Free Tunnels Download!

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#freebook, #freedownload, Book

Today through December 30th, you can enjoy a free e-book download of The Tunnels on Amazon! Merry Christmas!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01H9CXO7C: Free Tunnels Download!

IN SEARCH OF BIGHORN SHEEP

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animals, goal, goals, searching, travel, trip, trips, wildanimals

After finding cute and fluffy wild burros but no bighorn sheep in Death Valley, I began a series of weekend trips in search of bighorn sheep.  We don’t have bighorn sheep in Michigan, so it was important for me to find them in California while I was still living here.  When I mentioned my latest goal to others, they would instantly tell me where they had encountered the animals.  Duly noting each sighting location on a list, I began my quest.

My first searching adventure was to visit friends near Thousand Palms.  On the way there, we stopped to hike Whitewater Preserve, a place where a friend had spotted bighorn sheep.  Arriving before the park opened, we first hiked to Red Dome (see below) because I had read on All Trails that bighorn sheep had been spotted there.  No bighorn sheep.  Then we turned around and hiked up Canyon View Trail.  I spotted some poppies, but no bighorn sheep.  At the ranger station, I got some awesome bird photos (see below) and was told by a ranger that the bighorns start peeking their head over the top of a huge cliff of stone around 3:00.  Since I’d already been there for about six hours with no luck, I decided to move on.

The next day took us to Joshua Tree National Park.  As previously explained, if you see the words “National Park,” you know these folks aren’t messing around, and it’s a place you shouldn’t miss.  Joshua trees are medium-height trees with spiky puffs on the branches.  Once you hit a certain elevation, you will see a lot of them along with a kind of cactus named cholla (sounds like choy-ya).  Joshua Tree had great photo-ops between the cool boulders, Joshua trees, and the cholla garden, but, sadly, no bighorn sheep.

The third day of this trip led us to Pioneer Town.  This is basically an old western-style town that is used for movie sets.  There are snow-capped mountains behind it and bighorn sheep crossing signs all the way there, but no bighorn sheep.  No public bathrooms either.  Needless to say, the visit to Pioneer Town was short.

The next stop was Morongo Canyon Preserve.  The lady at the visitor center said she’s never hiked the canyon and not seen the bighorns, so off we went.  Eight miles later, not only is it a kinda boring hike, but there were no bleeping bighorn sheep.  I felt like I had the luck of someone searching for Bigfoot.  On a brighter note, I did see a big horned owl, a barn owl, and a vermillion fly catcher.  I even caught a photo of the vermillion fly catcher…wait for it…catching a fly!  But no bigfoots (Bigfeet?).  I mean bighorns.

On the way home, we made a last-ditch effort and swung into Whitewater Preserve again.  It was dusky and, at first glance, I spotted nothing.  Approaching a ranger, I inquired, and he turned to point to the tippy top of this very, very high cliff of stone, telling me to watch for the bighorns to poke their heads over the top.  Minutes passed as I strained my eyes in the dusk before, voila, a head poked over the cliff to look down at the bystanders below.  As I put on my camera’s long lens and patiently waited, eventually, a large family of bighorn sheep appeared and started to venture down the cliff that appeared to be straight up and down.  I watched them, including a couple of babies, for about a half hour before it was too dark to see what was going on.

So, yes, I achieved my goal to see bighorn sheep; but was I satisfied?  Nooo.  Due to the dim lighting and long distance, my photos were as grainy as a bigfoot photo.  Heck, maybe that was a bigfoot in the picture.  I couldn’t be sure.  So, although I could technically check this off my photo bucket list, the quest would go on in search of a quality bighorn sheep photo-op.

The next bighorn expedition was to the Salton Sea and Anza-Borrego Desert.  Back in the 1930s, the Salton Sea was a Hollywood playground.  Nowadays, well, let’s just say I didn’t see anyone playing except the two kinds of fish that can survive in the water.

Our first stop was Bat Cave Buttes.  This is a hike just a mile or two off the road that takes you through flat, scrub-filled desert to some buttes.  The cool thing about these buttes is that there are a ton of creepy caves in them.  It was extra creepy because, due to the sprinkling rain, we were the only ones out there.  A mountain lion could have had cubs in a cave, and we could have become lunch, but we didn’t.  The deepest cave was too scary for this big chicken to enter because we could hear the bats squeaking.  Hence the name Bat Cave Buttes.  I’ve seen enough episodes of Scooby Doo to know what happens when you go into a cave filled with bats, so it was a hard pass for me.  Plus, I couldn’t remember if I was up to date on my rabies shots.  So, yes, we checked creepy bats off the list but not bighorn sheep.

The next stop was Imperial Sand Dunes.  These dunes are pinkish red, and it seems to be the hot spot to ride around in your dune buggy.  As I snapped photos, the trickiest thing was to find a spot with no dune buggy tracks.  So we found lotsa buggy tracks but no bighorns.

Running out of light, we decided to skip the mud volcanoes and headed for our hotel in Anza-Borrego Springs.  Our hotel was fashioned after the buildings in an old western town and was super cool.  The lobby had lotsa pics of bighorn sheep, so I was optimistic that tomorrow would be my lucky day.

The morning of our last day was spent photographing super-bloom wildflowers in the desert before hiking to Maidenhair Falls via Hellhole Canyon.  This 5.6 mile hike winds through a canyon that I’d hoped would be covered with bighorns; but, alas, it was just covered with rock.  Eventually, a few palms appeared, and then we arrived at a small to medium-sized waterfall next to a wall covered with ferns.  Hence, the name.  Maybe I should hike a canyon named Bighorn Canyon…

I’d been seeing signs for a local treat called a date shake, and we decided to try one in between hikes.  The shakes only came in one size, and let’s just say it was super sized.  We sucked down the yummy shake and headed to our next hike:  Palm Canyon.

Palm Canyon requires an entry fee and will go down in my memory as having one of the weirdest bathrooms ever.  It’s built of reddish stone walls, and there is no roof, so birds and planes can fly over and see you doing your business.  Wait, it gets better.  There is no entrance door on the women’s side.  Once you enter, there are two stalls separated by a stone wall, but, like the entrance, the stalls have no doors on them.  This park could spring for flush toilets but no door or even a shower curtain for some privacy?  So anyone could walk in and, ta-da, there you are, giving them a little wave as you do your business.  I guess planes and birds aren’t the only ones watching you.  Good grief, it’s like being on stage!

Palm Canyon is actually a very charming hike.  There is a stream gurgling along the entire route, and there are signs saying that wildlife (there was a photo of bighorns) drink from the stream but won’t if there is human scent in it, so please don’t go into the water.  My hopes were high as we started up the trail that, after the first mile, split off in many different directions, and let’s just say that no one is going to win an award for trail marking here.  There are little to medium waterfalls along the way; but, at the end, there is a huge waterfall.  I think.  The kicker is that you hike all the way to the end of the trail, and there is an oasis of palm trees surrounding the waterfall.  When I say “surrounding,” I mean “blocking.”  I looked around for some additional trail because, surely, it must end with a waterfall view, but noooo.  There were signs everywhere forbidding people from going any farther or leaving the trail to view the falls.  How mean.  To add to my disdain, let’s just say that it’s not a good idea to drink a giant date shake in between hikes.  It can only end in tears, even if you make it back to do your business on stage in the “bathrooms.”  Oh, and did I mention no bighorns?

My third trip in search of bighorns was to Palm Springs.  We chose the South Lykken Trail that was an out-and-back eight-mile trek.  This is a beautiful hike in the spring because there are tons of wild lupine, yellow poppies, cactus flowers, and canterbury bells.  Even if I didn’t see bighorns, I had a great time photographing the wildflowers.

After over three miles of flowers, we approached a lookout, and a fellow hiker told us there were bighorns ahead.  Weeeee!  Off I went!  Just around the bend, we saw a male bighorn right near the trail.  Woot!  I was too excited to pull out my long lens and didn’t really need it as I happily shot away, hoping for a photo worthy of National Geographic.  Then we noticed there were three more male bighorns on the cliffs above us and another below.  The sheep closest to us as well as the three males above were perfectly lit as they eventually stood and then descended the cliff, straight towards us!

Soon, other hikers gathered as the wild animals progressed down the cliff, seemingly unbothered by humans, and crossed our path right in front of us.  This was one of those amazing moments you never forget and, if you didn’t get the perfect photo (see below) here, there was something wrong with you.  As the animals eventually moved down the cliff and out of our sight, we continued our hike.

Do you think I was satisfied?  Yes and no.  Another hiker had told us of another trail behind the museum where the females and babies hang out.  Did I mention baaaaabies?  Yes!  So off we went to do another hike.

The Museum Trail is crazy steep, and my legs are still sore from this hike.  True to the hiker’s word, we first saw several male lookouts perched on rocks near us, and then we saw the females, teens, and babies work their way toward us….painfully slowly.  As we waited for the babies to get closer, I was shooting the lookout male through my long lens when I thought to myself, “Huh.  He’s not really fitting in the frame anymore.”  I lowered my camera and did a double-take as I realized the big guy was coming straight towards me and was very close!  Eek! Big chicken that I am, I quickly stepped aside as he passed right by me and headed up the stony cliff at the back of our trail.  Phew!

The females and babies got closer but, after forty-five minutes of long-distance photos, I had to give up.  We still had one more hike on this day trip, and a date shake was calling my name.

The third hike was Tahquitz Canyon.  If you know anything about this canyon, you’ll know that’s it’s supposedly very haunted.  Long story short, Tahquitz was a powerful shaman who was a good guy turned bad.  His people banished him to this canyon, and legend says it’s still haunted by Tahquitz.  One of the workers reported a sighting of a man who disappeared right before her eyes.  One of my friends who lives in the area reported seeing the famous green comet flying across the valley well below the mountains.

As we hiked the canyon, I’ve gotta say, this was a pretty nice place to be banished.  It’s very lush and green, and there is a large, rapidly moving stream running through it.  At the end of the canyon, there is an amazing waterfall.  Yes, they actually let you see this one!  You have to cross the stream on stones though and, with all the 2023 rain, you will get your feet wet.  But the view is worth it.  I didn’t get a creepy vibe from the canyon, but I did have an obnoxious ray of sun that kept standing out in my photos.  Maybe that was Tahquitz, or maybe it was just a beautiful day at the end of a bucket-list trip.

Mission Bighorn accomplished, I felt so content on the way home that I didn’t even stop at the super-bloom fields of yellow poppies for a photo-op.  I had other things on my mind…like a date shake.  This time, we got it after the three hikes of the day were finished.  The perfect reward.  If you’ve never had a date shake, add it to your bucket list.  It’s not something you’ll find in Michigan.

Watch for details about my July book signing event! All books are available on Amazon.

I KISSED A WHALE, AND I LIKED IT!

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dream, goallist, goals, graywhales, kiss, Mexico, whale, whales, wildlife

In 1997, I wrote my first goal list.  Happily, by 2023, I’d achieved the majority of the goals on that list except one.  “Touch a whale.”  This is a very difficult goal to achieve because, well, you need the cooperation of a whale.  I’m not sure where the idea came from since, in 1997, I wasn’t the whale nerd that I am now.  Someone had asked me why I wanted to touch a whale, and I had no response past, “I dunno.”  I just did.  Yes, I’d touched a dead whale on the beach.  Doesn’t count.  And, no, a whale in captivity doesn’t count. 

About eight years ago, I was in Cabo and signed up for a touch-a-whale trip to Magdalena Bay.  After four hours of driving each way and two hours on the water, I had not touched a whale much less gotten remotely close to one.

Last year, I made another attempt, this time with a tour group that had us, *gasp*, camp for days.  I work so that I can sleep inside at night, so that tells you how badly I wanted to achieve this goal.  Sadly, this trip was the worst whale watching of my life.  I think we saw two whales that were far away, and the whales were not remotely interested in us.

You can imagine my skepticism when, once again, I signed up for another touch-a-whale trip, this time to a different lagoon.  These Baja lagoons are all remote with a capital R.  Our accommodations were rustic with a capital R, but it wasn’t camping, so I felt that I was coming out ahead.

Before I get into the story, let me tell you why the gray whales are in these lagoons.  All summer long, the gray whales gorge themselves in their feeding grounds located in the Bering and Chukchi Seas.  They’re mammals, like us, so they must come up for air and, when it gets cold and freezes over, they obviously can’t, so that’s one of the reasons they leave the buffet and head south.  When I say “south,” I mean they travel about 6,000 miles south to the lagoons of Mexico, where they will mate and have their babies.  After about three months, when the babies are strong enough, they swim 6,000 miles back to their feeding grounds.  Pretty amazing, huh?  It’s one of the longest migrations of any mammal, and we in Orange County get to witness it!  Now, back to the story.

FYI, in these lagoons, you can’t just show up with your boat and go hang out with whales.  The lagoons are heavily regulated by the Mexican government with a limited number of boats going out for limited amounts of time.  Thank goodness because I’d hate to see this sanctuary ruined by humans.

At 7:50 a.m. on the first morning, we left the motel and drove about 20 minutes to the lagoon.  It was a beautiful day, and everyone was excited.  Me?  I was skeptical, sure I was about to be disappointed yet again.

As the panga boat with its seven passengers and captain left the dock, we passed gorgeous white sand dunes and giant orange buoys topped with sunbathing sea lions before arriving in the large part of the lagoon.

Cruising through gentle waves, we would slow and then stop near any whales we came across.  Although they didn’t seem to mind our presence, no whales approached our panga.  On we went.

A little more background.  Today, gray whales are called “The friendly whales;” however, during the whaling era, they were called Devil Fish.  Pretty big contrast in names, huh?  Just like pretty much every bad guy, the gray whales were misunderstood.  When the mean ol’ whalers discovered the whales in these lagoons, it’s said that there were so many whales that the whalers could cross the lagoons stepping on whale backs.  This is a big lagoon, more like a very large lake, so you can imagine how many were there.  Of course, for the whalers, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.  Although they weren’t really interested in the baby whales, they would harpoon them and haul them to shore, hoping to lure the mother closer to shore so they could get her.  Much to their surprise, the mothers would become so distraught over their injured babies, that they would destroy the ships.  That’s why the whalers called them devil fish.  Huh.  Kinda seems like the mean ol’ whalers had it coming, but that’s just me.

To know what these animals once endured compared to how they interact with humans today is nothing short of amazing.  And to imagine anyone hurting these sweet animals, much less harpooning the playful babies hurts me to my core.

Back to present day.  Our boat slowly made its way across the bay until we saw a whale turn and head straight toward us.  If nothing else, within minutes, this was the best whale watching of my life – and I’m on a whale-watching boat nearly every weekend!  Yahtzee!

Although the whale, soon joined by another, circled our boat, checking us out as we dangled our hands in the water and called out sweet-talk to them, they didn’t get within arm’s reach.  On we went.

Finally, we came upon three whales getting frisky.  No sooner did we stop our boat than the whales headed over to us.  We all rolled up our sleeves, called to them, and made gentle splashes in the water.  This was behavior that was suggested by our leader, and, although the sweet-talk was a little uncomfortable at first, that soon changed.

Within minutes, a giant gray whale poked its head out of the water right next to the boat, and I was gently stroking its rostrum (nose) as I spoke sweet-nothings.  Soon, the second whale tried to squeeze in and get some affection, and our passengers were more than happy to accommodate.  Nearby, we watched as a panga boat was gently pushed around by a playful whale as if the boat were nothing more than a rubber ducky.

So what does a whale feel like?  Rubbery and kinda squishy.  Their skin is very smooth where there are no barnacles or whale lice.  Yup, they get lice.  Kinda gross, right?  The lice eat off the dead skin, which you can see very large chunks of when you’re up close.  It’s also believed that they help wounds heal by doing this.  Our tour leader wasn’t so sure about that, but that’s what we’re taught in ACS-OC, so that’s what I go with. Below is a photo of me touching an exhaling baby whale.

Many people ask how we get the whales to approach the boats.  Do we trap them?  Do we feed them?  Nooo.  These are wild animals who really don’t eat during their approximately 12,000-mile-round-trip migration, hence losing about one-third of their body weight.  The thing that’s so magical is that these wild animals choose to interact with humans on their own volition.  And not all of them do.  Some poo-poo us and swim away, and that’s okay.  But curious others will line up for affection and the chance of a close-up look at a human.  Kinda makes you wonder who’s watching who.

Needless to say, Day 1 was a magical dream come true.  After I pet 12 different whales, I lost count.  Yes, I was counting.  We were out for two hours, went back to the dock for a forty-five-minute lunch break, and went back out for another two hours.  At the end of Day 1, after 26 years of dreaming about touching a whale, I finally checked it off my goal list!  Woot!

On Day 2, we were driven to another side of the lagoon where the whales are supposed to be more “chill” and there are more babies.  Again, they did not disappoint!  At one point, we were surrounded by seven whales lined up to see us!  It was raining, so we were one of two boats out in the whole lagoon, so we were very popular that morning! Below is a photo of my favorite baby because it’s speckled. Yes, it let me pet it. My melting heart! See its eye?

On whale watching trips to Monterey and Mo’orea, I’d noticed that a mother whale would often tell their babies to go play with the humans for a while so she could rest.  The mom would log (float) or go to the bottom and chill while the babies would breach for the delighted humans or show off other tricks.  Today was no exception.  We had one little show-off doing headstands and rolls and nudging the bottom of our motionless boat as mom took a rest or nap just feet away from us.  It was amazing.  So amazing that we chose to skip the lunch/bathroom break after two hours and just stay out with the whales for the next two hours.  I’ve never gone so long without a bathroom break in my life, but I was so busy petting whales and telling them how beautiful they were that I didn’t even have time to drink any water!  The whales on this side were definitely more playful and spent a lot of time under our boat, nudging or pushing it and bringing about our squeals of delight.

I think the high point of my trip was when a baby whale was on its side next to the boat, and I kissed it.  My mom had warned me about barnacles, and my aunt had warned me about some disease you get from touching a whale, but I was willing to risk it.  Yep, I kissed a whale, and I liked it!  Where do you go from there?  Whale watching will never be the same again! I’ll post the video on my Facebook author page along with a few of my nearly thirty videos from the trip that I can’t stop rewatching.

By the way, up close, barnacles are super gross.  When the whale comes out of the water, there’s this flagellum coming out of the center of the barnacle about a half inch or more.  When my hand approached, it would pull inside.  Ew!!! See photo below of barnacles and the pink whale lice.

Now that I’ve told you the high point of the trip, I need to tell you the low point.  When a whale was leaning against the boat, some of the whale lice must have gotten knocked loose because, as I was petting the whale, I felt something pinching my fingertip.  Looking down, I saw a little tannish thing on my fingertip that looked like a tiny pile of tannish-white grass.  I didn’t have my glasses on, so I just thought, “Huh,” and tried to rinse it off in the salt water.  Didn’t come off.  “Huh.”  So I tried to grab it, but my fingers were waterlogged and not gripping well.  “Huh.”  I tried rubbing it off on my jeans, hard, and it didn’t budge.  Then I freaked out.  This thing was stuck onto my fingertip like you wouldn’t believe!  I ran to the tour operator on the boat, and he said it was one of the whale lice!  Eeeek!  He had to pull it off for me.  Did I mention, Eeeeeek!?  I don’t know how the whales can stand to have the lice on them because the pinching feeling that is probably biting is not pleasant.  Imagine a thousand or more of those little buggers on you biting away.  Eeeeeek!

Needless to say, the whale lice didn’t serve as a deterrent, and I was back petting both baby and adult whales seconds later.  Some of the females were incredibly huge!  In the baleen whale family, the females grow larger than the males.  There’s some more whale trivia for you. Below is a photo of a mother gray whale with her calf in front of it.

At the end of the second day, we were all a little sad to leave these animals and begin the 11-hour drive home the next morning.  The interspecies connection is just so amazing that I can’t find sufficient adjectives to describe it.  Looking into the eye of a whale…even more amazing.  Would I go back and do it again?  Yes.  I want to live there for the three months a year that the whales are there.  I want to spend endless days just floating next to a giant whale, a hand resting on it as I whisper sweet-nothings into the water telling it how perfect and beautiful and majestic and gentle and breathtaking it is.  I want to pause the world around me and stay in that moment of connection that I’d chased for 26 years.  The tour leaders and boat captains are truly the lucky ones because they get to escape to this little piece of Heaven every day for three months.  Speaking of Heaven, I sure hope they have whales in Heaven.  That would give me eternity with them, and that’s the only way my time with them will ever be enough.

After achieving this difficult-to-attain goal, how do I feel? I kinda feel like, if I can do this, there isn’t anything I can’t do!

I’ll post some of the many videos from the trip on my Facebook author page (it’s public).  And, now, on to the next goal!

In case you haven’t heard, The Tunnels 2: Secrets is out and available on Amazon in both paperback and e-book formats!

DIGGING DEATH VALLEY

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#california, california, deathvalley, exotictravel, hiking, landscape, mountains, travel, trip

When I would think of Death Valley, I would envision endless, flat desert and, well, nothing else.  Hence, you can imagine how pleasantly surprised I was when I vacationed there looking for big horn sheep and discovered there were waterfalls, color-streaked mountains, crazy landscapes, large moons, and gorgeous sand dunes! 

First of all, you should know that Death Valley is a national park.  If there’s anything I’ve learned since moving to California is that national parks are the coolest of cool places to visit.  So, if you see someplace labeled as a national park, look no further, you are sure to see nature at its best.

Perhaps my trip peaked early when, just before reaching the park, we encountered wild burros.  Not native to the area, these animals are both survivors and reminders of California’s historic gold rush.  When the prospectors left or switched to gas-powered vehicles, the burros were left behind.  They now roam the lands, often taking handouts from tourists (that prevent both adults and babies from learning to properly forage for themselves) and being lured dangerously close to roadways.

We encountered two sweet mom/baby pairs and one bossy male.  Did I mention baaaaabies?  The babies were so cute in their winter coats that made them appear nearly as fluffy as baby sasquatches.  Sasquatchi?  Anyway, since I was excited to photograph wildlife, I was delighted to take a break with these animals that did not fear humans and even got dangerously close, hoping for a handout.  One female spent a lot of time eyeing the contents of our car through the closed window, and part of me wondered if she was planning to kick it in if she viewed something that appealed to her.  It was sad to think that the prospectors left behind not only ghost towns but, also, these non-native animals who had to learn to survive in a terrain without a lot of water or greenery.  Mean ol’ miners.

The next thing you will view in the distance besides mountains are salt flats.  For the entire trip, you will wonder if it’s water, due to the reflections, but, except for a few small spots, it’s dried salt beds.  Trust me, I’ve done the legwork for you.

As you drive, you will see the mountains ahead made up of various colored layers that indicate the different types of minerals that can be found in the park.  Iron, mica, and gold are a few.

Our first stop was a hike to Darwin Falls.  It was a lucky time of year for the hike because, due to heavy rains this year, the falls were gushing.  I was hoping to see big horn sheep getting a drink, but no such luck.

The next stop was an approximately four-mile hike up and down Mosaic Canyon.  The canyon got its name from the outcroppings of sharp, tiny rock fragments locked into a natural cement.  The pieces form a readily-identifiable mosaic that sits in sharp contrast to the incredibly smooth walls of dolomite.  Because this is a slot canyon, it’s not the place you want to be during one of the flash floods that carved it and smoothed the shiny and slippery dolomite, so check the weather before you start the hike.  I would rate this as a moderate hike, the most difficult part being that you frequently will need to climb up very slippery walls to finish the hike.  It’s slippery, and it’s scary.  Going back to your car, it’s all fun and games as you can literally slide down these walls on your bottom.

Leaving Mosaic Canyon, you have an excellent view of the valley below, including the dunes that provide a great difference in texture and lighting from the large mountains that sit beyond them.  Stopping at the dunes below provides a great photo op and a nice place to watch the sunset’s reflection on the mountains.

Trying to hit every open attraction Death Valley had to offer, Day 2 was busy.  First, we hiked the Golden Canyon Trail that also led us to the Red Cathedral, Zabriskie Point, and a really cool mine that is now gated off, but you can look inside and see that there are two tunnels low enough to keep you from standing upright.

There are two ways you can hike this trail:  One is leaving the parking lot and heading toward a large riverbed or wash and following it up the canyon.  For all you Sci-Fi folks, I heard that portions of Star Wars were filmed here.  The trail will loop around, and you’ll be able to see all of the attractions, but it’s the long route and, well, the Star Wars landscape got a little old after a few miles.  I’d instead recommend skipping that part and just taking Golden Canyon to Red Cathedral (be sure to hike under the rocks on the Indiana-Jones-type trail versus going over), summiting at Zabriskie’s Point, and then going back.  That portion of the trail is far prettier than the Star Wars portion.  There is a lot of good scrambling to be found on this trail as well.

Then comes Devil’s Golf Course.  This is a huge field of large salt chunks.  It’s basically an ankle injury waiting to happen but, if you venture into the field and look very closely, you may be able to find some tiny, tubular salt formations that have not yet collapsed due to foot traffic.  A snowy Telescope Peak in the background makes an excellent photo-op background.

Mosey on down the road to the salt beds.  This consists of a one-mile walk on a white road of salt.  At the end you will find salt flats that extend as far as the eye can see in the form of octagonal shapes.  Again, it’s a cool photo op.  This spot happens to be 272 feet below sea level, and, despite runoff, it gets a little lower with every earthquake.  As you walk back down the white road of salt, you can see a small sign on the cliff in front of you that reminds you how many feet below sea level you are.  Interesting perspective.  The last piece of trivia I have to share on this spot is that, in 1913, it hit 134 degrees, and it’s said that swallows were dropping from the sky.  Poor birdies.

Heading back toward Stovepipe Wells, you come across Artist’s Pallet on your right.  End of the day is a good time to stop here because you’ll get some nice sunset color illuminating the pinks, greens, purples, reds, and yellows.  Each color represents a different kind of mineral.  Kinda cool.  You can hike through these colored hills, but, if you’ve already done everything we did on Day 2, you’ve probably hit the wall and can only focus on finding the nearest saloon.  Yes, they really have at least one saloon in Death Valley, just like the wild, wild west.  If I stumble upon a miner there, I’ll tell him to go feed his burros.

Day 3 is a good time to catch both sunrise and moonset on the dunes.  Sounds like a great photo op, but there will be people out there at 6:45 a.m. spread around and appearing in every photo you try to take, so you’d better be good with Photo Shop if you want a non-people pic.

There is more to see in Death Valley proper, but it’s currently closed.  I was especially bummed to miss The Racetrack.  Its road won’t be open for at least a year due to heavy rains last summer.  For those of you that don’t know, The Racetrack is where large rocks “mysteriously” move on their own accord, leaving behind very long trails in the desolate landscape.  I was especially disappointed to not visit this photo op.

The other place we couldn’t visit was Scotty’s Castle.  They had me at “castle.”  Scotty’s Castle is named for gold prospector Walter Scott, although Scott never owned it, so that’s kinda weird.  Spoiler alert: It’s not an actual castle.  Just a two-story villa.  Not that that’s anything at which to turn up your nose.  We were told that this road is closed indefinitely.  Like, years.

Having entered the park on the west side, we decided to take a different route home and left through the east side of the park, heading towards the Ash Meadows Wildlife Refuge.  Multiple times on the drive we saw big horn sheep crossing signs, but did we see big horn sheep?  Noooo.  Ash Meadows boasts big horn sheep, so I was excited to check “big horn sheep” off my photo bucket list.

For those of you who don’t know, Ash Meadows is an oasis.  Not a palm tree and green grass oasis, but, instead, a brown grass and burnt-appearing-trees oasis.  Clumps of a kind of mistletoe adorn the trees. There are multiple springs, including Devil’s Hole (not all it’s knocked up to be) that bubble up 10,000-year-old rainfall from the earth.

The best spring to visit in the park is Point of Rocks.  Here, you can walk on a boardwalk to this incredibly beautiful spring with the clearest water I’ve ever seen made up of vibrant blues and greens.  This is the home to the endangered pupfish.  They got their name because they frolic like puppies (I wasn’t seeing that), and they were the first animal to be placed on the endangered species list in 1967.  These small, slightly larger than a guppy sized fish only live here in these springs.  They’re bright blue and very pretty.  One sign I read said there were only 200-400 of these tiny fish left, but there are a few different kinds of pupfish here, and I’m not sure if that’s all inclusive or just the fish in this spring.  Maybe it was all inclusive because I felt like I was only seeing about 20 in this spring.

This spring was also to be the location where I was most likely to see big horn sheep.  Did I see them?  Nooo.  Other than ravens, which I learned are different than crows (ravens have much larger beaks), a couple small birds and the burros were the only wildlife I saw on the trip.  So no great wildlife shots, but there were some pretty cool landscape photos that I’ll share more of on my Facebook Kristie Dickinson author page.

The irony of Death Valley is that there is a very large water reservoir running under it.  Maybe that’s from where the pupfish originate, or maybe there’s some underground world where the big horn sheep hang out during the day.  Needless to say, I definitely “dug” Death Valley, but getting a big-horn-sheep photo op is still on my bucket list.  The search will continue.

***

The Tunnels 2: Secrets completes the Harbor Secret Series. The first four books, The Tunnels, Devil’s Elbow, Leviathan, and Summerset are all available in audiobook format as well as paperback and ebook! Link below.

THE TUNNELS 2: SECRETS PAPERBACK AVAILABLE!

Tags

#fiction, #newbook, adventure, Amazon, Book, historical, mystery, relationship, Romance, secrets, TheTunnels2

For the next couple weeks, the paperback version of The Tunnels 2: Secrets will be available on Amazon! After that, the paperback version will only be available at book signings and other author-appearance events. The e-book version will remain available indefinitely. For my Paul and Phyllis fans, here is a glimpse into the continuation of their story.

*****

In 1930, as the war of rage that was actually a raid carried on inside the underground speakeasy known as Club Manitou, Paul remained standing inside the tunnel with Phyllis.  She had agreed to run away with him, leaving her husband and world of privilege behind, and they waited for the noise inside to subside.  As the gunshots gave way to loud voices, she had confessed that she had something she wanted to discuss with him.  Paul had glazed over her comment as his close proximity to the heiress, his body pressed against hers, had easily distracted him.  He had readily dismissed her plea with “Tell me later.  I’m going to have forever with you.”

                As his mouth lingered at her bejeweled earlobe, he hesitated, wanting to take her right then and there, against the wall in the damp tunnel, but his survival instinct overrode his carnal desires.  “I need to stop and get something, and then we’ll,” he hesitated to say the word, concerned it would frighten her, “disappear.”

                She used her hand to pull his mouth from her ear and look into his eyes.  “I’ve never really been close to anyone in my life, but” fear of scaring him off causing her to hesitate before pressing forward, “it’s different with you.”  Her eyes studied his, awaiting a reaction.  When no reaction came, she whispered, “I’ll follow you anywhere, even if it’s into Hell.”

                He smirked.  “Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” he brushed a loose strand of hair admiringly from her face, “but you know we can’t stay in Michigan.”

                “Why not?”

                He hesitated to answer because he knew there was a very good chance that the truth would scare her away, hell or no hell.  No longer was he going to let her make incorrect assumptions about him.  He was going to be the man he was and tell her the truth.  He was going to give her the opportunity to make an informed decision before she left with him.

                Gathering all his courage, he spoke softly as the raid inside the club raged on.  Screams followed a lone gunshot that had probably ended a life as he chose this moment to fully disclose his true self to the only woman he had ever really loved.  “Phyllis, I’m not who you think I am.”

                Phyllis’s only response was to search his eyes for answers before he continued.

                “I’m not a waiter.”

                “Of course you’re not just a waiter,” she said in a tone that let him know she was trying to be supportive of someone beneath her.

                He knew what she assumed, and it hurt him knowing she was incorrect.  He was a terrible person.  He was not some innocent person who waited tables or seated patrons in a speakeasy owned by The Purple Gang of Detroit.  “Have you ever heard of The Purple Gang?” he asked the question, working slowly into his confession.

                “Yes,” she answered.  “Everyone knows who they are.  They own this place.”

                Paul nodded to let her know that her understanding was indeed correct.  “I’m a member of the gang, Phyllis.”

                Not looking away, Phyllis’s eyes still searched his for unspoken answers.  When no additional information came forth, she whispered, “I see.”

                “I’m not a good person.”  When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Phyllis, I’ve killed people.”  He was caught off guard as Phyllis didn’t recoil but instead silently took in the information he gave her.  “A lot of people,” he added.  She still didn’t so much as flinch.  “If we leave tonight, the Purple Gang will look for me.  We’d be living our life on the run and in hiding.”

                “I understand.”

                “We’d have to leave Michigan,” he said again, wanting her full understanding.

                Now comprehending, she repeated, “I understand.”

                “You deserve so much more, such a better life, but that’s all I can offer you,” he continued to confess.  “I want you to be clear about that before we leave.”

                “I understand,” she again confirmed before adding, “but I have something to tell you as well.”

                He put a finger over her lips as they heard authorities on the other side of the wall that separated them.  They had found the secret room.  “Tell me later,” he whispered to her.  “I just needed you to know who I really am.  I need you to make an informed decision if you choose to leave with me.”  He waited for a disgusted look to wash over her face.  He waited for her to push him away from her.  He waited for her to break his cold heart into a million pieces.  Instead, her answer astounded him.

                “I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to you,” she said as she pushed her body against his and kissed him.

                One of his hands that had lifted her skirt and now rested on her thigh moved to her buttocks and pulled her to him.

                “There’s gotta be an exit around here somewhere,” they heard a voice inside the secret room announce.  “Tear these shelves off the wall, fellas.”

                The realization that the Sheriff’s Department may be interrupting their intimate moment caused Paul to halt the consummation of their newly-understood relationship.  “So you’re in?”

                “Yes,” she said.

                His grip leaving her buttock with a final squeeze, he grabbed her hand in his and led her down the tunnel.  “This way.”

                The two turned and darted down the dark tunnel as shelves on the opposite wall were thrown to the floor.  Running hand in hand, Paul heard the secret door push open.  Light streamed into the underground cavern, and a voice yelled to the two shadows that disappeared into the darkness.  “Hey!  Stop!”

                Not obeying the command, the couple dashed ahead into the darkness as a gunshot ricocheted off the cobblestone walls and small amounts of dirt dropped from the ceiling.

                “Straight ahead will take us to the airport,” Paul said as they sprinted away from their predators.  “We keep a pilot on standby there so we can take off in an emergency.”

                As their unprepared would-be captors fumbled in the darkness behind them, Paul pulled back on Phyllis’s hand.  Her eyes adjusting to the dim light, Phyllis could see they were at an intersection in the underground world.  “Why are you stopping?” she asked in a winded voice.

                “I have to get something,” he said, pulling her into a different tunnel that would lead away from the airport tunnel.

                “Who’s got a lighter?” they heard someone behind them ask.

                “Paul, can’t we come back for it?” she asked, frightened.

                Paul hesitated.  “Phyllis, it’s everything.  It will give us a comfortable life.  It will get us out of Michigan.”

                “I’ve got one,” a voice behind them announced as a small light illuminated the tunnel, not quite reaching the runaway lovers.

                “Paul, they’ll catch us.”

                “But we need this,” he told her.  “I have all of $50 in my pocket.”

                Her eyes were large with terror as she urged him to give up his plan.  “I have money.  We can stop by the house.”

                He shook his head.  “No time.  The cops will seize our plane.  We’ll be caught.”

                As the small light neared, Phyllis’s mind searched for an appropriate answer before saying, “We’ll fly to Detroit.  I’ll get money there.”

                “Is it safe?” he asked, reluctant to leave behind a fortune that would guarantee them a life of amenities while on the run.

                In the darkness, Phyllis squeezed his hand.  “It’s your turn to trust me.”

                “I see them!” someone called out behind them.  “Freeze, or I’ll shoot!”                

As the light hit Paul and Phyllis’s eyes, similar to deer in headlights, they momentarily froze before looking at each other.  Paul gave a nod and then hesitated, giving her a final chance to go back to her life of comfort with her husband.  Without looking away, Phyllis nodded in return.  One gripping the hand of the other, the two turned and disappeared into the dark tunnel that would lead not only to the airport but also to a new life far from the lives they knew.  It would be a life together.

*****

Below is the direct link to purchase the paperback book. Thank you to all the readers who have now read all five books in the Harbor Secret Series! Your support is greatly appreciated.

THE TUNNELS 2: SECRETS

Tags

Amazon, Book, books, harborsecret, harborsprings, historicalfiction, historicalmystery, mystery, newbook, Romance, secret, sequel

After half the town of Harbor Springs reached out to tell me about their experiences in the tunnels, I felt compelled to write this sequel to The Tunnels. Here’s some special insider information for my blog readers: The story of Paul and Phyllis didn’t end quite where The Tunnels led you to believe! Below, you can find the book blurb as well as a link to its Amazon page.

Harbor Springs, a small resort town in northern Michigan that once served as the summer home to The Purple Gang of Detroit, is a town where everyone, even Fire Chief Jason Lange, has a secret.

Reluctant to make wedding plans, Kylie Branson, Harbor Springs’ only cupcake maker, and her dog again go exploring, this time placing her fiancé, Jason Lange, at risk. As Kylie uncovers more tunnels and their forgotten secrets, she finally understands her marriage concerns…but is it too late? Follow Kylie, Jason, Cupcake, and the Harbor gang as they discover another Harbor secret.

THE SHIRT

Tags

change, dad, death, shirt

               From seventh grade through most of high school, one of my chores was to do the family’s ironing.  Because my dad wore dress shirts to teach in five days a week and another on Sunday, he was my main customer.  I tried gifting him sweaters, but he would just wear a dress shirt under the sweater, so that didn’t ease my burden.  Turtlenecks were a “no sale.”

               To this day, I really, really, really don’t like ironing and am so glad the steamer was invented.

               On a recent Saturday, as I helped pick out my dad’s final and maybe most important outfit, I saw his shirt needed to be ironed.  As I opened the ironing board of my youth and began to iron, fully intending to only iron the collar and front because he’d be wearing a suit, and no one would know otherwise, I realized that I would know.  I would know that I’d put in a less than 100 percent effort on my dad’s final shirt.

               As I tried to keep the drops of salt water from falling onto the garment, I struggled with clogged cans of spray starch and stubborn wrinkles that, no matter how much steam I used, it wasn’t enough.  It wasn’t good enough.  My work wasn’t good enough.  It had to be perfect for my dad.  He had to look his best, not like someone who had his shirt ironed by a seventh grader. I continued to work on the shirt until I couldn’t.

               As we drove to drop off my dad’s clothes, I looked into the back of the car to see the shirt hanging in front of his suit, the suit’s arms wrapped around my work, bringing about tiny wrinkles in the shirt and causing my heart to break just a little bit more.

               I know my dad is in a place where he now wears a much better shirt than the one I ironed.  It’s probably a wrinkle-free fabric; so, in the grand scheme of things, the shirt he wears here today is probably not really that important.  It’s just a shirt.  But, besides memories and photos, what you see here today is the piece of him that we’re left with, and I wanted to honor him by giving him my best.

               As we get older, first our grandparents and then our parents gradually become this quiet presence in the background of our lives.  Even though we’ve grown to be independent and don’t need them as much as we used to, we know they’re always there until, one day, they’re not.  Once that happens, you reflect back on your last conversations and final words.  Other than a weak “Hi, Honey,” on the phone, the last time I spoke to my dad in person, his last sentence to me was, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

               I’ll see you, Dad.  I’ll see you.

MAGICAL MO’OREA

Tags

bucketlisttrip, cetacean, jungleparadise, livingthedream, moorea, outsidemycomfortzone, swimmingwithwhales, travel, whale, whales

Many people are satisfied living a life of routine.  Maybe the routine is something like go to work, go to the gym, and then watch TV until you fall asleep.  Rinse and repeat.  That’s not me.  I’m not the person who plans to start living their life when they retire, and I’m not the person who makes excuses.  There will always be an excuse not to do something…money, fear, guilt and, oh, my favorite “it’s haaaard.”   Again, that’s not me.  I’ve had my wake-up call, and I know I’m working on a time limit.

Some of you know that I love whales.  When I saw an opportunity to swim with them in the wilds of Mo’orea, I said, “Sign me up!”  When I heard it was dangerous, I said, “I’ll take two!”

For those of you who don’t know, Moorea is a lush, green, mountainous, tropical island located somewhere between California and New Zealand.  Formed by an erupting volcano, the mountains appear to be tectonic plates thrust up into their air, creating incredibly steep, thin green mountains.  At first sight, the island looks like a possible setting for an Indiana Jones movie, Jurassic Park, or one of my favorites, Love Affair, starring Annette Bening and Warren Beatty.  All of this lush green jungle would surely have snakes, right?  Nooooo.  At least that’s what I’ve been told, and I’ll choose to believe it for the time being.

To get to Mo’orea, you fly to Tahiti and take a ferry.  Being located in French Polynesia, surprise, everyone there speaks French or Tahitian.  I know this because, being immediately smitten with the beautiful island upon seeing the highest peak, which I intend to climb, my first question was, “Do they have a courthouse here?  If so, what language do they speak?”  Yes, they have a courthouse; but, unfortunately, English isn’t the primary language spoken there.

This island is a place where the locals aren’t afraid to tell you that their ancestors traveled here from southeast Asia and brought along dogs, pigs, and chickens.  Sadly, all for food versus companionship.  Of course, they also ate humans, which caused me to glance twice at our tour guide in case she had any intentions of whipping up a batch of Kristie Soup.  Since the humans they ate were usually invaders, I didn’t feel too badly about it.  If you’re going to go around invading places that aren’t yours, you run the risk of being eaten.  The dogs, on the other hand, were innocent bystanders.  Our guide even told me that the chestnut-colored doggies were considered the tastiest.  My mind wandered to the possibility of bringing home all chestnut-colored dogs before I was quickly reassured that dogs were no longer eaten in Mo’orea.  Again, that’s the story I was told, and that’s what I’m going to run with.

As mentioned above, I came here to swim with whales.  Specifically, humpback whales and their babies.  Mo’orea and Tahiti are where humpbacks migrate to after leaving their feeding grounds in the cold waters of Antarctica.  In the warm waters of Mo’orea, they will give birth to their young.  Those not giving birth will likely be getting their groove on mating or maybe just frolicking.

My friend and I went with a travel group, and there were two rib boats.  Our boat had six passengers, a captain, and a crew member/scout.

In our briefing, we were told that there are three kinds of whales here:  Moving whales, active whales, and resting whales.  Active whales are socializing, breaching, and tail and pec fin slapping.  Not something you want to get in the way of with a 45-foot, 40-ton animal.  Resting whales are what we were to look for.

Much of Mo’orea is surrounded by a reef that breaks the large waves of the ocean into shallow, turquoise water.  If whales are seen inside the harbor or reef area, it’s illegal to swim with them.  They are likely in distress.  It’s also illegal to Scuba dive with the whales, but snorkeling is A-OK, and that’s what we were to do.

As a little background, I’ve snorkeled before, but it’s been about twenty years, and it was in a protected cove, not in the middle of a wavy, black sea.  It’s not as easy as it looks when you’re jumping into black water in the middle of the ocean with giant swells and Lord-knows-what waiting for you below.  Scary, right?  Now that it’s over, yes, the thought of what was below crossed my mind every day for six days.  I just had to suck it up and get over my fear.

On Day 1, about an hour out of the harbor, not only did we spot a whale, but the heat penetrated my waisted wetsuit, making me horribly hot, and that led to motion sickness.  Ugh.  I really wanted to see the whales, but it was everything I could do to keep from tossing my poorly-made omelet that was supposed to be spinach and mushroom but turned out to be cucumber, carrot, and tomatoes.  Double ugh!  Lost in translation.

