the pull to head out again but had no specific impetus or goal to prompt me to make a specific plan.  Then a close friend mentioned that she would be camping with her daughter near Mt. Hood.  That was all the encouragement I needed. I would take a camping trip in Oregon of my own, meet up with her for some day hikes and then spend a night with her up at  the historic Timberline Lodge on Mount Hood.

Getting ready for the trip brought with it a surprising amount of trepidation. My plan was to spend time in two areas of Oregon — the Three Sisters area near Bend, Oregon and the forests surrounding Mt. Hood. But, there was another question lurking in the back of my mind! At 82, could I still actually enjoy doing this. It wasn’t backpacking and hauling a forty-pound pack around and I would have my car and thus could bring a few “luxuries” which one has to forgo when backpacking. But camping involves a significant amount of physical activity even when my car, Lady Spitfire, is sitting 20 feet away: the tent to put up, gear to haul around, sleeping arrangement to assemble, meals to prepare, and perhaps most notably, the undignified challenges of getting in and out of the tent all the while trying to prevent any flying critters from attempting to become tent-mates. Did I still have the agility to crawl through that little opening without getting stuck somehow half-in and half-out. Would getting out in the chill of the morning be an adventure in itself in order to obtain a hot cup of coffee to jump start my day or a excruciating undertaking. Would camping still be fun?

Then came the time to open the storage bins and then discovering and sorting all the family equipment: re-introducing myself  to my own outdoor equipment; and, wondering if the forests would still be there when I arrived. It was Oregon’s fire season.  Wildfires were raging throughout the state with a major fire burning 12 miles east of Mt. Hood and not wanting my planned adventure interrupted by a wall of flames.

Then came the plot twist.  My friend’s family camping trip was cancelled.  Do I cancel or go anyway. With all the preparation work done I decided to go with one simple rule:. I was going unless conditions reached a Level 3 evacuation for my intended destinations. 

What started out as a trip built partly around meeting a friend suddenly became something entirely different: a six night solo adventure through the mountains and forests of Oregon, with wildfires nearby, an assortment of camping gear I was assuming still worked, and absolutely no guarantee that my original plans would survive the first day. 

No “Jumbies” at Haulover and the Unfeeling Autonomous Wheelchairs

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Friday the 11th was to be our last full day here. I had encouraged Nick and Tasia to head off and do a more strenuous hike if they chose, without having to worry about the caretaking of mom they did on earlier hikes i.e. ensuring that this mom did not fall and break her skeleton in several place. So they took off and Luke, Miriam and I enjoyed the morning at the villa and its surrounds and also worked on planning what the last hurrah would be in the afternoon.

I soon decided on a walkabout and headed first down to the beach below which  was  basically commandeer by  the Westin Resort and littered with a large array of sea toys including lounge chairs, umbrellas, kayaks, sea fun adventure boats, SUPs, and water bikes. Though this beach and all beaches in the  U.S Virgin Islands are public, their chairs and other amenities were not and it didn’t really seem too “public” to me with its attendant and all the paraphernalia.   Since I was decidedly on a “walk about” I opted not to do a “swim about” at the beach especially since I did not have a towel and was not in my swim gear. Thus, I meandered back up towards the villa and about the  roads beyond, hoping to find a path down to the next bay over. But it was not to be.  Upon returning to the villa I was warmly greeted by a large Green Iguana, Iggy, and I was hoping that we would develop a relationship as it turned its head toward me. It looked at me like it owned the place as it was pausing in the sun and I was the interloper. Then like a flash it made an abrupt about face and charged off to summit the stone wall where it dallied a while and dared me to get closer. And then like a shot something else grabbed its attention and it was off.

Movie of Iggy the Iguana
It is Iggy Again

Nick and Tasia arrived back from a more arduous hike but were ready for an afternoon  of adventure. We decided that lunch at Shambles (a very colorful Caribbean themed restaurant which we had passed on other island excursions ) was a good choice and then on to Haulover Bay for a final snorkeling adventure. This would be our last chance to have a close encounter with any of the mythical sea serpents, not very Disney-ish mermaids and sirens,  sea demons and devil fish,  or a“jumbie” (a mythological spirit or demon) that inhabit these  waters (in the folklore of the Caribbean.

Food first!  Shambles was named after the state of the proprietor’s lives following the 2017 hurricane season.  If one’s preference is muted pastel shade,  Shambles would be an assault to one’s  senses. Stepping out of the Jeep Wrangler,  I could feel the casual relaxed vibe and was totally energized by the vibrancy of the colors and  relaxed, casual atmosphere. It’s not fancy but has lots of character with local art work, walls and ceilings floating with flags, old license plates  and tons of memorabilia. Sitting at high tables, enjoying the breeze and just soaking ion the Caribbean vibe was perfect.

Afterward, we traveled out the East End Road with its potholed roller coaster surface to Haulover Beach. The beach is easily accessible…no long hot sweaty hikes to reach it. It was pebbly and coral strewn and more rugged than other beaches thus not so gentle on the feet when entering the water. But the water was clear, there were few people, and the photo ops abounded. It was a perfect natural aquarium to close out our St. John’s fish safari and coral quest.