Once you find one or more whales, the captain and scout will check out the whale’s breathing pattern and determine whether it’s moving or not before yelling to us, “Get ready!”  That means get your wetsuit zipped up, fins on, hood on, mask over eyes, snorkel ready to go, and have your camera equipment in hand.  The scout is first to gear up, jump in, and locate the submerged whale.  Seeing the scout’s raised fist in the air means they’re on the whale, and we can get out of the boat.

A little intimidated by the serious scuba divers in the group and the black unknown that I was jumping into, I was last out of the boat wearing my cute, little baby fins that I bought because I thought they’d be easier to travel with.  Boy, was I wrong!  Once you plunge into the unknown, you start snorkeling towards your scout.  Face down, I found myself panicking and gasping for air as the large swells often kept not only the rest of the group from my sight but the boat as well.  Feeling alone in a vast sea, scenes from Titanic flashed through my mind, and I desperately wanted Rose’s headboard to float on.

Minutes in, one of my fins popped off.  I struggled to grab it and put it back on, quickly getting left behind.  Fortunately, the scout saw me lagging and came over with a boogie board for me to hang on to while I put my fin back on.  Then he let me use the boogie board to catch up to the rest of the group, but not before a fin slipped off a second time.  So much for the cute fins that got me nowhere fast.  By this time, the whale had moved on, and we had to return to the boat.  Strike one.

I was really shaken up by the swell that had separated me from the world around me, and so I decided to just stay in the boat the rest of the day and take photos.  Actually, I was pretty sure I’d be fine sitting in the boat for the rest of the trip, but being a big, fat chicken is not the way I roll, and so, the next morning, I borrowed some longer fins, put on my big-girl pants, and decided to try again.

The second day, we had to travel to the other side of the island before spotting whales near the channel between Tahiti and Mo’orea.  This time, the crew had me take a boogie board with me as a security blanket, and things went much better.

As I kicked away with my borrowed replacement flippers that weren’t cute but did the job, I approached the scout and looked around for some direction.  He told me it was a singer and pointed down into the blue water around me.  I poked my masked face into the water and, not only could I hear that eerie and kinda scary sounding whale song (they either sound mad or sad), but right below me I saw a large male humpback just hanging out in one spot at the bottom and singing his little (actually, it’s pretty big) heart out.  Some of his song sounded sad, like he was lonely, and other parts sounded like he was mad and going to kill me with a swish of his peduncle or tail.

As I continued to watch him sing, slowly, he started to effortlessly float up from the bottom of the sea, heading straight towards me.  As he got closer, I turned on my GoPro and worried that he would run into me as he came up for air.  Fortunately, he went right by me to come up for his breath.  Wow, what a feeling!  The way the vibrations from his song had penetrated my chest was indescribable.  I also got to swim with two other whales in a different location on Day 2. 

Day 3 was the best.  The swell had been tough on me, and I lingered in the boat for about a half hour watching the rest of the group play with a baby while its mom rested at the bottom.  The baby even breached near them.  I kept thinking the baby would get bored and leave, so I didn’t go into the water.  When one of the group members returned to change his GoPro battery, I went back out with him, and, boy, did it ever work out!  I was only in the water for minutes before the baby turned towards me.  Holding up my GoPro, I watched as it became visible in the water and slowly swam straight towards me.  As it passed by, I almost wet myself when I looked down to see a giant mama whale right under me moving in stealth mode!  Yeowza!  Slowly, she came to the surface to join her baby, and off they finally went.  FYI, as far as these large, baleen whales go, the females grow larger than the males.

On Day 4, we saw lots of whales, but none were resting, and so, every time we got into the water, they would move on.  Same with Day 5 until the last 15 minutes when we came upon a cow/calf pair.  Right in front of me, I saw mom and baby doing a corkscrew to the surface that was like a beautiful ballet.  I held out my GoPro, pressed “Record,” and a red banner popped up across the top.  I didn’t have my reading glasses on, so I couldn’t read the message, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t recording.  I wanted to cry.  Others in the group got the most amazing photos of this cow/calf pair, and I had nothing.

Determined to up my odds and not leave on a downside, I signed up for the extra day, which was Day 6 of swimming.  Although we still saw a few whales, including a baby that breached about eight times, all the whales were moving, and we couldn’t get into the water until the last half hour or so when we came upon a singer.  I could hear the whale singing from the boat, but, getting into the water three different times, we couldn’t see it.  My only great photo op on Day 6 was returning to the harbor to see a rainbow across the lush, green mountains.

So that was Day 6 of whale watching and the end of my time on the water; however, there was more to explore in Mo’orea.  On our first island day, we took a safari tour that was awesome!  We went up Magic Mountain on a tiny two-track that sometimes dropped off on both sides to get a view of “the real Cook’s Bay” as well as another bay on the other side of the mountain.  Sitting in the back of the truck, branches hit us, and I soon noticed they were filled with fruit, so we grabbed a mango and a couple of star fruit off the trees!  I wish I’d thought to do that on the way up as well!

Our tour also took us to a sugarcane plantation and a pineapple plantation, where we got to taste and buy bottles of wonderful pineapple wine to bring home.  We also went to a botanical garden where we saw all kinds of exotic fruit being grown such as soursop, noni, star apple, persimmons, and more.  They also had an enclosed vanilla farm.  If you’ve ever bought a vanilla bean in the States, you know they’re crazy expensive!  They’re like the cocaine of bakers.  They were much less expensive here and fresh, so we bought some of those to take home.

The last stop on the safari tour was at a 400-year-old temple that was basically a low stone wall with some chestnut trees growing inside it.  The wall was meant to keep the women and children out while still letting them observe what went on.  The temple activities included human sacrifices, and we saw the raised stage area where the sacrificial acts occurred.

On our last day of the trip, we had hoped to hike Pierce Mountain.  It’s the highest of the crazy-steep mountains, and it has an eye hole at the top.  I heard from our safari guide that the trail was difficult to find, so I tried to find a hiking guide.  The guides were not available until two days after we left, and it rained the day before, so it would be slippery.  Instead, we found a guide to take us to the waterfall located part of the way up Pierce Mountain, which I was very anxious to photograph.

A few pro tips for Mo’orea.  Wild chickens are a thing.  Even though the sun rises around 6:30 a.m., the roosters seem to think it’s up at 3:40 a.m.  Don’t expect to sleep in.  Wild pigs are the only other wild animal here.  No monkeys.

It’s not recommended that you drink water from the tap, so you will need to buy a lot of water.  Bring a refillable water bottle.

Our hotel’s food was subpar, so, after the first day, we had to venture out for all meals that were not supplied on the boat.  The best place we found was a pizza place just a ten-minute walk away.  They offered very unique pizza toppings, and my favorite was goat cheese and honey!  I had that pizza three days of the trip and can’t remember the last time I’d eaten so many carbs.

It rained three out of eight days that we were there, so bring a light raincoat.

Lotsa mountains on this small island, so, if hiking is your jam, bring hiking boots and gloves for the ropes.

WiFi is spotty, even when sitting right next to the source, so don’t plan on connecting with the outside world unless your phone has an international plan.  The first few days without internet are tough but, just like sea sickness, you will adapt.

The chocolate bars in the stores are European, the most popular being the Milka brand.  They also sell Bounty bars, which were discontinued in the States over 25 years ago, so you can pick up this special treat here.

Every exotic fruit you can think of is grown here, and it’s fun to have someone who knows what they’re doing tell you how to eat the fruit.  Hibiscus and many tropical flowers are easily found growing wild.

There is a cove referred to as Stingray City that allows you to snorkel with wild stingrays and sharks that hang out there.  We did that.  Most of the sharks I saw were black-tipped reef sharks, and it was kinda freaky to see them coming straight towards you and then turn away at the last second.  I also got to pet a stingray, which was cool.

French is the dominant language here, and it’s really difficult to understand some of the locals, as I’m sure it’s difficult for them to understand us.  If you learn some basic French before you arrive, it could help a lot.

Tipping is appreciated but not expected.  We were told this by our cab driver on the first day when we tried to offer a tip that she didn’t really seem to want.

Mo’orea is three hours behind California time.

It’s fun to meet people with similar interests from all over the word in these tour groups, and maybe we’ll be Instagram connections for the rest of our lives.  Maybe we’ll never see them again, but maybe, just maybe, our paths will cross on another adventure.

Swimming with whales was a once-in-a-lifetime experience that I’m so thankful that I was able to enjoy and check off my goal list.  I may do it again in the future, but I’ll shoot for a different location to explore when I do.  I’ll need to keep that goal at the top of my list because I have a feeling that this activity may one day be banned.  I saw many people disrespect the animals by getting too close and even sometimes touching them.  As with anything, if the privilege is abused, it will be taken away.

Mo’orea was a great adventure that I’ll never forget.  I stepped waaaay outside of my comfort zone to check swimming with whales off my bucket list, and it was worth it!  Below are a few photos from the trip.  I’ll post the videos of me swimming with whales, sharks, and rays on my Facebook Kristie Dickinson author page.

Time will eventually run out for all of us.  May we all spend it not being big, fat chickens and following our dreams.

View from the pineapple plantation

View from our beach

This mountain looks like a temple to me. 🙂

I love these resorts!

A humpback whale throwing its tail.

See the divers in front of the whale and Tahiti in the background?

Diver heads in front of the humpback whale.

Boobies on a buoy.

The landscape was breathtaking…every…single…day.

The beautiful water color inside the reef.

A humpback slapping its tail over and over again on a rainy day.

My rainbow pic on the last day!

The really tall waterfall.

GOING BACK TO MY ROOTS

Tags

#dance, #danceroots, #fear, #hiphop, #roots, #thepast, Dance, danceroots, fear, hiphop, roots, thepast

For the last six or seven months, I’d been toying with the idea of taking a dance class.  For those of you who aren’t familiar with my past, let’s just say that dance was once a very big part of my life.  I had once taught classes, choreographed not only pieces but full shows, and had danced professionally all over the world.  Although I stopped teaching and performing about fifteen years ago, I still kept my foot in the door with some occasional choreography or appearing in a commercial or friend’s video.  Fifteen years is a long time.

When a friend told me about an adult hip-hop class, I jumped at the chance to use some long-forgotten muscles but soon found that dance has changed a lot from the world I once lived in.  Let me explain.

The dance world I came from was a world of structure and discipline.  Your hair was pulled back in either a bun or ponytail, you wore form-fitting clothes so the instructor could see and correct your alignment, you wore dance shoes, and you arrived early so you could have your shoes on and be ready to start promptly.  Although the hip-hop classes that I had taught were more lax, the basic rules still applied.

The class I’d signed up for was more of an exercise class than a formal dance class, and I’d been warned that there was a short warmup, and then you would go straight to choreography.  There would be no across-the-floor section where you would work on turns, kicks, and leaps.  That was okay with me because I didn’t think my body was ready for leaps, and my extensions certainly weren’t what they used to be.

My friend and I signed up for the class two weeks ahead of time and, as soon as I’d signed up, I began to feel nervous.  A lot of the nervousness comes from the unexpected.  Maybe these people were all professional dancers.  Maybe I wouldn’t be able to remember the choreography.  Maybe I couldn’t keep up with the cardio.  Maybe they would laugh at me.  Every insecurity in the world set in.  To add to my worries, the day after I’d signed up for the class, my doctor told me no hiking or running until further testing could be completed.  Technically, this wasn’t climbing a mountain or running the miles I’d previously put in every morning, but I was pretty sure it exceeded the walking to which he’d limited me.  So I had an additional fear of my body failing me and, to make it worse, it could fail me in front of a group of strangers.

The day of the class, I was a mess.  I had to incorporate relaxing breathing exercises all day, including in the parking lot before entering the dance studio and a few times after I entered.  Gee, I don’t put pressure on myself at all, do I?  Ugh.

I was the first one there.  Most of the others arrived just a couple minutes before class started, including the instructor.  Right away, I realized that this class was much more loosey-goosey than I’d been used to.  Everyone wore whatever they wanted, be it loose or midriff.  Most of the ladies had their hair down, and there was not a dance shoe in the place, which was okay since I’d donated my dance shoes to a place in Michigan before I’d left…a move I’ve regretted ever since.

Staying with the loosey-goosey theme, the instructor, without a word, went to the front of the class and led us through some quick stretches.  Other than having nothing going on in the balance department, I did okay on the stretches.

Then came the choreography.  I’ve never felt that I picked up choreography quickly but, to my delight, the instructor taught small segments at a time and then repeated them many times before moving on.  To my disappointment, there were no counts.  Counts are a part of the structured world I came from.  Counts let me consistently learn the choreography before I make it my own.  Counts have always been my happy place.

Standing in the front row, I followed along as the instructor taught the choreography, sometimes with counts, sometimes without, and sometimes the same choreography had different counts than the previous time we went through it.  Oy, was I confused!

Having learned half the choreography — which, in my world, would be four counts of eight — went well.  Then the instructor added the music.  The movements started out on the counts in my mind, but then, by the end, it seemed the goal was to just do the movements as fast as you could, regardless of what the music was doing.  The only reason I know this is because there was a twenty-something superstar dancer next to me in the front row who seemed pretty confident about matching the movements to the music, so I just looked at her every time I got lost…which seemed to be often.

Then came the next three or four counts of eight (who really knows).  Again, the instructor was super good about doing a lot of repetition, so I felt reasonably comfortable with the choreography, it was just putting it to the music that was a challenge for me.  Again, not having counts, it seemed you just had to do the movements as fast as you could the farther we got into the choreography. 

After we learned the whole routine, the instructor pointed to me and told me I was doing a good job picking up the choreography, which was really nice since I was incorporating the “fake it until you make it” ideal.

Then came the performing.  Unlike my structured world, we would dance the combo through a few times to one song, and then the instructor would change the music to either a slower or faster song.  I’ve always learned choreo to one particular piece of music, so not only was this different for me, but I felt like I was flopping around trying to figure out which movements went with what beats.

At the end of the class, we had all worked up a good sweat, much to my doctor’s chagrin, and I’d survived my first dance class in fifteen-plus years.  The instructor walked past everyone else, high-fived me, and again told me I’d picked up the choreography really well before asking if it was my first class.  Oy, if she had to ask, I wasn’t the rock star I’d hoped to look like. I explained that it used to be my job, and she laughed, calling me a “cheater.”

All in all, it was a good experience that I’d spent way too much time getting myself worked up about.  It was fun to be in the front row again, and it was fun to see if my mind and body still remembered something that had once been such an integral part of my life but now seems like a past life.  Yes, I would try it again.  Yes, I might look for a similar class that uses counts.  Yes, I might browse around for a lyrical dance class.  No, I will not wear my hair down in a dance class.  Every girl has her limits.

May you all go back to your roots and spin into your destiny.

THE TUNNELS 2 – COMING LATE SUMMER/FALL 2022

Tags

Book, books, harborsprings, love, Michigan, preview, prologue, Romance, thetunnels, TheTunnels2, tunnels

            Len Burnstein, Purple Gang member and son of one of the original brothers, Abe Burnstein, sat in his cell at Michigan’s Jackson Prison, resigned to his fate.  He had just turned eighty, and he knew he would never see another birthday on the outside of these cement-block walls.  The Parole Board had just turned him down a second time, and he now knew he had a job to do.  He had a story that needed to be told and information that needed to be shared.

               Len had started his criminal career working under his father’s tutelage on the east side of Detroit.  As the empire run by his father and uncles had expanded, his father had sent him north one summer to work as a runner in the safer atmosphere of Club Manitou.

               When Len had arrived, Willy was the head runner for the club, and Len had trained under, then assisted, and finally replaced Willy by the end of the summer.

               Len leaned back in his cell and smiled, remembering the summer evenings he had spent working with Willy and the day’s early morning hours he had spent chasing after Evie.  Evie had been his first love, and he’d been smitten from the first moment he’d seen her at the Harbor Beach to which he and Willy had often biked.

               Evie had had a short, dark bob with heavy bangs, as was the fashion at the time.  Her skin was snowy white, and her eyes large and blue.  She had become the reason behind everything he’d done that summer and the reason why he’d begged his father to let him stay in Harbor Springs for the school year.

               “The club will be closed, and you’re not old enough to stay up there alone yet,” Abe, his father, had told the boy.  “Besides, you’re in a good school here, and you’re gonna finish.”

               “You didn’t finish,” Len had argued.

               “You’re right,” his father had agreed.  “And I want more for you.”

               “I’m fifteen,” Len had pushed his cause.  When his father didn’t bend, Len continued with “Willy said I can stay with his family,” offering the false statement as a last attempt.

               Abe spoke to his son in a tone that let Len know the subject wasn’t up for debate.  “Do you realize all your family has been through so you could have a better life?  Do you realize where we came from and the things we have done to make sure that you get the best schooling and the opportunities that we never had?”

               Len felt deflated.  He’d heard it all before.  He’d heard how his family had emigrated here from Eastern Europe and how they had arrived with nothing.  He’d heard how his father and uncles had resorted to extortion, stealing, smuggling, and murder so they could make a name for themselves in this new country.  He knew he was a special kind of royalty that could only be found in America yet, today, here he sat in a prison cell.  Here he sat with secrets and opportunities that he now realized he would take to the grave with him if he didn’t do something about it.  Even if he got out now, he would be too old to travel and too old to spend the forgotten treasure before his hourglass ran out.

               His sweet childhood memories of Evie evaporated as a loud buzzer sounded and two prison guards walked down his row, stopping at his cell.

               “You have a visitor,” the first guard announced coldly, fumbling through a ring of keys before sliding one into the keyhole on Len’s barred door and swinging it open.

               Len wasn’t surprised.  It was Tuesday, and, every Tuesday, he had one visitor.  Without saying a word, Len stood, turned his back to the guard, and held his hands behind his back.  The first guard placed cuffs on his wrists and shackles on his ankles as the second, a newbie in his twenties, looked on.

               “The guy is so old he can barely walk,” the second guard observed.  “Does he really need the chains?”

               As the first guard stood and turned Len around to face his captors, he said, “If you knew what he’s done, you would never say that.”

               The second guard looked at Len in a new light and stepped out of the way as Len exited his cell.

               The guard ushered Len down the noisy row of cells, through the first security check, and then down a lower-security row of cells.  After what felt like an exhausting walk to Len, he arrived at the visiting room that was divided by a row of cubicles and Plexiglass wall that separated the free from the unfree.

               “Over there,” the first guard pointed.

               Len followed the point, moved to a chair, and waited as the shackles were removed from his hands.

               “You have ten minutes,” the first guard said, reiterating information that Len knew all too well.

               As Len dropped into his chair, he saw a taller, younger version of himself sitting on the other side of the Plexiglass, and his dark brown eyes softened into a smile.  Lifting the phone in the cubicle, he spoke into the receiver.  “Erik, how are you?”

               The handsome man in his thirties with dark hair and blue eyes looked back adoringly.  “Hi, Grandpa.”

               Over the years, Len had learned how much things had changed on the outside.  Although the original members had lived in fear until their end, the remaining gang members had eventually lost power, shrunk in size, become obsolete, and finally dissipated.  Their descendants now lived the life that the gang members had always wanted for them:  They were well-educated lawyers, bankers, investors, and shrewd businessmen.  Although they had drifted from their origins, they were well aware of their roots and always showed preference towards their fellow descendants when it came to business, each making sure the other was successful.

               Len also knew that, by the time Erik’s generation had come along, his history seemed like nothing more than some kind of myth that his older relatives would talk about but that the grandchildren didn’t really believe.

               After the usual chit-chat, Len’s demeanor changed.  “Erik, there’s something I need to tell you before you leave today.”

               “Yeah, Grandpa?  What’s up?” Erik asked in a lighthearted tone.

               “There’s something I need you to get.”

               “Sure, Grandpa.  Anything.”

               “It’s a ways away, in northern Michigan.”

               Erik began to roll his eyes and dropped against the back of his chair.  “This isn’t another Club Manitou story, is it?”

               Len hid his irritation at his grandson’s impatience by lowering his voice and leaning forward in the cubicle.  “This isn’t some story, Erik, and I only have a few minutes, so listen up.”

               Erik, acting as if he knew what was coming and it was something he’d heard many times before, begrudgingly leaned back into the cubicle.  “Okay, okay.  What do you need, Grandpa?”

               “I’m not even sure if the building is still standing,” Len began.

               “What building?  Club Manitou?”

               “Shh,” Len chastised.  “Keep your voice down.  Yes, that place,” he whispered into the corded phone.  “If the building on top isn’t standing anymore, you need to know that there was a whole world underneath it.”

               “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Erik said impatiently.  “There are tunnels and escape routes, and yada, yada, yada.”

               “And a fortune,” Len added the three words that caught Erik’s attention.

               “Fortune?  Really?  Yours?”

               Len felt like a bit of a traitor as his grandson’s last question came out.  Some of the urgency left his voice. “No, it’s not mine.”

               “Then I’m not getting involved,” Erik said, holding up his hands.  Although stories of The Purple Gang ran through his family, and he and his cousins regarded them as exaggerations and maybe even myths, he was well aware of the rules and consequences that occurred when you put your hands on something that wasn’t yours.

               “But,” Len continued, “if no one has claimed it by now, it’s mine by default.”

               “Before I go digging around the northern Michigan woods for some treasure, can you at least tell me who it rightfully belongs to?”

               Len looked side to side before saying the name of the man he had never met but Willy, his northern Michigan friend and former runner for Club Manitou, had once thought walked on water.  He was an original member of The Purple Gang, and word had it that he was calm, cool, collected, accomplished, and had women chasing after him.  Len smirked as he remembered hearing that there was one woman in particular who had his superior’s eye.  Willy had told Len that the man would never admit it, but he would have done anything for that woman…even leave the only life he had ever known.  Whispering into the phone as if uttering the name would resurrect the man and his wrath back from the grave, Len divulged, “Paul Preston.”

               The color left Erik’s face.  That was a name that even his generation knew.  Paul had been one of the biggest hit men for the Purple Gang, so much so that he had been sent to northern Michigan to work in their speakeasy until things cooled off in Detroit.  Legend had it that Paul and an heiress had mysteriously disappeared during a raid at the club.  After their disappearance, things had begun to fall apart as the feds cracked down on the club.  When prohibition had ended, gambling had been the only source of income, and even that faded out after a few years.  “How do you know someone else hasn’t gotten it?” Erik asked, not yet convinced he should be getting involved.

               “I don’t,” Len stated flatly, “but Willy is the only other one who knew about it, and, although he was sent to work in a club out east, I don’t really know what became of him after I was convicted.”

               “So Willy must have it,” Erik concluded, turning his hands up to show that this was a pointless conversation.

               “If Mr. Preston came back and his money wasn’t there,” Len said, “it would be – ” he made a throat-slitting motion that made Erik blanch. “Willy didn’t take it.”

               “What if he’s got descendants?  What if they come for it?”

               “If they haven’t come by now, they aren’t coming,” Len said.

               Erik thought a moment, weighing his options.  He had some vacation time coming up, and he could use a getaway, especially one with a possible reward.  “Are you going to tell me how to find these secret tunnels?” Erik asked, now looking around nervously.  His generation was not one of criminals, and the thought of doing something that could make him his grandfather’s bunkmate went far beyond his comfort zone.

               “They’re all over.  You can’t miss them once you know what to look for,” Len told his grandson, “but there’s one in particular that you need to get to.”

               As Erik leaned forward and listened with wide eyes, his grandfather gave him directions from Jackson, Michigan to a place that held some of the old man’s happiest memories.  It was a place in Harbor Springs, Michigan.

               As the conversation neared its end, Len reached into the shirt pocket of his orange prison uniform and fished out his most prized possession.  Sliding it under the glass, he said, “In case anything happens to me, you should have this.”

               Erik picked up the wrinkled and faded photograph of two people and studied it.  Recognizing the eyes, he confirmed, “Is this you, Grandpa?”

               Len smiled at his grandson’s recognition.  “It was.  It was me in what seems like another lifetime.”  He let out a sad sigh.  “I don’t know, maybe it was another lifetime.”

               Studying the photograph, Erik asked, “And who is this in the photo with you?”

               Len leaned forward on his elbows so he could get a last look at his most prized possession before it disappeared.  “It’s the love of my life.  Your grandmother.”

               Erik shook his head.  “I can’t take this, Grandpa.”

               Len smiled a peaceful smile.  “I won’t be here much longer, and – ”

               Worry crossed Erik’s face.  “What aren’t you telling me, Grandpa?”

               The convict shook his head.  “I’m an old man, Erik.  In case I’m not here when you return, you need to have that.”

               “You’ll be here,” Erik assured.

               Len wasn’t so sure he agreed with his grandson, and part of him didn’t want to agree.  He was tired, and his life had become nothing more than a waiting game.  Seeing the worry in his grandson’s eyes that matched the blue eyes of his Evie, he smiled, content to merely bask in the presence of this handsome, young man.  “I’ll try, Erik.  I’ll try.”

               Armed with information and a photographic piece of his past, Erik left the prison that day with a mission.  It was a mission he wanted to accomplish more for his grandfather than for himself.  As Erik’s car pulled out of the parking lot of the Jackson Prison, a mail truck pulled out behind him.  Unbeknownst to Erik, there was a letter in that truck that shared Erik’s destiny.  It was a letter on its way to Harbor Springs, Michigan, and the person it was addressed to was the Harbor Springs Fire Chief, Mr. Jason Lange.

*** Watch for The Tunnels 2 coming late summer/fall 2022!

WHAT’S LEFT

Tags

accident, auto accident, car

Darcy looked at an image in her bathroom mirror that was quickly changing from the image she had become accustomed to seeing.  In just two weeks, her muscle-filled arms had begun to soften.  Noticing the change, she placed her fingertips on some skin that had begun to fall slack at her elbow.  Above her fingertips were bruises that now mysteriously covered her left bicep.

Turning her body in the mirror, Darcy saw a large, blue, fist-sized bruise at the base of her right hip.  Continuing her turn, she looked to where pain still emanated from her right shoulder blade.  The fist-sized abrasion next to the long scratch left by her bra strap tearing into her skin had begun to fade.

Finishing her turn, she saw her body was thinner.  A result of the nausea that still came and went.  The doctor had told her it was caused by shock.

Her mind involuntarily flashed back to the memories that haunted her.  There were only two.  The first was an image in her rearview mirror that caused her to think, “Fast.  Why is he going so fast?”  The second memory was “rollercoaster.”  That was the thought she had as she sat watching her head bounce off the headrest and be thrown forward.  The force was ten times that of the steepest rollercoaster drop.  The power of the impact had caused the band to fly from her hair, allowing the brown strands to unravel into a wild cloud around her head. Momentarily, she had been able to see 360 degrees around her; and, behind her, a cloud of shattered glass from the hatchback window had hung suspended in the air as her seat-belted body flew forward.  That second memory only lasted an instant before she was snapped back into her body.

Looking at herself in the mirror, Darcy lifted a hand to her lower jaw.  She remembered the pain she felt as she was miraculously able to sit up after the impact.  She didn’t have a memory of what had happened to cause the jaw and gum pain but guessed that her lower teeth had hit the steering wheel.  She leaned forward and peeled back her lower lip, exposing the survivors.  By some kind of miracle, her teeth were all there and functioning.

Pulling back from the bathroom mirror, she crossed her arms and thought.  The aching shoulders, neck, and back seemed to grow a little bit less every day, as did the headache, but what was left?  What was the enduring damage that you couldn’t see?

Darcy pulled her robe back over her shoulders, tied it in front, and walked to a window.  Gazing at a scene that she didn’t really see, her mind wandered.  What had been taken from her?  Her confidence and her freedom had been taken from her.  She didn’t want to drive in the dark.  She didn’t want to drive during rush hour.  She didn’t want to return to the scene.  She didn’t ever want to see a large, white pickup truck again.  She now wanted no one around her on the road.  She now had the hypervigilance of a rabbit. 

Staying home suddenly seemed so much more appealing than it had in the past, but that wasn’t an option.  None of these fears were something she could indulge in because, if she did, then he’d win.  The white pickup truck would win.  She hadn’t died the day the white truck had hit her vehicle; but, if she let her fear win, she might as well have died because she wouldn’t be living anymore.

Hopefully, the aches and bruises on the outside would heal, but what about the bruises on the inside?  That’s what was left.

GOING HOME

Tags

#HarborSprings, #hometown, #michigan, #travel, #trip, hometown, Michigan, travel, trip

Going home not only to Michigan but to my small hometown for the first time in two years was such a culture shock that I felt like one of the gals in Hallmark movies who went off to find their way in the big city, suddenly need to return to their hometown, and are shocked by the differences.  I was shocked.

As my small plane flew over the rural airport before landing, I was reminded how green things are in northern Michigan versus California.  Green trees, green fields, green tractors, blue water, and winding roads covered the earth below the plane.

My first culture shock came when I got off the plane and walked into the small airport only to be greeted by an alarming amount of taxidermy.  Looking around for an animal that might have died of natural causes (I don’t think there were any there), it took me a while to see my parents waving their arms amid an array of antlers, bear paws, birds, fish, moose, bobcats, and cougars.  Who needs a zoo when you can just go to the airport?

I’d forgotten that this was a place where you run into someone you know almost everywhere you go.  I was reminded of this when my parents and I walked the twenty feet from where I got off the plane to the baggage carousel only to run into my childhood bus driver and his wife, who just happened to be there.

I’d forgotten that it was a place that gets a lot of rain, and I was forced to entertain myself indoors.  In California, my free time indoors is usually spent sleeping or writing.  After that, I’m at a loss for self-entertainment.  Refusing to watch TV or do puzzles, I had to resort to Scrabble, shooting pool, and baking some recipes I’ve been waiting to try.  Old photo albums, old family movies, and sorting through some of my grandparents’ things filled the rest of the indoor time.

I’d forgotten that it was a place where people still eat carbs…every…bleeping…meal.  By the third day I found myself saying, “Bread AGAIN?  How do you guys not weigh a million pounds?”  I’d also forgotten that all of those carbs come in handy when running up steep hill after steep hill on my morning runs.

I’d forgotten what it was like to stop on my run or on a short drive to visit with neighbors or former classmates who happened to be working in their yards or out walking.

I’d forgotten that it’s a place where creative people take their passions and turn them into successful businesses and sources of income.  I’d also forgotten that it’s a place where taxidermy is a viable career option.  It seems like the airport is one of the big customers for the local taxidermy businesses.

It’s a place where my seventh-grade blow dryer still waits for me in the upstairs bathroom, and it’s a place where it’s not surprising to find bullets in someone’s glove box.  Just in case, I guess.

It’s a place where, waiting in line at the popular sandwich shop, I look at the teens working behind the counter and think to myself, “You look like a little piece of someone I used to know.”

It’s a place where I can approach a bar, take a double-take at the guy standing next to me, and realize it’s a classmate that I’ve known since kindergarten.  We even rode the same bus for a while when he was in Boy Scouts.

It’s a place where I can randomly stop at various businesses, some now owned by former classmates, and visit.  It’s a place where I’m proud to say that one of my favorite businesses now employs my niece, so, in that case, I get to visit the next generation.

It’s a place where I can drive the winding, cliff-side road to my favorite, history-filled, pristine beach with a million-dollar view.

It’s a place that will always be related to golf, tennis, sailing, boating, and swimming during the days and cool, outdoor dinners completed with either ice-cream-cone strolls or campfires and s’mores in the evening.

It’s a place of fairy-tale mansions that are called cottages and a place that my tale may one day lead me back to.

As my dad returned me to the airport, I had to smile at the sign posted in front of the security line.  It’s a sign that I don’t think any other airport in the world would have (Okay, maybe Mackinac Island).  The sign read, “Please remove all fudge from your carry-on bags.”

Until we meet again, northern Michigan.  Maybe I won’t be so shocked next time.

I’ve posted some trip photos below and will put a few others on my Facebook author page. Happy travels!

Set in my hometown, the Harbor Secret Series uses true local lore in historical fiction/romance stories! You can find all four books on Amazon and Audible!

Everyone gets dressed up for the festivities!

The best show in town

MY VERY OWN WHALE!

Tags

#babywhale, #googlethehumpback, #humpback, #monterey, #travel, #whale, #whales, babywhale, humpback, monterey, travel, whale, whales, whalewatching

Years ago, the cool and romantic thing to do was to pay to name a star after someone.  Today, after a sizeable donation, you can name a whale!  How cool is that?

Being on the water every weekend, I see a lot of whales, but none of them has inspired me to name them until the little guy/gal I ran into this past weekend in Monterey.  I wasn’t even supposed to be in Monterey last week.  I was supposed to be swimming with humpbacks and their babies in Mo’orea, but the Society Islands went into full lockdown five days before I was to leave, and the tour company cancelled the trip with a raincheck.  I had to think of a consolation prize to keep myself from being too disappointed, and you can’t go wrong with Monterey during lunge-feeding season.  They say everything happens for a reason, so maybe this little whale and I were meant to be.

Keeping in mind that baby and “teenage” whales are common this time of year, I saw numerous cow/calf pairs on each of my trips out last week, including already-named babies Fluke Skywalker and baby Mavericks, who mugged our boat. 

It’s sometimes difficult for me to tell what I’m seeing until I get home and can look at my photos on a larger screen.  My little whale was the exception to this rule.  I didn’t need my reading glasses to see this whale was very different from others and would likely become an easily-recognizable “local celebrity” similar to Patches the bottlenose, Casper the Risso’s dolphin, Flue the hybrid, and Twitch the humpback.

The baby whale that stood out of the crowd on a long four days of whale watching is one that had been swimming with its mother.  As the mom took off and left her baby for a while, the baby began doing tail throws, breaching, and rolling.  It’s as if mom said, “You stay here.  I’ll be right back.  Keep splashing so I know you’re okay.”  And splash this little whale did, over and over and over.

As we passengers took endless photos of the show this little whale put on, I fell in love with the unusual white patches around its eyes, white spot on its chin, and solid white pectoral fins and fluke.  The patches around its eyes gave it the appearance of having big, googly eyes that roll around, similar to the kind you see in children’s craft projects.

As soon as mother returned, the show stopped as if she said, “Okay, stop playing with the hoomans.”  The calf immediately calmed down, and the mother and calf quietly swam away together.

I saw several other calves exhibit similar behavior this past weekend, but the googly-eyed calf with unusual all-white pectoral fins, white eye patches, and a white fluke was the calf that will be easily recognizable not only by me (without my reading glasses) but by researchers and others in the whale-watching community.

And so I adopted and named my first whale.  I received the birth or adoption certificate a week later.  What did I name this googly-eyed baby whale?  I named it Google.  Now, for the rest of little Google’s life, every time someone around the world reports a sighting of Google, I’ll receive notifications of where he/she is and how he/she is doing.  Currently, he/she is still in Monterey Bay.

If little Google migrates to Mo’orea next year, maybe I’ll get a chance to swim with him/her.  If Google migrates to Costa Rica or Mexico, I’ll likely receive notifications as he/she passes by Orange County, and I’ll be able to go out and visit!

The cool thing about adopting and naming a whale is that I don’t have to walk it or feed it or clean up after it.  If I found out something bad happened to little Google, I might call a vet, but that’s the extent of my “chores.”  Of course, little Google knows nothing about me, but maybe, someday, we’ll have a close encounter.

Humpback whales can live 50-80 years, so there’s a good chance little Google will outlive me.  It makes me feel good knowing that, hopefully, long after I’m gone, people will easily recognize the unusually-pigmented humpback whale and say, “There’s the whale that Kristie named!  I used to know that chick!”

I’m attaching “baby” pics of little Google below and to my Facebook author page.  The first photo is of Google learning to lunge feed.  Sometimes Google forgot to open his/her mouth when coming up, which was kinda cute.  Maybe you will recognize him/her on one of your whale watching trips and send in pics to www.happywhale.com so I can know how he/she is doing.

May you all adopt a piece of nature and help to make the world a better place.

The complete Harbor Secret Series is now available on Audible.com!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097KQ8ZBJ

AHOY, MATE!

Tags

#adventure, #boat, #california, #sail, adventure, boat, boating, california, sail, sailing

               One of the earliest things I placed on my extensive goal list is to learn to sail.  When one of my guy-friends invited me to go sailing with a group of his buddies, I was all over it.  Now, where to find a cute sailor hat?

               As the three passengers and a captain eagerly climbed onto the boat, the captain began to point things out using sailor talk.  By “sailor talk,” I don’t mean dirty words or that he spoke like a pirate (that probably would have made it more fun though!); I mean that he began to use jargon that was completely unfamiliar to me.  As I watched him point out and name ropes that all basically looked the same to me, he dropped words such as jib, jibe, jibing, tacking, port, starboard, helm, bow, stern, winch, mainsail, luffing, and mast.  The more he spoke, the more I had no idea what he was saying.

               Growing up in a sailing town, there was a girl in my class named Jib.  It wasn’t until now that I realized her parents were probably passionate sailors.  Needless to say, Jib did not join us that day; but the jib was a hot topic of conversation.

               Before leaving the slip, I helped take the cover off the mainsail.  There’s probably a fancy sailor name for “cover,” but it was lost in the sea of new terminology.  Under the cover, there were straps keeping the sail in place.  We undid all but one strap, learned where the life vests and winch (not to be confused with “wench”) handles were, and, ta-da, we were off!

               The captain motored us through the marina and, about halfway out, we undid the final tie, and another crew member was told to help me pull a fat, blue rope that would hoist the sail.  “Help me?”  Did I really look like I needed help pulling a rope?  In the beginning, no, I didn’t need help.  It was all fun and games until the sail got about halfway up.  Suddenly, my scrappy arms could not move the rope.  Not even a single inch.  One of the guys jumped in to help and was able to get it higher, but we finally had to wrap the rope around a winch to finish the task.  I learned that you only wrap the rope around a winch clockwise and, to lock it, you do two wraps, then run it over this silver thingy, put it into a groove, and pull it around.  Now you can all do it, right?  Oy, so much to remember.

               As soon as we got out of the harbor, we saw six coastal bottlenose dolphins!  I was more excited about the dolphins than the jib, but it was jib time.  For laypeople, the jib is the pretty, colored, smaller sail at the front, or bow, of the boat.  The jib has a skinny, white rope attached to it.  Again, getting the jib up involved some major rope pulling and winching that was super difficult.  I wished I’d skipped my weight-lifting that morning.

               Once my friend, jib, was up, we had to turn the boat to catch the wind.  We circled around for a few minutes, trying to figure it out but, once we caught the wind, off we went!

               They asked where we wanted to go, and I pointed to the whale-watching boats on the horizon.  “They’re on a whale!” I knowledgeably announced to the other crew members who were much less interested in the coastal bottlenose dolphins and whales than I was.

               Off we went towards the whale-watching boats, passing a couple of groups of common dolphins along the way.

               “Want to try tacking?” the marine biologist aboard asked me.

               “Uh, does it get us to the whales faster?” I asked with my one-track mind.

               “No,” he said with a point.  “It will take us that way.”

               Following his pointing finger, I realized it would take us away from the whale.  Not where I wanted to go.  “Nope,” I told him.

               With me taking a turn at the wheel (maybe there’s a more sailor-y word for it), I steered us toward the other boats at what seemed like a painfully slow speed.  The forecast had predicted four-foot waves, which predicted Dramamine for me, so I was all drugged up and ready to go; however, the forecast was wrong.  We had little wind, little waves, and lots of bobbing.  If we tried to turn and the wind didn’t hit the sail correctly, causing them to flap, it was called luffing.  No one gets anywhere with luffing.  Needless to say, the other boats and the whale left long before we got to the whale hang-out.

               “Want to try tacking now?” the marine biologist again asked.

               “Does it involve pulling ropes?” I asked skeptically.

               “Yep.”

               Oy.  For tacking, you move my friend jib from one side to the other by releasing the rope I had worked so hard to pull and secure.  I then had to pull a similar-looking rope on the opposite side of the boat.  When the pretty-colored jib sail gets to the other side, it again catches the wind and sends you in a completely different direction.  To get anywhere, you basically have to go back and forth in a zig-zag.  I quickly decided that that’s why God gave us motorboats.

               Any time you learn something new, it can be overwhelming, and sailing is no exception.  There are tricky knots you need to learn to tie, there are ropes you have to be able to distinguish one from the other, and there are weird names for the sides of the boat. 

Could they just say left, right, front, and back?  Noooo.  The left side is called the port side.  Don’t ask me why.  The right side is called the starboard side, and that’s because there used to be (and maybe still is) a board for steering located on the right side.  I guess “steer board” got slurred into “starboard” over the years, or maybe someone just spelled it wrong, and it stuck.  Again, I received a lot of information and only retained a little.

               The easy terms were the bow, or front of the boat, and stern, which is the back of the boat.  I guess there’s this helm-thing on the bottom of the boat that’s super heavy, so it’s engineered to keep the boat from tipping, which was good news for my camera.

               We did see a whale spout, and I could tell it was a big one.  “Thar she blows!” I shouted with a point as all heads turned to spot the whale we thought we had lost.

               “Do you want to go back now?” the marine biologist asked me.  “It’s getting towards 5:00.”

               “You’re asking the wrong person,” I told him.  All doped up on Dramamine and with a whale in site, I could stay out there until nightfall.

               Giving my whale chasing a chance, we bobbed slowly after it, never really moving very far.  It wasn’t long before I saw the whale’s spout far in the distance.  Sigh.  “Okay, we can go back,” I gave in.

               Returning to the slip was about as tricky as getting out to the ocean, only, this time, everything was in reverse.  Skinny rope, fat rope, pull, pull, pull, and then turn, turn, turn.  We finally turned on the engine and moved painfully slowly through the harbor as crew members such as myself tied the sail down and pulled the cover over it.

               This is what I took away from my sailing adventure:  Sailing is very peaceful, calm, and quiet.  You don’t need to yell to speak to people, your hat won’t blow off, and you probably aren’t going to get anywhere quickly.  I’m sure that last comment would change on a windier day.  Sailboats are very environmentally friendly.  Although she was not present, the girl in my class, Jib, was on my mind all day.

               Would I go sailing again?  You bet (but not when I’m trying to catch up to a whale…or a buoy)!  The only way to get better at something is repetition and practice.  Hopefully, I’ll get a chance to sail again before I forget the difference between the fat rope and the skinny rope.

               May you all try something new and sail happily into the sunset. Below is a pic from my sailing adventure.

“Summerset” is now available in ebook, audiobook, and paperback!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097KQ8ZBJ

Audiobook “Summerset”!

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#amazon, #audiobook, #book, #books, #goodhart, #harborsecret, #HarborSprings, #michigan, #murder, #murdermystery, #mystery, #newbook, #northernmichigan, #romance, #unsolved, #unsolvedcrime, #unsolvedmurder, Amazon, audiobook, Book, books, goodhart, harborsecret, harborsprings, Michigan, murder, murdermystery, mystery, newbook, northernmichigan, Romance, unsolved, unsolvedcrime, unsolvedmurder

“Summerset,” Book 4 in the Harbor Secret Series, set in Northern Michigan’s very own Harbor Springs, is now available in audiobook format! Now you can listen as you drive, exercise, paint, clean, or do yard work! This is historical fiction and romance based on the true, unsolved murder of the Robison family in Good Hart.

All four books, “The Tunnels,” “Devil’s Elbow,” “Leviathan,” and “Summerset” are all available in paperback, ebook, and audiobook formats. All are based on true pieces of Harbor Springs’ history and can be found on Amazon.

HEY, HEY TO MONTEREY!

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#amazon, #book, #breach, #california, #humpback, #lungefeed, #lungefeeding, #nature, #naturephotography, #whale, #whales, #wildlife, #wildlifephotography, Amazon, Book, breach, california, humpback, lungefeed, lungefeeding, marinemammal #marinemammal, nature, naturephotography, whale, whales, wildlife, wildlifephotography

Number 168 on my goal list was to see humpback whales vertically lunge feeding.  What is lunge feeding, you ask?  Sounds like what I would do at a dessert buffet.  Lunge feeding is a behavior in which a whale moves forward at a high speed and takes in a large amount of both food (usually krill or bait fish) and water.  This causes its ventral pleats to expand 162% in girth and 38% in length.  The whale then closes its mouth and forces the water out through its baleen, which is made of keratin, like our fingernails and hair.  The plates of baleen hang from the top of the whale’s mouth in lieu of teeth.  The food gets caught in the baleen before the whale uses its large tongue to remove and swallow it.

Humpbacks are most often seen vertically lunge feeding in Alaska, but it has also been reported in Monterey, California, which is a much closer drive for me.

In March of 2021, my friend and I ventured to Monterey, hoping to spot not only orcas but some vertical lunge feeding.  Unfortunately, the only thing vertical was me tossing my cookies over the side of the boat as we motored through eight-foot waves that made me feel like I was on the last trip of the S.S. Minnow.  Fortunately, we did learn that lunge feeding was most often seen in June, July, and August in Monterey.  And so, this July, armed with a prescription motion sickness patch, we ventured back to Monterey in search of not only lunge feeding but maybe the elusive orcas.

The neat thing about this road trip is that there are all kinds of darling towns to stop at along the way.  The most notable stops are Harmony with its population of 18, Solvang with its Danish-style architecture, Cayucos with its Brown Butter Cookie Company, scenic Santa Barbara, and Moro Bay with its famous Moro Rock and a harbor that has adorable sea otters floating on their backs.  Just north of the castle named San Simeon, there is an elephant seal rookery that never fails to entertain.  Not only are there also roadside fresh produce stands that turn the trip into a visit to the farmers’ market; but the California coastline is a destination in and of itself that, having been to both, I can say rivals the Amalfi Coast.  Don’t get me wrong, the Amalfi Coast is still a notch above the Cali coastline, but it’s a small notch.

Although it was a gray day, which is bad for photography, we quickly noticed that there was no shortage of humpback whales, porpoising sea lions, and sea birds feeding in the harbor.  We stopped next to two whales that were feeding on bait fish, along with sea lions, and watched them for most of our trip.  Yes, they were fluking (showing their tails when they would dive), and, yes, they were relatively close to the boat, but this was not something new to me and not something I would declare to be worth the six-hour drive.  That is until one of the humpbacks mugged our boat!

When a friendly whale is curious and comes over to check you out, it’s referred to as a mugging.  This humpback whale swam under our boat, poking its head up on the other side.  Then it just sat there with its head out of the water, checking us out!  It would dip back down for a second and then come up to look at us again!  This went on for probably ten to fifteen minutes before it rolled over in the water and rubbed its belly on our boat!  When I held my phone camera over the exhaling whale, we could not only smell its breath (not so good smelling); but, as the exhaled air mixed with water droplets that shot into our faces, the naturalist on the boat yelled, “You’ve been snotted by a whale!”  We were snotted quite a few times in one of the most amazing encounters of my life.

After about 45 minutes, the captain took us to some other nearby humpbacks and, well, well, that’s when the show went to the next level!  The three whales would take a series of short breaths as they blew bubbles that encircled the bait fish into one spot.  When it was time, the whales would dive deep, letting us know they were doing so by fluking.  Things became eerily still while they were down as we looked around, trying to predict where they would surface.

The first thing to break the silence was the sound of thousands of tiny fish rising to the surface in one small spot before beginning to jump out of the water in an effort to escape their fate.  Like something from a sci-fi movie, the huge, open mouths of three humpback whales rose straight up from below, breaking through the school of corralled, jumping fish.  Their propulsion sometimes moved half their bodies into the air as they closed their mouths before sinking back into the ocean, only to repeat the process over and over until satiated.

This is one of the most astounding things I have witnessed, and I’m delighted to say that I witnessed it multiple times.  When they rose from the water, their ventral pleats were expanded with water and fish, and it more than doubled their width, so they looked like giants from outer space.  Once, they even emerged from the water with open mouths right next to the boat as tears of joy filled my eyes and I hugged my friend.

The following day, we chartered a private boat and, although we saw quite a few whales, we didn’t see lunge feeding but did see one breach out of the water once.  Sadly, that evening, we found half the carcass of a long-deceased whale on the beach.

Day 3 of our adventure took us to two lunge feeding whales that we watched for about an hour.

Day 4 of our adventure was whale watching in Santa Barbara.  I didn’t think we could top what we’d seen in Monterey, but I was pleasantly surprised when we saw a humpback whale out near Santa Rosa Island breach out of the water over 17 times in an hour!  After 17, we lost count because it just kept going and going and going.  Breaching their body out of the water, into the air, and then slamming back into the ocean takes an enormous amount of energy, so to see it repeated so many times is very unusual!

As if the breaching weren’t enough, this humpback whale would roll and wave at us with its pectoral fin.  Sometimes, it would slap its pectoral fin on the surface of the water multiple times.

As our boat finally headed back to enchanting Santa Barbara, our humpback continued to roll on its side and wave good-bye to us.  Holding up my hand to wave back, I knew that weekend had been one of the most amazing marine mammal encounters of my life as not only had I witnessed out-of-this-world behavior, but I had looked into the eye of a whale.  How many people can say that?  Needless to say, I have successfully checked off #168 on my list, and my life is better because of it.

I’ll post some pics here as well as part of the mugging video and the waving video on my Facebook author page.  May you all experience wildlife in its natural environment, and may it choose to witness you in your natural environment.

“Summerset,” the fourth book in the Harbor Secret Series, is now available in paperback and ebook on Amazon. The link is below.  By next week, the audiobook should be available on Audible.

Three lunge feeding humpback whales in Monterey, CA.

Humpback whale lunge feeding. See its giant tongue? See both the fish in its mouth and the escaped fish?

Breaching humpback whale!

Breaching humpback whale!

Breaching humpback at Santa Rosa Island.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097KQ8ZBJ

Summerset, the fourth book in the Harbor Secret Series, is now available on Amazon!

CHECKING INN

Tags

#author, #authorsrow, #california, #exploring, #history, #hotel, #missioninn, #mystery, #turret, author, authorsrow, california, exploring, history, hotel, missioninn, mystery, old hotel, turret

Shortly after moving to California, a friend and I went on a day trip to The Mission Inn.  We signed up for the two-hour walking tour and learned all about its history.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with The Mission Inn, it began as a twelve-room boarding house in 1876.  Under the direction of the family’s eldest son, it morphed into the grand hotel that it is today.  Designed in the Spanish Colonial style architecture, the first new wing opened in 1903.  Over the next thirty years, additional wings were added, each with their own style.  There was the Cloister Wing, the Spanish Wing, and the Rotunda Wing.  Soon an Asian wing was added with its own courtyard.  The building also contains towers, domes, buttresses, and arcades.  The owner filled the hotel with antiques acquired during his travels around the world.  Eventually, the building grew to take up an entire city block.

Many famous people have stayed at The Mission Inn ranging from celebrities like Judy Garland and Clark Gable to presidents to Albert Einstein.  Richard Nixon married his wife there, and Ronald Regan honeymooned at The Mission Inn.

Untrue to its name, the hotel was never a mission, and there were never bodies in the catacombs that run underneath the hotel.  Yes, I said “catacombs.”  Cool, huh?  Word has it that the original owner hung his art in the catacombs and had guests wander the tunnels, viewing art in the summer months to stay cool.

The part of the tour that really caught my attention was called Author’s Row.  Author’s Row is a series of rooms topped with castle-like turrets that many famous authors have stayed in, most notably Helen Hunt Jackson, who wrote Ramona.  Some authors wrote entire books there, and others just visited.  Right then and there, I added “Stay in Author’s Row at The Mission Inn” to my goal list.

Since our goals guide us through life, I actively review my goal list, trying to figure out how to achieve what I want.  So, one rainy, chilly November weekend, I traveled to The Mission Inn, my reservation for a room on Author’s Row almost assured.  Yes, oddly, they could not guarantee me a room on Author’s Row even though I specifically requested it and told them that was the whole point of my visit.  Weird, I know.  So I drove to Riverside to take a gamble.

Fortunately, my gamble paid off.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite the room I’d envisioned.  The room had an unusually-shaped painted brick on the walls.  There was a desk that faced the wall, not the window I’d envisioned myself sitting at and writing as if I was the Carrie Bradshaw of The Mission Inn; and there was an electric fireplace that I immediately turned on.  I wasn’t sure how other authors found this setting inspirational, but I settled in to try to pick up some author mojo.

Upon passing the neighboring room that evening, I couldn’t help but glance through the open curtains.  This room was at the end of Author’s Row and was much more the place of inspiration that I had envisioned.  It was like a little castle!  There were pillars and arches inside.  There was a winding staircase going to a second floor.  The furniture was plush and looked super comfy.  Even though I really didn’t need a 1,200 square foot hotel room, I kind of thought I’d be getting something more along the line of what was called The Alhambra Suite.

The bad thing about getting a room in a cool spot at the hotel is that tourists would walk by day and night, trying to peer through my large, stained glass window that overlooked the courtyard and restaurant below.  Creepy.

My room was close to a winding exterior staircase that led down to the hotel’s church.  It was closed for Covid, but, fortunately, I’d seen it on the tour I’d taken earlier.  This is not some tiny, rustic church, this is one of those work-of-art churches, and I would recommend making sure you check if out if you visit the Mission Inn.

Harnessing the writing mojo vibes I picked up from my room and surrounding rooms, I set out to get something accomplished, taking breaks to explore or dine in the courtyard or venture out to a little French restaurant at night.

Determined to find the infamous catacombs, I inquired about them at the front desk.  I was informed they were closed, but a security person might be able to take me down there.  Following directions from the front desk, I ventured outside the hotel, walked around to the back, and found a door to the security office.

The unfriendly security person ignored me for a good five minutes as I waited patiently for him to get off the phone and make notes.  When I told him I was looking for the catacombs, he quickly shut down my dream, telling me they were closed due to cracks and water that led to safety concerns.  When I asked if he would take me there, I was again shut down.  When I asked where the entrance was, he gave me the vague answer of, “Near the HR offices.”  When I asked where the HR offices were located, he refused to tell me.  Oy!  Apparently, I had no flirt left in my game because this was like pulling teeth.

As I left the security office, I could feel the man’s eyes follow me.  When I looked back, I saw him pick up the phone, and my intuition told me he was calling the front desk to alert them to my shenanigans.  That’s okay, I wasn’t one to give up because some grouchy guy wouldn’t give me some information.  I’d wait until the next day, when not only different staff would be at the front desk but the weekend would be over, and the majority of guests would have left for home.

The next morning, after an amazing breakfast in the hotel’s courtyard, I approached the front desk and asked where the HR offices were.  Tricky, huh?  I got a few directions and a point.  Easy-peasy, as my friend would say.  True to my gut feeling, the HR offices were right where I thought they would be.  They were next to some statues in the basement that framed a door with a sign on it. The sign read “Renovations In Progress.”  Since the sign did not say “Keep Out,” I took a quick glance around, opened the door, and stepped in.  Yes, I do realize the sign was a nicer way of telling people to “Keep Out,” but I had them on a technicality that I felt would hold up in court.

With a racing heart, I stepped into a narrow hallway, turned to the left, then the right, and then the right again as I followed it in a C shape.  At the end of the C was another door.  My heart was racing as I was pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to be down here, and I’m not usually a rule-breaker.  The grouchy security person with an immunity to my flirting skills flashed through my mind.  I imagined him grabbing me by the collar, lifting me up, and carrying me out like a puppy who had gone astray.

I took a deep breath and started towards the door at the end of the C-shaped hall that I was sure would lead to the underground catacombs and something, I wasn’t sure what, of great interest.  “Step, step, step” went my feet until I heard a door slam and a “step, step, step” that didn’t belong to me.  Someone else was down in the C-shaped hall with me.  Crap.  Now my heart was really racing as I glanced around for a place to hide.  My options were a luggage cart and – well, that was it.  Double crap.  What if it was the hard-arse security guard who had seen me on hidden cameras?  What if I got kicked out of the hotel?  What if —  I lost my train of thought as I heard the jingling of keys and footsteps coming towards me.

Having no hiding place, my only option was to use my acting skills.  Boldly, I turned to face the oncoming employee in their black and white uniform.  As I strode confidently down the hall and passed her, I looked the employee straight in the eye and said a friendly, “Hi.”  My greeting was returned without question, and I glided past her to the entrance door, turned the handle, and stepped out.  The second I was out, I heard a key turn in the lock behind me.  The door was locked.  There would be no return exploration trip…until my next visit.

Staying at the historic hotel was a special treat, and I did get a lot accomplished.  As I checked out, the staff were busy putting up Christmas lights for their famous Festival of Lights that drew crowds from near and far.  Next to the front desk, two chefs worked on assembling a life-sized gingerbread house that included siding made from giant, homemade graham crackers coated in cinnamon.  The scent filled the lobby as the men attached the siding cracker shingles with giant hot glue guns.

Behind me, photos of presidents who had stayed at the inn lined an entire wall of the lobby.  Tours, most of the spa offerings, and two of the Inn’s three restaurants were shut down due to Covid, but that didn’t stop visitors from happily buzzing about.

Taking my rolling bag and stepping from the front desk, I inhaled the cinnamon scent and smiled.  Yes, I would be back; and, next time, I’d stay in the Alhambra Suite.  There may even be another exploratory trip to the catacombs.

Happy exploring!

Author’s Row

Summerset, Book 4 in the Harbor Secret Series, is now available on Amazon in paperback and e-book. The audiobook will be available at the end of July! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097KQ8ZBJ

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097KQ8ZBJ

A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE

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#california, #camera, #duck, #duckling, #nikon, #nikond3400, #photo, #photographer, #photography, #photos, #picture, #pictures, #somethingnew, #sunset, #zoom, duck, duckling, image, images, nikon, photo, photographer, photography, picture, pictures, somethingnew, sunset, zoom

When I first started whale watching on a weekly basis, someone said, “Next, you’ll be getting a fancy camera and getting into the photography end of this!”

“Nah,” I replied.  “I just want to enjoy the moment.”  Besides, who would drop money on a camera when I had my fancy iPhone that took what I thought were great photos?

Well, fast forward through two years of whale watching and becoming a naturalist.  One day, we came upon two fin whales and a humpback whale.  I took photo after photo on my fancy iPhone, delighting in what I thought were good and, sometimes, even artsy photos.

Since there were no other naturalists or photographers on the boat, I was asked to email my fin whale photos to a researcher.  Cool!  After she received my photos, she asked if I noticed a swelling on the left side of one of the fin whales.  I hadn’t noticed anything abnormal when I was in the moment, so I zoomed in on my photo to see if I could see what she was talking about.  My zoomed-in photo was as blurry as most Bigfoot photos.  It was useless. 

My heart sank as I realized that I’d had my moment to help a researcher and make a difference, and I’d failed.  If this opportunity came around again, I had to be prepared, and there was only one way to do that, and so off I pranced to the nearest used camera shop.

As I shopped for a camera, the salesman overwhelmed me with questions about ISO and shutter speed and pixels.  I had no idea what he was talking about, so I called a knowledgeable friend to get some guidance.  In the end, my friend told me what to get, and I blindly obeyed.  The salesman was a photography instructor, so he set up my camera settings for whales and dolphins and then asked me if I would model for one of his photo-shoots.  Not only did I get a new camera that day, but I got a little self-esteem boost as well!

My first day on the water, we saw humpbacks and dolphins.  I quickly learned that dolphins are the hardest to capture because they are so fast.  By the time they’re jumping and you push the camera button reactively, they’re halfway into the water again, and I’ve got a dolphin butt shot.  Not what people really what to see.  I call it dolphin porn, and I’ve got enough dolphin bun shots to open my own dolphin porn shop or publish Playboy Dolphin.  Capturing their face and whole body in the air is the tricky part.  Capturing a baby makes for a money shot!

Soon, I was sending my fin whale photos to the researcher, who sometimes responded with questions that I was now able to answer.  I’ve uploaded a few humpback fluke photos to Happywhale.com and have received a reply that’s let me know where my whale has been and, hopefully, I’ll hear where it is from now on when someone else uploads a photo.

FYI, a humpback whale’s fluke, or tail, is as unique as a human’s fingerprint and is used to identify and track the whale.  Many of the whales have names like Twitch, Flicka, Snowflake, and Chief;  and I’ve come to recognize a few on my own by zooming in on my photos.

It wasn’t long before I started to add new subjects to my repertoire.  Sunsets came next, and then random puppy photos followed by birds, deer, sea otters, and landscapes.  Even the moon became a subject early on as the zoom lens clearly showed me its craters and rough terrain.

Interestingly, the whale photos aren’t the photos, so far anyway, that I’ve chosen to frame.  The photos that are my favorites and that I’ve chosen to frame are the simple photos.  Two sailboats on a hazy sea; a gull on a post looking at two hazy, large rocks on the northern California shoreline; an orange sunset where a piece of plant snuck into the photo in the foreground; a laughing sea otter; and a sunset photo that a gull photo-bombed. 

I’ve started to notice there is more to a photo than its subject.  Reflections and shadows have become my favorite things to look for in a photo, and those are things you don’t always notice at a quick glance.  There is so much more to lighting than I’d ever imagined, and the golden-hour glow has become one of my favorite things to capture. 

I’ll attach a few photos to the bottom of the blog and also post a few on my Facebook author page for your enjoyment.  If you want to see my entire collection of “framers,” you can visit my site at Kristie-dickinson.pixels.com.  This site will let you choose one of my photos and print it on a canvas, pillow, shower curtain, blanket, shirt, mug…you name it.  Maybe, someday, I’ll be walking down the street and see someone with one of my pics on their shirt!

Whale watching is something I’ve always enjoyed.  Becoming a naturalist and having knowledge about what I was looking at took whale watching to the next level.  Adding photography to the mix has made whale watching even more fun – something I didn’t think was possible a couple of years ago.

As we learn things, we grow and change.  I now see things from a different perspective.  Tiny parts of something large now seem more interesting than the whole.  Sometimes, a reflection resembling a watercolor painting draws me in, a honeybee’s shadow on a flower petal, or maybe it’s just the deep oranges found in a California sunset that take my breath away.

Now, I already want a better camera – one with more pixels and a stronger lens for zooming in even more.  Good cameras are crazy expensive, so I’ll put that on the back burner and maybe look into a doubler in the meantime.  All the better to get a good whale identification or moon photo!

May you all expand your knowledge, try new things, and maybe see the potential in a different perspective.

Did you know that “Summerset,” Book 4 in the Harbor Secret Series, is now available in e-book format as well as hard copy? Woot!

Sunset watchers.

Duckling. ❤

Lunch time!

Nature’s best!

“SUMMERSET” IS NOW AVAILABLE!

Tags

#amazon, #book, #crime, #harborsecret, #murder, #mystery, #newbook, #summerset, #unsolvedcrime, #unsolvedmystery, Amazon, Book, crime, harborsecret, murder, mystery, newbook, Summerset, unsolvedcrime, unsolvedmystery

Harbor Springs, the epitome of purity, innocence, and safety, forever lost that image when, in 1968, a family was brutally murdered in their summer home. To this day, the Sheriff’s Office classifies this as a cold case, and the Prosecutor refuses to close the file. Nearly every year-round resident has a different theory as to who committed the crime that has been featured on TV shows, web sites, podcasts, YouTube, and in numerous books. Now, upon the fiftieth anniversary of the unsolved mystery, Kylie, Jason, and Cupcake set out to discover the truth.

Inspired by a true story.

“Summerset” is now available in an e-book format on Amazon! I’m hoping the hard copy will also be available this week. Below is the link.

SUMMERSET

Tags

#author, #book, #books, #comingsoon, #goodhart, #harborsecret, #HarborSprings, #michigan, #mystery, #newbook, #summerset, #unsolvedcrime, Book, books, goodhart, harborsecret, harborsprings, mystery, newbook, unsolvedcrime, unsolvedmurder

Good morning! As you may have heard, the initial drafts of Summerset, Book 4 in the Harbor Secret Series, have been completed. I hope to have the book available for purchase in the next couple of weeks! Below, I’ve included Chapter 1 from the new book for your reading enjoyment. I’m excited to join Kylie, Jason, and Cupcake on another adventure!

CHAPTER 1

Kylie Branson sat at the desk in her cupcake shop, licking the frosting of a cupcake from her fingers. The Harbor Light newspaper lay spread on the desk in front of her. Her eyes moved from the left page to the right and then focused in on a photo of a family from the 1960s. She saw a mother, father, three boys, and a little girl who sat in the front and center of the group. Kylie leaned forward and studied the black-and-white photo before reading the title of the article. “Fiftieth Anniversary of the Robison Family Murders.” She skimmed parts of the article, mumbling to herself. “Entire family brutally murdered…bodies not discovered for weeks…unsolved mystery for fifty years.”

As she drew in a little gasp, Kylie’s hand moved over her mouth before her eyes moved up to the photo of the family again. She ran her fingertip lightly over the image of the little girl. “I’ll bet you were the apple of everyone’s eye.” Kylie looked at the boys and then the pretty mother. “You probably kept trying until you got your little girl,” she whispered as she studied the photo of the doomed family. Finally, Kylie leaned back, crossed her arms, and began to read the article. She was only a few lines in when the bell on the front door jingled. She looked up to see a pretty, blonde woman in her fifties enter and look around thoughtfully.

Tossing the cupcake wrapper in the garbage, she gave the large, black pit-mix dog lying on the floor a quick pat on the head. “You stay here, Cuppie.” Cupcake lifted her head. “Stay and be good,” Kylie repeated the command. Cupcake let out a groan and dropped her head back onto her paws. Kylie stepped over the baby gate that barricaded the office from the rest of the shop. “Good girl,” she whispered to the dog before stepping away.

“Good morning,” she greeted the woman cheerfully.

“Hi,” the woman said lightly, her eyes landing on Kylie and taking her in.

“Can I get you something?” Kylie asked.

The woman looked Kylie up and down, studying the owner of the only cupcake shop in Harbor Springs. “Huh?” she asked distractedly.

An uncomfortable, intuitive twinge pinched Kylie’s stomach. “Can I get you something? A cupcake?”

“Oh,” the woman said, moving her gaze from Kylie to the display case. “You make cupcakes?” she asked in a voice that hinted of a French accent.

Kylie’s eyes moved to the side and then back before answering slowly. “Yes. It’s a cupcake shop.”

The woman looked around again as if just realizing that fact. “Oh. Um, yes, I guess.”

Kylie watched from behind the display as the thin, blonde woman with a high ponytail appeared almost confused. Kylie decided to help her out. “Do you have any particular flavor in mind?”

The woman’s eyes read the flavors. “Black Cherry Pecan, Love Spell, Harbor Hummer?”

“That one is flavored like that ice cream drink called a Hummer,” Kylie volunteered proudly. “It’s my boyfriend’s favorite.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

Kylie held up her left hand. “Fiancé, actually.”

The woman leaned to look at the square-cut diamond. “Wow, that’s quite a ring.”

“He’s quite a guy.”

The woman looked at her again. “I’m sure.”

Kylie felt the odd twinge of her intuition again and cleared her throat. “So what can I get you?”

The woman didn’t look away from Kylie but said, “Oh, I don’t know. How about just a chocolate one?” She gestured with her hand to indicate that she really didn’t care about the flavor as long as she got a cupcake.

“Er, we don’t have plain chocolate.”

“No chocolate?”

“I like people to expect the unexpected. You can get plain chocolate at the grocery store,” Kylie repeated her mantra that was also a bit of a mission statement.

“I suppose so,” the woman said, still looking at Kylie. “You’re very pretty, you know.”

Kylie placed her hand on her abdomen to cover the nagging feeling that grew stronger each time she felt it. “Thank you.”

Finally breaking her gaze as well as the awkward moment, the woman said dismissively, “Oh, just give me that Hummer cupcake that your fiancé likes.”

The woman pushed some loose strands from her ponytail behind an ear, and Kylie hesitated for a moment studying her. “Do I know you?”

A faint smile darted across the woman’s mouth but quickly disappeared. “If you have to ask, then probably not.”

“Yeah, probably not,” Kylie said, dismissing the idea and leaning to remove the cupcake from the display case. “Do you need a box?”

The woman seemed confused almost to the point of being disoriented as her eyes looked around the shop for help before answering the simple question. “For what?”

“For the cupcake.” She held the delicacy up as if to remind the customer.

“Oh, no. I’ll just eat it on the way.” She dug into her purse and produced some dollar bills, laying them on the counter.

“Exact change. I love it,” Kylie said cheerfully. “Have a great day!”

The woman took the cupcake and stepped towards the door. Pulling the screen door open, she turned back and said, “I really like your shop. It’s,” she thought for a moment, searching for the right word, “quaint.” She flashed a weak smile that triggered a childhood memory for Kylie.

“Are you sure we haven’t met?”

The woman just widened her dimpled smile and drifted out the door.

Kylie tapped her index finger on her chin thoughtfully. “Where have I seen you before? Hmm.” She slid the display case door closed and returned to the open newspaper in her office. Cupcake lifted her head in greeting, and Kylie gave it a pat. “Good girl, Cuppie.”

Kylie sat down at her desk and refocused on the photo of the ill-fated family in the newspaper. Her eyes focused in on the woman in the classic suit who stared back at Kylie with sad eyes. Kylie’s gaze went from the woman in the newspaper and back to the closed screen door before the realization hit her, and she asked out loud, “Mom?”

Jumping up from the office chair, she leaped over the baby gate, ran around the display case, and out the front door of the gingerbread house that served as her shop in downtown Harbor Springs, Michigan. Running to the end of the whimsically-curved pathway, she looked up and down the street before softly calling, “Mommy?” A few summer tourists passing by slowed their walk to look at her as she looked frantically up and down the short block.

Feeling beads of sweat on her chest, she turned right and ran down to Main Street where a few early-morning dog-walkers and joggers made their way up and down the street of shops that had kept their original style from the previous century. Kylie looked both directions before resting her eyes on the cold, blue water at the end of the street and then Petoskey on the other side of the bay. “Mommy,” she whispered.

Kylie stood there, staring at the sparkling water of the bay for moments until she felt two hands on her waist followed by a whiskery kiss on her cheek. “Good morning, Sunshine. Is today the day?” He asked the question daily that Kylie had been avoiding answering.

Kylie continued to stare ahead while giving her head a small shake, indicating her answer to his question.

The man behind her snuggled his face into her neck for a moment before realizing something was wrong. Pulling back, he stepped to her side and turned her to him. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” When Kylie didn’t respond, he continued. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Kylie moved her eyes up the strong, uniform-covered chest, onto the stubbly cheeks, and then to the brown eyes of her fiancé, local fire chief Jason Lange. “Jason, I think I just saw my mother.”

*****

Coming soon!

LANDING ON MY LIST

Tags

#adventure, #angelslanding, #chains, #hike, #hikerchick, #terrifying, #zion, #zionnationalpark

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a goal list that I regularly add to and then work hard to check things off of.  One of the things that has been on my goal list for a few years now is a hike in Zion National Park called Angel’s Landing.  Why?  Because I heard it was super dangerous, and so the Scrappy Doo in me immediately held up a finger and said, “I’ll take two!”  So onto my list it went.  Recently, I had the opportunity to check Angel’s Landing off my goal list, and it turned out to be much more than I’d expected. 

The day started with my 4:15 a.m. alarm.  By 5:00 a.m., we were on the road to Zion National Park where we would meet up with some other friends.  At 7:00 a.m., we were on a private shuttle into the park and, by 7:20 a.m., the Scrappy Doo in me had bounced out of the van with three liters of water strapped to my back and shouted, “Let’s go!”

Starting in the valley surrounded by red, orange, gray, and white mountains that stood like sentinels, we began the hike with only one person in the group ahead of me.  Scrappy likes to be in the front.  The first quarter mile had very little incline as it wound next to a green stream that ran through the park’s valley.  That’s “green” in a good way.  As I looked up at the mountain in front of me, I thought to myself, “That doesn’t look so bad.  It’s not even the largest mountain here.”  In fact, it looked like nothing more than a medium-sized mountain.  Easy-peasey, right?

Once the incline started, it really started.  We were to cover 1,500 feet elevation gain in just 2.5 miles.  The paved trail consisted of a series of switchbacks up the side of a steep mountain that gave beautiful views of the valley at every turn.  It was a good cardio workout, and people were stopped along the way taking breaks, but Scrappy powered through with one of the guys in our group.

At the end of the switchbacks, we reached a nice, porta-pottied area where people were spread out eating snacks or resting.  The guy who had been with me had been fast enough that I could no longer see him, so I was alone.  Scrappy also doesn’t wait for the rest of the group.

Ahead, I saw the trail with chains hung along it for people to hang on to.  Just before the chained portion, there was a large sign with a photo of the mountain on it.  An older couple stood reading the sign.  Scrappy never reads signs, so I just took a phone photo of it to read later and moved on to the chained portion.

Pulling the sleeves of my jacket down and over my hands to protect them from Covid germs on the chain, I grabbed onto the thick chain and started to inch along an angled cliff that fell nearly 2,000 feet down below me.  My sleeves made my grip slippery, but my fear of Covid germs was greater, so I continued to inch along as the older couple started the path behind me.

“The sign said 13 people have fallen and died since 2004,” I heard the man say.  *Blink, blink*  My eyes widened, and I felt myself begin to breathe heavily as I moved my cuffs back to my wrists, gripping the germ-infested chain with my pure, clean hands.  Inside, I said a little prayer, asking that I not become Angel #14 on this landing.

As soon as I finished the first chained section, I had to climb up on red rocks with no chain and a drop-off to my right.  Why, oh why did they get stingy with the chains on this section, and who the bleep even got the idea to climb up here the first time with no chains?

Eventually, I crawled over the rocks and up, up, up before the trail crossed over to the other side of the narrow ridge.  Ahead of me, the chains reappeared along the trail, and I moved quickly to them and grabbed on with white knuckles as I made the mistake of glancing at the river below me.  I felt dizzy, my heart was racing, and I was now huffing and puffing not from physical exertion but from stress.  A lot of stress.

As people came down the trail, we had to find ways to get around each other with a cliff up on my right and a cliff down on my left and only one chain, and Lord knows I wasn’t going to be the one to let go of that chain.  More stress.

As I reached the end of that section, I asked someone if we were done, and the woman said, “No.  There are two more peaks ahead.”  Two more peaks?  It didn’t look like that from below.  Crap.  As I grabbed onto more chains and powered ahead, dizziness increasing as I tried not to look anywhere but the space directly in front of me, it occurred to me that Scrappy was the one always getting into trouble and needing someone to rescue him from the bad guys.  I wondered if they had helicopters to airlift me down because, not being able to move my eyes from the trail directly in front of me, I had no idea how I was going to get down.

I think the next section, the spine of the mountain, was the worst because it was kinda straight up, and, try as I might to only look at the area in front of me, the few-feet-wide trail dropped off on both sides of me…a lot.  I couldn’t help but look.   The word that best describes this portion of the trail would be TERRIFYING.  Turning back wasn’t an option because I was even more terrified of going back down.  I’d worry about that later.

Having climbed Half Dome and Mt. Whitney, I was comfortable with heights and a good workout on a wide, reasonably safe and secure trail.  Yes, the cables on Half Dome were also terrifying, but the distance on the cables was much shorter.  These chains seemed to go on and on, and I found myself wondering where the bleep the top was and how so many people did the hike with only 13 having fallen to their death since 2004.  I wondered if anyone would fall today.  I wondered if it would be me.

As I finished climbing the spine of the narrow ridge that seemed only a few feet wide, I found a spot to move over and let others pass while I hugged a tree and clicked a few photos with my camera.  Glancing around, I wondered where the helicopter would land when it came to pick me up and then wondered if I even had cell reception up here.  Looking behind me, I saw no sign of my group before I pushed the camera strap behind my shoulder and soldiered on up the final peak.

The final stretch was, again, pretty much straight up, and I wondered how much higher this thing could go as I huffed and puffed from stress and fought the dizziness that tried to overtake me.  Maybe the park had exhausted their chain budget because they were getting a little skimpy on the chains.  The gal behind me noticed the same thing and commented.

“I just wonder how sturdy these things are,” I said, giving each chain a little rattle to test it before pulling my weight up on it.  What if the poles holding the chains came out?  How deep could they have really drilled those holes in the rock while balancing on this narrow path on top of the world?  And what kind of person would take that job?  I’d take working in a nice, safe, grocery store checkout line any day.

“Don’t say that!” the gal behind me reprimanded in a tone that snapped me out of my rock-drilling daydream.

Hey, if I’m terrified, I want someone to be terrified with me.  I was not about to man-up and keep my sentiments to myself.

At long last, my hands reached over the sandstone at the top, and I pushed myself up onto a summit that, thank goodness, was wider than the trail.  Not much, but I didn’t feel the need to crawl after the first ten feet, so it was better.

In the small crowd of just over twenty people at the top, I saw my guy friend coming towards me, ready to head down.  “Oh, please don’t go down without me!” I begged, unabashedly showing my terror.  Every drop of Scrappy Doo in me had dissipated on the terrifying climb up.  Plus, I quickly realized that, if a helicopter came to get me, there wasn’t room enough for it to land, so they would probably drop a ladder or basket for me to get into and then either pull me up or fly to the ground with me hanging.  As my mind ran through alternative-route options, it didn’t take long for me to figure out that hanging from a ladder below a helicopter would be worse than attempting the climb down.

Fortunately, he waited for me to snap a few pics, put my camera into my backpack, pop a couple pieces of dried fruit into my mouth, and then begin my descent.

Whereas going up I had faced the mountain and not looked around, going down, it was so steep that I attempted some of it sliding on my butt while gripping the chain.  The thing about sliding on your butt is that you get an extra-terrifying view of where you could end up if you slip or misstep.  You can’t help but look down.

I caught myself wistfully glancing towards the area where the people were picnicking next to the sign that I didn’t bother to read, and I wished I could just snap my fingers and be there, safe and sound.  Unfortunately, this was real life and not Bewitched, so I had to suck it up and do it.

Once I started the descent, I started to feel a little less dizzy.  I’d only had time for some dried fruit and nuts for breakfast at five a.m., so maybe my blood sugar had been low.  Maybe I had grown accustomed to terror.  Maybe I was having an out-of-body experience and my spirit had already flown the coop.

Long story short, I eventually made it to the end of the chained sections of the trail without becoming Number 14.  Only three of seven people in our group completed the hike.

My advice for others attempting this trail would be, if you’re afraid of heights, this isn’t the hike for you.  If you have vertigo, don’t go on this hike.  If you can’t handle high altitude, don’t do it.  If you’d like to die later rather than sooner, don’t do it.  If you like to challenge yourself, you’ll probably like this.  If you’re looking for a good stock to buy, I’d recommend stock in a company that makes chains because we all know you can never have enough of those around!

Here’s to another goal checked off my list!  Yes, I’m glad I did it, but there’s no way I’d do it again.  Scrappy says, “On to the next goal!”  I’ll attach some photos from the hike below and also on my Facebook author page.

May you all set goals and achieve everything you were put here to do.

Ahead of the people lies the spine we climbed up.

End of the chain in this spot.

On my way down. Gulp.

It’s kinda straight down.

Kinda terrifying.

THE CRAVING

Tags

#cake, #carrotcake, #encounter, cake, carrotcake, encounter

Lexi Lou sat at a café’s small, round table in the old section of town listening to the live music that filled the night air.  The nearby heat lamp warmed her as she unabashedly took another bite from the large slice of carrot cake in front of her that served as dinner.  Savoring the flavors of the golden raisins and cream cheese frosting that satisfied her craving, she looked about the café.

A quiet crowd filled the outdoor seating, people happily chatting and enjoying the reminder of what life had been like before the pandemic.  Strings of white lights criss-crossed the now-closed streets to form outdoor dining areas.  Masked people strolled the streets, some holding a child’s hand, some holding a dog leash, and others not touching at all.

Lexi used the fork to press the last crumbs from the white china plate and lift them to her mouth.  It was the end of a long workday, and this was her little treat to herself.  Taking one last look at her cozy surroundings made cozier by the fire lamps, Lexi slid her forearm through the straps of her purse and stood from the table.  Although chilly, it was a beautiful night, and the closed antique shops that lined the town’s streets called to her.

Instead of returning to her car, Lexi strolled contentedly along the sidewalk, past the café, and began down the main street, stopping to look into windows or admire a shirted dog.  The high heels that matched the dress she’d worn to work that day clicked on the sidewalk.  Glancing her reflection in a shop window, she stopped her stroll to first smooth her hair and then push it behind one ear.

Sounds of jovial males drew her attention from the shop window.  Lexi smiled as she saw a group of men in silver sports jackets with black lapels across the street.  Dark pants and a skinny, black tie that dated their outfits made her smile.  “Obviously a wedding party,” Lexi thought to herself as she turned back to her window browsing.

Reaching the end of the block, Lexi crossed over to the other side, slowly moving window to window.  One of the shops was piping music to the sidewalk, and she glanced up towards the speaker when a familiar Bee Gees song began to play.  Hesitating in front of the window, her eyes took in its spring decorations, focusing in on gold-trimmed, pink china teacups that rested gracefully on an antique pink cake plate.  For a moment, she allowed her mind to remember that those were the kind of items that were once important to her.  They were items that she’d once sought out and decorated her life with.  Now, they were nothing more than pieces of a life that she no longer had.

“Ouch!”  The word involuntarily escaped her lips as something unseen pushed her and sent her spinning, spinning, spinning.  As she spun, she realized someone was holding on to her, pushing her around and around.

“I know that in a thousand years, I’d fall in love with you again,” a strange man in front of her sang in a perfect falsetto as he pushed her through a box step on the sidewalk.

Struggling to get her bearings, Lexi’s focus landed on the green eyes before her as this stranger waltzed her over the sidewalk, continuing to sing an impressive rendition of “More Than A Woman.”

She finally let out a giggle as she joined him in the last line of the verse, “We can take forever, just a minute at a time.”

A shout of “Woot!” accompanied by clapping and a whistle caused Lexi to look around and notice the rest of the wedding party standing nearby, watching them.

“Hey, my eyes are over here,” the stranger said, still waltzing her around as people at nearby dining tables watched them with smiles on their faces.

Lexi looked back to Mr. Green Eyes and smiled.

“Hi,” he said happily.

“Hi,” she said as the song came to an end and his steps slowed.

“I’m Danny.”

“Lexi Lou.”

Danny smiled widely.  “Is that really your name?”

“Is that really a ‘90s tie you’re wearing?” she countered.

“Ouch,” he said with a grin of confidence that let her know that her comment hadn’t fazed him.

“Danny, we gotta get back,” one of the guys in the group interrupted.

“Who’s getting married?” Lexi asked.

Danny’s youthful face clouded with confusion.  “Married?”

Lexi looked at the group of men in matching outfits and then back to her dance partner.  “No wedding?”

He shook his head, still grinning his impish grin.  “Nope.”

Lexi felt a little wave of relief rush over her.  “So what’s going on?”

“Come find out,” Danny said, confidently taking her hand and following the rest of the silver-jacketed group.

As they rounded a corner a block away, Lexi saw more outdoor diners seated around an outdoor stage.  Danny continued to grasp her hand, leading her through the crowd as he followed his group to the stage.

Pausing next to an empty table and chair, he finally turned to her as his group moved up onto the stage.  “Why don’t you hang out here a while.”

Lexi stood with a confused expression on her face as Danny pulled out a chair.  “Best seat in the house,” he offered.

Glancing around at the other audience members watching her, Lexi slowly lowered herself into the chair as familiar music began to play. 

Danny pushed the chair in for her before asking again, “Seriously, is that really your name?”

Lexi met his emerald-colored eyes again, and something made her want to tell him more.  She gave a small shrug before answering, “It’s Alexa Louise.”

Danny smiled impishly again.  “I like it.”

“Danny, come on,” one of what Lexi now perceived to be his bandmates called from the stage.

“See you in a while,” Danny said as he pushed away from Lexi, trotted quickly up the stage steps, and grabbed the closest microphone.  As the Bee Gees song they’d just heard at the antique shop played, he turned to Lexi and sang, “Suddenly you’re in my life, part of everything I do.”

Lexi dropped her head back in a laugh, thankful that she’d listened to her carrot cake craving.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MCQ5AEC

SECRETS OF AN OLD HOUSE

Tags

#battle, #castle, #castlecottage, #cottage, #ghosts, #history, #ireland, #italy, #knight, #oldhouse, #oldhouses, #pirate, #piratecastle, #piratequeen, #romance, #tuscanvilla, #tuscany, #villa, #vintner, #wine, castle, castlecottage, ireland, oldhouse, oldhouses, pirate, piratequeen, tuscanvilla, tuscany, villa

Today there is a cottage for sale in Ireland.  It is an unassuming cottage on the ocean in a rather desolate location.  What appears to be its only redeeming feature would be the blue sea located not far from the front door.  The surrounding landscape consists of lush, green, rolling countryside.  After looking at the first few photos, I thought, “Meh.  It looks cold and lonely.”  Then I read the description, and my whole attitude changed as I rushed to look at the rest of the photos.

This home is named Castle Cottage because of its close proximity to the ruins of a 13-14^th century castle.  When I say “close proximity,” I mean right next door.  Cool, huh?  Wait, it gets cooler.  The castle is known as O’Flaherty castle, and it’s where a famous pirate queen, Granuaile Ni Mhaille, once resided!  Suddenly, this cottage and its ruins have become so much more interesting!

Number one, I’d never heard of a pirate queen before, but that sounds like a pretty cool kinda queen.  I wish Hollywood would get ahold of that one.  Maybe I will…  

Number two, I didn’t know pirates lived in castles, but I’m totally digging it.

You give me those facts, and this is where my mind goes:  In more recent times, the little, stone cottage has become home to the castle caretaker.  Since the castle has fallen into ruins, the caretaker apparently has not done a very good job.  But then we learn that he is the great, great, great whatever grandson to the pirate queen herself.  As castles lost their usefulness (personally, I don’t see how that could happen) and the family lost their pirate fortune and had to get real jobs, the pirate heir moved into the cozy cottage.

As the caretaker/heir grew older, every day he would look at the castle ruins and remember a time his mother had told him about when his great, great whatever grandmother was a formidable woman who ruled the outlying land via terror.  However, those who lived within the castle walls and the surrounding village adored their pirate queen because of her Robinhood philosophy that allowed them to share in the booty that came in on the returning ships.

The castle was filled with lavish decorations, the countryside was filled with cattle and sheep, and the dungeon was filled with men the queen had considered and then discarded. 

The pirate queen ruled all in the land except one.  The one she didn’t rule was the knight who was sent by the Queen of England to end the pirate queen’s rule, but he instead fell in love with her, as did every man who met her.  It happened when he was escorted through the castle grounds to meet with the pirate queen and demand a surrender.  They both had defiance in their eyes when they met.  The pirate queen was used to people defying her because she was a woman who had to continually prove herself; however, the knight was not used to women defying him.

His attempt to resolve things amicably was denied, and they waged battle for days.  Both sides were impressed by the challenges put forth by the other.  It wasn’t until the queen disguised herself as a peasant and slipped from the castle through a secret tunnel one night that the game changed.  Arriving at the knight’s camp, she told the guards she was a concubine from the village the knight had requested.  She was led through the camp straight to the knight’s tent, where he waited without his armor.  It is here that, once left alone, the pirate queen pulled a knife from her garter and held it to the knight’s throat; and it is here that the battle ended.  When their eyes met this time, his held not fear or surrender but admiration.