It was now time to return the snorkeling gear in Cruz Bay. As we wandered the dive shop area, we encountered a peacock with its iridescent blue coloring of the upper body and many shades of green in the long tail feathers. Right above it was a playful “Mosaic Fish” with tiles shimmering in similar shades of deep blue and emerald green… all part of the charm of St. John..

The next hours  of the evening and morning were spent preparing to exit the villa and  packing up our stuff.  For a change I did not accumulate any souvenirs and other stuff and junk to bring home, thus saving myself from any additional dusting chores. So it was:  eat the leftovers for dinner, stuff the suitcases, consolidate the garbage, prepare sandwiches for the journey, take more pictures to add to the 565 + pictures I had already taken, take garbage to dump, return the Jeep Wrangler (totally unscathed miraculously), and make our way to the ferry dock.

The departure from St. John’s to Red Hook went according to plan. Arriving at ferry dock, luggage in tow, about 45 minutes ahead of time. We settled ourselves in this dockside pavilion and purchased tickets online for ourselves and our bags! As departure neared, the open air “safari taxis” disgorged a crowd of people that began amassing for the 10:00am ferry departure. Nothing was sterile about the atmosphere here. with many colorful locals, travelers from the upscale resorts each toting four of five pieces of luggage, squealing children, and even a few suited business persons. The crew began manhandling and stacking the luggage, all piled in the rear of the ferry with no “ticket” to prove that I had indeed entrusted my luggage to them.

We glided across the turquoise water, a short 20 minute trip to the Red Hook terminal where the communal taxi’s awaited. Once the luggage was retrieved , we joined the ground transportation queue to Cyril E. King Airport for our return trip to Philadelphia. The route was one last seat gripping harrowing experience of hairpin turns and winding mountain roads. The airport is not large or imposing yet funnels thousands through daily and we parked ourselves in the waiting area preparing for our re-entry into “real life”. We mused that in about 7 hours we would be back in Philadelphia. WRONG!

Then the real adventure began. Over the intercom came the announcement that our flight to Miami would be departing a little later than scheduled. With this delay we were fearful of missing our connecting flight in Miami, especially due to a short connection time of 50 minutes. By the time we left however, we had already heard that there would be a delay in the departure time for or Miami Philadelphia flight. I could stop sweating. The flight was uneventful and when we arrived in Miami little did we realize we would have 18+ hours to spare in to make our Philly flight.

Initially the flight delay was about 2 hours so we settled in and made no effort to reschedule the flight. However the departure time kept getting pushed back though the flight was NEVER cancelled and we were subjected to an inordinate amount of boarding time changes. The changes kept coming in with little explanation and we were left totally unsure of whether we should try to rebook, wait at the airport, or get lodging in the area. Miriam attempted the customer service line at the airport but it was 40 people deep . Miriam managed to get us on a stand-by wait list but we already knew finding five open seat was a non-starter. When Nick called AA the telephone queue was lengthy so he left his number as suggested to receive a return call. No return call ever came through. Eventually with the departure time getting later and later and all the attendants had left the gate area, we began to realize we were on our own for the night in Terminal D. . Talk about a stressful, exhausting, discombobulating and baffling experience.

Airports are noisy with their cavernous ceilings and the bustle of travelers shuffling through the corridors, the clatter off the luggage rolling and the chattering voices. But here in Miami there was a new sound, a high pitched beeping of the autonomous wheelchairs roaming about the concourse, a special feature in Terminal D the American Airline’s domain. Modern technology can be a wonder but also a huge annoyance when it beeps, pings, chirps, dings and these wheelchairs cruised about with their nagging beep-beep-beep. Thankfully at some point they were put to bed at their charging station.

Since we soon realized that all of the shops would be saying goodnight to those stranded, we made our last foray along the corridor to procure the libations we deemed we would need to weather the nighttime in the airport , right there in the eerie “Blue Corridor.” Miami has a color-coded system so the North (D) concourse has a special identity as “Blue.” Yes, dramatic bright blue lighting was bathing terminal D, meant to be aesthetic as well as way finding in this mile long concourse . So unless you are color blind , just follow the lighting you are matched too. . Perhaps they will soon have boarding passes that match the color of your corridor.

Miriam and Luke wandered elsewhere hoping to find a quieter more comfortable place to hopefully sleep rather than on the hard terrazzo airport floor bathed in blue light. Tasia and I appropriated the charging station in our waiting area ensuring limitless iPad power to watch movies in a blue haze. . Could I sleep? The design of the seating precludes comfort.. There is no place to stretch out on the rows of rigid chairs with their immovable dividers and thus precluding any attempt to create a makeshift bed. The only option became the industrial grade floor covering in the waiting area with its dust, dirt, stains allergens and blueness. NOT for me. I figured I would sit the night out watching movies.

About 1:30 in the morning (sleepless in Miami) Nick decided to do a long run of about 4-5 miles. I need not have worried that he would get lost in this cavernous airport because he would be able to find his way back, after running the red and yellow corridors, to the blue corridor.

At some point a text came through that the gate was changed and we then would need to make our way down the concourse to our new gate towards the far end . Thank god for the blue corridor of light or we might have gotten totally lost on this very strait direct passageway to our new blue lighted gate. When an announcement came through that our flight now had a confirmed departure time, a rousing cheer sprung forth from the remaining 50 or so passengers who had not made any other alternative arrangements as they preferred to bask in blue light .