Of course, the knight left his post so he could rule the land with his pirate queen and produce an heir that would one day gaze at the deteriorating castle and remember its rulers and their love.  The heir would pass their story on to generations and generations until the castle completely disappeared and their memory was nothing more than a soft fog that moved over the land when the tide came in.

A month ago, I found a listing for another house for sale.  This was a 14^th century Tuscan villa.  In Tuscany.  Italy.  It was large, built of brown stone, had a roof of red tile, a square turret perfect for spotting the bad guys approaching, and it was listed at a price that I could pay cash for.  Maybe that’s a red flag, or maybe it’s a sign.  Oh, and did I mention that the villa had a huge, brown stone wall around it?  Even better for keeping bad guys out!

Like most chicks, I’ve seen Under The Tuscan Sun enough times to talk along with it.  It’s the ultimate escape from the lead character’s problems as she leaves her rainy, dreary life in San Francisco after her husband runs off with another woman.  She shows up in sunny Italy, falls in love with the medieval town of Cortona, stumbles upon a 400-year-old mansion, and buys it on a whim.  Of course, the house is a fixer-upper but, in finding and fixing the house, she eventually finds herself again.

So lotsa chicks dream of getting their own fixer-upper Tuscan villa, and I’m no exception.  Of course, the old house I saw for sale made me wonder what happened there.  I think its story would be something like it was once owned by a family who was famous for the grapes they produced there.  The lower cellars under the house would be filled with huge, oak vats of wine.  There would be tasting rooms and bottles upon bottles of wine lining the walls.  There would also be caves that held treasures and secrets.

The kitchen is a large, castle-style kitchen complete with a hearth so large that you can walk into it.  It’s also a kitchen with an enormous center island that would be great for baking and preparing food from the gardens surrounding the villa.

If I had that house, I think I would turn it into an Air B&B.  A super cool Air B&B.  What would make it so cool?  First, every guest would want the room at the top of the square tower.  Wouldn’t you?  All the better to see the bad guys coming.  Plus, you can pull the rope and ring the bell, waking other guests and neighbors.  Yep, it has a bell just like Notre Dame.

Upon rising, the guests would follow wafting scents through the spirit-filled halls that others have wandered through for hundreds of years, finally converging upon the kitchen and its baked goods that would cover the large center island.  Cinnamon rolls, quiche, croissants, scones, and fresh Italian coffee or maybe a latte would begin their morning.

By day, the guests would explore the charming medieval countryside and its towns.  By evening, they would return and gather in the wine cellars, sampling the famous wines produced by the vineyard.   Of course, there would be cheese platters to go with it and maybe some chocolate.  As the hour grew late, the lucky person staying in the square tower room would ring the bell, signaling bedtime to the lucky guests and waking the early-to-bed children of the neighbors.  The guests would leave the wine cellars, followed by the ghosts of people who had once lived and loved in that villa, and return to their rooms.

So now you see a bit of what I see in old houses.  I see the stories hidden in their walls and the potential to preserve the original property uses while creating new ones. 

Honestly, if we weren’t in the time of Covid, I don’t think I would have been able to stop myself from flying to Italy to seriously consider getting the Tuscan villa.  I think there’s a good chance I would have turned my life upside down again to start another adventure.  Maybe the house will still be for sale by the time I get vaccinated and Americans are allowed into other countries again.  Maybe I’ll have to take a look at it.  Maybe I could become a vinter under my own Tuscan sun.  Why?  Because what’s life without another adventure around the corner?

*Photo taken from listing.

Leviathan is now available in an audiobook format!

https://www.audible.com/pd/Leviathan-Audiobook/B08HJSWQ23?qid=1608093579&sr=1-1&ref=a_search_c3_lProduct_1_1&pf_rd_p=83218cca-c308-412f-bfcf-90198b687a2f&pf_rd_r=6KE2H8E9PMF2C15CCXJF

BRUISED

Tags

#abuse, #bruise, #bruised, #domesticviolence, #fighting, #loveandhate

“Did ya lose a fight?” the security guard teased Mary as she passed under the metal detector.

Mary’s hand fluttered self-consciously to her left cheekbone, her fingertips landing gently over the tender bruise that had left the area above her cheekbone purple.  It was a spot that she had spent too much time trying to hide with concealer that morning.  Her mind flashed back to the hand hitting her face before her head smashed against the wall the night before.  She threw the guard a light-hearted smile accompanied by a small chuckle before answering, “Yeah.”  Mary grabbed her purse from the conveyor belt and disappeared to her office.

The minute she heard the latch of her office door click safely behind her, she closed her eyes tightly and dropped her head.  What had she gotten herself into?  How was she ever going to get her life back to normal?  She could see now that she’d acted reflexively when her last relationship ended, and she’d moved quickly on to someone else to fill the void.  Too quickly, apparently.

When she’d met Luis, she’d quickly dismissed him as not her type.  Although he was tall, with lush waves of dark hair, he hadn’t appeared athletic; and she’d worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up with her active schedule.

To Mary’s surprise, Luis wasn’t one to be readily dismissed.  He’d wooed her with flowers, nice dinners, expensive jewelry, and, once Mary decided to give him a chance, weekend getaways.  Mary had a void to fill, and Luis occupied all her free time, taking her mind off her past and helping her to focus on the present.

As weeks of dating turned into months, Luis invited her to move into his luxury apartment with him.  Hesitant at first, Mary soon gave in to Luis’s smooth talking.  Her life had changed, so why not take a leap and move in with someone?  Why not trust him to be a good person?  Not all men lied and broke hearts…right?  Maybe Luis was different.  Maybe Luis was the one.  So Mary leapt.

It was exactly two months after Mary moved in with Luis that they had their first altercation.  The morning had started out as every morning had.  When she awoke, she rolled towards her lover, wrapping an arm over his sleeping torso.  Feeling his warmth and smelling his scent, she snuggled closer and savored the moment until lifting her head and softly kissing his cheek before rolling away to her edge of the bed.

“Come back,” Luis murmured, reaching an arm over the sheets behind him to find her without opening an eye.

“I have to go meet Heather for a run.”  She sat up on the edge of the bed, lowering her feet to the ground.  His hand continued to search for her.  “I’ll be back in a couple hours,” she assured him.

Luis’s eyes shot open.  “Hours?”

“Yeah.”  Mary started to push herself off the bed.

With cat-like speed, Luis rolled over and grabbed her forearm, preventing her from rising.  “We are going to my mother’s today.”

Mary looked down at her arm, his fingers sunken into it.  “Yeah, at 1:00.  It’s 7 a.m.”  She tried to pull her arm away.

“That is when we are going to eat.  We are not going to arrive at the last minute.”

“Oh.  Well, what time do you want to leave?” she asked, giving her arm another tug as he dug his fingertips deeper.”

“I want you to get ready now,” he said in a tone reserved for a parent speaking to a child.

Mary scrunched her face into a “whatever” look, gave her head a little shake, and pointed to his hand on her arm.  Trying to lighten his mood, she said, “You’re kinda killing my blood flow here.”

Using the same parental tone, he said, “Get into the shower.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Mary asked, thinking he was joking with her.  She gave her arm a hard tug and started to walk away.

That was it.  His patience was gone.  Now fully awake, Luis flew off the bed, wrapped a large hand around the back of her neck, and force-walked her to the bathroom.  Giving her a hard push inside, he said, “You’ll do as I say,” as he pulled the door closed behind her.

Mary leaned against the marble countertop in shock.  Who was this person?  Where was the easygoing guy she’d fallen in like with?  What was with this sudden urge to get to his mother’s hours before the planned time? 

First looking at the red finger indentations on her arm, she lifted her hand to her neck and massaged the tender spots where he’d grabbed her.  Relationships were about give and take and overlooking flaws…right?  Giving her neck a final rub, she let out a sigh and reached to turn on the water in the tub.  She’d let him have this one.

Not a word was said during the two-hour car ride to Luis’s mother’s house.  Although Mary gave Luis the cold shoulder the entire visit, she found his mother to be a delightful woman and chose to focus on Estelle instead of her grouchy boyfriend.

The next day, a dozen red roses were delivered to Mary’s office at work.  Lifting the card, Mary read the simple message.  “I’m sorry.  L.”  Mary turned the card over a couple times thoughtfully before bending to inhale the sweet scent of the flowers.  Then she decided to forgive him.  Everyone had a bad day, right?

Three weeks later, the next bad day came, followed by the next and the next and the next.  Soon, they became too many to count.  Long sleeves, turtlenecks, tights, high boots, and even Band-Aids became the desired forms of camouflage, and she purposely began to stay later at the office to avoid angering Luis. 

Mary felt isolated and ashamed.  Ashamed to tell her friends, who had warned her not to move in with a man so quickly; and ashamed to tell her family since they had no idea she lived with a man.  She’d learned that police had their own agenda, and restraining orders only led to more bruises, predominantly located around her neck.  She couldn’t even tell her doctor what was happening because she didn’t want him to know that she was the kind of person who brought this kind of behavior out in a man.  She scheduled her doctor appointments on low-bruise days, always calling to schedule at the last minute and then rescheduling if she angered Luis before the appointment. 

She quickly learned that people didn’t want to hear about her problems and quickly brushed them under the rug.  She became a master of concealment, always putting on a cheerful front and always bending her ear to listen to the problems of others.  Her own secrets remained hidden under a long-sleeved sweater and layers of makeup.

Having sold most of her possessions when she moved in with Luis, even if she had another place to move to, she would have nothing to fill it with.  But moving was out of the question because Luis always apologized and always assured her that she couldn’t survive without him; a combination that made her feel loved, needed, and insecure all at the same time.  Day by day, week by week, and month by month, she lost more and more of not only her confidence but herself.  Little by little, her spirit was leaving her body.

As purple spots and cuts on her arms and legs became her new reality, she thought back and wondered if she deserved this kind of life.  Maybe she had been a naughty child, or maybe she had broken some man’s heart, and now Karma was coming around to break her in return.  Maybe she wasn’t worth anything more than this.  Maybe this was Fate, Destiny, and Karma all catching up with her at once.  Maybe this is what she deserved and all she would ever be.

The empty vases of “I’m sorry flowers” began to pile up in the large apartment, as did the jewelry and expensive new clothes that replaced the old clothing that had been torn when Luis had grabbed it to stop her from getting away from him.

Mary was tempted to blame her situation on the end of her last relationship.  If it hadn’t ended, if it had worked out, she would not be here.  She would not be so bruised that it hurt her to sit.  She would not have internal bleeding.  She would not have a sprained wrist from breaking her fall to the ground.  She would not have Luis controlling every aspect of her life right down to portion restrictions on her food.  Her straight road had reached a fork, and this is where her fork had led her. 

Instead, Mary tried to take responsibility for her situation.  Clearly, she had made a bad choice.  Clearly, she was trapped.  Clearly, Luis would eventually kill her.  Clearly, the only way out of this was to beat him to it.  Just as surely as Mary knew that day would come, she also knew that the largest, most painful bruise would always be on her heart.

Now, Mary stood at another crossroad.  She was on the wrong side of a rail that she held loosely in her hands.  Her eyes were closed as the light evening breeze rippled through her hair and the last golden rays of the setting sun kissed her skin.  She thought back to the last time she had been truly happy.  That feeling seemed like nothing more than a dream now, but that was what she wanted to remember, wanted to get back to.  She faintly heard Luis calling her name in the distance, calling her back from her happy place.  Mary didn’t open her eyes.  He couldn’t reach her, and she wouldn’t let him.  Not this time.  He couldn’t take this feeling from her, and he couldn’t stop her from getting lost in it one last time.  It was all she had left, and the faint memory was a fairytale she wanted to believe in.  It was the only thing she had left to believe in as she let the feeling overwhelm her. Lost in the cloud of happiness she had once known, her hands lightly released the rail, and she left her bruises behind.

http://kdickinson.homestead.com/

FREE DOWNLOAD!

Tags

#amazon, #attorney, #book, #books, #fiction, #freebook, #freebooks, #freedownload, #freekindle, #greece, #greek, #kindle, #romance, #steamyromance, #travel, #workaholic

Today, December 17, 2020, through Sunday, December 20, 2020, I’m giving away a free download of Nine Days In Greece. Merry early Christmas!

When a workaholic attorney travels to Greece for vacation, she meets a handsome, much-younger man on the plane to Crete. When he shows interest and she feels a spark, she wonders if he could ever be more than a vacation fling.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P6ZB2ZQ

TWO YEARS IN CALIFORNIA!

Tags

#amazon, #books, #california, #change, #courage, #gratitude, #hike, #jump, #jumpvideo, #kristiedickinson, #michigan, #steveharvey, #thanksgiving, #writer, #writerchick

Today marks two years since I left everything I knew that worked and took a jump, trying to attain something better.  Fortunately, it worked.  Looking back, I remember that last day in my Michigan home well.

Two years ago today, I was awake around 4 a.m., hoping to get on the road by 7 a.m.  Why such an early rise?  Because I had to finish a deposition transcript for the job I’d taken the day before.  Work, work, work, that was my life in Michigan.  That was all I’d known for 28 years and, well, it “worked.”  Plus, if I wanted to get ahead, I had to work a little harder than everyone else, right?

I was exhausted and overwhelmed as I sat in my second-floor office finishing the transcript for an attorney who had no idea that I’d worked the better part of the night to get his transcript to him.  I remember the warm, comforting glow of lights in the large, 1922 English manor as well as the scent of a pumpkin-spice candle that wafted up the stairs from my large kitchen.  By 7:00 a.m., I knew that my friend who was making the trip with me to the New World of California had arrived, helped herself to some coffee, and was patiently waiting for me to e-mail out my transcript before beginning the drive.  Since I was always overwhelmed and juggling multiple jobs and projects at one time, I marveled at her patience, but the juggler didn’t have time to tell her that.

Shortly after seven a.m., I finished my transcript, prepared the bill for it, scanned the exhibits, and e-mailed it to the attorney who was probably still snuggled in bed with visions of sugarplums dancing in his head.

Next up was to pack my clothes.  No, I hadn’t yet packed to move to the other side of the country because I was busy working…and preparing my house to be left in top condition to be shown by a realtor…and figuring out how to hook a 5×8 trailer up to my little SUV…and figuring out how to cram everything I’d need for a few months (until my house sold) into that little trailer…and running a court reporting business…and operating a videoconference room…and filling cookie orders…and selling things I no longer needed online…and caring for my dogs…and finding time to exercise…and shoveling my driveway and sidewalks sometimes five times a day.  So don’t judge me for not having time to pack any clothes for my new life.  Every minute of my day was accounted for and had been for the last 28 years.

I’m so thankful for my friend who didn’t complain about me wasting her time as she patiently sipped coffee and waited for me to finish the transcript.  I’m so thankful she walked up to the chilly third floor and helped me pack my clothes.  I’m so thankful that she helped me squeeze everything into the little SUV and trailer.  I’m so thankful she was there for me, period.

Next, I stepped into the dark morning to walk my dogs in Michigan for the final time.  It was pitch black, bitterly cold, and icy.  The walk was short.  As we crossed the street of sheer ice, Nestle slipped and fell on the ice, his four legs splaying out and rendering him helpless.  Wearing my Yak Tracks for traction, I walked back and lifted him, hoping to Heaven he had not torn any muscles or seriously injured himself.  Nestle dug his nails into the ice and carefully followed me across the street with Daisy by his side.

Returning to the house, I gave it a once-over, making sure the door was closed to the third floor that I chose to leave unheated while I was gone.  I walked through the bedrooms, the office that I’d spent most of the last 15 years in, the massive living room, the sunroom where I’d written seven books, and the kitchen that I’d designed and spent so much time in preparing food from my garden, filling orders for my cookie business, and baking myself into oblivion as Hallmark movies played on the large-screen TV.  Turning, I checked the thermostat to be sure it was set at 60 degrees – a temperature that would keep the pipes from freezing and the 1922 plaster from cracking.  I prayed a silent prayer that the power wouldn’t go out.  Finally, I stepped into the kitchen that I so loved one last time and blew out the pumpkin-spice candle that glowed on my new stove.  This was it.  It was never a good idea to stay too long at the fair.

After I locked the back breezeway door and then closed the garage door, my friend and I loaded my two senior dogs into my car, hooked up the 5×8 trailer that contained the bare essentials I would need to get by in the New World until my house sold, and slowly pulled onto the road of ice and away from everything I knew that worked in my life.

Today marks two years since that last day living in Michigan.  I would have written an entry at the one-year mark but, as many of you know, I was laying in a hospital exactly one year later and fighting for my life.  So here we are at two years, and, at this time of year when we need to remember what we are thankful for, I can’t help but look back and reflect.

The last two years have been a roller coaster of ups and downs.  My life has changed so much and, thankfully, for the better.  Don’t think there haven’t been tough times, because I’ve definitely had my share of them.  For instance, it took me 1.5 years to sell my house.  My heart was completely demolished by the loss of my beloved dogs to the point that I don’t know if I’ll ever recover, and then there’s the whole fighting for my life in the hospital thing.  I have faced difficult criticism and found and lost friends.  Injuries abound, and some days I struggle not to quit everything and move back to Michigan and crawl into a hole with a bottle of wine.

Fortunately, with the bad comes the good.  Maybe not in the hard blows that the bad comes in, but good did come, so I’m going to try to focus on that.  For instance, I’ve found I like things that I never thought I would, and I’ve found that the thought of going backwards in life is something that really bothers me.

As I hiked nearly 14 miles on Thanksgiving yesterday, a distance that I now consider comfortable, I remembered how very different my Thanksgivings were in Michigan.  I remembered how the women would be in the kitchen doing the “women’s work” while the men sat in the living room watching football and talking about how many deer they’d killed.  Remembering that as I climbed over rocks and up a mountain yesterday, I looked at the blue sky above me, gulped in a breath of fresh air, and was deeply thankful for how my holiday had changed.

Other things I’m thankful for would be my friends, both new and old.  I’m thankful I can go running at 5:30 a.m. and not worry about ice.  I’m thankful for my screenplay award.  I’m thankful for the articles I’ve had published this year.  I’m thankful for my health and doctors.

 I’m thankful for my favorite whales, Twitch and Flicka.  I’m thankful I’ve seen Patches, the leucistic dolphin.  I’m thankful for my skills as a naturalist, and I’m thankful for the opportunities to share my passion with others.

Instead of working seven days a week, I work five days a week (less if there’s a county holiday), and my schedule now revolves around my free-time activities instead of my work schedule.  I’m thankful that my free-time activities are pretty much all outdoors in California versus the baking and writing indoors that I did in Michigan.

I’ve always loved old houses because they have a story behind them; but, for the first time in my adult life, I’m not living in an old house.  Everything is brand-new and high-end.  I’ve never had that before and, I’ve got to say, not only am I thankful for it, but I’m totally digging it.

Being in a place that I actually chose to live in and doing the things that I want to do, when I want to do them, has been a complete turnaround from the life I once knew.  I now realize that all the baking I did in Michigan was just a way to take out my frustrations because I was too afraid to take the jump I needed to take to get to the life I wanted.

So, looking back on the past two years, wow, what a roller coaster ride!  Ups and downs for sure, but, no matter what the ride, I’m so much happier than I was in Michigan, where I’d lived a life that someone else had chosen for me.

In his book Jump, Steve Harvey says, “God would not have put the dream in your heart if he didn’t mean for you to achieve it.”  It took a long time for me to have the confidence to follow the dream in my heart, but I’m so thankful I did!  My work life is better, and my social life is MUCH better.  For someone who, in high school, never thought she would amount to more than a housewife, my life has turned out nothing like I’d expected it to…it’s much more exciting than I ever could have imagined in high school.

I’m attaching the link to Steve Harvey’s kinda famous Jump video in case you’re looking for a little encouragement or inspiration, and I would highly recommend his book Jump.  It’s available in hard copy and audiobook formats.  May you all have the courage to listen to your heart and jump this Thanksgiving.

Jump video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-952IaLtKM

The holidays are upon us, and what better time to read a holiday story? In The Other Christmas List, a grandmother struggling to connect with her grandson tells him the story about how finding her childhood Christmas list led her from a Christmas tragedy to an old city in Europe and rediscovering the magic of Christmas. Available on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B082ZBX162

DANCE OUT LOUD VIDEO

Tags

#danceoutloud, #dancevideo, #music, Dance, video

One of my super talented friends, Carol Hazel Perry, wrote and is singing her original song Dance Out Loud in the attached video link. She is also dancing in part of it. I was lucky enough to make the cut for a few of the dance scenes in the first half (both indoors and outdoors), so check it out! You can download the song at Apple Music, Amazon, and Spotify. Just type in “Carol Hazel Perry Dancing Out Loud.” Enjoy!

Dance Out Loud. https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=NR6y69Kug6w&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR3XUdT99y1pTdcvoeUYbKpeYgOW3gX8PaodAzwqyMEeaEKnkO6KjiEUGFc

I’M JUST DUCKY

Tags

#babies, #california, #duck, #duckling, #ducklings, #duckrescue, #duckwhisperer, #growingup, #mallard, #mallards

               In the late spring, I was heading back to work after lunch and saw a mama duck crossing the road with 13 ducklings.  Two of the ducklings seemed much weaker and were kind of flopping along.  Of course, I did what any normal person would do:  I stopped traffic and tried to shoo the mother and babies out of harm’s way.

               This is completely out of character for me because I’ve been horribly afraid of birds since childhood, when my parents’ roosters would attack us.  This fear was furthered when an uncaged, large, pink kind of parrot in a pet store started flapping its wings and hissing at me when I walked by.  Since then, I’ve been terrified of birds and have kept my distance.

               Although keeping my distance, I didn’t want anything bad to happen to the babies, so I had to step outside of my comfort zone to get the ducklings to safety.  A neighbor stopped to help.  Mama duck got nervous and started zig-zagging all over the road before jumping over a curb and onto the grass.  The baby ducks were trapped in the road, trying to jump up after Mama duck but unable to get over the curb.  I asked my neighbor to lift up the ducklings.  The neighbor lifted the weakest flopper first and put it on the grass.  As my neighbor went back for more, the weakest duckling, who I quickly named Nester, tried to get back to his siblings and fell off the curb upside down, flopping in the street.

               “Nester!” I screamed, horrified to see the little thing flopping about helplessly but too afraid to go lift it back up.  My neighbor went to help Nester again, and all the ducklings and Mama eventually got safely across the street and to our association’s pond.

               The baby ducks became my new obsession, fear or no fear.  Every day I would go to check on them, often twice a day.  Each day, their numbers dwindled.  Nester and the other weak duckling were the first to go.  The babies quickly began to recognize me and would come running.

               Sadly, their numbers dwindled from 13 to 4.  Apparently, ducklings are pretty low on the food chain.  Every day I went to visit them, and every day their fat, little bodies came to me in a running waddle.  If you’ve never seen a duck run, it’s pretty darn cute.

               There was one duckling that I often saw biting the butts of adult ducks when they tried to take her food.  This duckling had a mind of her own, and she was very independent, often straying away from her three siblings.  I named this duckling Saucy because she had such a saucy personality. 

One day, as I took my daily photos of the babies, Saucy reached up and nipped one of my fingers that held my phone camera.  She had no fear!  It didn’t hurt, and I think that’s when I got over my bird phobia.  Well, maybe just my duckling phobia.  This was very fortunate, because a new batch was just around the corner.

               When my baby ducks were about four weeks old, I pulled out for work and saw another mother duck on the curb as her 13 babies struggled and flopped about, trying to get up.  Again, I stopped my car in the road, but this time I had no neighbor passing by, and there were no oncoming cars to flag down for help.  It was either let the babies wander back into the street and risk someone hitting them, or I would have to man-up and help them over the curb.

               I timidly approached, unsure as to whether the mother duck would be defensive and attack me.  I was sick to my stomach with fear.  As I neared and knelt down next to the bunch of babies, I slipped my hands under a light-as-air bunch, closed my eyes in case Mama came after me, and lifted the babies up.  There were a few stragglers I had to chase down, but I got them all over the first curb.  I felt so empowered!

               Ignoring traffic driving around my car on the side of the road, I followed the ducks to the next curb where I again had to man-up and help them over the curb.  Again, I timidly reached out and helped the struggling fluff balls up and onto the grass.

               As I watched their little waddling butts disappear towards the lake, I felt as high as a kite!  I’d done it all by myself!  I’d conquered my fear of…baby ducks. 

I tried to befriend this second batch of ducklings like I did the first batch, but they were sorely lacking in gratitude, and they kept their distance.  Their numbers quickly dwindled until there was just one fluff ball left.  I named him Peeper because I could hear him peeping a block away.  Sadly, Peeper, too, was gone after just a few weeks.

               As the original four ducklings grew and their fluff turned to feathers, I knew it would not be long before I wouldn’t be able to recognize them unless they were running after me, which they often did if I didn’t see them or if I was distractedly visiting a friend. 

A neighbor told me that one morning she had baby ducks knocking (pecking) on her sliding glass door.

               “Uh, I don’t know where they got that idea,” I said sheepishly.  It sounded like the baby duck version of “Salem’s Lot.”  As I tried to push my dog stroller away from them and Mama and babies chased me in a super-fast waddle, I imagined writing a horror movie called, “When Baby Ducks Grow Up.”

               Every night at 7:00, I would walk to see my baby ducklings, and every night they would come running.  That is, until one week in early September.  That week, everything changed.  As I sat on a rock talking to them, no ducklings came running to me. They were oddly skittish.  After much coaxing, three took short flights out of the water to see me.  I gasped.  “You’ve learned to fly!” I exclaimed.   Saucy sat alone on the water, throwing me suspicious looks as the others danced around me as I spoke to them like some kind of duck whisperer.

               “Come on, Saucy,” I prodded.  “You’ve known me your whole life.  Don’t be afraid.”  But Saucy, who had once boldly nipped at my finger, now wanted nothing to do with me.

               I was about to give up hope on Saucy and leave when she flew high out of the water, circled above me, and then returned to her spot on the water.  Saucy could fly better than the other three by a lot!  But she still didn’t trust me…or maybe she just wanted to show off her flying skills.

               After they learned to fly, the ducklings became more and more skittish and less willing to leave the water.  Then I noticed their mother was not around as much.  She had a new boyfriend she was waddling with.  My babies were scared and alone.

               A few nights later, when I went to visit my duck-kids, I only found three, and they were mixed in with a couple ducks I hadn’t seen before.  A few nights after that, I could only spot two for sure, and they again were skittish.

               Something had changed in the duck world.  Maybe they were making new friends because their mother cut them loose, maybe they’d started dating, or maybe they’d grown up and were ready to move on without me.

Saucy has still remained a loaner to this day, while the others have paired up with mates.  I feel Saucy and I have something in common, and she is the only one who still watches for me and flies over.  Since the other ducks pick on her, I try to have my quality time with Saucy in a secluded spot.  Now, when I go to visit, Saucy and the other ducks are around less and less as the seasons change; and I realize that, one day, Saucy won’t be there.

I know I’ll never see my four babies and Mama duck chasing me down the sidewalk again, and it breaks my heart.  I guess I thought they’d remember me their whole life and come running when I called them.  Apparently, that’s not the case.  My babies have moved on to new things, and maybe it’s time for me to do the same, but I’ll always remember the four little fluff balls that conquered not only my fear but my heart.

               Below I’ve attached some baby duck pics, including the pic of Saucy nipping my finger. I’ll post the video of Saucy flying on my Facebook author page and maybe another video or two.

               May you all find pieces of nature that will melt your heart and help you conquer your fears.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/B072QT248B

BREATH OF DEATH – PART 2

Tags

#blog, #breathofdeath, #congestiveheartfailure, #doctor, #health, #hospital, #illness, #kristiedickinson, #mysteryillness, #organfailure, #recovery, #sepsis, #sick, #symptoms

I think my brother had been expecting to take me home from California in a body bag, but that didn’t happen.  Fortunately.

On Saturday, one of my friends from work went to Costco for me and bought a bunch of the potatoes, organic sweet potatoes, and organic green beans I used to make Daisy’s food.  She dropped it off to my brother when she visited me at the hospital, and my brother took it home and prepared a massive amount of Daisy food for my dog-sitter, who had moved into my house.

By Saturday afternoon, another friend from hiking came to visit and ran out to get some scrambled eggs, pancakes, and clean underwear for me.  I tease him now because the underwear he got me were about as huge as my swollen feet and went halfway up my rib cage.  I was desperate for anything clean, so I wore them.

Sunday morning, my brother left at four a.m. to catch a flight home out of LAX, and I tried to get some rest.  The odd thing about this fever and sepsis is that you don’t really sleep.  I hadn’t slept more than a light doze for a few minutes in a week.  I couldn’t sleep, and my body couldn’t heal itself.

I was now obsessed with Motrin.  The minute I started to feel the least bit warm, I would call a nurse, have her take my temperature, and give me more Motrin.  Motrin kept the fever symptoms at bay, and I was terrified that the deep chills and sweats would return.  Some well-meaning friends had given me Tylenol for my fever Thursday through Tuesday, and the doctors said it caused severe damage to my liver; so Motrin was my new friend.

On Sunday, still fever stricken but craving a shower, one of my besties from work came to visit me.  She brought a duffel bag with a blow dryer, shampoo, lotion, conditioner, protein shakes, and other goodies.

My Michigan doctor had pointed out to Dr. Handsome how completely malnourished I had become, according to my blood tests, and he suggested protein shakes.  I drank the shakes and tried to order healthy food from the hospital menu like lentils and dark green veggies.  Surprisingly, the hospital menu doesn’t offer a lot of healthy food, so I got the same thing every day, trying to get some strength back.

On Sunday, not only did I succumb to the diuretic, but my C. diff test came back negative, so people no longer needed to wear gowns and masks around me.  No more cooties!

Sunday night, I woke up from my usual half-sleep feeling warm.  I called for a nurse and asked for more Motrin.  When she took my temperature, she said I didn’t have enough of a fever to warrant giving me more Motrin.  What?  No!  I was sure it was going to come back at any moment, and I needed my Motrin before chills set in, darn it!  How would I ever get warm in this cold hospital?  But the nurse refused, and I eventually dozed a bit for the first time since my admission.

By Monday morning, one of my favorite clients from Michigan called me and asked me to call his nephew, who was a doctor at Cedars-Sinai in LA.  I did as I was told, and the nephew doctor asked me if I could drive up to Cedars-Sinai to see him.  I explained my situation because, obviously, he didn’t realize how bad things were. Walking five feet to the bathroom was a huge ordeal that took 20 minutes because my steps were so tiny, and I kept becoming entangled in the multiple IV lines and monitors I was hooked up to.  I couldn’t walk out of that room much less drive!

The nephew doctor asked a few questions and then imparted this advice:  You need to walk and move around, or you could develop blood clots if your limbs are that swollen.  I looked down at my sausage fingers and toes and knew he was right.  Just another thing I’d picked up in the million medical depositions I’d taken in my career:  Blood clots.

Before I presented myself to folks in the hallway for a walk, I showered.  The nurse had to put a stool in the shower for me, and I can’t tell you how difficult that shower was.  My arms didn’t want to hold up the shower wand, and I spent a lot of the time just leaning against the wall.  Drying my hair was no easier than showering.  In fact, the hall walk was put off until I rested for a few hours.

When I finally dragged my “medical conundrum” butt that was now 14 pounds lighter (but you couldn’t tell because of all the swelling) into the hall, I had to pull along my IV pole and lean against the wall to move.  It was H-E double toothpicks, as Maynard would say, but I didn’t want blood clots, so I again had to man-up and move myself down the hall.  It took over 30 minutes to go maybe 20 yards and back, but I vowed to try it again later to keep pushing myself in hopes of getting stronger.

Monday afternoon, two more friends from work came to visit.  It’s funny…I’d always thought I was all alone in California, but you’d be surprised who will show up for you when you really need it.

Even more surprising, Monday afternoon, one of my favorite judges showed up wearing her robe to visit me!  She brought me a poinsettia and wished me the best.  All I remember is telling her that I’d been in the hospital for six days.  I teared up after she left because I was not only very touched by her visit, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to make it out of there if judges were coming for a last visit.

By Monday late afternoon, some of my other neighbors had heard of my hospitalization and stopped by for a visit.

Dr. Handsome was running late on his rounds that day but, when he showed up around 8:00, I was shocked to hear him say, “Your fever has broken.  I’m going to discharge you.”

“My what?” I asked, not believing what I was hearing.

“I can’t keep you here any longer.  Your fever is gone.”

“But I can barely walk,” I argued, terrified at the thought of being without my PICC line and the assurance that someone would be there if I needed them.  “And I’m still coughing like crazy.”

“The cough is from the congestive heart failure,” Dr. Handsome informed me.  “I want you to come to my office tomorrow morning.”

I was terrified and overwhelmed.  I could barely walk or shower.  How would I get to his office the next day?  How would I survive on my own?  What would I do without my beloved PICC line?  What if I died at home and no one found me and my dog ate me?  As seems to be the motto in this story, I had to man-up and do it.  Dr. Handsome wouldn’t send me out into the now-December night if I couldn’t survive…right?  It was November when I had gone into the hospital.

My wonderful neighbors picked me up and took me home, stocking my kitchen with homemade food that I could only eat tiny amounts of at a time.

Sleeping at home alone was scary, but I was exhausted.  In six days, I’d only slept a little bit the last night in the hospital, and I was oddly awake, yet not present the rest of the time.  Every time I laid down, I would begin to cough, so I had to prop up pillows to keep me at a nearly upright angle as I slept.  The diuretic caused me to get up often; and, each time I went from that angle to a fully-upright sitting position on my bed, my heart would clench and stop for seconds that seemed like minutes.  When it started again, I would rise and head to the restroom.  I kept the upstairs hallway light on all night, and it’s something that I only stopped doing in August 2020, nine months later.

Knowing I was going to see Dr. Handsome the next day, I forced myself to shower, and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.  As is always the case, the hardest things turn out to be the best things.  When Dr Handsome walked in and saw me perched on his examination table, he said, “Wow, you look good!  I would not even recognize you on the street!”  Well, of course that was enough to keep me showering for a long, long time.

Dr. Handsome listened to my heart and palpated my abdomen.  When he pushed on my liver and gallbladder, instead of sharp pain, this time it was only a mild pain.  Somehow, I knew I’d turned a corner. 

When Dr. Handsome told me to come back in a week, I again panicked.  What if something happened?  I’d never been away from him that long.  I wanted to stay at the hospital.  Dr. Handsome seemed to think that, just because I showed up looking a lot better than I had in the hospital, that I was healed.  I was struggling every time I moved, and curled hair does not mean I’m ready to jog a mile.  I didn’t have the same confidence Dr. Handsome had, but I sucked it up and shuffled out of his office.

One of my friends from Michigan who now lives in California drove me to Dr. Handsome’s office that day and then out to lunch.  I shuffled along with teeny-tiny steps, leaning on whatever I could find.  My friend stood close by and patiently offered an arm as I moved like I was 98 years old.

Later that day, I started setting goals.  I set a goal to walk around the lake in my association.  Then I set a goal to push my dog in her stroller around it.  Then I set a goal to partly jog around the lake pushing the stroller.  Considering the fact that it was everything I could do to walk my senior dog two houses down and back, these seemed like lofty goals at the time; but the blood-clot story stuck in my mind, and I became determined to move forward.

I think my first day back at work was a Friday.  I was nowhere near strong enough to return, but I’d run out of sick time my first two days in the hospital and, financially, had no choice but to return.  I remember shuffling out of the parking ramp incredibly slowly carrying my very heavy laptop.  My friend who’d brought the duffel bag to me in the hospital caught up and offered to carry my laptop.  There were three benches between the parking ramp and the courthouse, and I had to stop to rest on each bench.  By the third, I’d teared up and said to my friend, “I don’t know how I’m ever going to climb mountains again.  I can’t even walk into work.”  Truly, I was so weak that I did not see how I could ever recover to my previous strength.

I was an exhausted zombie at work the rest of the day, but I rested over the weekend and, Monday, I only had to stop at two benches when walking into the building.  When the guards at the door greeted me with a “Good morning,” one followed up with, “Where ya been?”

“Really sick,” I said as I shuffled inside at a snail’s pace.  I would lean my upper body on the hallway walls as I shuffled along, and everything was a blur. 

As fate would have it, my supervisor called me my first day back and told me that a trial transcript from a year ago had been ordered, and they wanted it ASAP.  When I opened the files, I was dismayed to see that it was well over 1,000 pages.  How would I ever get this done in time for them?

I believe everything happens for a reason.  I lost thousands of dollars when I missed work due to my illness, and, voila, here came this lengthy transcript that they wanted expedited.  “Expedited” means that I can charge more to move them to the front of the line and get their transcript done sooner than regular turnaround time.  That wasn’t saying much because my current turnaround time felt like it would be a month.  Instead of resting per Dr. Handsome’s orders, I worked lunch hours, nights, and weekends and pushed through, finishing the job just in time and recouping my lost salary.  Maybe that could be counted as a little miracle.

Speaking of coincidences and reasons, it’s funny how my fever broke about 24 hours after people started praying for me on a second continent.  It’s funny how, to this day, the doctors have no idea what I had and what caused it to turn around.  I’m thinking that maybe God has kept me around for a reason.

I lost 14 pounds in that week in the hospital, and I spent the next five months working to regain my strength and then pushing my body to get as strong as it could.  When the Covid shutdown happened, I was horribly worried that my body’s immune system had not yet recovered, and I would not survive Covid if I got it.  I hid out, ate a healthy diet, and exercised so that, if my body had to fight again, it would be ready.

In a follow-up visit, Dr. Handsome told me that, when Covid first hit, he had called the lab to see if they still had my blood.  I’d had every symptom of Covid except the lung fill.  When the lab didn’t have my blood any longer, he asked me to take an antibody test once they came out.  I think it was April or May when I finally took the antibody test, and I was shocked that it came back negative.  That could mean several things:  One, I had one of the first Covid cases in the US, and it was a different strain; two, my Covid antibodies went away in the five months between the illness and the test; or, three, I never had Covid but instead had something that will remain one of the unanswered questions of the universe.

While in the hospital, I learned that the only way to detect whether something is a virus is to do a spinal tap.  Saturday or Sunday, they wanted to do a spinal tap on me, but my platelet count was too low, and they worried I would bleed out.  So maybe we’ll never even know whether what I had was a virus or something else.  Maybe some mysteries were meant to go unsolved. 

Regardless, I’m thankful to still be here, and I’m thankful for Dr. Handsome and my team of doctors.  I’m thankful for my brother who took the time and made the effort to visit me, and I’m thankful for all the friends who came out of the woodwork that let me know that I really wasn’t as alone in The New World as I thought I was.  I’m also thankful for all of the prayers from around the world that maybe led to a few miracles. 

Some side effects carried on long after my recovery.  Around May and June, I started losing hair.  A lot of hair.  I initially blamed it on a new shampoo, but now I see that hair loss is one of the after-effects of Covid, so who knows.  My heart took the longest to recover, often clenching up when I’d try to pick up my running pace.  After an August stress test, I was finally cleared of heart issues; and I can only hope that is the last aftershock.

Now it’s time to work my way back up from my lowest low and, hopefully, hit a new high in life.  I’ve set new goals and have become more aggressive about checking things off of my goal list now versus waiting until I retire.  Why?  Because you never know when you’re going to run out of time.  It could be just around the next corner; and, shoot, I’ve got some things I need to do before I see Nestle and my grandparents again. 

I believe life was not meant to look back and have regrets.  I don’t want to reach the end of my road and say, “I wish I’d tried that,” “I wish I hadn’t been so afraid,” “Why didn’t I follow that dream?” “Why didn’t I try harder?” or “Why didn’t I take a chance on love?”  I already regret not trying out to become one of Michael Jackson’s back-up dancers.  Michael’s gone, and I’ll never get that chance.  What other opportunities had I let pass me by because I was afraid or worried about what others would think?  After my hospital ordeal, my overall conclusion is:  I’ve got a lot of stuff to do!               

May you all live each day following your dreams and not putting them off until a tomorrow that may not come.

Nine Days Ever After is the final book in the Katie Collins Romance Series. Katie has to decide between the man she married and the man she thought she’d married while getting involved in a murder investigation!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01CSOTQBE

MISSING MY PUMPKIN SPICE

Tags

#california, #fall, #falldecorations, #familiar, #festival, #festivals, #HarborSprings, #home, #homesick, #hometour, #lansing, #michigan, #mums, #pumpkin, #pumpkins, #pumpkinspice

When I lived in Michigan, my favorite season was the spring because it marked an end to the cold, monochrome white and a time when everything came back to life.  Conversely, I dreaded fall in Michigan, especially that first leaf of changed color that told me that everything I loved would soon be ending, and I would soon be back to trying to find a way to keep warm in a world of white.

In California, I haven’t really missed Michigan until recently.  Oh, I missed the huge kitchen in the house I once had, my writing room, and my yard, but I didn’t really miss any seasons until this year.  This year, as fall comes upon us, I find myself missing things that I never really thought of as special when I lived in Michigan.  I guess I took them for granted.

Mostly, I miss everything pumpkin spice flavored.  Sure, they have everything pumpkin spice flavored out here in California as well, but it’s different.  A pumpkin spice coffee in Michigan is not only a taste, but it’s something to warm you when the days turn crisply cool.  It’s a scent that goes with the scent of fallen, wet leaves.  It’s a scent that I smell emanating from not only my kitchen but from a candle as I curl up by a crackling fire and watch the Hallmark fall movies as the days grow shorter.

Fall is the beginning of Baking Season in Michigan.  It’s a time when people can turn on their ovens again because the hot summer is over.  It’s a time when the city yards containing gardens overflow with fruits of the season.  It’s a time when things like tomato pie, caprese salad, pumpkin cheesecake, pear tartlets, stuffed zucchini, apple strudel, roasted beet and feta salad, and even homemade salted caramel sauce would flow from my kitchen.

Fall is a time when visits to cider mills and pumpkin farms happen on weekends.  It’s a time when there are pumpkin-growing contests and a time where kids start eyeing pumpkins to become jack-o-lanterns.  It’s a time when Halloween is spent sitting on my front porch and handing out candy to 300 well-costumed kids as the adults sit and visit with a glass of mulled wine or hot cider.

Fall is a time when East Lansing comes to life as students return to MSU and tailgates dominate weekends.  Company often comes to town for the games, and the town is overflowing with excited people. 

If you’re not at a football game, there’s a good chance you’re raking leaves into huge piles that kids and pets jump into.  Believe me, I never thought I’d reminisce about raking leaves with frozen fingers as the last leaf would drop Thanksgiving weekend.  Okay, I’d forgotten the frozen fingers part, so I’m missing that part a little less right now.

Fall is the optimal time to take a drive through The Tunnel of Trees, one of the most beautiful drives in the state.  The trees are aflame, and the sunlight has changed from the brilliance of summer to a softer, more golden glow that bounces off the leaves.

Fall has always been a time when the Westside Neighborhood Home Tour happens.  Touring through classic 1920s homes decorated for fall and each home revealing its own story has always been one of my favorite events.  Much of the neighborhood would have their front porches decorated with hay bales, pumpkins, pots of mums, and even cornstalks that would welcome visitors.

Finally, there are the fall festivals in Old Town, most markedly Oktoberfest.  People stroll the streets that are decorated with stalks of corn tied to lampposts, hay bales, mums, and pumpkins that welcome you to each shop.  Under a large tent, you can sample all kinds of adult beverages as a band plays late into the night.

None of these things apply in California.  The air probably won’t become crisp until December.  I have not seen a pumpkin farm or apple orchard here.  There are no cider mills offering fresh apple cider or pick-your-own apples.  I haven’t heard of any festivals.  I haven’t seen decorated front porches.  I haven’t seen a home tour here, and the only forests aflame are really actually aflame.  Last year, I sat outside for hours waiting for trick-or-treaters.  I finally had to flag down three big kids walking by (who kinda scared me) to give them candy.

So, yes, I can go out and buy a pumpkin spice latte at Starbucks in California, but, as I’ve explained, it doesn’t bring with it all of the excitement that drinking a pumpkin spice latte in Michigan brings.  Maybe it’s time to go home.

May you all find your own “pumpkin spice” and relish it this fall.

Did you know that Leviathan, Book 3 in the Harbor Secret Series, is now available in audiobook format? Woot!

https://www.amazon.com/Leviathan-Harbor-Secret-Book-3/dp/B08HJRVPJQ/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=%22Kristie+Dickinson%22+Leviathan+audiobook&qid=1601430479&sr=8-1

CLIMBING OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE – PART 3

Tags

#bucketlist, #california, #camp, #camping, #goallist, #goals, #hike, #hikerchick, #Mountwhitney, #MtWhitney, #summit

The next four miles to Trail Camp weren’t bad.  The smoke had cleared, the scenery rivaled Yosemite, and I chugged along happily sipping water from the bladder in my backpack.  The more water I drank, the lighter my pack became, so I was very motivated to drink lots of water!

We were surrounded by huge mountains of granite on each side with our goal in front of us.  We balanced on large rocks to cross streams and climbed giant steps of stone as we ascended the mountain and the greenery fell behind us.

Reaching Trail Camp, which is basically a lot of stone sandwiched between two small lakes, we stopped to filter water and refill our supply before the last stretch of maybe five miles that had no water source.

The world up here looked like a moonscape.  It was all rock and dust with a few patches of snow.  We pulled out our windbreakers or light jackets as our sweat began to cool.  As we sat, a brave marmot, who was obviously used to humans feeding him, approached us.  That was the first marmot I’d ever seen, and they look like beavers with a fluffy tail.

We started to eat lunch, and that’s when my headache kicked in.  It was a headache only on the left side of my head, and it was mild.  A guy in the group, who had also taken Diamox ahead of time, complained of the same headache.  I pushed my concern to the side and pulled the heavy, water-filled backpack onto my back, ready to continue on.

Rested and replenished, we started up the 99 switchbacks.  I’m not sure if there are actually 99, but that’s what someone called them, and it certainly felt like 99 switchbacks.  Again, snow-melt streams crossed our path as we climbed back and forth, back and forth for hours.  Reaching the top, we looked down to see Trail Camp and, below that, heavy smoke moving into the area where we had left our tents.  I felt a need to rush because not only did I not want to be hiking in the dark, but, if the smoke was too heavy to sleep on the mountain, I had to pack everything up, stuff it into the backpack, and get out before dark.  I wanted to stop taking breaks and move my hiking pace to a trot to avoid the Chupacabra that I was sure lurked in the dark shadows of the forest below.

Reaching the spires at the top of the switchbacks, we now had a view of Sequoia National Park and, someone said, King’s Canyon.  I was relieved to see there was less smoke on this side of the mountain, and I removed the N95 mask I’d worn up the switchbacks to protect myself from irreparable smoke damage to my lungs.

The trail along the back side of the mountain wasn’t steep, but there were many large, granite rocks that lay across our trail, providing uneven footing.  Many spots had a steep drop-off, but the beautiful views of jagged mountains and clean lakes below were rewarding.

When we started the trail on the back side of the mountain, the sign said it was only 1.9 miles to the summit.  Woot!  I was practically there!  What were a mere 1.9 miles?  Well, as it turned out, these were the longest two miles of my life!  It just went on and on.  One person passed us and told us it would be another 45 minutes.  An hour later, someone passed us and told us it would be another 30 minutes.  I started to feel as if this would never end.

As we neared the summit, about a mile out, my headache increased, and I felt pain behind my eyeballs.  I remembered my doctor warning me of brain swelling at high altitudes.  Brain swelling or not, I’d just hiked the toughest 11 miles of my life, and I was not going to quit.  I had to push through because I knew, if I didn’t, I would always wonder if I could have completed the hike and would want to come back and try again.  I remembered my Charlie Brown, coffin-sized tent and pushed forward, determined not to come back. 

At about this same 11-mile mark, one of the members of our group became horribly ill from altitude sickness and vomited.  They couldn’t make it.  They stopped, climbed onto a large rock, and said they’d wait for us to summit and come back.  I felt a little panic and a sense of urgency.  We were both on Diamox, we’d both gotten a light headache at Trail Camp, and I worried I’d be next in line to toss my trail mix if I didn’t get this done and get down to a safer elevation STAT.

Leaving our friend behind, we pushed on, walking through endless fields of granite boulders.  Taking a turn at the last quarter mile, we went up and up and up until we rounded a corner and saw a small, stone building at the top.  We had arrived!  Woot!

The thing about this adventure is that I’d never doubted that I could make the long hike.  I’d trained for it with running, weightlifting, and elevation hikes.  I was ready.  As we looked down at the smoke now moving into Trail Camp, the most challenging part of this adventure, for me, was going to be the camping.  My stomach tightened nervously, and my head and eyeballs throbbed in the high elevation.  We took our photos, signed in, and then I couldn’t wait to get the bleep out of there before I had the same altitude sickness as our friend.

After replenishing our water supply at Trail Camp, we continued our descent another four miles to camp.  The setting sun reflecting off the smoke cast an eerie, pink glow on the mountains as we moved quickly in an attempt to avoid being caught in the dark; but we weren’t that lucky.  The last 1.25 hours were in complete darkness, and I mindlessly followed the fastest person in the group as I fell into second place behind him.

The forests around us were very quiet except for a wolf or coyote howl, which didn’t do much for my morale.

“Have we overshot the campsite?” the guy in front of me asked, stopping his brisk pace.

The second guy pulled out his phone and opened the Alltrails App.  “Nope, but we’re close.  Another five minutes.”

“Five minutes” turned into a lot more minutes as we slipped over rocks in streams and walked on, not able to see into the dark forest around us.  I was thinking about my tent and rolling into it, exhausted; but then I rethought that.  We’d left everything unzipped so marmots or bears or whatever would not chew through the tent to get to our stuff.  Right then and there, I decided I would be emptying the contents of my tent and giving everything a good shake in case a snake or something else had squiggled in.

As we neared our campsite, I could hear the roar of the waterfall nearby and the gurgle of the stream we crossed before entering our home not-so-sweet home.  Now came the tough part.  Now, I was going to have to put on my big-girl pants and do this outdoor thing.  There would be no complaints, not a peep.  I would just somehow squeeze into my Charlie Brown, coffin-sized tent and drift away to Dream Land, right?  Unfortunately, I wasn’t that lucky.

Join me soon for Climbing Out Of My Comfort Zone – Part 4!

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The Tunnels is available on Amazon in e-book, paperback, and audiobook formats!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01H9CXO7C

CLIMBING OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE – PART 2

Tags

#adventure, #bear, #bucketlist, #california, #camp, #camping, #goals, #hike, #hiker, #hikerchick, #Mountwhitney, #MtWhitney, #roughingit, #tent

It’s 3 a.m. on Sunday morning, and my phone alarm wakes me up in my hotel room.  Thanks to screaming kids in the room next door, even though I’d gone to bed at 8:30 p.m., I’d only gotten 3.5 hours of sleep.  Not the preferred amount for climbing the highest peak in the contiguous U.S.

I quickly guzzled an entire bottle of water.  Hydration, right?  No.  It was part of my plan to never have to use a WAG bag to haul out human waste on this trip.  So far, my plan was working.

After showering, just as I had in my days of ballet and pointe shoes, I carefully wrapped a couple of my blister-prone toes in tape before dressing and pulling on my hiking boots.  I slipped the lip gloss that I could not do without into a pants pocket and put everything unneeded for the hike into a bear can to leave in my trunk.  For my fellow indoor folks, a bear can is a large, plastic container you store anything scented in while camping.  The theory is that this will keep the bears away – or at least out of your stuff.  I wish they made a tent-sized bear can.

I forced myself to eat a yogurt and part of a muffin the hotel provided before grabbing my pre-packed backpack that I was sure weighed 60 pounds and headed to the car.

I met the other three hikers in my group at the Mt. Whitney Portal shortly after 4 a.m.  After one last restroom call, we donned our headlamps, slipped on our backpacks that carried camping gear, and headed into the quiet darkness to begin a trek to conquer a mountain as well as my own fear.

We couldn’t have gone a quarter mile before my shoulder blades started to throb under the weight of my backpack.  Everyone else was handling their backpack with such ease that I was sure mine must weigh considerably more.  My backpack was so overloaded that the brain of it hung over the backboard and pushed my head forward, not allowing me to look skyward.  I knew the others in my group were seasoned hikers and campers, and I refused to be the weak link.  I didn’t utter a peep of complaint but followed them through the darkness on the four-mile trek to our camp site as smoke from forest fires drifted around us.

Less than a mile into the hike, my pack was causing me a huge amount of not only discomfort but imbalance.  When I’d first put it on at the car, I had struggled to keep from falling backward.  Now we walked along a dark path with uneven footing, balanced on logs crossing streams, and stepped on slippery rocks crossing streams.  Easy, right?  Not with what I was sure was an extra 60 pounds on my back.  My balance was completely thrown off, making the stream crossings in the dark especially precarious.

When someone stopped for a break, I found a large rock and leaned on its rocky shelf to hold my backpack and relieve my stress.  My pain was now not only in my shoulders but in my collar bones.  The heavily-laden straps dug into my skin.  I was worried.  I didn’t see how I could possibly make it to the camp site with this pack.  I was afraid to walk back in the dark with bears, Bigfoot, and possibly a Chupacabra lurking in the shadows.  I was more afraid of the Chupacabra than I was of permanently damaging my back, so I blinked back the tears of fear and pain and powered on.

Two miles in, my mind was constantly going back and forth between quit now and go back or ask for a break.  No one else seemed to be having a problem with their pack, so I was not going to be the complainer or quitter.  Not a peep. 

That’s when I remembered something.  It was something from my very distant past and an unlikely source.  I remember my ballet teachers saying, “Every movement comes from your center.”  For some reason, that sentence played over and over in my mind until I acted on it.  Instead of slumping my back and moving my legs of lead, I pulled in my center, sending energy up, into my back.  Every time my legs moved, the movement started in my center and emanated outwards.  I know it sounds silly, but it helped.  My back pain seemed to lessen, and I imagined myself flitting across a ballet stage, as I had in my teens and 20s, lightly, easily, and with every movement coming from my center.  The sentences and images continued to play in my mind, constantly reminding me every time incorrect muscles fired.

As the sun came up and we turned off our headlamps, I could see the amazing scenery around us.  It reminded me of Yosemite.  Grand mountains of granite jutted up all around us.  There were green, pine forests, mountain lakes and streams, and even some wildlife.  It was beautiful, and I prayed a silent prayer of gratitude for being allowed to experience this.

When we finally reached our camp site, I was so relieved!  I couldn’t believe my body had hauled this pack that felt heavier than a large bag of dog food on my back four miles up a mountain.  Taking that thing off was one of the best days of my life and one of my largest accomplishments.

Next came setting up camp.  I’d done a test setup of the tent in my living room, so I felt pretty confident that I could handle this even though the setup instructions consisted of four pictures, two of which looked exactly the same.  I quickly spread everything out, assembled the frame, and put the ends into the holders at the four corners of the tent.  When I assembled the center cross pieces and tried to slip them into their holders, they kept snapping out and collapsing the tent.  One of the guys came over to help me.  He couldn’t get it to stay together either.  I knew we had to get on the trail if we were going to summit today, so I told him to never mind, it would be fine.

“Can you even sleep in that?” he asked in a dubious tone.

“Sure,” I said with a light wave of the hand.  “I’ll be fine,” I concluded looking at my coffin-sized tent that looked like something Charlie Brown would end up in.

“Can you even get your stuff in there?” he asked, unconvinced.

Not wanting to hold anyone up, I waved my hand again, “Yeah, yeah, it’ll be fine.  Let’s go.”

Putting on our packs that were only slightly less heavy without the camping equipment, we headed for the trail to complete the next eight miles.  I glanced back at our campsite to see three full-figured tents and my little, Charlie Brown, coffin tent.  But I didn’t make a peep.  I could man-up and do this for one night.  This was a little farther outside of my comfort zone than I’d planned to go, but I was going to do this.  I wasn’t going to play it safe.  I was going to make the memories and push my limits, darn it.  And away we went.

My crazy heavy backpack. It doesn’t look so big now.

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Join me for Part 3 of Climbing Out Of My Comfort Zone soon!

It all started with Nine Days In Greece, a vacation for a workaholic attorney that turned into so much more!

https://www.amazon.com/Nine-Greece-Katie-Collins-Romance-ebook/dp/B00P6ZB2ZQ/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=%22Nine+Days+In+Greece%22&qid=1599917597&sr=8-1

CATCHING THE WAVE

Tags

#adventure, #california, #californiaadventure, #comfortzone, #life, #living, #surf, #surfing, #wave, #wetsuit

               In Flirting with Forty, one of my favorite movies, the super hunky surf instructor says to Heather Locklear, “Sometimes you have to step outside of your comfort zone to catch the wave of your life.”  I couldn’t agree more.

               Every year around the time of my birthday, I like to do something that assures me I’m still living my life and not just going through life existing on autopilot.  Sometimes it’s checking something off of my very lengthy bucket list, sometimes it’s embarking on an unknown adventure, and sometimes it’s trying something new.

               They say, “When in Rome, do as the Romans,” so, this year, I signed up for a surfing lesson with a friend.  Technically, I had tried surfing about five years ago in Mexico, but it wasn’t an official lesson, the waves were pretty big, and there were jagged rocks sticking out of the water everywhere.  I knew it was not going to go well when my instructor had advised, “Just don’t hit the rocks.”  There was no steering wheel on the board, so I wasn’t sure how he expected me to avoid the rocks; but he was a hunky, older version of the surf instructor in Flirting With Forty, so I rolled with it.  Needless to say, I never got up, and it was bleeping scary.

               Because of my past attempt, I was pretty nervous about the birthday lesson this year.  Just the idea of getting my hair wet made me uncomfortable, but prancing around in a wetsuit in public didn’t do much for my self-esteem either.

               Once we got wet-suited up, the petite, ponytailed, ex-gymnast instructor had us put our boards on our head and carry them to the sand.  Seriously, this was the hardest part.  My scrappy arms were burning, and I struggled to hold the giant board on my head.  Adding to my struggle was my need to constantly suck my stomach in while prancing under the board in that wetsuit, so this walk to the sand turned into a major workout.

               Once we got to the sand and dropped our boards, we were instructed where to lay on the board and how to stand up.  The trick is to go from laying flat on your tummy to pushing your butt up into downward-facing dog, and you then bring one leg forward into a lunge.  Well, my leg didn’t want to go very far forward, so I just grabbed it and pulled it forward.  After the third time, the instructor noticed what I was up to and told me that wasn’t going to fly.

               After instructing us on how to fall off the board (I kinda checked out on that part because I had no intention of doing that), we were off to the water.  As soon as we got knee deep, we were instructed to lay on the board and paddle out.  At my lesson five years ago, paddling had been super hard.  Maybe it was because of the tsunami-sized waves.  In comparison, we were at what my fellow Michiganders would call a bunny hill this time.  Paddling out was easy!  My scrappy arms barely even noticed!

               Once we were out, the instructor would stand next to our board and give us a push when the wave came and then tell us to stand up.  Easy, huh?  Not.  So…much…to remember.

               Technically, I got up on my first try, but not for long, and it wasn’t pretty.  The board started to turn and, again, I had no steering wheel, so I quickly lost my balance, and the unthinkable happened:  My hair got wet.

               Having gotten past the worst part, the next twenty attempts showed some improvement almost every time.  There was still plenty of hair wetting in between but, the more you do things, the easier they get. 

               I guess that’s kinda how life is.  Stepping outside of your comfort zone is scary but, the more you do it, the easier it gets.  If you’re not trying new things or stepping outside of your comfort zone, you obviously don’t have any problems.  Everything is smooth sailing.  But are you really living?  They say the only people who don’t have problems live in a cemetery, meaning you’re already dead.   As for me, I’ve got plenty of problems, so I must be doing something right.

Admittedly, dropping everything midlife and moving across the country to California was my largest step outside of my comfort zone; but all of my other accomplishments before that were smaller steps outside of my comfort zone that helped me build up to this one.  My most exciting payoff I’m hoping to gain from this move?  Probably not winning the gold cup in a surfing competition, but I’m not-so-secretly hoping to run into the hunky surf instructor in Flirting With Forty walking around town.  I’m right next door to Hollywood, right?  Of course, I’d have to step outside of my comfort zone to talk to him, but that’s another story.

Learning to surf was fun.  When you finally get up and ride the wave, for a short time, you feel as if you’re a part of that wave as you fly over the water.  You feel a connection to something bigger than yourself, and it gives you a rush that I struggle to further describe.  I can see why so many people here in California enjoy surfing, and I would definitely do it again.

May you all catch the wave of your life by stepping outside of your comfort zone, using every gift you were given, and living your best life!

Coming soon! Leviathan, Book 3 in the Harbor Secret Series, in an audiobook format!

A SON’S HAND

Tags

#baby, #change, #child, #faith, #hand, #leap, #love, #parentallove, #parentchild, #poem, #poetry, #son

College Child, kinda wild

She had her fun and produced a son

Parents said no, baby’s father let go

So she reached for a love that wasn’t so

He said he’d help, but she had to flee

She moved to Cali, carried her life on her sleeve

Mother and child took a train

Hoping for love and life to gain

She had a baby and degree

But there was a future she couldn’t see

She took a chance, gambled it all

Hoping for a life where she could safely fall

Brave, young mother took a chance

Never looked back, not even a glance

She left the snow for a life she didn’t know

So young, she leapt, she let her past go

When she arrived, for a while, love thrived

Things fell into place, and she walked with grace

As baby grew, mama knew

Happiness was to be found somewhere new

Again she tried, and again she cried

Seemed as if every man had lied

She packed her bags, clothes, and toys

Left in the night gripping baby boy

This wasn’t her plan, she had big dreams

But the extended hand wasn’t as it seemed

Her dream became the hand she held

Her life it inspired and compelled

To her boy the hand belonged

Innocent and pure, it kept her strong

What she didn’t know or conceive

Was in herself she had to believe

She was smart, proud, and strong

She needed no help, they’d get along

Love that she sought in a man

She instead found in her son’s hand

The End

Free Tunnels Download!

Tags

#freebook, #freedownload, Book

Today through December 30th, you can enjoy a free e-book download of The Tunnels on Amazon! Merry Christmas!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01H9CXO7C: Free Tunnels Download!

IN SEARCH OF BIGHORN SHEEP

Tags

animals, goal, goals, searching, travel, trip, trips, wildanimals

After finding cute and fluffy wild burros but no bighorn sheep in Death Valley, I began a series of weekend trips in search of bighorn sheep.  We don’t have bighorn sheep in Michigan, so it was important for me to find them in California while I was still living here.  When I mentioned my latest goal to others, they would instantly tell me where they had encountered the animals.  Duly noting each sighting location on a list, I began my quest.

My first searching adventure was to visit friends near Thousand Palms.  On the way there, we stopped to hike Whitewater Preserve, a place where a friend had spotted bighorn sheep.  Arriving before the park opened, we first hiked to Red Dome (see below) because I had read on All Trails that bighorn sheep had been spotted there.  No bighorn sheep.  Then we turned around and hiked up Canyon View Trail.  I spotted some poppies, but no bighorn sheep.  At the ranger station, I got some awesome bird photos (see below) and was told by a ranger that the bighorns start peeking their head over the top of a huge cliff of stone around 3:00.  Since I’d already been there for about six hours with no luck, I decided to move on.

The next day took us to Joshua Tree National Park.  As previously explained, if you see the words “National Park,” you know these folks aren’t messing around, and it’s a place you shouldn’t miss.  Joshua trees are medium-height trees with spiky puffs on the branches.  Once you hit a certain elevation, you will see a lot of them along with a kind of cactus named cholla (sounds like choy-ya).  Joshua Tree had great photo-ops between the cool boulders, Joshua trees, and the cholla garden, but, sadly, no bighorn sheep.

The third day of this trip led us to Pioneer Town.  This is basically an old western-style town that is used for movie sets.  There are snow-capped mountains behind it and bighorn sheep crossing signs all the way there, but no bighorn sheep.  No public bathrooms either.  Needless to say, the visit to Pioneer Town was short.

The next stop was Morongo Canyon Preserve.  The lady at the visitor center said she’s never hiked the canyon and not seen the bighorns, so off we went.  Eight miles later, not only is it a kinda boring hike, but there were no bleeping bighorn sheep.  I felt like I had the luck of someone searching for Bigfoot.  On a brighter note, I did see a big horned owl, a barn owl, and a vermillion fly catcher.  I even caught a photo of the vermillion fly catcher…wait for it…catching a fly!  But no bigfoots (Bigfeet?).  I mean bighorns.

On the way home, we made a last-ditch effort and swung into Whitewater Preserve again.  It was dusky and, at first glance, I spotted nothing.  Approaching a ranger, I inquired, and he turned to point to the tippy top of this very, very high cliff of stone, telling me to watch for the bighorns to poke their heads over the top.  Minutes passed as I strained my eyes in the dusk before, voila, a head poked over the cliff to look down at the bystanders below.  As I put on my camera’s long lens and patiently waited, eventually, a large family of bighorn sheep appeared and started to venture down the cliff that appeared to be straight up and down.  I watched them, including a couple of babies, for about a half hour before it was too dark to see what was going on.

So, yes, I achieved my goal to see bighorn sheep; but was I satisfied?  Nooo.  Due to the dim lighting and long distance, my photos were as grainy as a bigfoot photo.  Heck, maybe that was a bigfoot in the picture.  I couldn’t be sure.  So, although I could technically check this off my photo bucket list, the quest would go on in search of a quality bighorn sheep photo-op.

The next bighorn expedition was to the Salton Sea and Anza-Borrego Desert.  Back in the 1930s, the Salton Sea was a Hollywood playground.  Nowadays, well, let’s just say I didn’t see anyone playing except the two kinds of fish that can survive in the water.

Our first stop was Bat Cave Buttes.  This is a hike just a mile or two off the road that takes you through flat, scrub-filled desert to some buttes.  The cool thing about these buttes is that there are a ton of creepy caves in them.  It was extra creepy because, due to the sprinkling rain, we were the only ones out there.  A mountain lion could have had cubs in a cave, and we could have become lunch, but we didn’t.  The deepest cave was too scary for this big chicken to enter because we could hear the bats squeaking.  Hence the name Bat Cave Buttes.  I’ve seen enough episodes of Scooby Doo to know what happens when you go into a cave filled with bats, so it was a hard pass for me.  Plus, I couldn’t remember if I was up to date on my rabies shots.  So, yes, we checked creepy bats off the list but not bighorn sheep.

The next stop was Imperial Sand Dunes.  These dunes are pinkish red, and it seems to be the hot spot to ride around in your dune buggy.  As I snapped photos, the trickiest thing was to find a spot with no dune buggy tracks.  So we found lotsa buggy tracks but no bighorns.

Running out of light, we decided to skip the mud volcanoes and headed for our hotel in Anza-Borrego Springs.  Our hotel was fashioned after the buildings in an old western town and was super cool.  The lobby had lotsa pics of bighorn sheep, so I was optimistic that tomorrow would be my lucky day.

The morning of our last day was spent photographing super-bloom wildflowers in the desert before hiking to Maidenhair Falls via Hellhole Canyon.  This 5.6 mile hike winds through a canyon that I’d hoped would be covered with bighorns; but, alas, it was just covered with rock.  Eventually, a few palms appeared, and then we arrived at a small to medium-sized waterfall next to a wall covered with ferns.  Hence, the name.  Maybe I should hike a canyon named Bighorn Canyon…

I’d been seeing signs for a local treat called a date shake, and we decided to try one in between hikes.  The shakes only came in one size, and let’s just say it was super sized.  We sucked down the yummy shake and headed to our next hike:  Palm Canyon.

Palm Canyon requires an entry fee and will go down in my memory as having one of the weirdest bathrooms ever.  It’s built of reddish stone walls, and there is no roof, so birds and planes can fly over and see you doing your business.  Wait, it gets better.  There is no entrance door on the women’s side.  Once you enter, there are two stalls separated by a stone wall, but, like the entrance, the stalls have no doors on them.  This park could spring for flush toilets but no door or even a shower curtain for some privacy?  So anyone could walk in and, ta-da, there you are, giving them a little wave as you do your business.  I guess planes and birds aren’t the only ones watching you.  Good grief, it’s like being on stage!

Palm Canyon is actually a very charming hike.  There is a stream gurgling along the entire route, and there are signs saying that wildlife (there was a photo of bighorns) drink from the stream but won’t if there is human scent in it, so please don’t go into the water.  My hopes were high as we started up the trail that, after the first mile, split off in many different directions, and let’s just say that no one is going to win an award for trail marking here.  There are little to medium waterfalls along the way; but, at the end, there is a huge waterfall.  I think.  The kicker is that you hike all the way to the end of the trail, and there is an oasis of palm trees surrounding the waterfall.  When I say “surrounding,” I mean “blocking.”  I looked around for some additional trail because, surely, it must end with a waterfall view, but noooo.  There were signs everywhere forbidding people from going any farther or leaving the trail to view the falls.  How mean.  To add to my disdain, let’s just say that it’s not a good idea to drink a giant date shake in between hikes.  It can only end in tears, even if you make it back to do your business on stage in the “bathrooms.”  Oh, and did I mention no bighorns?

My third trip in search of bighorns was to Palm Springs.  We chose the South Lykken Trail that was an out-and-back eight-mile trek.  This is a beautiful hike in the spring because there are tons of wild lupine, yellow poppies, cactus flowers, and canterbury bells.  Even if I didn’t see bighorns, I had a great time photographing the wildflowers.

After over three miles of flowers, we approached a lookout, and a fellow hiker told us there were bighorns ahead.  Weeeee!  Off I went!  Just around the bend, we saw a male bighorn right near the trail.  Woot!  I was too excited to pull out my long lens and didn’t really need it as I happily shot away, hoping for a photo worthy of National Geographic.  Then we noticed there were three more male bighorns on the cliffs above us and another below.  The sheep closest to us as well as the three males above were perfectly lit as they eventually stood and then descended the cliff, straight towards us!

Soon, other hikers gathered as the wild animals progressed down the cliff, seemingly unbothered by humans, and crossed our path right in front of us.  This was one of those amazing moments you never forget and, if you didn’t get the perfect photo (see below) here, there was something wrong with you.  As the animals eventually moved down the cliff and out of our sight, we continued our hike.

Do you think I was satisfied?  Yes and no.  Another hiker had told us of another trail behind the museum where the females and babies hang out.  Did I mention baaaaabies?  Yes!  So off we went to do another hike.

The Museum Trail is crazy steep, and my legs are still sore from this hike.  True to the hiker’s word, we first saw several male lookouts perched on rocks near us, and then we saw the females, teens, and babies work their way toward us….painfully slowly.  As we waited for the babies to get closer, I was shooting the lookout male through my long lens when I thought to myself, “Huh.  He’s not really fitting in the frame anymore.”  I lowered my camera and did a double-take as I realized the big guy was coming straight towards me and was very close!  Eek! Big chicken that I am, I quickly stepped aside as he passed right by me and headed up the stony cliff at the back of our trail.  Phew!

The females and babies got closer but, after forty-five minutes of long-distance photos, I had to give up.  We still had one more hike on this day trip, and a date shake was calling my name.

The third hike was Tahquitz Canyon.  If you know anything about this canyon, you’ll know that’s it’s supposedly very haunted.  Long story short, Tahquitz was a powerful shaman who was a good guy turned bad.  His people banished him to this canyon, and legend says it’s still haunted by Tahquitz.  One of the workers reported a sighting of a man who disappeared right before her eyes.  One of my friends who lives in the area reported seeing the famous green comet flying across the valley well below the mountains.

As we hiked the canyon, I’ve gotta say, this was a pretty nice place to be banished.  It’s very lush and green, and there is a large, rapidly moving stream running through it.  At the end of the canyon, there is an amazing waterfall.  Yes, they actually let you see this one!  You have to cross the stream on stones though and, with all the 2023 rain, you will get your feet wet.  But the view is worth it.  I didn’t get a creepy vibe from the canyon, but I did have an obnoxious ray of sun that kept standing out in my photos.  Maybe that was Tahquitz, or maybe it was just a beautiful day at the end of a bucket-list trip.

Mission Bighorn accomplished, I felt so content on the way home that I didn’t even stop at the super-bloom fields of yellow poppies for a photo-op.  I had other things on my mind…like a date shake.  This time, we got it after the three hikes of the day were finished.  The perfect reward.  If you’ve never had a date shake, add it to your bucket list.  It’s not something you’ll find in Michigan.

Watch for details about my July book signing event! All books are available on Amazon.

I KISSED A WHALE, AND I LIKED IT!

Tags

dream, goallist, goals, graywhales, kiss, Mexico, whale, whales, wildlife

In 1997, I wrote my first goal list.  Happily, by 2023, I’d achieved the majority of the goals on that list except one.  “Touch a whale.”  This is a very difficult goal to achieve because, well, you need the cooperation of a whale.  I’m not sure where the idea came from since, in 1997, I wasn’t the whale nerd that I am now.  Someone had asked me why I wanted to touch a whale, and I had no response past, “I dunno.”  I just did.  Yes, I’d touched a dead whale on the beach.  Doesn’t count.  And, no, a whale in captivity doesn’t count. 

About eight years ago, I was in Cabo and signed up for a touch-a-whale trip to Magdalena Bay.  After four hours of driving each way and two hours on the water, I had not touched a whale much less gotten remotely close to one.

Last year, I made another attempt, this time with a tour group that had us, *gasp*, camp for days.  I work so that I can sleep inside at night, so that tells you how badly I wanted to achieve this goal.  Sadly, this trip was the worst whale watching of my life.  I think we saw two whales that were far away, and the whales were not remotely interested in us.

You can imagine my skepticism when, once again, I signed up for another touch-a-whale trip, this time to a different lagoon.  These Baja lagoons are all remote with a capital R.  Our accommodations were rustic with a capital R, but it wasn’t camping, so I felt that I was coming out ahead.

Before I get into the story, let me tell you why the gray whales are in these lagoons.  All summer long, the gray whales gorge themselves in their feeding grounds located in the Bering and Chukchi Seas.  They’re mammals, like us, so they must come up for air and, when it gets cold and freezes over, they obviously can’t, so that’s one of the reasons they leave the buffet and head south.  When I say “south,” I mean they travel about 6,000 miles south to the lagoons of Mexico, where they will mate and have their babies.  After about three months, when the babies are strong enough, they swim 6,000 miles back to their feeding grounds.  Pretty amazing, huh?  It’s one of the longest migrations of any mammal, and we in Orange County get to witness it!  Now, back to the story.

FYI, in these lagoons, you can’t just show up with your boat and go hang out with whales.  The lagoons are heavily regulated by the Mexican government with a limited number of boats going out for limited amounts of time.  Thank goodness because I’d hate to see this sanctuary ruined by humans.

At 7:50 a.m. on the first morning, we left the motel and drove about 20 minutes to the lagoon.  It was a beautiful day, and everyone was excited.  Me?  I was skeptical, sure I was about to be disappointed yet again.

As the panga boat with its seven passengers and captain left the dock, we passed gorgeous white sand dunes and giant orange buoys topped with sunbathing sea lions before arriving in the large part of the lagoon.

Cruising through gentle waves, we would slow and then stop near any whales we came across.  Although they didn’t seem to mind our presence, no whales approached our panga.  On we went.

A little more background.  Today, gray whales are called “The friendly whales;” however, during the whaling era, they were called Devil Fish.  Pretty big contrast in names, huh?  Just like pretty much every bad guy, the gray whales were misunderstood.  When the mean ol’ whalers discovered the whales in these lagoons, it’s said that there were so many whales that the whalers could cross the lagoons stepping on whale backs.  This is a big lagoon, more like a very large lake, so you can imagine how many were there.  Of course, for the whalers, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.  Although they weren’t really interested in the baby whales, they would harpoon them and haul them to shore, hoping to lure the mother closer to shore so they could get her.  Much to their surprise, the mothers would become so distraught over their injured babies, that they would destroy the ships.  That’s why the whalers called them devil fish.  Huh.  Kinda seems like the mean ol’ whalers had it coming, but that’s just me.

To know what these animals once endured compared to how they interact with humans today is nothing short of amazing.  And to imagine anyone hurting these sweet animals, much less harpooning the playful babies hurts me to my core.

Back to present day.  Our boat slowly made its way across the bay until we saw a whale turn and head straight toward us.  If nothing else, within minutes, this was the best whale watching of my life – and I’m on a whale-watching boat nearly every weekend!  Yahtzee!

Although the whale, soon joined by another, circled our boat, checking us out as we dangled our hands in the water and called out sweet-talk to them, they didn’t get within arm’s reach.  On we went.

Finally, we came upon three whales getting frisky.  No sooner did we stop our boat than the whales headed over to us.  We all rolled up our sleeves, called to them, and made gentle splashes in the water.  This was behavior that was suggested by our leader, and, although the sweet-talk was a little uncomfortable at first, that soon changed.

Within minutes, a giant gray whale poked its head out of the water right next to the boat, and I was gently stroking its rostrum (nose) as I spoke sweet-nothings.  Soon, the second whale tried to squeeze in and get some affection, and our passengers were more than happy to accommodate.  Nearby, we watched as a panga boat was gently pushed around by a playful whale as if the boat were nothing more than a rubber ducky.

So what does a whale feel like?  Rubbery and kinda squishy.  Their skin is very smooth where there are no barnacles or whale lice.  Yup, they get lice.  Kinda gross, right?  The lice eat off the dead skin, which you can see very large chunks of when you’re up close.  It’s also believed that they help wounds heal by doing this.  Our tour leader wasn’t so sure about that, but that’s what we’re taught in ACS-OC, so that’s what I go with. Below is a photo of me touching an exhaling baby whale.

Many people ask how we get the whales to approach the boats.  Do we trap them?  Do we feed them?  Nooo.  These are wild animals who really don’t eat during their approximately 12,000-mile-round-trip migration, hence losing about one-third of their body weight.  The thing that’s so magical is that these wild animals choose to interact with humans on their own volition.  And not all of them do.  Some poo-poo us and swim away, and that’s okay.  But curious others will line up for affection and the chance of a close-up look at a human.  Kinda makes you wonder who’s watching who.

Needless to say, Day 1 was a magical dream come true.  After I pet 12 different whales, I lost count.  Yes, I was counting.  We were out for two hours, went back to the dock for a forty-five-minute lunch break, and went back out for another two hours.  At the end of Day 1, after 26 years of dreaming about touching a whale, I finally checked it off my goal list!  Woot!

On Day 2, we were driven to another side of the lagoon where the whales are supposed to be more “chill” and there are more babies.  Again, they did not disappoint!  At one point, we were surrounded by seven whales lined up to see us!  It was raining, so we were one of two boats out in the whole lagoon, so we were very popular that morning! Below is a photo of my favorite baby because it’s speckled. Yes, it let me pet it. My melting heart! See its eye?

On whale watching trips to Monterey and Mo’orea, I’d noticed that a mother whale would often tell their babies to go play with the humans for a while so she could rest.  The mom would log (float) or go to the bottom and chill while the babies would breach for the delighted humans or show off other tricks.  Today was no exception.  We had one little show-off doing headstands and rolls and nudging the bottom of our motionless boat as mom took a rest or nap just feet away from us.  It was amazing.  So amazing that we chose to skip the lunch/bathroom break after two hours and just stay out with the whales for the next two hours.  I’ve never gone so long without a bathroom break in my life, but I was so busy petting whales and telling them how beautiful they were that I didn’t even have time to drink any water!  The whales on this side were definitely more playful and spent a lot of time under our boat, nudging or pushing it and bringing about our squeals of delight.

I think the high point of my trip was when a baby whale was on its side next to the boat, and I kissed it.  My mom had warned me about barnacles, and my aunt had warned me about some disease you get from touching a whale, but I was willing to risk it.  Yep, I kissed a whale, and I liked it!  Where do you go from there?  Whale watching will never be the same again! I’ll post the video on my Facebook author page along with a few of my nearly thirty videos from the trip that I can’t stop rewatching.

By the way, up close, barnacles are super gross.  When the whale comes out of the water, there’s this flagellum coming out of the center of the barnacle about a half inch or more.  When my hand approached, it would pull inside.  Ew!!! See photo below of barnacles and the pink whale lice.

Now that I’ve told you the high point of the trip, I need to tell you the low point.  When a whale was leaning against the boat, some of the whale lice must have gotten knocked loose because, as I was petting the whale, I felt something pinching my fingertip.  Looking down, I saw a little tannish thing on my fingertip that looked like a tiny pile of tannish-white grass.  I didn’t have my glasses on, so I just thought, “Huh,” and tried to rinse it off in the salt water.  Didn’t come off.  “Huh.”  So I tried to grab it, but my fingers were waterlogged and not gripping well.  “Huh.”  I tried rubbing it off on my jeans, hard, and it didn’t budge.  Then I freaked out.  This thing was stuck onto my fingertip like you wouldn’t believe!  I ran to the tour operator on the boat, and he said it was one of the whale lice!  Eeeek!  He had to pull it off for me.  Did I mention, Eeeeeek!?  I don’t know how the whales can stand to have the lice on them because the pinching feeling that is probably biting is not pleasant.  Imagine a thousand or more of those little buggers on you biting away.  Eeeeeek!

Needless to say, the whale lice didn’t serve as a deterrent, and I was back petting both baby and adult whales seconds later.  Some of the females were incredibly huge!  In the baleen whale family, the females grow larger than the males.  There’s some more whale trivia for you. Below is a photo of a mother gray whale with her calf in front of it.

At the end of the second day, we were all a little sad to leave these animals and begin the 11-hour drive home the next morning.  The interspecies connection is just so amazing that I can’t find sufficient adjectives to describe it.  Looking into the eye of a whale…even more amazing.  Would I go back and do it again?  Yes.  I want to live there for the three months a year that the whales are there.  I want to spend endless days just floating next to a giant whale, a hand resting on it as I whisper sweet-nothings into the water telling it how perfect and beautiful and majestic and gentle and breathtaking it is.  I want to pause the world around me and stay in that moment of connection that I’d chased for 26 years.  The tour leaders and boat captains are truly the lucky ones because they get to escape to this little piece of Heaven every day for three months.  Speaking of Heaven, I sure hope they have whales in Heaven.  That would give me eternity with them, and that’s the only way my time with them will ever be enough.

After achieving this difficult-to-attain goal, how do I feel? I kinda feel like, if I can do this, there isn’t anything I can’t do!

I’ll post some of the many videos from the trip on my Facebook author page (it’s public).  And, now, on to the next goal!

In case you haven’t heard, The Tunnels 2: Secrets is out and available on Amazon in both paperback and e-book formats!

DIGGING DEATH VALLEY

Tags

#california, california, deathvalley, exotictravel, hiking, landscape, mountains, travel, trip

When I would think of Death Valley, I would envision endless, flat desert and, well, nothing else.  Hence, you can imagine how pleasantly surprised I was when I vacationed there looking for big horn sheep and discovered there were waterfalls, color-streaked mountains, crazy landscapes, large moons, and gorgeous sand dunes! 

First of all, you should know that Death Valley is a national park.  If there’s anything I’ve learned since moving to California is that national parks are the coolest of cool places to visit.  So, if you see someplace labeled as a national park, look no further, you are sure to see nature at its best.

Perhaps my trip peaked early when, just before reaching the park, we encountered wild burros.  Not native to the area, these animals are both survivors and reminders of California’s historic gold rush.  When the prospectors left or switched to gas-powered vehicles, the burros were left behind.  They now roam the lands, often taking handouts from tourists (that prevent both adults and babies from learning to properly forage for themselves) and being lured dangerously close to roadways.

We encountered two sweet mom/baby pairs and one bossy male.  Did I mention baaaaabies?  The babies were so cute in their winter coats that made them appear nearly as fluffy as baby sasquatches.  Sasquatchi?  Anyway, since I was excited to photograph wildlife, I was delighted to take a break with these animals that did not fear humans and even got dangerously close, hoping for a handout.  One female spent a lot of time eyeing the contents of our car through the closed window, and part of me wondered if she was planning to kick it in if she viewed something that appealed to her.  It was sad to think that the prospectors left behind not only ghost towns but, also, these non-native animals who had to learn to survive in a terrain without a lot of water or greenery.  Mean ol’ miners.

The next thing you will view in the distance besides mountains are salt flats.  For the entire trip, you will wonder if it’s water, due to the reflections, but, except for a few small spots, it’s dried salt beds.  Trust me, I’ve done the legwork for you.

As you drive, you will see the mountains ahead made up of various colored layers that indicate the different types of minerals that can be found in the park.  Iron, mica, and gold are a few.

Our first stop was a hike to Darwin Falls.  It was a lucky time of year for the hike because, due to heavy rains this year, the falls were gushing.  I was hoping to see big horn sheep getting a drink, but no such luck.

The next stop was an approximately four-mile hike up and down Mosaic Canyon.  The canyon got its name from the outcroppings of sharp, tiny rock fragments locked into a natural cement.  The pieces form a readily-identifiable mosaic that sits in sharp contrast to the incredibly smooth walls of dolomite.  Because this is a slot canyon, it’s not the place you want to be during one of the flash floods that carved it and smoothed the shiny and slippery dolomite, so check the weather before you start the hike.  I would rate this as a moderate hike, the most difficult part being that you frequently will need to climb up very slippery walls to finish the hike.  It’s slippery, and it’s scary.  Going back to your car, it’s all fun and games as you can literally slide down these walls on your bottom.

Leaving Mosaic Canyon, you have an excellent view of the valley below, including the dunes that provide a great difference in texture and lighting from the large mountains that sit beyond them.  Stopping at the dunes below provides a great photo op and a nice place to watch the sunset’s reflection on the mountains.

Trying to hit every open attraction Death Valley had to offer, Day 2 was busy.  First, we hiked the Golden Canyon Trail that also led us to the Red Cathedral, Zabriskie Point, and a really cool mine that is now gated off, but you can look inside and see that there are two tunnels low enough to keep you from standing upright.

There are two ways you can hike this trail:  One is leaving the parking lot and heading toward a large riverbed or wash and following it up the canyon.  For all you Sci-Fi folks, I heard that portions of Star Wars were filmed here.  The trail will loop around, and you’ll be able to see all of the attractions, but it’s the long route and, well, the Star Wars landscape got a little old after a few miles.  I’d instead recommend skipping that part and just taking Golden Canyon to Red Cathedral (be sure to hike under the rocks on the Indiana-Jones-type trail versus going over), summiting at Zabriskie’s Point, and then going back.  That portion of the trail is far prettier than the Star Wars portion.  There is a lot of good scrambling to be found on this trail as well.

Then comes Devil’s Golf Course.  This is a huge field of large salt chunks.  It’s basically an ankle injury waiting to happen but, if you venture into the field and look very closely, you may be able to find some tiny, tubular salt formations that have not yet collapsed due to foot traffic.  A snowy Telescope Peak in the background makes an excellent photo-op background.

Mosey on down the road to the salt beds.  This consists of a one-mile walk on a white road of salt.  At the end you will find salt flats that extend as far as the eye can see in the form of octagonal shapes.  Again, it’s a cool photo op.  This spot happens to be 272 feet below sea level, and, despite runoff, it gets a little lower with every earthquake.  As you walk back down the white road of salt, you can see a small sign on the cliff in front of you that reminds you how many feet below sea level you are.  Interesting perspective.  The last piece of trivia I have to share on this spot is that, in 1913, it hit 134 degrees, and it’s said that swallows were dropping from the sky.  Poor birdies.

Heading back toward Stovepipe Wells, you come across Artist’s Pallet on your right.  End of the day is a good time to stop here because you’ll get some nice sunset color illuminating the pinks, greens, purples, reds, and yellows.  Each color represents a different kind of mineral.  Kinda cool.  You can hike through these colored hills, but, if you’ve already done everything we did on Day 2, you’ve probably hit the wall and can only focus on finding the nearest saloon.  Yes, they really have at least one saloon in Death Valley, just like the wild, wild west.  If I stumble upon a miner there, I’ll tell him to go feed his burros.

Day 3 is a good time to catch both sunrise and moonset on the dunes.  Sounds like a great photo op, but there will be people out there at 6:45 a.m. spread around and appearing in every photo you try to take, so you’d better be good with Photo Shop if you want a non-people pic.

There is more to see in Death Valley proper, but it’s currently closed.  I was especially bummed to miss The Racetrack.  Its road won’t be open for at least a year due to heavy rains last summer.  For those of you that don’t know, The Racetrack is where large rocks “mysteriously” move on their own accord, leaving behind very long trails in the desolate landscape.  I was especially disappointed to not visit this photo op.

The other place we couldn’t visit was Scotty’s Castle.  They had me at “castle.”  Scotty’s Castle is named for gold prospector Walter Scott, although Scott never owned it, so that’s kinda weird.  Spoiler alert: It’s not an actual castle.  Just a two-story villa.  Not that that’s anything at which to turn up your nose.  We were told that this road is closed indefinitely.  Like, years.

Having entered the park on the west side, we decided to take a different route home and left through the east side of the park, heading towards the Ash Meadows Wildlife Refuge.  Multiple times on the drive we saw big horn sheep crossing signs, but did we see big horn sheep?  Noooo.  Ash Meadows boasts big horn sheep, so I was excited to check “big horn sheep” off my photo bucket list.

For those of you who don’t know, Ash Meadows is an oasis.  Not a palm tree and green grass oasis, but, instead, a brown grass and burnt-appearing-trees oasis.  Clumps of a kind of mistletoe adorn the trees. There are multiple springs, including Devil’s Hole (not all it’s knocked up to be) that bubble up 10,000-year-old rainfall from the earth.

The best spring to visit in the park is Point of Rocks.  Here, you can walk on a boardwalk to this incredibly beautiful spring with the clearest water I’ve ever seen made up of vibrant blues and greens.  This is the home to the endangered pupfish.  They got their name because they frolic like puppies (I wasn’t seeing that), and they were the first animal to be placed on the endangered species list in 1967.  These small, slightly larger than a guppy sized fish only live here in these springs.  They’re bright blue and very pretty.  One sign I read said there were only 200-400 of these tiny fish left, but there are a few different kinds of pupfish here, and I’m not sure if that’s all inclusive or just the fish in this spring.  Maybe it was all inclusive because I felt like I was only seeing about 20 in this spring.

This spring was also to be the location where I was most likely to see big horn sheep.  Did I see them?  Nooo.  Other than ravens, which I learned are different than crows (ravens have much larger beaks), a couple small birds and the burros were the only wildlife I saw on the trip.  So no great wildlife shots, but there were some pretty cool landscape photos that I’ll share more of on my Facebook Kristie Dickinson author page.

The irony of Death Valley is that there is a very large water reservoir running under it.  Maybe that’s from where the pupfish originate, or maybe there’s some underground world where the big horn sheep hang out during the day.  Needless to say, I definitely “dug” Death Valley, but getting a big-horn-sheep photo op is still on my bucket list.  The search will continue.

***

The Tunnels 2: Secrets completes the Harbor Secret Series. The first four books, The Tunnels, Devil’s Elbow, Leviathan, and Summerset are all available in audiobook format as well as paperback and ebook! Link below.

THE TUNNELS 2: SECRETS PAPERBACK AVAILABLE!

Tags

#fiction, #newbook, adventure, Amazon, Book, historical, mystery, relationship, Romance, secrets, TheTunnels2

For the next couple weeks, the paperback version of The Tunnels 2: Secrets will be available on Amazon! After that, the paperback version will only be available at book signings and other author-appearance events. The e-book version will remain available indefinitely. For my Paul and Phyllis fans, here is a glimpse into the continuation of their story.

*****

In 1930, as the war of rage that was actually a raid carried on inside the underground speakeasy known as Club Manitou, Paul remained standing inside the tunnel with Phyllis.  She had agreed to run away with him, leaving her husband and world of privilege behind, and they waited for the noise inside to subside.  As the gunshots gave way to loud voices, she had confessed that she had something she wanted to discuss with him.  Paul had glazed over her comment as his close proximity to the heiress, his body pressed against hers, had easily distracted him.  He had readily dismissed her plea with “Tell me later.  I’m going to have forever with you.”

                As his mouth lingered at her bejeweled earlobe, he hesitated, wanting to take her right then and there, against the wall in the damp tunnel, but his survival instinct overrode his carnal desires.  “I need to stop and get something, and then we’ll,” he hesitated to say the word, concerned it would frighten her, “disappear.”

                She used her hand to pull his mouth from her ear and look into his eyes.  “I’ve never really been close to anyone in my life, but” fear of scaring him off causing her to hesitate before pressing forward, “it’s different with you.”  Her eyes studied his, awaiting a reaction.  When no reaction came, she whispered, “I’ll follow you anywhere, even if it’s into Hell.”

                He smirked.  “Hopefully, it won’t come to that,” he brushed a loose strand of hair admiringly from her face, “but you know we can’t stay in Michigan.”

                “Why not?”

                He hesitated to answer because he knew there was a very good chance that the truth would scare her away, hell or no hell.  No longer was he going to let her make incorrect assumptions about him.  He was going to be the man he was and tell her the truth.  He was going to give her the opportunity to make an informed decision before she left with him.

                Gathering all his courage, he spoke softly as the raid inside the club raged on.  Screams followed a lone gunshot that had probably ended a life as he chose this moment to fully disclose his true self to the only woman he had ever really loved.  “Phyllis, I’m not who you think I am.”

                Phyllis’s only response was to search his eyes for answers before he continued.

                “I’m not a waiter.”

                “Of course you’re not just a waiter,” she said in a tone that let him know she was trying to be supportive of someone beneath her.

                He knew what she assumed, and it hurt him knowing she was incorrect.  He was a terrible person.  He was not some innocent person who waited tables or seated patrons in a speakeasy owned by The Purple Gang of Detroit.  “Have you ever heard of The Purple Gang?” he asked the question, working slowly into his confession.

                “Yes,” she answered.  “Everyone knows who they are.  They own this place.”

                Paul nodded to let her know that her understanding was indeed correct.  “I’m a member of the gang, Phyllis.”

                Not looking away, Phyllis’s eyes still searched his for unspoken answers.  When no additional information came forth, she whispered, “I see.”

                “I’m not a good person.”  When she didn’t respond, he continued, “Phyllis, I’ve killed people.”  He was caught off guard as Phyllis didn’t recoil but instead silently took in the information he gave her.  “A lot of people,” he added.  She still didn’t so much as flinch.  “If we leave tonight, the Purple Gang will look for me.  We’d be living our life on the run and in hiding.”

                “I understand.”

                “We’d have to leave Michigan,” he said again, wanting her full understanding.

                Now comprehending, she repeated, “I understand.”

                “You deserve so much more, such a better life, but that’s all I can offer you,” he continued to confess.  “I want you to be clear about that before we leave.”

                “I understand,” she again confirmed before adding, “but I have something to tell you as well.”

                He put a finger over her lips as they heard authorities on the other side of the wall that separated them.  They had found the secret room.  “Tell me later,” he whispered to her.  “I just needed you to know who I really am.  I need you to make an informed decision if you choose to leave with me.”  He waited for a disgusted look to wash over her face.  He waited for her to push him away from her.  He waited for her to break his cold heart into a million pieces.  Instead, her answer astounded him.

                “I don’t think I’ve ever been more attracted to you,” she said as she pushed her body against his and kissed him.

                One of his hands that had lifted her skirt and now rested on her thigh moved to her buttocks and pulled her to him.

                “There’s gotta be an exit around here somewhere,” they heard a voice inside the secret room announce.  “Tear these shelves off the wall, fellas.”

                The realization that the Sheriff’s Department may be interrupting their intimate moment caused Paul to halt the consummation of their newly-understood relationship.  “So you’re in?”

                “Yes,” she said.

                His grip leaving her buttock with a final squeeze, he grabbed her hand in his and led her down the tunnel.  “This way.”

                The two turned and darted down the dark tunnel as shelves on the opposite wall were thrown to the floor.  Running hand in hand, Paul heard the secret door push open.  Light streamed into the underground cavern, and a voice yelled to the two shadows that disappeared into the darkness.  “Hey!  Stop!”

                Not obeying the command, the couple dashed ahead into the darkness as a gunshot ricocheted off the cobblestone walls and small amounts of dirt dropped from the ceiling.

                “Straight ahead will take us to the airport,” Paul said as they sprinted away from their predators.  “We keep a pilot on standby there so we can take off in an emergency.”

                As their unprepared would-be captors fumbled in the darkness behind them, Paul pulled back on Phyllis’s hand.  Her eyes adjusting to the dim light, Phyllis could see they were at an intersection in the underground world.  “Why are you stopping?” she asked in a winded voice.

                “I have to get something,” he said, pulling her into a different tunnel that would lead away from the airport tunnel.

                “Who’s got a lighter?” they heard someone behind them ask.

                “Paul, can’t we come back for it?” she asked, frightened.

                Paul hesitated.  “Phyllis, it’s everything.  It will give us a comfortable life.  It will get us out of Michigan.”

                “I’ve got one,” a voice behind them announced as a small light illuminated the tunnel, not quite reaching the runaway lovers.

                “Paul, they’ll catch us.”

                “But we need this,” he told her.  “I have all of $50 in my pocket.”

                Her eyes were large with terror as she urged him to give up his plan.  “I have money.  We can stop by the house.”

                He shook his head.  “No time.  The cops will seize our plane.  We’ll be caught.”

                As the small light neared, Phyllis’s mind searched for an appropriate answer before saying, “We’ll fly to Detroit.  I’ll get money there.”

                “Is it safe?” he asked, reluctant to leave behind a fortune that would guarantee them a life of amenities while on the run.

                In the darkness, Phyllis squeezed his hand.  “It’s your turn to trust me.”

                “I see them!” someone called out behind them.  “Freeze, or I’ll shoot!”                

As the light hit Paul and Phyllis’s eyes, similar to deer in headlights, they momentarily froze before looking at each other.  Paul gave a nod and then hesitated, giving her a final chance to go back to her life of comfort with her husband.  Without looking away, Phyllis nodded in return.  One gripping the hand of the other, the two turned and disappeared into the dark tunnel that would lead not only to the airport but also to a new life far from the lives they knew.  It would be a life together.

*****

Below is the direct link to purchase the paperback book. Thank you to all the readers who have now read all five books in the Harbor Secret Series! Your support is greatly appreciated.

THE TUNNELS 2: SECRETS

Tags

Amazon, Book, books, harborsecret, harborsprings, historicalfiction, historicalmystery, mystery, newbook, Romance, secret, sequel

After half the town of Harbor Springs reached out to tell me about their experiences in the tunnels, I felt compelled to write this sequel to The Tunnels. Here’s some special insider information for my blog readers: The story of Paul and Phyllis didn’t end quite where The Tunnels led you to believe! Below, you can find the book blurb as well as a link to its Amazon page.

Harbor Springs, a small resort town in northern Michigan that once served as the summer home to The Purple Gang of Detroit, is a town where everyone, even Fire Chief Jason Lange, has a secret.

Reluctant to make wedding plans, Kylie Branson, Harbor Springs’ only cupcake maker, and her dog again go exploring, this time placing her fiancé, Jason Lange, at risk. As Kylie uncovers more tunnels and their forgotten secrets, she finally understands her marriage concerns…but is it too late? Follow Kylie, Jason, Cupcake, and the Harbor gang as they discover another Harbor secret.

THE SHIRT

Tags

change, dad, death, shirt

               From seventh grade through most of high school, one of my chores was to do the family’s ironing.  Because my dad wore dress shirts to teach in five days a week and another on Sunday, he was my main customer.  I tried gifting him sweaters, but he would just wear a dress shirt under the sweater, so that didn’t ease my burden.  Turtlenecks were a “no sale.”

               To this day, I really, really, really don’t like ironing and am so glad the steamer was invented.

               On a recent Saturday, as I helped pick out my dad’s final and maybe most important outfit, I saw his shirt needed to be ironed.  As I opened the ironing board of my youth and began to iron, fully intending to only iron the collar and front because he’d be wearing a suit, and no one would know otherwise, I realized that I would know.  I would know that I’d put in a less than 100 percent effort on my dad’s final shirt.

               As I tried to keep the drops of salt water from falling onto the garment, I struggled with clogged cans of spray starch and stubborn wrinkles that, no matter how much steam I used, it wasn’t enough.  It wasn’t good enough.  My work wasn’t good enough.  It had to be perfect for my dad.  He had to look his best, not like someone who had his shirt ironed by a seventh grader. I continued to work on the shirt until I couldn’t.

               As we drove to drop off my dad’s clothes, I looked into the back of the car to see the shirt hanging in front of his suit, the suit’s arms wrapped around my work, bringing about tiny wrinkles in the shirt and causing my heart to break just a little bit more.

               I know my dad is in a place where he now wears a much better shirt than the one I ironed.  It’s probably a wrinkle-free fabric; so, in the grand scheme of things, the shirt he wears here today is probably not really that important.  It’s just a shirt.  But, besides memories and photos, what you see here today is the piece of him that we’re left with, and I wanted to honor him by giving him my best.

               As we get older, first our grandparents and then our parents gradually become this quiet presence in the background of our lives.  Even though we’ve grown to be independent and don’t need them as much as we used to, we know they’re always there until, one day, they’re not.  Once that happens, you reflect back on your last conversations and final words.  Other than a weak “Hi, Honey,” on the phone, the last time I spoke to my dad in person, his last sentence to me was, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

               I’ll see you, Dad.  I’ll see you.

MAGICAL MO’OREA

Tags

bucketlisttrip, cetacean, jungleparadise, livingthedream, moorea, outsidemycomfortzone, swimmingwithwhales, travel, whale, whales

Many people are satisfied living a life of routine.  Maybe the routine is something like go to work, go to the gym, and then watch TV until you fall asleep.  Rinse and repeat.  That’s not me.  I’m not the person who plans to start living their life when they retire, and I’m not the person who makes excuses.  There will always be an excuse not to do something…money, fear, guilt and, oh, my favorite “it’s haaaard.”   Again, that’s not me.  I’ve had my wake-up call, and I know I’m working on a time limit.

Some of you know that I love whales.  When I saw an opportunity to swim with them in the wilds of Mo’orea, I said, “Sign me up!”  When I heard it was dangerous, I said, “I’ll take two!”

For those of you who don’t know, Moorea is a lush, green, mountainous, tropical island located somewhere between California and New Zealand.  Formed by an erupting volcano, the mountains appear to be tectonic plates thrust up into their air, creating incredibly steep, thin green mountains.  At first sight, the island looks like a possible setting for an Indiana Jones movie, Jurassic Park, or one of my favorites, Love Affair, starring Annette Bening and Warren Beatty.  All of this lush green jungle would surely have snakes, right?  Nooooo.  At least that’s what I’ve been told, and I’ll choose to believe it for the time being.

To get to Mo’orea, you fly to Tahiti and take a ferry.  Being located in French Polynesia, surprise, everyone there speaks French or Tahitian.  I know this because, being immediately smitten with the beautiful island upon seeing the highest peak, which I intend to climb, my first question was, “Do they have a courthouse here?  If so, what language do they speak?”  Yes, they have a courthouse; but, unfortunately, English isn’t the primary language spoken there.

This island is a place where the locals aren’t afraid to tell you that their ancestors traveled here from southeast Asia and brought along dogs, pigs, and chickens.  Sadly, all for food versus companionship.  Of course, they also ate humans, which caused me to glance twice at our tour guide in case she had any intentions of whipping up a batch of Kristie Soup.  Since the humans they ate were usually invaders, I didn’t feel too badly about it.  If you’re going to go around invading places that aren’t yours, you run the risk of being eaten.  The dogs, on the other hand, were innocent bystanders.  Our guide even told me that the chestnut-colored doggies were considered the tastiest.  My mind wandered to the possibility of bringing home all chestnut-colored dogs before I was quickly reassured that dogs were no longer eaten in Mo’orea.  Again, that’s the story I was told, and that’s what I’m going to run with.

As mentioned above, I came here to swim with whales.  Specifically, humpback whales and their babies.  Mo’orea and Tahiti are where humpbacks migrate to after leaving their feeding grounds in the cold waters of Antarctica.  In the warm waters of Mo’orea, they will give birth to their young.  Those not giving birth will likely be getting their groove on mating or maybe just frolicking.

My friend and I went with a travel group, and there were two rib boats.  Our boat had six passengers, a captain, and a crew member/scout.

In our briefing, we were told that there are three kinds of whales here:  Moving whales, active whales, and resting whales.  Active whales are socializing, breaching, and tail and pec fin slapping.  Not something you want to get in the way of with a 45-foot, 40-ton animal.  Resting whales are what we were to look for.

Much of Mo’orea is surrounded by a reef that breaks the large waves of the ocean into shallow, turquoise water.  If whales are seen inside the harbor or reef area, it’s illegal to swim with them.  They are likely in distress.  It’s also illegal to Scuba dive with the whales, but snorkeling is A-OK, and that’s what we were to do.

As a little background, I’ve snorkeled before, but it’s been about twenty years, and it was in a protected cove, not in the middle of a wavy, black sea.  It’s not as easy as it looks when you’re jumping into black water in the middle of the ocean with giant swells and Lord-knows-what waiting for you below.  Scary, right?  Now that it’s over, yes, the thought of what was below crossed my mind every day for six days.  I just had to suck it up and get over my fear.

On Day 1, about an hour out of the harbor, not only did we spot a whale, but the heat penetrated my waisted wetsuit, making me horribly hot, and that led to motion sickness.  Ugh.  I really wanted to see the whales, but it was everything I could do to keep from tossing my poorly-made omelet that was supposed to be spinach and mushroom but turned out to be cucumber, carrot, and tomatoes.  Double ugh!  Lost in translation.

Once you find one or more whales, the captain and scout will check out the whale’s breathing pattern and determine whether it’s moving or not before yelling to us, “Get ready!”  That means get your wetsuit zipped up, fins on, hood on, mask over eyes, snorkel ready to go, and have your camera equipment in hand.  The scout is first to gear up, jump in, and locate the submerged whale.  Seeing the scout’s raised fist in the air means they’re on the whale, and we can get out of the boat.

A little intimidated by the serious scuba divers in the group and the black unknown that I was jumping into, I was last out of the boat wearing my cute, little baby fins that I bought because I thought they’d be easier to travel with.  Boy, was I wrong!  Once you plunge into the unknown, you start snorkeling towards your scout.  Face down, I found myself panicking and gasping for air as the large swells often kept not only the rest of the group from my sight but the boat as well.  Feeling alone in a vast sea, scenes from Titanic flashed through my mind, and I desperately wanted Rose’s headboard to float on.

Minutes in, one of my fins popped off.  I struggled to grab it and put it back on, quickly getting left behind.  Fortunately, the scout saw me lagging and came over with a boogie board for me to hang on to while I put my fin back on.  Then he let me use the boogie board to catch up to the rest of the group, but not before a fin slipped off a second time.  So much for the cute fins that got me nowhere fast.  By this time, the whale had moved on, and we had to return to the boat.  Strike one.

I was really shaken up by the swell that had separated me from the world around me, and so I decided to just stay in the boat the rest of the day and take photos.  Actually, I was pretty sure I’d be fine sitting in the boat for the rest of the trip, but being a big, fat chicken is not the way I roll, and so, the next morning, I borrowed some longer fins, put on my big-girl pants, and decided to try again.

The second day, we had to travel to the other side of the island before spotting whales near the channel between Tahiti and Mo’orea.  This time, the crew had me take a boogie board with me as a security blanket, and things went much better.

As I kicked away with my borrowed replacement flippers that weren’t cute but did the job, I approached the scout and looked around for some direction.  He told me it was a singer and pointed down into the blue water around me.  I poked my masked face into the water and, not only could I hear that eerie and kinda scary sounding whale song (they either sound mad or sad), but right below me I saw a large male humpback just hanging out in one spot at the bottom and singing his little (actually, it’s pretty big) heart out.  Some of his song sounded sad, like he was lonely, and other parts sounded like he was mad and going to kill me with a swish of his peduncle or tail.

As I continued to watch him sing, slowly, he started to effortlessly float up from the bottom of the sea, heading straight towards me.  As he got closer, I turned on my GoPro and worried that he would run into me as he came up for air.  Fortunately, he went right by me to come up for his breath.  Wow, what a feeling!  The way the vibrations from his song had penetrated my chest was indescribable.  I also got to swim with two other whales in a different location on Day 2. 

Day 3 was the best.  The swell had been tough on me, and I lingered in the boat for about a half hour watching the rest of the group play with a baby while its mom rested at the bottom.  The baby even breached near them.  I kept thinking the baby would get bored and leave, so I didn’t go into the water.  When one of the group members returned to change his GoPro battery, I went back out with him, and, boy, did it ever work out!  I was only in the water for minutes before the baby turned towards me.  Holding up my GoPro, I watched as it became visible in the water and slowly swam straight towards me.  As it passed by, I almost wet myself when I looked down to see a giant mama whale right under me moving in stealth mode!  Yeowza!  Slowly, she came to the surface to join her baby, and off they finally went.  FYI, as far as these large, baleen whales go, the females grow larger than the males.

On Day 4, we saw lots of whales, but none were resting, and so, every time we got into the water, they would move on.  Same with Day 5 until the last 15 minutes when we came upon a cow/calf pair.  Right in front of me, I saw mom and baby doing a corkscrew to the surface that was like a beautiful ballet.  I held out my GoPro, pressed “Record,” and a red banner popped up across the top.  I didn’t have my reading glasses on, so I couldn’t read the message, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t recording.  I wanted to cry.  Others in the group got the most amazing photos of this cow/calf pair, and I had nothing.

Determined to up my odds and not leave on a downside, I signed up for the extra day, which was Day 6 of swimming.  Although we still saw a few whales, including a baby that breached about eight times, all the whales were moving, and we couldn’t get into the water until the last half hour or so when we came upon a singer.  I could hear the whale singing from the boat, but, getting into the water three different times, we couldn’t see it.  My only great photo op on Day 6 was returning to the harbor to see a rainbow across the lush, green mountains.

So that was Day 6 of whale watching and the end of my time on the water; however, there was more to explore in Mo’orea.  On our first island day, we took a safari tour that was awesome!  We went up Magic Mountain on a tiny two-track that sometimes dropped off on both sides to get a view of “the real Cook’s Bay” as well as another bay on the other side of the mountain.  Sitting in the back of the truck, branches hit us, and I soon noticed they were filled with fruit, so we grabbed a mango and a couple of star fruit off the trees!  I wish I’d thought to do that on the way up as well!

Our tour also took us to a sugarcane plantation and a pineapple plantation, where we got to taste and buy bottles of wonderful pineapple wine to bring home.  We also went to a botanical garden where we saw all kinds of exotic fruit being grown such as soursop, noni, star apple, persimmons, and more.  They also had an enclosed vanilla farm.  If you’ve ever bought a vanilla bean in the States, you know they’re crazy expensive!  They’re like the cocaine of bakers.  They were much less expensive here and fresh, so we bought some of those to take home.

The last stop on the safari tour was at a 400-year-old temple that was basically a low stone wall with some chestnut trees growing inside it.  The wall was meant to keep the women and children out while still letting them observe what went on.  The temple activities included human sacrifices, and we saw the raised stage area where the sacrificial acts occurred.

On our last day of the trip, we had hoped to hike Pierce Mountain.  It’s the highest of the crazy-steep mountains, and it has an eye hole at the top.  I heard from our safari guide that the trail was difficult to find, so I tried to find a hiking guide.  The guides were not available until two days after we left, and it rained the day before, so it would be slippery.  Instead, we found a guide to take us to the waterfall located part of the way up Pierce Mountain, which I was very anxious to photograph.

A few pro tips for Mo’orea.  Wild chickens are a thing.  Even though the sun rises around 6:30 a.m., the roosters seem to think it’s up at 3:40 a.m.  Don’t expect to sleep in.  Wild pigs are the only other wild animal here.  No monkeys.

It’s not recommended that you drink water from the tap, so you will need to buy a lot of water.  Bring a refillable water bottle.

Our hotel’s food was subpar, so, after the first day, we had to venture out for all meals that were not supplied on the boat.  The best place we found was a pizza place just a ten-minute walk away.  They offered very unique pizza toppings, and my favorite was goat cheese and honey!  I had that pizza three days of the trip and can’t remember the last time I’d eaten so many carbs.

It rained three out of eight days that we were there, so bring a light raincoat.

Lotsa mountains on this small island, so, if hiking is your jam, bring hiking boots and gloves for the ropes.

WiFi is spotty, even when sitting right next to the source, so don’t plan on connecting with the outside world unless your phone has an international plan.  The first few days without internet are tough but, just like sea sickness, you will adapt.

The chocolate bars in the stores are European, the most popular being the Milka brand.  They also sell Bounty bars, which were discontinued in the States over 25 years ago, so you can pick up this special treat here.

Every exotic fruit you can think of is grown here, and it’s fun to have someone who knows what they’re doing tell you how to eat the fruit.  Hibiscus and many tropical flowers are easily found growing wild.

There is a cove referred to as Stingray City that allows you to snorkel with wild stingrays and sharks that hang out there.  We did that.  Most of the sharks I saw were black-tipped reef sharks, and it was kinda freaky to see them coming straight towards you and then turn away at the last second.  I also got to pet a stingray, which was cool.

French is the dominant language here, and it’s really difficult to understand some of the locals, as I’m sure it’s difficult for them to understand us.  If you learn some basic French before you arrive, it could help a lot.

Tipping is appreciated but not expected.  We were told this by our cab driver on the first day when we tried to offer a tip that she didn’t really seem to want.

Mo’orea is three hours behind California time.

It’s fun to meet people with similar interests from all over the word in these tour groups, and maybe we’ll be Instagram connections for the rest of our lives.  Maybe we’ll never see them again, but maybe, just maybe, our paths will cross on another adventure.

Swimming with whales was a once-in-a-lifetime experience that I’m so thankful that I was able to enjoy and check off my goal list.  I may do it again in the future, but I’ll shoot for a different location to explore when I do.  I’ll need to keep that goal at the top of my list because I have a feeling that this activity may one day be banned.  I saw many people disrespect the animals by getting too close and even sometimes touching them.  As with anything, if the privilege is abused, it will be taken away.

Mo’orea was a great adventure that I’ll never forget.  I stepped waaaay outside of my comfort zone to check swimming with whales off my bucket list, and it was worth it!  Below are a few photos from the trip.  I’ll post the videos of me swimming with whales, sharks, and rays on my Facebook Kristie Dickinson author page.

Time will eventually run out for all of us.  May we all spend it not being big, fat chickens and following our dreams.

View from the pineapple plantation

View from our beach

This mountain looks like a temple to me. 🙂

I love these resorts!

A humpback whale throwing its tail.

See the divers in front of the whale and Tahiti in the background?

Diver heads in front of the humpback whale.

Boobies on a buoy.

The landscape was breathtaking…every…single…day.

The beautiful water color inside the reef.

A humpback slapping its tail over and over again on a rainy day.

My rainbow pic on the last day!

The really tall waterfall.

GOING BACK TO MY ROOTS

Tags

#dance, #danceroots, #fear, #hiphop, #roots, #thepast, Dance, danceroots, fear, hiphop, roots, thepast

For the last six or seven months, I’d been toying with the idea of taking a dance class.  For those of you who aren’t familiar with my past, let’s just say that dance was once a very big part of my life.  I had once taught classes, choreographed not only pieces but full shows, and had danced professionally all over the world.  Although I stopped teaching and performing about fifteen years ago, I still kept my foot in the door with some occasional choreography or appearing in a commercial or friend’s video.  Fifteen years is a long time.

When a friend told me about an adult hip-hop class, I jumped at the chance to use some long-forgotten muscles but soon found that dance has changed a lot from the world I once lived in.  Let me explain.

The dance world I came from was a world of structure and discipline.  Your hair was pulled back in either a bun or ponytail, you wore form-fitting clothes so the instructor could see and correct your alignment, you wore dance shoes, and you arrived early so you could have your shoes on and be ready to start promptly.  Although the hip-hop classes that I had taught were more lax, the basic rules still applied.

The class I’d signed up for was more of an exercise class than a formal dance class, and I’d been warned that there was a short warmup, and then you would go straight to choreography.  There would be no across-the-floor section where you would work on turns, kicks, and leaps.  That was okay with me because I didn’t think my body was ready for leaps, and my extensions certainly weren’t what they used to be.

My friend and I signed up for the class two weeks ahead of time and, as soon as I’d signed up, I began to feel nervous.  A lot of the nervousness comes from the unexpected.  Maybe these people were all professional dancers.  Maybe I wouldn’t be able to remember the choreography.  Maybe I couldn’t keep up with the cardio.  Maybe they would laugh at me.  Every insecurity in the world set in.  To add to my worries, the day after I’d signed up for the class, my doctor told me no hiking or running until further testing could be completed.  Technically, this wasn’t climbing a mountain or running the miles I’d previously put in every morning, but I was pretty sure it exceeded the walking to which he’d limited me.  So I had an additional fear of my body failing me and, to make it worse, it could fail me in front of a group of strangers.

The day of the class, I was a mess.  I had to incorporate relaxing breathing exercises all day, including in the parking lot before entering the dance studio and a few times after I entered.  Gee, I don’t put pressure on myself at all, do I?  Ugh.

I was the first one there.  Most of the others arrived just a couple minutes before class started, including the instructor.  Right away, I realized that this class was much more loosey-goosey than I’d been used to.  Everyone wore whatever they wanted, be it loose or midriff.  Most of the ladies had their hair down, and there was not a dance shoe in the place, which was okay since I’d donated my dance shoes to a place in Michigan before I’d left…a move I’ve regretted ever since.

Staying with the loosey-goosey theme, the instructor, without a word, went to the front of the class and led us through some quick stretches.  Other than having nothing going on in the balance department, I did okay on the stretches.

Then came the choreography.  I’ve never felt that I picked up choreography quickly but, to my delight, the instructor taught small segments at a time and then repeated them many times before moving on.  To my disappointment, there were no counts.  Counts are a part of the structured world I came from.  Counts let me consistently learn the choreography before I make it my own.  Counts have always been my happy place.

Standing in the front row, I followed along as the instructor taught the choreography, sometimes with counts, sometimes without, and sometimes the same choreography had different counts than the previous time we went through it.  Oy, was I confused!

Having learned half the choreography — which, in my world, would be four counts of eight — went well.  Then the instructor added the music.  The movements started out on the counts in my mind, but then, by the end, it seemed the goal was to just do the movements as fast as you could, regardless of what the music was doing.  The only reason I know this is because there was a twenty-something superstar dancer next to me in the front row who seemed pretty confident about matching the movements to the music, so I just looked at her every time I got lost…which seemed to be often.

Then came the next three or four counts of eight (who really knows).  Again, the instructor was super good about doing a lot of repetition, so I felt reasonably comfortable with the choreography, it was just putting it to the music that was a challenge for me.  Again, not having counts, it seemed you just had to do the movements as fast as you could the farther we got into the choreography. 

After we learned the whole routine, the instructor pointed to me and told me I was doing a good job picking up the choreography, which was really nice since I was incorporating the “fake it until you make it” ideal.

Then came the performing.  Unlike my structured world, we would dance the combo through a few times to one song, and then the instructor would change the music to either a slower or faster song.  I’ve always learned choreo to one particular piece of music, so not only was this different for me, but I felt like I was flopping around trying to figure out which movements went with what beats.

At the end of the class, we had all worked up a good sweat, much to my doctor’s chagrin, and I’d survived my first dance class in fifteen-plus years.  The instructor walked past everyone else, high-fived me, and again told me I’d picked up the choreography really well before asking if it was my first class.  Oy, if she had to ask, I wasn’t the rock star I’d hoped to look like. I explained that it used to be my job, and she laughed, calling me a “cheater.”

All in all, it was a good experience that I’d spent way too much time getting myself worked up about.  It was fun to be in the front row again, and it was fun to see if my mind and body still remembered something that had once been such an integral part of my life but now seems like a past life.  Yes, I would try it again.  Yes, I might look for a similar class that uses counts.  Yes, I might browse around for a lyrical dance class.  No, I will not wear my hair down in a dance class.  Every girl has her limits.

May you all go back to your roots and spin into your destiny.

THE TUNNELS 2 – COMING LATE SUMMER/FALL 2022

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Book, books, harborsprings, love, Michigan, preview, prologue, Romance, thetunnels, TheTunnels2, tunnels

            Len Burnstein, Purple Gang member and son of one of the original brothers, Abe Burnstein, sat in his cell at Michigan’s Jackson Prison, resigned to his fate.  He had just turned eighty, and he knew he would never see another birthday on the outside of these cement-block walls.  The Parole Board had just turned him down a second time, and he now knew he had a job to do.  He had a story that needed to be told and information that needed to be shared.

               Len had started his criminal career working under his father’s tutelage on the east side of Detroit.  As the empire run by his father and uncles had expanded, his father had sent him north one summer to work as a runner in the safer atmosphere of Club Manitou.

               When Len had arrived, Willy was the head runner for the club, and Len had trained under, then assisted, and finally replaced Willy by the end of the summer.

               Len leaned back in his cell and smiled, remembering the summer evenings he had spent working with Willy and the day’s early morning hours he had spent chasing after Evie.  Evie had been his first love, and he’d been smitten from the first moment he’d seen her at the Harbor Beach to which he and Willy had often biked.

               Evie had had a short, dark bob with heavy bangs, as was the fashion at the time.  Her skin was snowy white, and her eyes large and blue.  She had become the reason behind everything he’d done that summer and the reason why he’d begged his father to let him stay in Harbor Springs for the school year.

               “The club will be closed, and you’re not old enough to stay up there alone yet,” Abe, his father, had told the boy.  “Besides, you’re in a good school here, and you’re gonna finish.”

               “You didn’t finish,” Len had argued.

               “You’re right,” his father had agreed.  “And I want more for you.”

               “I’m fifteen,” Len had pushed his cause.  When his father didn’t bend, Len continued with “Willy said I can stay with his family,” offering the false statement as a last attempt.

               Abe spoke to his son in a tone that let Len know the subject wasn’t up for debate.  “Do you realize all your family has been through so you could have a better life?  Do you realize where we came from and the things we have done to make sure that you get the best schooling and the opportunities that we never had?”

               Len felt deflated.  He’d heard it all before.  He’d heard how his family had emigrated here from Eastern Europe and how they had arrived with nothing.  He’d heard how his father and uncles had resorted to extortion, stealing, smuggling, and murder so they could make a name for themselves in this new country.  He knew he was a special kind of royalty that could only be found in America yet, today, here he sat in a prison cell.  Here he sat with secrets and opportunities that he now realized he would take to the grave with him if he didn’t do something about it.  Even if he got out now, he would be too old to travel and too old to spend the forgotten treasure before his hourglass ran out.

               His sweet childhood memories of Evie evaporated as a loud buzzer sounded and two prison guards walked down his row, stopping at his cell.

               “You have a visitor,” the first guard announced coldly, fumbling through a ring of keys before sliding one into the keyhole on Len’s barred door and swinging it open.

               Len wasn’t surprised.  It was Tuesday, and, every Tuesday, he had one visitor.  Without saying a word, Len stood, turned his back to the guard, and held his hands behind his back.  The first guard placed cuffs on his wrists and shackles on his ankles as the second, a newbie in his twenties, looked on.

               “The guy is so old he can barely walk,” the second guard observed.  “Does he really need the chains?”

               As the first guard stood and turned Len around to face his captors, he said, “If you knew what he’s done, you would never say that.”

               The second guard looked at Len in a new light and stepped out of the way as Len exited his cell.

               The guard ushered Len down the noisy row of cells, through the first security check, and then down a lower-security row of cells.  After what felt like an exhausting walk to Len, he arrived at the visiting room that was divided by a row of cubicles and Plexiglass wall that separated the free from the unfree.

               “Over there,” the first guard pointed.

               Len followed the point, moved to a chair, and waited as the shackles were removed from his hands.

               “You have ten minutes,” the first guard said, reiterating information that Len knew all too well.

               As Len dropped into his chair, he saw a taller, younger version of himself sitting on the other side of the Plexiglass, and his dark brown eyes softened into a smile.  Lifting the phone in the cubicle, he spoke into the receiver.  “Erik, how are you?”

               The handsome man in his thirties with dark hair and blue eyes looked back adoringly.  “Hi, Grandpa.”

               Over the years, Len had learned how much things had changed on the outside.  Although the original members had lived in fear until their end, the remaining gang members had eventually lost power, shrunk in size, become obsolete, and finally dissipated.  Their descendants now lived the life that the gang members had always wanted for them:  They were well-educated lawyers, bankers, investors, and shrewd businessmen.  Although they had drifted from their origins, they were well aware of their roots and always showed preference towards their fellow descendants when it came to business, each making sure the other was successful.

               Len also knew that, by the time Erik’s generation had come along, his history seemed like nothing more than some kind of myth that his older relatives would talk about but that the grandchildren didn’t really believe.

               After the usual chit-chat, Len’s demeanor changed.  “Erik, there’s something I need to tell you before you leave today.”

               “Yeah, Grandpa?  What’s up?” Erik asked in a lighthearted tone.

               “There’s something I need you to get.”

               “Sure, Grandpa.  Anything.”

               “It’s a ways away, in northern Michigan.”

               Erik began to roll his eyes and dropped against the back of his chair.  “This isn’t another Club Manitou story, is it?”

               Len hid his irritation at his grandson’s impatience by lowering his voice and leaning forward in the cubicle.  “This isn’t some story, Erik, and I only have a few minutes, so listen up.”

               Erik, acting as if he knew what was coming and it was something he’d heard many times before, begrudgingly leaned back into the cubicle.  “Okay, okay.  What do you need, Grandpa?”

               “I’m not even sure if the building is still standing,” Len began.

               “What building?  Club Manitou?”

               “Shh,” Len chastised.  “Keep your voice down.  Yes, that place,” he whispered into the corded phone.  “If the building on top isn’t standing anymore, you need to know that there was a whole world underneath it.”

               “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Erik said impatiently.  “There are tunnels and escape routes, and yada, yada, yada.”

               “And a fortune,” Len added the three words that caught Erik’s attention.

               “Fortune?  Really?  Yours?”

               Len felt like a bit of a traitor as his grandson’s last question came out.  Some of the urgency left his voice. “No, it’s not mine.”

               “Then I’m not getting involved,” Erik said, holding up his hands.  Although stories of The Purple Gang ran through his family, and he and his cousins regarded them as exaggerations and maybe even myths, he was well aware of the rules and consequences that occurred when you put your hands on something that wasn’t yours.

               “But,” Len continued, “if no one has claimed it by now, it’s mine by default.”

               “Before I go digging around the northern Michigan woods for some treasure, can you at least tell me who it rightfully belongs to?”

               Len looked side to side before saying the name of the man he had never met but Willy, his northern Michigan friend and former runner for Club Manitou, had once thought walked on water.  He was an original member of The Purple Gang, and word had it that he was calm, cool, collected, accomplished, and had women chasing after him.  Len smirked as he remembered hearing that there was one woman in particular who had his superior’s eye.  Willy had told Len that the man would never admit it, but he would have done anything for that woman…even leave the only life he had ever known.  Whispering into the phone as if uttering the name would resurrect the man and his wrath back from the grave, Len divulged, “Paul Preston.”

               The color left Erik’s face.  That was a name that even his generation knew.  Paul had been one of the biggest hit men for the Purple Gang, so much so that he had been sent to northern Michigan to work in their speakeasy until things cooled off in Detroit.  Legend had it that Paul and an heiress had mysteriously disappeared during a raid at the club.  After their disappearance, things had begun to fall apart as the feds cracked down on the club.  When prohibition had ended, gambling had been the only source of income, and even that faded out after a few years.  “How do you know someone else hasn’t gotten it?” Erik asked, not yet convinced he should be getting involved.

               “I don’t,” Len stated flatly, “but Willy is the only other one who knew about it, and, although he was sent to work in a club out east, I don’t really know what became of him after I was convicted.”

               “So Willy must have it,” Erik concluded, turning his hands up to show that this was a pointless conversation.

               “If Mr. Preston came back and his money wasn’t there,” Len said, “it would be – ” he made a throat-slitting motion that made Erik blanch. “Willy didn’t take it.”

               “What if he’s got descendants?  What if they come for it?”

               “If they haven’t come by now, they aren’t coming,” Len said.

               Erik thought a moment, weighing his options.  He had some vacation time coming up, and he could use a getaway, especially one with a possible reward.  “Are you going to tell me how to find these secret tunnels?” Erik asked, now looking around nervously.  His generation was not one of criminals, and the thought of doing something that could make him his grandfather’s bunkmate went far beyond his comfort zone.

               “They’re all over.  You can’t miss them once you know what to look for,” Len told his grandson, “but there’s one in particular that you need to get to.”

               As Erik leaned forward and listened with wide eyes, his grandfather gave him directions from Jackson, Michigan to a place that held some of the old man’s happiest memories.  It was a place in Harbor Springs, Michigan.

               As the conversation neared its end, Len reached into the shirt pocket of his orange prison uniform and fished out his most prized possession.  Sliding it under the glass, he said, “In case anything happens to me, you should have this.”

               Erik picked up the wrinkled and faded photograph of two people and studied it.  Recognizing the eyes, he confirmed, “Is this you, Grandpa?”

               Len smiled at his grandson’s recognition.  “It was.  It was me in what seems like another lifetime.”  He let out a sad sigh.  “I don’t know, maybe it was another lifetime.”

               Studying the photograph, Erik asked, “And who is this in the photo with you?”

               Len leaned forward on his elbows so he could get a last look at his most prized possession before it disappeared.  “It’s the love of my life.  Your grandmother.”

               Erik shook his head.  “I can’t take this, Grandpa.”

               Len smiled a peaceful smile.  “I won’t be here much longer, and – ”

               Worry crossed Erik’s face.  “What aren’t you telling me, Grandpa?”

               The convict shook his head.  “I’m an old man, Erik.  In case I’m not here when you return, you need to have that.”

               “You’ll be here,” Erik assured.

               Len wasn’t so sure he agreed with his grandson, and part of him didn’t want to agree.  He was tired, and his life had become nothing more than a waiting game.  Seeing the worry in his grandson’s eyes that matched the blue eyes of his Evie, he smiled, content to merely bask in the presence of this handsome, young man.  “I’ll try, Erik.  I’ll try.”

               Armed with information and a photographic piece of his past, Erik left the prison that day with a mission.  It was a mission he wanted to accomplish more for his grandfather than for himself.  As Erik’s car pulled out of the parking lot of the Jackson Prison, a mail truck pulled out behind him.  Unbeknownst to Erik, there was a letter in that truck that shared Erik’s destiny.  It was a letter on its way to Harbor Springs, Michigan, and the person it was addressed to was the Harbor Springs Fire Chief, Mr. Jason Lange.

*** Watch for The Tunnels 2 coming late summer/fall 2022!

WHAT’S LEFT

Tags

accident, auto accident, car

Darcy looked at an image in her bathroom mirror that was quickly changing from the image she had become accustomed to seeing.  In just two weeks, her muscle-filled arms had begun to soften.  Noticing the change, she placed her fingertips on some skin that had begun to fall slack at her elbow.  Above her fingertips were bruises that now mysteriously covered her left bicep.

Turning her body in the mirror, Darcy saw a large, blue, fist-sized bruise at the base of her right hip.  Continuing her turn, she looked to where pain still emanated from her right shoulder blade.  The fist-sized abrasion next to the long scratch left by her bra strap tearing into her skin had begun to fade.

Finishing her turn, she saw her body was thinner.  A result of the nausea that still came and went.  The doctor had told her it was caused by shock.

Her mind involuntarily flashed back to the memories that haunted her.  There were only two.  The first was an image in her rearview mirror that caused her to think, “Fast.  Why is he going so fast?”  The second memory was “rollercoaster.”  That was the thought she had as she sat watching her head bounce off the headrest and be thrown forward.  The force was ten times that of the steepest rollercoaster drop.  The power of the impact had caused the band to fly from her hair, allowing the brown strands to unravel into a wild cloud around her head. Momentarily, she had been able to see 360 degrees around her; and, behind her, a cloud of shattered glass from the hatchback window had hung suspended in the air as her seat-belted body flew forward.  That second memory only lasted an instant before she was snapped back into her body.

Looking at herself in the mirror, Darcy lifted a hand to her lower jaw.  She remembered the pain she felt as she was miraculously able to sit up after the impact.  She didn’t have a memory of what had happened to cause the jaw and gum pain but guessed that her lower teeth had hit the steering wheel.  She leaned forward and peeled back her lower lip, exposing the survivors.  By some kind of miracle, her teeth were all there and functioning.

Pulling back from the bathroom mirror, she crossed her arms and thought.  The aching shoulders, neck, and back seemed to grow a little bit less every day, as did the headache, but what was left?  What was the enduring damage that you couldn’t see?

Darcy pulled her robe back over her shoulders, tied it in front, and walked to a window.  Gazing at a scene that she didn’t really see, her mind wandered.  What had been taken from her?  Her confidence and her freedom had been taken from her.  She didn’t want to drive in the dark.  She didn’t want to drive during rush hour.  She didn’t want to return to the scene.  She didn’t ever want to see a large, white pickup truck again.  She now wanted no one around her on the road.  She now had the hypervigilance of a rabbit. 

Staying home suddenly seemed so much more appealing than it had in the past, but that wasn’t an option.  None of these fears were something she could indulge in because, if she did, then he’d win.  The white pickup truck would win.  She hadn’t died the day the white truck had hit her vehicle; but, if she let her fear win, she might as well have died because she wouldn’t be living anymore.

Hopefully, the aches and bruises on the outside would heal, but what about the bruises on the inside?  That’s what was left.

GOING HOME

Tags

#HarborSprings, #hometown, #michigan, #travel, #trip, hometown, Michigan, travel, trip

Going home not only to Michigan but to my small hometown for the first time in two years was such a culture shock that I felt like one of the gals in Hallmark movies who went off to find their way in the big city, suddenly need to return to their hometown, and are shocked by the differences.  I was shocked.

As my small plane flew over the rural airport before landing, I was reminded how green things are in northern Michigan versus California.  Green trees, green fields, green tractors, blue water, and winding roads covered the earth below the plane.

My first culture shock came when I got off the plane and walked into the small airport only to be greeted by an alarming amount of taxidermy.  Looking around for an animal that might have died of natural causes (I don’t think there were any there), it took me a while to see my parents waving their arms amid an array of antlers, bear paws, birds, fish, moose, bobcats, and cougars.  Who needs a zoo when you can just go to the airport?

I’d forgotten that this was a place where you run into someone you know almost everywhere you go.  I was reminded of this when my parents and I walked the twenty feet from where I got off the plane to the baggage carousel only to run into my childhood bus driver and his wife, who just happened to be there.

I’d forgotten that it was a place that gets a lot of rain, and I was forced to entertain myself indoors.  In California, my free time indoors is usually spent sleeping or writing.  After that, I’m at a loss for self-entertainment.  Refusing to watch TV or do puzzles, I had to resort to Scrabble, shooting pool, and baking some recipes I’ve been waiting to try.  Old photo albums, old family movies, and sorting through some of my grandparents’ things filled the rest of the indoor time.

I’d forgotten that it was a place where people still eat carbs…every…bleeping…meal.  By the third day I found myself saying, “Bread AGAIN?  How do you guys not weigh a million pounds?”  I’d also forgotten that all of those carbs come in handy when running up steep hill after steep hill on my morning runs.

I’d forgotten what it was like to stop on my run or on a short drive to visit with neighbors or former classmates who happened to be working in their yards or out walking.

I’d forgotten that it’s a place where creative people take their passions and turn them into successful businesses and sources of income.  I’d also forgotten that it’s a place where taxidermy is a viable career option.  It seems like the airport is one of the big customers for the local taxidermy businesses.

It’s a place where my seventh-grade blow dryer still waits for me in the upstairs bathroom, and it’s a place where it’s not surprising to find bullets in someone’s glove box.  Just in case, I guess.

It’s a place where, waiting in line at the popular sandwich shop, I look at the teens working behind the counter and think to myself, “You look like a little piece of someone I used to know.”

It’s a place where I can approach a bar, take a double-take at the guy standing next to me, and realize it’s a classmate that I’ve known since kindergarten.  We even rode the same bus for a while when he was in Boy Scouts.

It’s a place where I can randomly stop at various businesses, some now owned by former classmates, and visit.  It’s a place where I’m proud to say that one of my favorite businesses now employs my niece, so, in that case, I get to visit the next generation.

It’s a place where I can drive the winding, cliff-side road to my favorite, history-filled, pristine beach with a million-dollar view.

It’s a place that will always be related to golf, tennis, sailing, boating, and swimming during the days and cool, outdoor dinners completed with either ice-cream-cone strolls or campfires and s’mores in the evening.

It’s a place of fairy-tale mansions that are called cottages and a place that my tale may one day lead me back to.

As my dad returned me to the airport, I had to smile at the sign posted in front of the security line.  It’s a sign that I don’t think any other airport in the world would have (Okay, maybe Mackinac Island).  The sign read, “Please remove all fudge from your carry-on bags.”

Until we meet again, northern Michigan.  Maybe I won’t be so shocked next time.

I’ve posted some trip photos below and will put a few others on my Facebook author page. Happy travels!

Set in my hometown, the Harbor Secret Series uses true local lore in historical fiction/romance stories! You can find all four books on Amazon and Audible!

Everyone gets dressed up for the festivities!

The best show in town

MY VERY OWN WHALE!

Tags

#babywhale, #googlethehumpback, #humpback, #monterey, #travel, #whale, #whales, babywhale, humpback, monterey, travel, whale, whales, whalewatching

Years ago, the cool and romantic thing to do was to pay to name a star after someone.  Today, after a sizeable donation, you can name a whale!  How cool is that?

Being on the water every weekend, I see a lot of whales, but none of them has inspired me to name them until the little guy/gal I ran into this past weekend in Monterey.  I wasn’t even supposed to be in Monterey last week.  I was supposed to be swimming with humpbacks and their babies in Mo’orea, but the Society Islands went into full lockdown five days before I was to leave, and the tour company cancelled the trip with a raincheck.  I had to think of a consolation prize to keep myself from being too disappointed, and you can’t go wrong with Monterey during lunge-feeding season.  They say everything happens for a reason, so maybe this little whale and I were meant to be.

Keeping in mind that baby and “teenage” whales are common this time of year, I saw numerous cow/calf pairs on each of my trips out last week, including already-named babies Fluke Skywalker and baby Mavericks, who mugged our boat. 

It’s sometimes difficult for me to tell what I’m seeing until I get home and can look at my photos on a larger screen.  My little whale was the exception to this rule.  I didn’t need my reading glasses to see this whale was very different from others and would likely become an easily-recognizable “local celebrity” similar to Patches the bottlenose, Casper the Risso’s dolphin, Flue the hybrid, and Twitch the humpback.

The baby whale that stood out of the crowd on a long four days of whale watching is one that had been swimming with its mother.  As the mom took off and left her baby for a while, the baby began doing tail throws, breaching, and rolling.  It’s as if mom said, “You stay here.  I’ll be right back.  Keep splashing so I know you’re okay.”  And splash this little whale did, over and over and over.

As we passengers took endless photos of the show this little whale put on, I fell in love with the unusual white patches around its eyes, white spot on its chin, and solid white pectoral fins and fluke.  The patches around its eyes gave it the appearance of having big, googly eyes that roll around, similar to the kind you see in children’s craft projects.

As soon as mother returned, the show stopped as if she said, “Okay, stop playing with the hoomans.”  The calf immediately calmed down, and the mother and calf quietly swam away together.

I saw several other calves exhibit similar behavior this past weekend, but the googly-eyed calf with unusual all-white pectoral fins, white eye patches, and a white fluke was the calf that will be easily recognizable not only by me (without my reading glasses) but by researchers and others in the whale-watching community.

And so I adopted and named my first whale.  I received the birth or adoption certificate a week later.  What did I name this googly-eyed baby whale?  I named it Google.  Now, for the rest of little Google’s life, every time someone around the world reports a sighting of Google, I’ll receive notifications of where he/she is and how he/she is doing.  Currently, he/she is still in Monterey Bay.

If little Google migrates to Mo’orea next year, maybe I’ll get a chance to swim with him/her.  If Google migrates to Costa Rica or Mexico, I’ll likely receive notifications as he/she passes by Orange County, and I’ll be able to go out and visit!

The cool thing about adopting and naming a whale is that I don’t have to walk it or feed it or clean up after it.  If I found out something bad happened to little Google, I might call a vet, but that’s the extent of my “chores.”  Of course, little Google knows nothing about me, but maybe, someday, we’ll have a close encounter.

Humpback whales can live 50-80 years, so there’s a good chance little Google will outlive me.  It makes me feel good knowing that, hopefully, long after I’m gone, people will easily recognize the unusually-pigmented humpback whale and say, “There’s the whale that Kristie named!  I used to know that chick!”

I’m attaching “baby” pics of little Google below and to my Facebook author page.  The first photo is of Google learning to lunge feed.  Sometimes Google forgot to open his/her mouth when coming up, which was kinda cute.  Maybe you will recognize him/her on one of your whale watching trips and send in pics to www.happywhale.com so I can know how he/she is doing.

May you all adopt a piece of nature and help to make the world a better place.

The complete Harbor Secret Series is now available on Audible.com!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097KQ8ZBJ

AHOY, MATE!

Tags

#adventure, #boat, #california, #sail, adventure, boat, boating, california, sail, sailing

               One of the earliest things I placed on my extensive goal list is to learn to sail.  When one of my guy-friends invited me to go sailing with a group of his buddies, I was all over it.  Now, where to find a cute sailor hat?

               As the three passengers and a captain eagerly climbed onto the boat, the captain began to point things out using sailor talk.  By “sailor talk,” I don’t mean dirty words or that he spoke like a pirate (that probably would have made it more fun though!); I mean that he began to use jargon that was completely unfamiliar to me.  As I watched him point out and name ropes that all basically looked the same to me, he dropped words such as jib, jibe, jibing, tacking, port, starboard, helm, bow, stern, winch, mainsail, luffing, and mast.  The more he spoke, the more I had no idea what he was saying.

               Growing up in a sailing town, there was a girl in my class named Jib.  It wasn’t until now that I realized her parents were probably passionate sailors.  Needless to say, Jib did not join us that day; but the jib was a hot topic of conversation.

               Before leaving the slip, I helped take the cover off the mainsail.  There’s probably a fancy sailor name for “cover,” but it was lost in the sea of new terminology.  Under the cover, there were straps keeping the sail in place.  We undid all but one strap, learned where the life vests and winch (not to be confused with “wench”) handles were, and, ta-da, we were off!

               The captain motored us through the marina and, about halfway out, we undid the final tie, and another crew member was told to help me pull a fat, blue rope that would hoist the sail.  “Help me?”  Did I really look like I needed help pulling a rope?  In the beginning, no, I didn’t need help.  It was all fun and games until the sail got about halfway up.  Suddenly, my scrappy arms could not move the rope.  Not even a single inch.  One of the guys jumped in to help and was able to get it higher, but we finally had to wrap the rope around a winch to finish the task.  I learned that you only wrap the rope around a winch clockwise and, to lock it, you do two wraps, then run it over this silver thingy, put it into a groove, and pull it around.  Now you can all do it, right?  Oy, so much to remember.

               As soon as we got out of the harbor, we saw six coastal bottlenose dolphins!  I was more excited about the dolphins than the jib, but it was jib time.  For laypeople, the jib is the pretty, colored, smaller sail at the front, or bow, of the boat.  The jib has a skinny, white rope attached to it.  Again, getting the jib up involved some major rope pulling and winching that was super difficult.  I wished I’d skipped my weight-lifting that morning.

               Once my friend, jib, was up, we had to turn the boat to catch the wind.  We circled around for a few minutes, trying to figure it out but, once we caught the wind, off we went!

               They asked where we wanted to go, and I pointed to the whale-watching boats on the horizon.  “They’re on a whale!” I knowledgeably announced to the other crew members who were much less interested in the coastal bottlenose dolphins and whales than I was.

               Off we went towards the whale-watching boats, passing a couple of groups of common dolphins along the way.

               “Want to try tacking?” the marine biologist aboard asked me.

               “Uh, does it get us to the whales faster?” I asked with my one-track mind.

               “No,” he said with a point.  “It will take us that way.”

               Following his pointing finger, I realized it would take us away from the whale.  Not where I wanted to go.  “Nope,” I told him.

               With me taking a turn at the wheel (maybe there’s a more sailor-y word for it), I steered us toward the other boats at what seemed like a painfully slow speed.  The forecast had predicted four-foot waves, which predicted Dramamine for me, so I was all drugged up and ready to go; however, the forecast was wrong.  We had little wind, little waves, and lots of bobbing.  If we tried to turn and the wind didn’t hit the sail correctly, causing them to flap, it was called luffing.  No one gets anywhere with luffing.  Needless to say, the other boats and the whale left long before we got to the whale hang-out.

               “Want to try tacking now?” the marine biologist again asked.

               “Does it involve pulling ropes?” I asked skeptically.

               “Yep.”

               Oy.  For tacking, you move my friend jib from one side to the other by releasing the rope I had worked so hard to pull and secure.  I then had to pull a similar-looking rope on the opposite side of the boat.  When the pretty-colored jib sail gets to the other side, it again catches the wind and sends you in a completely different direction.  To get anywhere, you basically have to go back and forth in a zig-zag.  I quickly decided that that’s why God gave us motorboats.

               Any time you learn something new, it can be overwhelming, and sailing is no exception.  There are tricky knots you need to learn to tie, there are ropes you have to be able to distinguish one from the other, and there are weird names for the sides of the boat. 

Could they just say left, right, front, and back?  Noooo.  The left side is called the port side.  Don’t ask me why.  The right side is called the starboard side, and that’s because there used to be (and maybe still is) a board for steering located on the right side.  I guess “steer board” got slurred into “starboard” over the years, or maybe someone just spelled it wrong, and it stuck.  Again, I received a lot of information and only retained a little.

               The easy terms were the bow, or front of the boat, and stern, which is the back of the boat.  I guess there’s this helm-thing on the bottom of the boat that’s super heavy, so it’s engineered to keep the boat from tipping, which was good news for my camera.

               We did see a whale spout, and I could tell it was a big one.  “Thar she blows!” I shouted with a point as all heads turned to spot the whale we thought we had lost.

               “Do you want to go back now?” the marine biologist asked me.  “It’s getting towards 5:00.”

               “You’re asking the wrong person,” I told him.  All doped up on Dramamine and with a whale in site, I could stay out there until nightfall.

               Giving my whale chasing a chance, we bobbed slowly after it, never really moving very far.  It wasn’t long before I saw the whale’s spout far in the distance.  Sigh.  “Okay, we can go back,” I gave in.

               Returning to the slip was about as tricky as getting out to the ocean, only, this time, everything was in reverse.  Skinny rope, fat rope, pull, pull, pull, and then turn, turn, turn.  We finally turned on the engine and moved painfully slowly through the harbor as crew members such as myself tied the sail down and pulled the cover over it.

               This is what I took away from my sailing adventure:  Sailing is very peaceful, calm, and quiet.  You don’t need to yell to speak to people, your hat won’t blow off, and you probably aren’t going to get anywhere quickly.  I’m sure that last comment would change on a windier day.  Sailboats are very environmentally friendly.  Although she was not present, the girl in my class, Jib, was on my mind all day.

               Would I go sailing again?  You bet (but not when I’m trying to catch up to a whale…or a buoy)!  The only way to get better at something is repetition and practice.  Hopefully, I’ll get a chance to sail again before I forget the difference between the fat rope and the skinny rope.

               May you all try something new and sail happily into the sunset. Below is a pic from my sailing adventure.

“Summerset” is now available in ebook, audiobook, and paperback!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097KQ8ZBJ

Audiobook “Summerset”!

Tags

#amazon, #audiobook, #book, #books, #goodhart, #harborsecret, #HarborSprings, #michigan, #murder, #murdermystery, #mystery, #newbook, #northernmichigan, #romance, #unsolved, #unsolvedcrime, #unsolvedmurder, Amazon, audiobook, Book, books, goodhart, harborsecret, harborsprings, Michigan, murder, murdermystery, mystery, newbook, northernmichigan, Romance, unsolved, unsolvedcrime, unsolvedmurder

“Summerset,” Book 4 in the Harbor Secret Series, set in Northern Michigan’s very own Harbor Springs, is now available in audiobook format! Now you can listen as you drive, exercise, paint, clean, or do yard work! This is historical fiction and romance based on the true, unsolved murder of the Robison family in Good Hart.

All four books, “The Tunnels,” “Devil’s Elbow,” “Leviathan,” and “Summerset” are all available in paperback, ebook, and audiobook formats. All are based on true pieces of Harbor Springs’ history and can be found on Amazon.

HEY, HEY TO MONTEREY!

Tags

#amazon, #book, #breach, #california, #humpback, #lungefeed, #lungefeeding, #nature, #naturephotography, #whale, #whales, #wildlife, #wildlifephotography, Amazon, Book, breach, california, humpback, lungefeed, lungefeeding, marinemammal #marinemammal, nature, naturephotography, whale, whales, wildlife, wildlifephotography

Number 168 on my goal list was to see humpback whales vertically lunge feeding.  What is lunge feeding, you ask?  Sounds like what I would do at a dessert buffet.  Lunge feeding is a behavior in which a whale moves forward at a high speed and takes in a large amount of both food (usually krill or bait fish) and water.  This causes its ventral pleats to expand 162% in girth and 38% in length.  The whale then closes its mouth and forces the water out through its baleen, which is made of keratin, like our fingernails and hair.  The plates of baleen hang from the top of the whale’s mouth in lieu of teeth.  The food gets caught in the baleen before the whale uses its large tongue to remove and swallow it.

Humpbacks are most often seen vertically lunge feeding in Alaska, but it has also been reported in Monterey, California, which is a much closer drive for me.

In March of 2021, my friend and I ventured to Monterey, hoping to spot not only orcas but some vertical lunge feeding.  Unfortunately, the only thing vertical was me tossing my cookies over the side of the boat as we motored through eight-foot waves that made me feel like I was on the last trip of the S.S. Minnow.  Fortunately, we did learn that lunge feeding was most often seen in June, July, and August in Monterey.  And so, this July, armed with a prescription motion sickness patch, we ventured back to Monterey in search of not only lunge feeding but maybe the elusive orcas.

The neat thing about this road trip is that there are all kinds of darling towns to stop at along the way.  The most notable stops are Harmony with its population of 18, Solvang with its Danish-style architecture, Cayucos with its Brown Butter Cookie Company, scenic Santa Barbara, and Moro Bay with its famous Moro Rock and a harbor that has adorable sea otters floating on their backs.  Just north of the castle named San Simeon, there is an elephant seal rookery that never fails to entertain.  Not only are there also roadside fresh produce stands that turn the trip into a visit to the farmers’ market; but the California coastline is a destination in and of itself that, having been to both, I can say rivals the Amalfi Coast.  Don’t get me wrong, the Amalfi Coast is still a notch above the Cali coastline, but it’s a small notch.

Although it was a gray day, which is bad for photography, we quickly noticed that there was no shortage of humpback whales, porpoising sea lions, and sea birds feeding in the harbor.  We stopped next to two whales that were feeding on bait fish, along with sea lions, and watched them for most of our trip.  Yes, they were fluking (showing their tails when they would dive), and, yes, they were relatively close to the boat, but this was not something new to me and not something I would declare to be worth the six-hour drive.  That is until one of the humpbacks mugged our boat!

When a friendly whale is curious and comes over to check you out, it’s referred to as a mugging.  This humpback whale swam under our boat, poking its head up on the other side.  Then it just sat there with its head out of the water, checking us out!  It would dip back down for a second and then come up to look at us again!  This went on for probably ten to fifteen minutes before it rolled over in the water and rubbed its belly on our boat!  When I held my phone camera over the exhaling whale, we could not only smell its breath (not so good smelling); but, as the exhaled air mixed with water droplets that shot into our faces, the naturalist on the boat yelled, “You’ve been snotted by a whale!”  We were snotted quite a few times in one of the most amazing encounters of my life.

After about 45 minutes, the captain took us to some other nearby humpbacks and, well, well, that’s when the show went to the next level!  The three whales would take a series of short breaths as they blew bubbles that encircled the bait fish into one spot.  When it was time, the whales would dive deep, letting us know they were doing so by fluking.  Things became eerily still while they were down as we looked around, trying to predict where they would surface.

The first thing to break the silence was the sound of thousands of tiny fish rising to the surface in one small spot before beginning to jump out of the water in an effort to escape their fate.  Like something from a sci-fi movie, the huge, open mouths of three humpback whales rose straight up from below, breaking through the school of corralled, jumping fish.  Their propulsion sometimes moved half their bodies into the air as they closed their mouths before sinking back into the ocean, only to repeat the process over and over until satiated.

This is one of the most astounding things I have witnessed, and I’m delighted to say that I witnessed it multiple times.  When they rose from the water, their ventral pleats were expanded with water and fish, and it more than doubled their width, so they looked like giants from outer space.  Once, they even emerged from the water with open mouths right next to the boat as tears of joy filled my eyes and I hugged my friend.

The following day, we chartered a private boat and, although we saw quite a few whales, we didn’t see lunge feeding but did see one breach out of the water once.  Sadly, that evening, we found half the carcass of a long-deceased whale on the beach.

Day 3 of our adventure took us to two lunge feeding whales that we watched for about an hour.

Day 4 of our adventure was whale watching in Santa Barbara.  I didn’t think we could top what we’d seen in Monterey, but I was pleasantly surprised when we saw a humpback whale out near Santa Rosa Island breach out of the water over 17 times in an hour!  After 17, we lost count because it just kept going and going and going.  Breaching their body out of the water, into the air, and then slamming back into the ocean takes an enormous amount of energy, so to see it repeated so many times is very unusual!

As if the breaching weren’t enough, this humpback whale would roll and wave at us with its pectoral fin.  Sometimes, it would slap its pectoral fin on the surface of the water multiple times.

As our boat finally headed back to enchanting Santa Barbara, our humpback continued to roll on its side and wave good-bye to us.  Holding up my hand to wave back, I knew that weekend had been one of the most amazing marine mammal encounters of my life as not only had I witnessed out-of-this-world behavior, but I had looked into the eye of a whale.  How many people can say that?  Needless to say, I have successfully checked off #168 on my list, and my life is better because of it.

I’ll post some pics here as well as part of the mugging video and the waving video on my Facebook author page.  May you all experience wildlife in its natural environment, and may it choose to witness you in your natural environment.

“Summerset,” the fourth book in the Harbor Secret Series, is now available in paperback and ebook on Amazon. The link is below.  By next week, the audiobook should be available on Audible.

Three lunge feeding humpback whales in Monterey, CA.

Humpback whale lunge feeding. See its giant tongue? See both the fish in its mouth and the escaped fish?

Breaching humpback whale!

Breaching humpback whale!

Breaching humpback at Santa Rosa Island.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097KQ8ZBJ

Summerset, the fourth book in the Harbor Secret Series, is now available on Amazon!

CHECKING INN

Tags

#author, #authorsrow, #california, #exploring, #history, #hotel, #missioninn, #mystery, #turret, author, authorsrow, california, exploring, history, hotel, missioninn, mystery, old hotel, turret

Shortly after moving to California, a friend and I went on a day trip to The Mission Inn.  We signed up for the two-hour walking tour and learned all about its history.

For those of you who aren’t familiar with The Mission Inn, it began as a twelve-room boarding house in 1876.  Under the direction of the family’s eldest son, it morphed into the grand hotel that it is today.  Designed in the Spanish Colonial style architecture, the first new wing opened in 1903.  Over the next thirty years, additional wings were added, each with their own style.  There was the Cloister Wing, the Spanish Wing, and the Rotunda Wing.  Soon an Asian wing was added with its own courtyard.  The building also contains towers, domes, buttresses, and arcades.  The owner filled the hotel with antiques acquired during his travels around the world.  Eventually, the building grew to take up an entire city block.

Many famous people have stayed at The Mission Inn ranging from celebrities like Judy Garland and Clark Gable to presidents to Albert Einstein.  Richard Nixon married his wife there, and Ronald Regan honeymooned at The Mission Inn.

Untrue to its name, the hotel was never a mission, and there were never bodies in the catacombs that run underneath the hotel.  Yes, I said “catacombs.”  Cool, huh?  Word has it that the original owner hung his art in the catacombs and had guests wander the tunnels, viewing art in the summer months to stay cool.

The part of the tour that really caught my attention was called Author’s Row.  Author’s Row is a series of rooms topped with castle-like turrets that many famous authors have stayed in, most notably Helen Hunt Jackson, who wrote Ramona.  Some authors wrote entire books there, and others just visited.  Right then and there, I added “Stay in Author’s Row at The Mission Inn” to my goal list.

Since our goals guide us through life, I actively review my goal list, trying to figure out how to achieve what I want.  So, one rainy, chilly November weekend, I traveled to The Mission Inn, my reservation for a room on Author’s Row almost assured.  Yes, oddly, they could not guarantee me a room on Author’s Row even though I specifically requested it and told them that was the whole point of my visit.  Weird, I know.  So I drove to Riverside to take a gamble.

Fortunately, my gamble paid off.  Unfortunately, it wasn’t quite the room I’d envisioned.  The room had an unusually-shaped painted brick on the walls.  There was a desk that faced the wall, not the window I’d envisioned myself sitting at and writing as if I was the Carrie Bradshaw of The Mission Inn; and there was an electric fireplace that I immediately turned on.  I wasn’t sure how other authors found this setting inspirational, but I settled in to try to pick up some author mojo.

Upon passing the neighboring room that evening, I couldn’t help but glance through the open curtains.  This room was at the end of Author’s Row and was much more the place of inspiration that I had envisioned.  It was like a little castle!  There were pillars and arches inside.  There was a winding staircase going to a second floor.  The furniture was plush and looked super comfy.  Even though I really didn’t need a 1,200 square foot hotel room, I kind of thought I’d be getting something more along the line of what was called The Alhambra Suite.

The bad thing about getting a room in a cool spot at the hotel is that tourists would walk by day and night, trying to peer through my large, stained glass window that overlooked the courtyard and restaurant below.  Creepy.

My room was close to a winding exterior staircase that led down to the hotel’s church.  It was closed for Covid, but, fortunately, I’d seen it on the tour I’d taken earlier.  This is not some tiny, rustic church, this is one of those work-of-art churches, and I would recommend making sure you check if out if you visit the Mission Inn.

Harnessing the writing mojo vibes I picked up from my room and surrounding rooms, I set out to get something accomplished, taking breaks to explore or dine in the courtyard or venture out to a little French restaurant at night.

Determined to find the infamous catacombs, I inquired about them at the front desk.  I was informed they were closed, but a security person might be able to take me down there.  Following directions from the front desk, I ventured outside the hotel, walked around to the back, and found a door to the security office.

The unfriendly security person ignored me for a good five minutes as I waited patiently for him to get off the phone and make notes.  When I told him I was looking for the catacombs, he quickly shut down my dream, telling me they were closed due to cracks and water that led to safety concerns.  When I asked if he would take me there, I was again shut down.  When I asked where the entrance was, he gave me the vague answer of, “Near the HR offices.”  When I asked where the HR offices were located, he refused to tell me.  Oy!  Apparently, I had no flirt left in my game because this was like pulling teeth.

As I left the security office, I could feel the man’s eyes follow me.  When I looked back, I saw him pick up the phone, and my intuition told me he was calling the front desk to alert them to my shenanigans.  That’s okay, I wasn’t one to give up because some grouchy guy wouldn’t give me some information.  I’d wait until the next day, when not only different staff would be at the front desk but the weekend would be over, and the majority of guests would have left for home.

The next morning, after an amazing breakfast in the hotel’s courtyard, I approached the front desk and asked where the HR offices were.  Tricky, huh?  I got a few directions and a point.  Easy-peasy, as my friend would say.  True to my gut feeling, the HR offices were right where I thought they would be.  They were next to some statues in the basement that framed a door with a sign on it. The sign read “Renovations In Progress.”  Since the sign did not say “Keep Out,” I took a quick glance around, opened the door, and stepped in.  Yes, I do realize the sign was a nicer way of telling people to “Keep Out,” but I had them on a technicality that I felt would hold up in court.

With a racing heart, I stepped into a narrow hallway, turned to the left, then the right, and then the right again as I followed it in a C shape.  At the end of the C was another door.  My heart was racing as I was pretty sure I wasn’t supposed to be down here, and I’m not usually a rule-breaker.  The grouchy security person with an immunity to my flirting skills flashed through my mind.  I imagined him grabbing me by the collar, lifting me up, and carrying me out like a puppy who had gone astray.

I took a deep breath and started towards the door at the end of the C-shaped hall that I was sure would lead to the underground catacombs and something, I wasn’t sure what, of great interest.  “Step, step, step” went my feet until I heard a door slam and a “step, step, step” that didn’t belong to me.  Someone else was down in the C-shaped hall with me.  Crap.  Now my heart was really racing as I glanced around for a place to hide.  My options were a luggage cart and – well, that was it.  Double crap.  What if it was the hard-arse security guard who had seen me on hidden cameras?  What if I got kicked out of the hotel?  What if —  I lost my train of thought as I heard the jingling of keys and footsteps coming towards me.

Having no hiding place, my only option was to use my acting skills.  Boldly, I turned to face the oncoming employee in their black and white uniform.  As I strode confidently down the hall and passed her, I looked the employee straight in the eye and said a friendly, “Hi.”  My greeting was returned without question, and I glided past her to the entrance door, turned the handle, and stepped out.  The second I was out, I heard a key turn in the lock behind me.  The door was locked.  There would be no return exploration trip…until my next visit.

Staying at the historic hotel was a special treat, and I did get a lot accomplished.  As I checked out, the staff were busy putting up Christmas lights for their famous Festival of Lights that drew crowds from near and far.  Next to the front desk, two chefs worked on assembling a life-sized gingerbread house that included siding made from giant, homemade graham crackers coated in cinnamon.  The scent filled the lobby as the men attached the siding cracker shingles with giant hot glue guns.

Behind me, photos of presidents who had stayed at the inn lined an entire wall of the lobby.  Tours, most of the spa offerings, and two of the Inn’s three restaurants were shut down due to Covid, but that didn’t stop visitors from happily buzzing about.

Taking my rolling bag and stepping from the front desk, I inhaled the cinnamon scent and smiled.  Yes, I would be back; and, next time, I’d stay in the Alhambra Suite.  There may even be another exploratory trip to the catacombs.

Happy exploring!

Author’s Row

Summerset, Book 4 in the Harbor Secret Series, is now available on Amazon in paperback and e-book. The audiobook will be available at the end of July! https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097KQ8ZBJ

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B097KQ8ZBJ

A DIFFERENT PERSPECTIVE

Tags

#california, #camera, #duck, #duckling, #nikon, #nikond3400, #photo, #photographer, #photography, #photos, #picture, #pictures, #somethingnew, #sunset, #zoom, duck, duckling, image, images, nikon, photo, photographer, photography, picture, pictures, somethingnew, sunset, zoom

When I first started whale watching on a weekly basis, someone said, “Next, you’ll be getting a fancy camera and getting into the photography end of this!”

“Nah,” I replied.  “I just want to enjoy the moment.”  Besides, who would drop money on a camera when I had my fancy iPhone that took what I thought were great photos?

Well, fast forward through two years of whale watching and becoming a naturalist.  One day, we came upon two fin whales and a humpback whale.  I took photo after photo on my fancy iPhone, delighting in what I thought were good and, sometimes, even artsy photos.

Since there were no other naturalists or photographers on the boat, I was asked to email my fin whale photos to a researcher.  Cool!  After she received my photos, she asked if I noticed a swelling on the left side of one of the fin whales.  I hadn’t noticed anything abnormal when I was in the moment, so I zoomed in on my photo to see if I could see what she was talking about.  My zoomed-in photo was as blurry as most Bigfoot photos.  It was useless. 

My heart sank as I realized that I’d had my moment to help a researcher and make a difference, and I’d failed.  If this opportunity came around again, I had to be prepared, and there was only one way to do that, and so off I pranced to the nearest used camera shop.

As I shopped for a camera, the salesman overwhelmed me with questions about ISO and shutter speed and pixels.  I had no idea what he was talking about, so I called a knowledgeable friend to get some guidance.  In the end, my friend told me what to get, and I blindly obeyed.  The salesman was a photography instructor, so he set up my camera settings for whales and dolphins and then asked me if I would model for one of his photo-shoots.  Not only did I get a new camera that day, but I got a little self-esteem boost as well!

My first day on the water, we saw humpbacks and dolphins.  I quickly learned that dolphins are the hardest to capture because they are so fast.  By the time they’re jumping and you push the camera button reactively, they’re halfway into the water again, and I’ve got a dolphin butt shot.  Not what people really what to see.  I call it dolphin porn, and I’ve got enough dolphin bun shots to open my own dolphin porn shop or publish Playboy Dolphin.  Capturing their face and whole body in the air is the tricky part.  Capturing a baby makes for a money shot!

Soon, I was sending my fin whale photos to the researcher, who sometimes responded with questions that I was now able to answer.  I’ve uploaded a few humpback fluke photos to Happywhale.com and have received a reply that’s let me know where my whale has been and, hopefully, I’ll hear where it is from now on when someone else uploads a photo.

FYI, a humpback whale’s fluke, or tail, is as unique as a human’s fingerprint and is used to identify and track the whale.  Many of the whales have names like Twitch, Flicka, Snowflake, and Chief;  and I’ve come to recognize a few on my own by zooming in on my photos.

It wasn’t long before I started to add new subjects to my repertoire.  Sunsets came next, and then random puppy photos followed by birds, deer, sea otters, and landscapes.  Even the moon became a subject early on as the zoom lens clearly showed me its craters and rough terrain.

Interestingly, the whale photos aren’t the photos, so far anyway, that I’ve chosen to frame.  The photos that are my favorites and that I’ve chosen to frame are the simple photos.  Two sailboats on a hazy sea; a gull on a post looking at two hazy, large rocks on the northern California shoreline; an orange sunset where a piece of plant snuck into the photo in the foreground; a laughing sea otter; and a sunset photo that a gull photo-bombed. 

I’ve started to notice there is more to a photo than its subject.  Reflections and shadows have become my favorite things to look for in a photo, and those are things you don’t always notice at a quick glance.  There is so much more to lighting than I’d ever imagined, and the golden-hour glow has become one of my favorite things to capture. 

I’ll attach a few photos to the bottom of the blog and also post a few on my Facebook author page for your enjoyment.  If you want to see my entire collection of “framers,” you can visit my site at Kristie-dickinson.pixels.com.  This site will let you choose one of my photos and print it on a canvas, pillow, shower curtain, blanket, shirt, mug…you name it.  Maybe, someday, I’ll be walking down the street and see someone with one of my pics on their shirt!

Whale watching is something I’ve always enjoyed.  Becoming a naturalist and having knowledge about what I was looking at took whale watching to the next level.  Adding photography to the mix has made whale watching even more fun – something I didn’t think was possible a couple of years ago.

As we learn things, we grow and change.  I now see things from a different perspective.  Tiny parts of something large now seem more interesting than the whole.  Sometimes, a reflection resembling a watercolor painting draws me in, a honeybee’s shadow on a flower petal, or maybe it’s just the deep oranges found in a California sunset that take my breath away.

Now, I already want a better camera – one with more pixels and a stronger lens for zooming in even more.  Good cameras are crazy expensive, so I’ll put that on the back burner and maybe look into a doubler in the meantime.  All the better to get a good whale identification or moon photo!

May you all expand your knowledge, try new things, and maybe see the potential in a different perspective.

Did you know that “Summerset,” Book 4 in the Harbor Secret Series, is now available in e-book format as well as hard copy? Woot!

Sunset watchers.

Duckling. ❤

Lunch time!

Nature’s best!

“SUMMERSET” IS NOW AVAILABLE!

Tags

#amazon, #book, #crime, #harborsecret, #murder, #mystery, #newbook, #summerset, #unsolvedcrime, #unsolvedmystery, Amazon, Book, crime, harborsecret, murder, mystery, newbook, Summerset, unsolvedcrime, unsolvedmystery

Harbor Springs, the epitome of purity, innocence, and safety, forever lost that image when, in 1968, a family was brutally murdered in their summer home. To this day, the Sheriff’s Office classifies this as a cold case, and the Prosecutor refuses to close the file. Nearly every year-round resident has a different theory as to who committed the crime that has been featured on TV shows, web sites, podcasts, YouTube, and in numerous books. Now, upon the fiftieth anniversary of the unsolved mystery, Kylie, Jason, and Cupcake set out to discover the truth.

Inspired by a true story.

“Summerset” is now available in an e-book format on Amazon! I’m hoping the hard copy will also be available this week. Below is the link.

SUMMERSET

Tags

#author, #book, #books, #comingsoon, #goodhart, #harborsecret, #HarborSprings, #michigan, #mystery, #newbook, #summerset, #unsolvedcrime, Book, books, goodhart, harborsecret, harborsprings, mystery, newbook, unsolvedcrime, unsolvedmurder

Good morning! As you may have heard, the initial drafts of Summerset, Book 4 in the Harbor Secret Series, have been completed. I hope to have the book available for purchase in the next couple of weeks! Below, I’ve included Chapter 1 from the new book for your reading enjoyment. I’m excited to join Kylie, Jason, and Cupcake on another adventure!

CHAPTER 1

Kylie Branson sat at the desk in her cupcake shop, licking the frosting of a cupcake from her fingers. The Harbor Light newspaper lay spread on the desk in front of her. Her eyes moved from the left page to the right and then focused in on a photo of a family from the 1960s. She saw a mother, father, three boys, and a little girl who sat in the front and center of the group. Kylie leaned forward and studied the black-and-white photo before reading the title of the article. “Fiftieth Anniversary of the Robison Family Murders.” She skimmed parts of the article, mumbling to herself. “Entire family brutally murdered…bodies not discovered for weeks…unsolved mystery for fifty years.”

As she drew in a little gasp, Kylie’s hand moved over her mouth before her eyes moved up to the photo of the family again. She ran her fingertip lightly over the image of the little girl. “I’ll bet you were the apple of everyone’s eye.” Kylie looked at the boys and then the pretty mother. “You probably kept trying until you got your little girl,” she whispered as she studied the photo of the doomed family. Finally, Kylie leaned back, crossed her arms, and began to read the article. She was only a few lines in when the bell on the front door jingled. She looked up to see a pretty, blonde woman in her fifties enter and look around thoughtfully.

Tossing the cupcake wrapper in the garbage, she gave the large, black pit-mix dog lying on the floor a quick pat on the head. “You stay here, Cuppie.” Cupcake lifted her head. “Stay and be good,” Kylie repeated the command. Cupcake let out a groan and dropped her head back onto her paws. Kylie stepped over the baby gate that barricaded the office from the rest of the shop. “Good girl,” she whispered to the dog before stepping away.

“Good morning,” she greeted the woman cheerfully.

“Hi,” the woman said lightly, her eyes landing on Kylie and taking her in.

“Can I get you something?” Kylie asked.

The woman looked Kylie up and down, studying the owner of the only cupcake shop in Harbor Springs. “Huh?” she asked distractedly.

An uncomfortable, intuitive twinge pinched Kylie’s stomach. “Can I get you something? A cupcake?”

“Oh,” the woman said, moving her gaze from Kylie to the display case. “You make cupcakes?” she asked in a voice that hinted of a French accent.

Kylie’s eyes moved to the side and then back before answering slowly. “Yes. It’s a cupcake shop.”

The woman looked around again as if just realizing that fact. “Oh. Um, yes, I guess.”

Kylie watched from behind the display as the thin, blonde woman with a high ponytail appeared almost confused. Kylie decided to help her out. “Do you have any particular flavor in mind?”

The woman’s eyes read the flavors. “Black Cherry Pecan, Love Spell, Harbor Hummer?”

“That one is flavored like that ice cream drink called a Hummer,” Kylie volunteered proudly. “It’s my boyfriend’s favorite.”

“You have a boyfriend?”

Kylie held up her left hand. “Fiancé, actually.”

The woman leaned to look at the square-cut diamond. “Wow, that’s quite a ring.”

“He’s quite a guy.”

The woman looked at her again. “I’m sure.”

Kylie felt the odd twinge of her intuition again and cleared her throat. “So what can I get you?”

The woman didn’t look away from Kylie but said, “Oh, I don’t know. How about just a chocolate one?” She gestured with her hand to indicate that she really didn’t care about the flavor as long as she got a cupcake.

“Er, we don’t have plain chocolate.”

“No chocolate?”

“I like people to expect the unexpected. You can get plain chocolate at the grocery store,” Kylie repeated her mantra that was also a bit of a mission statement.

“I suppose so,” the woman said, still looking at Kylie. “You’re very pretty, you know.”

Kylie placed her hand on her abdomen to cover the nagging feeling that grew stronger each time she felt it. “Thank you.”

Finally breaking her gaze as well as the awkward moment, the woman said dismissively, “Oh, just give me that Hummer cupcake that your fiancé likes.”

The woman pushed some loose strands from her ponytail behind an ear, and Kylie hesitated for a moment studying her. “Do I know you?”

A faint smile darted across the woman’s mouth but quickly disappeared. “If you have to ask, then probably not.”

“Yeah, probably not,” Kylie said, dismissing the idea and leaning to remove the cupcake from the display case. “Do you need a box?”

The woman seemed confused almost to the point of being disoriented as her eyes looked around the shop for help before answering the simple question. “For what?”

“For the cupcake.” She held the delicacy up as if to remind the customer.

“Oh, no. I’ll just eat it on the way.” She dug into her purse and produced some dollar bills, laying them on the counter.

“Exact change. I love it,” Kylie said cheerfully. “Have a great day!”

The woman took the cupcake and stepped towards the door. Pulling the screen door open, she turned back and said, “I really like your shop. It’s,” she thought for a moment, searching for the right word, “quaint.” She flashed a weak smile that triggered a childhood memory for Kylie.

“Are you sure we haven’t met?”

The woman just widened her dimpled smile and drifted out the door.

Kylie tapped her index finger on her chin thoughtfully. “Where have I seen you before? Hmm.” She slid the display case door closed and returned to the open newspaper in her office. Cupcake lifted her head in greeting, and Kylie gave it a pat. “Good girl, Cuppie.”

Kylie sat down at her desk and refocused on the photo of the ill-fated family in the newspaper. Her eyes focused in on the woman in the classic suit who stared back at Kylie with sad eyes. Kylie’s gaze went from the woman in the newspaper and back to the closed screen door before the realization hit her, and she asked out loud, “Mom?”

Jumping up from the office chair, she leaped over the baby gate, ran around the display case, and out the front door of the gingerbread house that served as her shop in downtown Harbor Springs, Michigan. Running to the end of the whimsically-curved pathway, she looked up and down the street before softly calling, “Mommy?” A few summer tourists passing by slowed their walk to look at her as she looked frantically up and down the short block.

Feeling beads of sweat on her chest, she turned right and ran down to Main Street where a few early-morning dog-walkers and joggers made their way up and down the street of shops that had kept their original style from the previous century. Kylie looked both directions before resting her eyes on the cold, blue water at the end of the street and then Petoskey on the other side of the bay. “Mommy,” she whispered.

Kylie stood there, staring at the sparkling water of the bay for moments until she felt two hands on her waist followed by a whiskery kiss on her cheek. “Good morning, Sunshine. Is today the day?” He asked the question daily that Kylie had been avoiding answering.

Kylie continued to stare ahead while giving her head a small shake, indicating her answer to his question.

The man behind her snuggled his face into her neck for a moment before realizing something was wrong. Pulling back, he stepped to her side and turned her to him. “Sweetie, what’s wrong?” When Kylie didn’t respond, he continued. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Kylie moved her eyes up the strong, uniform-covered chest, onto the stubbly cheeks, and then to the brown eyes of her fiancé, local fire chief Jason Lange. “Jason, I think I just saw my mother.”

*****

Coming soon!

LANDING ON MY LIST

Tags

#adventure, #angelslanding, #chains, #hike, #hikerchick, #terrifying, #zion, #zionnationalpark

Anyone who knows me knows that I have a goal list that I regularly add to and then work hard to check things off of.  One of the things that has been on my goal list for a few years now is a hike in Zion National Park called Angel’s Landing.  Why?  Because I heard it was super dangerous, and so the Scrappy Doo in me immediately held up a finger and said, “I’ll take two!”  So onto my list it went.  Recently, I had the opportunity to check Angel’s Landing off my goal list, and it turned out to be much more than I’d expected. 

The day started with my 4:15 a.m. alarm.  By 5:00 a.m., we were on the road to Zion National Park where we would meet up with some other friends.  At 7:00 a.m., we were on a private shuttle into the park and, by 7:20 a.m., the Scrappy Doo in me had bounced out of the van with three liters of water strapped to my back and shouted, “Let’s go!”

Starting in the valley surrounded by red, orange, gray, and white mountains that stood like sentinels, we began the hike with only one person in the group ahead of me.  Scrappy likes to be in the front.  The first quarter mile had very little incline as it wound next to a green stream that ran through the park’s valley.  That’s “green” in a good way.  As I looked up at the mountain in front of me, I thought to myself, “That doesn’t look so bad.  It’s not even the largest mountain here.”  In fact, it looked like nothing more than a medium-sized mountain.  Easy-peasey, right?

Once the incline started, it really started.  We were to cover 1,500 feet elevation gain in just 2.5 miles.  The paved trail consisted of a series of switchbacks up the side of a steep mountain that gave beautiful views of the valley at every turn.  It was a good cardio workout, and people were stopped along the way taking breaks, but Scrappy powered through with one of the guys in our group.

At the end of the switchbacks, we reached a nice, porta-pottied area where people were spread out eating snacks or resting.  The guy who had been with me had been fast enough that I could no longer see him, so I was alone.  Scrappy also doesn’t wait for the rest of the group.

Ahead, I saw the trail with chains hung along it for people to hang on to.  Just before the chained portion, there was a large sign with a photo of the mountain on it.  An older couple stood reading the sign.  Scrappy never reads signs, so I just took a phone photo of it to read later and moved on to the chained portion.

Pulling the sleeves of my jacket down and over my hands to protect them from Covid germs on the chain, I grabbed onto the thick chain and started to inch along an angled cliff that fell nearly 2,000 feet down below me.  My sleeves made my grip slippery, but my fear of Covid germs was greater, so I continued to inch along as the older couple started the path behind me.

“The sign said 13 people have fallen and died since 2004,” I heard the man say.  *Blink, blink*  My eyes widened, and I felt myself begin to breathe heavily as I moved my cuffs back to my wrists, gripping the germ-infested chain with my pure, clean hands.  Inside, I said a little prayer, asking that I not become Angel #14 on this landing.

As soon as I finished the first chained section, I had to climb up on red rocks with no chain and a drop-off to my right.  Why, oh why did they get stingy with the chains on this section, and who the bleep even got the idea to climb up here the first time with no chains?

Eventually, I crawled over the rocks and up, up, up before the trail crossed over to the other side of the narrow ridge.  Ahead of me, the chains reappeared along the trail, and I moved quickly to them and grabbed on with white knuckles as I made the mistake of glancing at the river below me.  I felt dizzy, my heart was racing, and I was now huffing and puffing not from physical exertion but from stress.  A lot of stress.

As people came down the trail, we had to find ways to get around each other with a cliff up on my right and a cliff down on my left and only one chain, and Lord knows I wasn’t going to be the one to let go of that chain.  More stress.

As I reached the end of that section, I asked someone if we were done, and the woman said, “No.  There are two more peaks ahead.”  Two more peaks?  It didn’t look like that from below.  Crap.  As I grabbed onto more chains and powered ahead, dizziness increasing as I tried not to look anywhere but the space directly in front of me, it occurred to me that Scrappy was the one always getting into trouble and needing someone to rescue him from the bad guys.  I wondered if they had helicopters to airlift me down because, not being able to move my eyes from the trail directly in front of me, I had no idea how I was going to get down.

I think the next section, the spine of the mountain, was the worst because it was kinda straight up, and, try as I might to only look at the area in front of me, the few-feet-wide trail dropped off on both sides of me…a lot.  I couldn’t help but look.   The word that best describes this portion of the trail would be TERRIFYING.  Turning back wasn’t an option because I was even more terrified of going back down.  I’d worry about that later.

Having climbed Half Dome and Mt. Whitney, I was comfortable with heights and a good workout on a wide, reasonably safe and secure trail.  Yes, the cables on Half Dome were also terrifying, but the distance on the cables was much shorter.  These chains seemed to go on and on, and I found myself wondering where the bleep the top was and how so many people did the hike with only 13 having fallen to their death since 2004.  I wondered if anyone would fall today.  I wondered if it would be me.

As I finished climbing the spine of the narrow ridge that seemed only a few feet wide, I found a spot to move over and let others pass while I hugged a tree and clicked a few photos with my camera.  Glancing around, I wondered where the helicopter would land when it came to pick me up and then wondered if I even had cell reception up here.  Looking behind me, I saw no sign of my group before I pushed the camera strap behind my shoulder and soldiered on up the final peak.

The final stretch was, again, pretty much straight up, and I wondered how much higher this thing could go as I huffed and puffed from stress and fought the dizziness that tried to overtake me.  Maybe the park had exhausted their chain budget because they were getting a little skimpy on the chains.  The gal behind me noticed the same thing and commented.

“I just wonder how sturdy these things are,” I said, giving each chain a little rattle to test it before pulling my weight up on it.  What if the poles holding the chains came out?  How deep could they have really drilled those holes in the rock while balancing on this narrow path on top of the world?  And what kind of person would take that job?  I’d take working in a nice, safe, grocery store checkout line any day.

“Don’t say that!” the gal behind me reprimanded in a tone that snapped me out of my rock-drilling daydream.

Hey, if I’m terrified, I want someone to be terrified with me.  I was not about to man-up and keep my sentiments to myself.

At long last, my hands reached over the sandstone at the top, and I pushed myself up onto a summit that, thank goodness, was wider than the trail.  Not much, but I didn’t feel the need to crawl after the first ten feet, so it was better.

In the small crowd of just over twenty people at the top, I saw my guy friend coming towards me, ready to head down.  “Oh, please don’t go down without me!” I begged, unabashedly showing my terror.  Every drop of Scrappy Doo in me had dissipated on the terrifying climb up.  Plus, I quickly realized that, if a helicopter came to get me, there wasn’t room enough for it to land, so they would probably drop a ladder or basket for me to get into and then either pull me up or fly to the ground with me hanging.  As my mind ran through alternative-route options, it didn’t take long for me to figure out that hanging from a ladder below a helicopter would be worse than attempting the climb down.

Fortunately, he waited for me to snap a few pics, put my camera into my backpack, pop a couple pieces of dried fruit into my mouth, and then begin my descent.

Whereas going up I had faced the mountain and not looked around, going down, it was so steep that I attempted some of it sliding on my butt while gripping the chain.  The thing about sliding on your butt is that you get an extra-terrifying view of where you could end up if you slip or misstep.  You can’t help but look down.

I caught myself wistfully glancing towards the area where the people were picnicking next to the sign that I didn’t bother to read, and I wished I could just snap my fingers and be there, safe and sound.  Unfortunately, this was real life and not Bewitched, so I had to suck it up and do it.

Once I started the descent, I started to feel a little less dizzy.  I’d only had time for some dried fruit and nuts for breakfast at five a.m., so maybe my blood sugar had been low.  Maybe I had grown accustomed to terror.  Maybe I was having an out-of-body experience and my spirit had already flown the coop.

Long story short, I eventually made it to the end of the chained sections of the trail without becoming Number 14.  Only three of seven people in our group completed the hike.

My advice for others attempting this trail would be, if you’re afraid of heights, this isn’t the hike for you.  If you have vertigo, don’t go on this hike.  If you can’t handle high altitude, don’t do it.  If you’d like to die later rather than sooner, don’t do it.  If you like to challenge yourself, you’ll probably like this.  If you’re looking for a good stock to buy, I’d recommend stock in a company that makes chains because we all know you can never have enough of those around!

Here’s to another goal checked off my list!  Yes, I’m glad I did it, but there’s no way I’d do it again.  Scrappy says, “On to the next goal!”  I’ll attach some photos from the hike below and also on my Facebook author page.

May you all set goals and achieve everything you were put here to do.

Ahead of the people lies the spine we climbed up.

End of the chain in this spot.

On my way down. Gulp.

It’s kinda straight down.

Kinda terrifying.

THE CRAVING

Tags

#cake, #carrotcake, #encounter, cake, carrotcake, encounter

Lexi Lou sat at a café’s small, round table in the old section of town listening to the live music that filled the night air.  The nearby heat lamp warmed her as she unabashedly took another bite from the large slice of carrot cake in front of her that served as dinner.  Savoring the flavors of the golden raisins and cream cheese frosting that satisfied her craving, she looked about the café.

A quiet crowd filled the outdoor seating, people happily chatting and enjoying the reminder of what life had been like before the pandemic.  Strings of white lights criss-crossed the now-closed streets to form outdoor dining areas.  Masked people strolled the streets, some holding a child’s hand, some holding a dog leash, and others not touching at all.

Lexi used the fork to press the last crumbs from the white china plate and lift them to her mouth.  It was the end of a long workday, and this was her little treat to herself.  Taking one last look at her cozy surroundings made cozier by the fire lamps, Lexi slid her forearm through the straps of her purse and stood from the table.  Although chilly, it was a beautiful night, and the closed antique shops that lined the town’s streets called to her.

Instead of returning to her car, Lexi strolled contentedly along the sidewalk, past the café, and began down the main street, stopping to look into windows or admire a shirted dog.  The high heels that matched the dress she’d worn to work that day clicked on the sidewalk.  Glancing her reflection in a shop window, she stopped her stroll to first smooth her hair and then push it behind one ear.

Sounds of jovial males drew her attention from the shop window.  Lexi smiled as she saw a group of men in silver sports jackets with black lapels across the street.  Dark pants and a skinny, black tie that dated their outfits made her smile.  “Obviously a wedding party,” Lexi thought to herself as she turned back to her window browsing.

Reaching the end of the block, Lexi crossed over to the other side, slowly moving window to window.  One of the shops was piping music to the sidewalk, and she glanced up towards the speaker when a familiar Bee Gees song began to play.  Hesitating in front of the window, her eyes took in its spring decorations, focusing in on gold-trimmed, pink china teacups that rested gracefully on an antique pink cake plate.  For a moment, she allowed her mind to remember that those were the kind of items that were once important to her.  They were items that she’d once sought out and decorated her life with.  Now, they were nothing more than pieces of a life that she no longer had.

“Ouch!”  The word involuntarily escaped her lips as something unseen pushed her and sent her spinning, spinning, spinning.  As she spun, she realized someone was holding on to her, pushing her around and around.

“I know that in a thousand years, I’d fall in love with you again,” a strange man in front of her sang in a perfect falsetto as he pushed her through a box step on the sidewalk.

Struggling to get her bearings, Lexi’s focus landed on the green eyes before her as this stranger waltzed her over the sidewalk, continuing to sing an impressive rendition of “More Than A Woman.”

She finally let out a giggle as she joined him in the last line of the verse, “We can take forever, just a minute at a time.”

A shout of “Woot!” accompanied by clapping and a whistle caused Lexi to look around and notice the rest of the wedding party standing nearby, watching them.

“Hey, my eyes are over here,” the stranger said, still waltzing her around as people at nearby dining tables watched them with smiles on their faces.

Lexi looked back to Mr. Green Eyes and smiled.

“Hi,” he said happily.

“Hi,” she said as the song came to an end and his steps slowed.

“I’m Danny.”

“Lexi Lou.”

Danny smiled widely.  “Is that really your name?”

“Is that really a ‘90s tie you’re wearing?” she countered.

“Ouch,” he said with a grin of confidence that let her know that her comment hadn’t fazed him.

“Danny, we gotta get back,” one of the guys in the group interrupted.

“Who’s getting married?” Lexi asked.

Danny’s youthful face clouded with confusion.  “Married?”

Lexi looked at the group of men in matching outfits and then back to her dance partner.  “No wedding?”

He shook his head, still grinning his impish grin.  “Nope.”

Lexi felt a little wave of relief rush over her.  “So what’s going on?”

“Come find out,” Danny said, confidently taking her hand and following the rest of the silver-jacketed group.

As they rounded a corner a block away, Lexi saw more outdoor diners seated around an outdoor stage.  Danny continued to grasp her hand, leading her through the crowd as he followed his group to the stage.

Pausing next to an empty table and chair, he finally turned to her as his group moved up onto the stage.  “Why don’t you hang out here a while.”

Lexi stood with a confused expression on her face as Danny pulled out a chair.  “Best seat in the house,” he offered.

Glancing around at the other audience members watching her, Lexi slowly lowered herself into the chair as familiar music began to play. 

Danny pushed the chair in for her before asking again, “Seriously, is that really your name?”

Lexi met his emerald-colored eyes again, and something made her want to tell him more.  She gave a small shrug before answering, “It’s Alexa Louise.”

Danny smiled impishly again.  “I like it.”

“Danny, come on,” one of what Lexi now perceived to be his bandmates called from the stage.

“See you in a while,” Danny said as he pushed away from Lexi, trotted quickly up the stage steps, and grabbed the closest microphone.  As the Bee Gees song they’d just heard at the antique shop played, he turned to Lexi and sang, “Suddenly you’re in my life, part of everything I do.”

Lexi dropped her head back in a laugh, thankful that she’d listened to her carrot cake craving.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01MCQ5AEC

SECRETS OF AN OLD HOUSE

Tags

#battle, #castle, #castlecottage, #cottage, #ghosts, #history, #ireland, #italy, #knight, #oldhouse, #oldhouses, #pirate, #piratecastle, #piratequeen, #romance, #tuscanvilla, #tuscany, #villa, #vintner, #wine, castle, castlecottage, ireland, oldhouse, oldhouses, pirate, piratequeen, tuscanvilla, tuscany, villa

Today there is a cottage for sale in Ireland.  It is an unassuming cottage on the ocean in a rather desolate location.  What appears to be its only redeeming feature would be the blue sea located not far from the front door.  The surrounding landscape consists of lush, green, rolling countryside.  After looking at the first few photos, I thought, “Meh.  It looks cold and lonely.”  Then I read the description, and my whole attitude changed as I rushed to look at the rest of the photos.

This home is named Castle Cottage because of its close proximity to the ruins of a 13-14^th century castle.  When I say “close proximity,” I mean right next door.  Cool, huh?  Wait, it gets cooler.  The castle is known as O’Flaherty castle, and it’s where a famous pirate queen, Granuaile Ni Mhaille, once resided!  Suddenly, this cottage and its ruins have become so much more interesting!

Number one, I’d never heard of a pirate queen before, but that sounds like a pretty cool kinda queen.  I wish Hollywood would get ahold of that one.  Maybe I will…  

Number two, I didn’t know pirates lived in castles, but I’m totally digging it.

You give me those facts, and this is where my mind goes:  In more recent times, the little, stone cottage has become home to the castle caretaker.  Since the castle has fallen into ruins, the caretaker apparently has not done a very good job.  But then we learn that he is the great, great, great whatever grandson to the pirate queen herself.  As castles lost their usefulness (personally, I don’t see how that could happen) and the family lost their pirate fortune and had to get real jobs, the pirate heir moved into the cozy cottage.

As the caretaker/heir grew older, every day he would look at the castle ruins and remember a time his mother had told him about when his great, great whatever grandmother was a formidable woman who ruled the outlying land via terror.  However, those who lived within the castle walls and the surrounding village adored their pirate queen because of her Robinhood philosophy that allowed them to share in the booty that came in on the returning ships.

The castle was filled with lavish decorations, the countryside was filled with cattle and sheep, and the dungeon was filled with men the queen had considered and then discarded. 

The pirate queen ruled all in the land except one.  The one she didn’t rule was the knight who was sent by the Queen of England to end the pirate queen’s rule, but he instead fell in love with her, as did every man who met her.  It happened when he was escorted through the castle grounds to meet with the pirate queen and demand a surrender.  They both had defiance in their eyes when they met.  The pirate queen was used to people defying her because she was a woman who had to continually prove herself; however, the knight was not used to women defying him.

His attempt to resolve things amicably was denied, and they waged battle for days.  Both sides were impressed by the challenges put forth by the other.  It wasn’t until the queen disguised herself as a peasant and slipped from the castle through a secret tunnel one night that the game changed.  Arriving at the knight’s camp, she told the guards she was a concubine from the village the knight had requested.  She was led through the camp straight to the knight’s tent, where he waited without his armor.  It is here that, once left alone, the pirate queen pulled a knife from her garter and held it to the knight’s throat; and it is here that the battle ended.  When their eyes met this time, his held not fear or surrender but admiration.

Of course, the knight left his post so he could rule the land with his pirate queen and produce an heir that would one day gaze at the deteriorating castle and remember its rulers and their love.  The heir would pass their story on to generations and generations until the castle completely disappeared and their memory was nothing more than a soft fog that moved over the land when the tide came in.

A month ago, I found a listing for another house for sale.  This was a 14^th century Tuscan villa.  In Tuscany.  Italy.  It was large, built of brown stone, had a roof of red tile, a square turret perfect for spotting the bad guys approaching, and it was listed at a price that I could pay cash for.  Maybe that’s a red flag, or maybe it’s a sign.  Oh, and did I mention that the villa had a huge, brown stone wall around it?  Even better for keeping bad guys out!

Like most chicks, I’ve seen Under The Tuscan Sun enough times to talk along with it.  It’s the ultimate escape from the lead character’s problems as she leaves her rainy, dreary life in San Francisco after her husband runs off with another woman.  She shows up in sunny Italy, falls in love with the medieval town of Cortona, stumbles upon a 400-year-old mansion, and buys it on a whim.  Of course, the house is a fixer-upper but, in finding and fixing the house, she eventually finds herself again.

So lotsa chicks dream of getting their own fixer-upper Tuscan villa, and I’m no exception.  Of course, the old house I saw for sale made me wonder what happened there.  I think its story would be something like it was once owned by a family who was famous for the grapes they produced there.  The lower cellars under the house would be filled with huge, oak vats of wine.  There would be tasting rooms and bottles upon bottles of wine lining the walls.  There would also be caves that held treasures and secrets.

The kitchen is a large, castle-style kitchen complete with a hearth so large that you can walk into it.  It’s also a kitchen with an enormous center island that would be great for baking and preparing food from the gardens surrounding the villa.

If I had that house, I think I would turn it into an Air B&B.  A super cool Air B&B.  What would make it so cool?  First, every guest would want the room at the top of the square tower.  Wouldn’t you?  All the better to see the bad guys coming.  Plus, you can pull the rope and ring the bell, waking other guests and neighbors.  Yep, it has a bell just like Notre Dame.

Upon rising, the guests would follow wafting scents through the spirit-filled halls that others have wandered through for hundreds of years, finally converging upon the kitchen and its baked goods that would cover the large center island.  Cinnamon rolls, quiche, croissants, scones, and fresh Italian coffee or maybe a latte would begin their morning.

By day, the guests would explore the charming medieval countryside and its towns.  By evening, they would return and gather in the wine cellars, sampling the famous wines produced by the vineyard.   Of course, there would be cheese platters to go with it and maybe some chocolate.  As the hour grew late, the lucky person staying in the square tower room would ring the bell, signaling bedtime to the lucky guests and waking the early-to-bed children of the neighbors.  The guests would leave the wine cellars, followed by the ghosts of people who had once lived and loved in that villa, and return to their rooms.

So now you see a bit of what I see in old houses.  I see the stories hidden in their walls and the potential to preserve the original property uses while creating new ones. 

Honestly, if we weren’t in the time of Covid, I don’t think I would have been able to stop myself from flying to Italy to seriously consider getting the Tuscan villa.  I think there’s a good chance I would have turned my life upside down again to start another adventure.  Maybe the house will still be for sale by the time I get vaccinated and Americans are allowed into other countries again.  Maybe I’ll have to take a look at it.  Maybe I could become a vinter under my own Tuscan sun.  Why?  Because what’s life without another adventure around the corner?

*Photo taken from listing.

Leviathan is now available in an audiobook format!

https://www.audible.com/pd/Leviathan-Audiobook/B08HJSWQ23?qid=1608093579&sr=1-1&ref=a_search_c3_lProduct_1_1&pf_rd_p=83218cca-c308-412f-bfcf-90198b687a2f&pf_rd_r=6KE2H8E9PMF2C15CCXJF

BRUISED

Tags

#abuse, #bruise, #bruised, #domesticviolence, #fighting, #loveandhate

“Did ya lose a fight?” the security guard teased Mary as she passed under the metal detector.

Mary’s hand fluttered self-consciously to her left cheekbone, her fingertips landing gently over the tender bruise that had left the area above her cheekbone purple.  It was a spot that she had spent too much time trying to hide with concealer that morning.  Her mind flashed back to the hand hitting her face before her head smashed against the wall the night before.  She threw the guard a light-hearted smile accompanied by a small chuckle before answering, “Yeah.”  Mary grabbed her purse from the conveyor belt and disappeared to her office.

The minute she heard the latch of her office door click safely behind her, she closed her eyes tightly and dropped her head.  What had she gotten herself into?  How was she ever going to get her life back to normal?  She could see now that she’d acted reflexively when her last relationship ended, and she’d moved quickly on to someone else to fill the void.  Too quickly, apparently.

When she’d met Luis, she’d quickly dismissed him as not her type.  Although he was tall, with lush waves of dark hair, he hadn’t appeared athletic; and she’d worried he wouldn’t be able to keep up with her active schedule.

To Mary’s surprise, Luis wasn’t one to be readily dismissed.  He’d wooed her with flowers, nice dinners, expensive jewelry, and, once Mary decided to give him a chance, weekend getaways.  Mary had a void to fill, and Luis occupied all her free time, taking her mind off her past and helping her to focus on the present.

As weeks of dating turned into months, Luis invited her to move into his luxury apartment with him.  Hesitant at first, Mary soon gave in to Luis’s smooth talking.  Her life had changed, so why not take a leap and move in with someone?  Why not trust him to be a good person?  Not all men lied and broke hearts…right?  Maybe Luis was different.  Maybe Luis was the one.  So Mary leapt.

It was exactly two months after Mary moved in with Luis that they had their first altercation.  The morning had started out as every morning had.  When she awoke, she rolled towards her lover, wrapping an arm over his sleeping torso.  Feeling his warmth and smelling his scent, she snuggled closer and savored the moment until lifting her head and softly kissing his cheek before rolling away to her edge of the bed.

“Come back,” Luis murmured, reaching an arm over the sheets behind him to find her without opening an eye.

“I have to go meet Heather for a run.”  She sat up on the edge of the bed, lowering her feet to the ground.  His hand continued to search for her.  “I’ll be back in a couple hours,” she assured him.

Luis’s eyes shot open.  “Hours?”

“Yeah.”  Mary started to push herself off the bed.

With cat-like speed, Luis rolled over and grabbed her forearm, preventing her from rising.  “We are going to my mother’s today.”

Mary looked down at her arm, his fingers sunken into it.  “Yeah, at 1:00.  It’s 7 a.m.”  She tried to pull her arm away.

“That is when we are going to eat.  We are not going to arrive at the last minute.”

“Oh.  Well, what time do you want to leave?” she asked, giving her arm another tug as he dug his fingertips deeper.”

“I want you to get ready now,” he said in a tone reserved for a parent speaking to a child.

Mary scrunched her face into a “whatever” look, gave her head a little shake, and pointed to his hand on her arm.  Trying to lighten his mood, she said, “You’re kinda killing my blood flow here.”

Using the same parental tone, he said, “Get into the shower.”

“What’s wrong with you?” Mary asked, thinking he was joking with her.  She gave her arm a hard tug and started to walk away.

That was it.  His patience was gone.  Now fully awake, Luis flew off the bed, wrapped a large hand around the back of her neck, and force-walked her to the bathroom.  Giving her a hard push inside, he said, “You’ll do as I say,” as he pulled the door closed behind her.

Mary leaned against the marble countertop in shock.  Who was this person?  Where was the easygoing guy she’d fallen in like with?  What was with this sudden urge to get to his mother’s hours before the planned time? 

First looking at the red finger indentations on her arm, she lifted her hand to her neck and massaged the tender spots where he’d grabbed her.  Relationships were about give and take and overlooking flaws…right?  Giving her neck a final rub, she let out a sigh and reached to turn on the water in the tub.  She’d let him have this one.

Not a word was said during the two-hour car ride to Luis’s mother’s house.  Although Mary gave Luis the cold shoulder the entire visit, she found his mother to be a delightful woman and chose to focus on Estelle instead of her grouchy boyfriend.

The next day, a dozen red roses were delivered to Mary’s office at work.  Lifting the card, Mary read the simple message.  “I’m sorry.  L.”  Mary turned the card over a couple times thoughtfully before bending to inhale the sweet scent of the flowers.  Then she decided to forgive him.  Everyone had a bad day, right?

Three weeks later, the next bad day came, followed by the next and the next and the next.  Soon, they became too many to count.  Long sleeves, turtlenecks, tights, high boots, and even Band-Aids became the desired forms of camouflage, and she purposely began to stay later at the office to avoid angering Luis. 

Mary felt isolated and ashamed.  Ashamed to tell her friends, who had warned her not to move in with a man so quickly; and ashamed to tell her family since they had no idea she lived with a man.  She’d learned that police had their own agenda, and restraining orders only led to more bruises, predominantly located around her neck.  She couldn’t even tell her doctor what was happening because she didn’t want him to know that she was the kind of person who brought this kind of behavior out in a man.  She scheduled her doctor appointments on low-bruise days, always calling to schedule at the last minute and then rescheduling if she angered Luis before the appointment. 

She quickly learned that people didn’t want to hear about her problems and quickly brushed them under the rug.  She became a master of concealment, always putting on a cheerful front and always bending her ear to listen to the problems of others.  Her own secrets remained hidden under a long-sleeved sweater and layers of makeup.

Having sold most of her possessions when she moved in with Luis, even if she had another place to move to, she would have nothing to fill it with.  But moving was out of the question because Luis always apologized and always assured her that she couldn’t survive without him; a combination that made her feel loved, needed, and insecure all at the same time.  Day by day, week by week, and month by month, she lost more and more of not only her confidence but herself.  Little by little, her spirit was leaving her body.

As purple spots and cuts on her arms and legs became her new reality, she thought back and wondered if she deserved this kind of life.  Maybe she had been a naughty child, or maybe she had broken some man’s heart, and now Karma was coming around to break her in return.  Maybe she wasn’t worth anything more than this.  Maybe this was Fate, Destiny, and Karma all catching up with her at once.  Maybe this is what she deserved and all she would ever be.

The empty vases of “I’m sorry flowers” began to pile up in the large apartment, as did the jewelry and expensive new clothes that replaced the old clothing that had been torn when Luis had grabbed it to stop her from getting away from him.

Mary was tempted to blame her situation on the end of her last relationship.  If it hadn’t ended, if it had worked out, she would not be here.  She would not be so bruised that it hurt her to sit.  She would not have internal bleeding.  She would not have a sprained wrist from breaking her fall to the ground.  She would not have Luis controlling every aspect of her life right down to portion restrictions on her food.  Her straight road had reached a fork, and this is where her fork had led her. 

Instead, Mary tried to take responsibility for her situation.  Clearly, she had made a bad choice.  Clearly, she was trapped.  Clearly, Luis would eventually kill her.  Clearly, the only way out of this was to beat him to it.  Just as surely as Mary knew that day would come, she also knew that the largest, most painful bruise would always be on her heart.

Now, Mary stood at another crossroad.  She was on the wrong side of a rail that she held loosely in her hands.  Her eyes were closed as the light evening breeze rippled through her hair and the last golden rays of the setting sun kissed her skin.  She thought back to the last time she had been truly happy.  That feeling seemed like nothing more than a dream now, but that was what she wanted to remember, wanted to get back to.  She faintly heard Luis calling her name in the distance, calling her back from her happy place.  Mary didn’t open her eyes.  He couldn’t reach her, and she wouldn’t let him.  Not this time.  He couldn’t take this feeling from her, and he couldn’t stop her from getting lost in it one last time.  It was all she had left, and the faint memory was a fairytale she wanted to believe in.  It was the only thing she had left to believe in as she let the feeling overwhelm her. Lost in the cloud of happiness she had once known, her hands lightly released the rail, and she left her bruises behind.

http://kdickinson.homestead.com/

FREE DOWNLOAD!

Tags

#amazon, #attorney, #book, #books, #fiction, #freebook, #freebooks, #freedownload, #freekindle, #greece, #greek, #kindle, #romance, #steamyromance, #travel, #workaholic

Today, December 17, 2020, through Sunday, December 20, 2020, I’m giving away a free download of Nine Days In Greece. Merry early Christmas!

When a workaholic attorney travels to Greece for vacation, she meets a handsome, much-younger man on the plane to Crete. When he shows interest and she feels a spark, she wonders if he could ever be more than a vacation fling.

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00P6ZB2ZQ

TWO YEARS IN CALIFORNIA!

Tags

#amazon, #books, #california, #change, #courage, #gratitude, #hike, #jump, #jumpvideo, #kristiedickinson, #michigan, #steveharvey, #thanksgiving, #writer, #writerchick

Today marks two years since I left everything I knew that worked and took a jump, trying to attain something better.  Fortunately, it worked.  Looking back, I remember that last day in my Michigan home well.

Two years ago today, I was awake around 4 a.m., hoping to get on the road by 7 a.m.  Why such an early rise?  Because I had to finish a deposition transcript for the job I’d taken the day before.  Work, work, work, that was my life in Michigan.  That was all I’d known for 28 years and, well, it “worked.”  Plus, if I wanted to get ahead, I had to work a little harder than everyone else, right?

I was exhausted and overwhelmed as I sat in my second-floor office finishing the transcript for an attorney who had no idea that I’d worked the better part of the night to get his transcript to him.  I remember the warm, comforting glow of lights in the large, 1922 English manor as well as the scent of a pumpkin-spice candle that wafted up the stairs from my large kitchen.  By 7:00 a.m., I knew that my friend who was making the trip with me to the New World of California had arrived, helped herself to some coffee, and was patiently waiting for me to e-mail out my transcript before beginning the drive.  Since I was always overwhelmed and juggling multiple jobs and projects at one time, I marveled at her patience, but the juggler didn’t have time to tell her that.

Shortly after seven a.m., I finished my transcript, prepared the bill for it, scanned the exhibits, and e-mailed it to the attorney who was probably still snuggled in bed with visions of sugarplums dancing in his head.

Next up was to pack my clothes.  No, I hadn’t yet packed to move to the other side of the country because I was busy working…and preparing my house to be left in top condition to be shown by a realtor…and figuring out how to hook a 5×8 trailer up to my little SUV…and figuring out how to cram everything I’d need for a few months (until my house sold) into that little trailer…and running a court reporting business…and operating a videoconference room…and filling cookie orders…and selling things I no longer needed online…and caring for my dogs…and finding time to exercise…and shoveling my driveway and sidewalks sometimes five times a day.  So don’t judge me for not having time to pack any clothes for my new life.  Every minute of my day was accounted for and had been for the last 28 years.

I’m so thankful for my friend who didn’t complain about me wasting her time as she patiently sipped coffee and waited for me to finish the transcript.  I’m so thankful she walked up to the chilly third floor and helped me pack my clothes.  I’m so thankful that she helped me squeeze everything into the little SUV and trailer.  I’m so thankful she was there for me, period.

Next, I stepped into the dark morning to walk my dogs in Michigan for the final time.  It was pitch black, bitterly cold, and icy.  The walk was short.  As we crossed the street of sheer ice, Nestle slipped and fell on the ice, his four legs splaying out and rendering him helpless.  Wearing my Yak Tracks for traction, I walked back and lifted him, hoping to Heaven he had not torn any muscles or seriously injured himself.  Nestle dug his nails into the ice and carefully followed me across the street with Daisy by his side.

Returning to the house, I gave it a once-over, making sure the door was closed to the third floor that I chose to leave unheated while I was gone.  I walked through the bedrooms, the office that I’d spent most of the last 15 years in, the massive living room, the sunroom where I’d written seven books, and the kitchen that I’d designed and spent so much time in preparing food from my garden, filling orders for my cookie business, and baking myself into oblivion as Hallmark movies played on the large-screen TV.  Turning, I checked the thermostat to be sure it was set at 60 degrees – a temperature that would keep the pipes from freezing and the 1922 plaster from cracking.  I prayed a silent prayer that the power wouldn’t go out.  Finally, I stepped into the kitchen that I so loved one last time and blew out the pumpkin-spice candle that glowed on my new stove.  This was it.  It was never a good idea to stay too long at the fair.

After I locked the back breezeway door and then closed the garage door, my friend and I loaded my two senior dogs into my car, hooked up the 5×8 trailer that contained the bare essentials I would need to get by in the New World until my house sold, and slowly pulled onto the road of ice and away from everything I knew that worked in my life.

Today marks two years since that last day living in Michigan.  I would have written an entry at the one-year mark but, as many of you know, I was laying in a hospital exactly one year later and fighting for my life.  So here we are at two years, and, at this time of year when we need to remember what we are thankful for, I can’t help but look back and reflect.

The last two years have been a roller coaster of ups and downs.  My life has changed so much and, thankfully, for the better.  Don’t think there haven’t been tough times, because I’ve definitely had my share of them.  For instance, it took me 1.5 years to sell my house.  My heart was completely demolished by the loss of my beloved dogs to the point that I don’t know if I’ll ever recover, and then there’s the whole fighting for my life in the hospital thing.  I have faced difficult criticism and found and lost friends.  Injuries abound, and some days I struggle not to quit everything and move back to Michigan and crawl into a hole with a bottle of wine.

Fortunately, with the bad comes the good.  Maybe not in the hard blows that the bad comes in, but good did come, so I’m going to try to focus on that.  For instance, I’ve found I like things that I never thought I would, and I’ve found that the thought of going backwards in life is something that really bothers me.

As I hiked nearly 14 miles on Thanksgiving yesterday, a distance that I now consider comfortable, I remembered how very different my Thanksgivings were in Michigan.  I remembered how the women would be in the kitchen doing the “women’s work” while the men sat in the living room watching football and talking about how many deer they’d killed.  Remembering that as I climbed over rocks and up a mountain yesterday, I looked at the blue sky above me, gulped in a breath of fresh air, and was deeply thankful for how my holiday had changed.

Other things I’m thankful for would be my friends, both new and old.  I’m thankful I can go running at 5:30 a.m. and not worry about ice.  I’m thankful for my screenplay award.  I’m thankful for the articles I’ve had published this year.  I’m thankful for my health and doctors.

 I’m thankful for my favorite whales, Twitch and Flicka.  I’m thankful I’ve seen Patches, the leucistic dolphin.  I’m thankful for my skills as a naturalist, and I’m thankful for the opportunities to share my passion with others.

Instead of working seven days a week, I work five days a week (less if there’s a county holiday), and my schedule now revolves around my free-time activities instead of my work schedule.  I’m thankful that my free-time activities are pretty much all outdoors in California versus the baking and writing indoors that I did in Michigan.

I’ve always loved old houses because they have a story behind them; but, for the first time in my adult life, I’m not living in an old house.  Everything is brand-new and high-end.  I’ve never had that before and, I’ve got to say, not only am I thankful for it, but I’m totally digging it.

Being in a place that I actually chose to live in and doing the things that I want to do, when I want to do them, has been a complete turnaround from the life I once knew.  I now realize that all the baking I did in Michigan was just a way to take out my frustrations because I was too afraid to take the jump I needed to take to get to the life I wanted.

So, looking back on the past two years, wow, what a roller coaster ride!  Ups and downs for sure, but, no matter what the ride, I’m so much happier than I was in Michigan, where I’d lived a life that someone else had chosen for me.

In his book Jump, Steve Harvey says, “God would not have put the dream in your heart if he didn’t mean for you to achieve it.”  It took a long time for me to have the confidence to follow the dream in my heart, but I’m so thankful I did!  My work life is better, and my social life is MUCH better.  For someone who, in high school, never thought she would amount to more than a housewife, my life has turned out nothing like I’d expected it to…it’s much more exciting than I ever could have imagined in high school.

I’m attaching the link to Steve Harvey’s kinda famous Jump video in case you’re looking for a little encouragement or inspiration, and I would highly recommend his book Jump.  It’s available in hard copy and audiobook formats.  May you all have the courage to listen to your heart and jump this Thanksgiving.

Jump video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y-952IaLtKM

The holidays are upon us, and what better time to read a holiday story? In The Other Christmas List, a grandmother struggling to connect with her grandson tells him the story about how finding her childhood Christmas list led her from a Christmas tragedy to an old city in Europe and rediscovering the magic of Christmas. Available on Amazon. https://www.amazon.com/dp/B082ZBX162

DANCE OUT LOUD VIDEO

Tags

#danceoutloud, #dancevideo, #music, Dance, video

One of my super talented friends, Carol Hazel Perry, wrote and is singing her original song Dance Out Loud in the attached video link. She is also dancing in part of it. I was lucky enough to make the cut for a few of the dance scenes in the first half (both indoors and outdoors), so check it out! You can download the song at Apple Music, Amazon, and Spotify. Just type in “Carol Hazel Perry Dancing Out Loud.” Enjoy!

Dance Out Loud. https://www.youtube.com/watch?reload=9&v=NR6y69Kug6w&feature=youtu.be&fbclid=IwAR3XUdT99y1pTdcvoeUYbKpeYgOW3gX8PaodAzwqyMEeaEKnkO6KjiEUGFc

I’M JUST DUCKY

Tags

#babies, #california, #duck, #duckling, #ducklings, #duckrescue, #duckwhisperer, #growingup, #mallard, #mallards

               In the late spring, I was heading back to work after lunch and saw a mama duck crossing the road with 13 ducklings.  Two of the ducklings seemed much weaker and were kind of flopping along.  Of course, I did what any normal person would do:  I stopped traffic and tried to shoo the mother and babies out of harm’s way.

               This is completely out of character for me because I’ve been horribly afraid of birds since childhood, when my parents’ roosters would attack us.  This fear was furthered when an uncaged, large, pink kind of parrot in a pet store started flapping its wings and hissing at me when I walked by.  Since then, I’ve been terrified of birds and have kept my distance.

               Although keeping my distance, I didn’t want anything bad to happen to the babies, so I had to step outside of my comfort zone to get the ducklings to safety.  A neighbor stopped to help.  Mama duck got nervous and started zig-zagging all over the road before jumping over a curb and onto the grass.  The baby ducks were trapped in the road, trying to jump up after Mama duck but unable to get over the curb.  I asked my neighbor to lift up the ducklings.  The neighbor lifted the weakest flopper first and put it on the grass.  As my neighbor went back for more, the weakest duckling, who I quickly named Nester, tried to get back to his siblings and fell off the curb upside down, flopping in the street.

               “Nester!” I screamed, horrified to see the little thing flopping about helplessly but too afraid to go lift it back up.  My neighbor went to help Nester again, and all the ducklings and Mama eventually got safely across the street and to our association’s pond.

               The baby ducks became my new obsession, fear or no fear.  Every day I would go to check on them, often twice a day.  Each day, their numbers dwindled.  Nester and the other weak duckling were the first to go.  The babies quickly began to recognize me and would come running.

               Sadly, their numbers dwindled from 13 to 4.  Apparently, ducklings are pretty low on the food chain.  Every day I went to visit them, and every day their fat, little bodies came to me in a running waddle.  If you’ve never seen a duck run, it’s pretty darn cute.

               There was one duckling that I often saw biting the butts of adult ducks when they tried to take her food.  This duckling had a mind of her own, and she was very independent, often straying away from her three siblings.  I named this duckling Saucy because she had such a saucy personality. 

One day, as I took my daily photos of the babies, Saucy reached up and nipped one of my fingers that held my phone camera.  She had no fear!  It didn’t hurt, and I think that’s when I got over my bird phobia.  Well, maybe just my duckling phobia.  This was very fortunate, because a new batch was just around the corner.

               When my baby ducks were about four weeks old, I pulled out for work and saw another mother duck on the curb as her 13 babies struggled and flopped about, trying to get up.  Again, I stopped my car in the road, but this time I had no neighbor passing by, and there were no oncoming cars to flag down for help.  It was either let the babies wander back into the street and risk someone hitting them, or I would have to man-up and help them over the curb.

               I timidly approached, unsure as to whether the mother duck would be defensive and attack me.  I was sick to my stomach with fear.  As I neared and knelt down next to the bunch of babies, I slipped my hands under a light-as-air bunch, closed my eyes in case Mama came after me, and lifted the babies up.  There were a few stragglers I had to chase down, but I got them all over the first curb.  I felt so empowered!

               Ignoring traffic driving around my car on the side of the road, I followed the ducks to the next curb where I again had to man-up and help them over the curb.  Again, I timidly reached out and helped the struggling fluff balls up and onto the grass.

               As I watched their little waddling butts disappear towards the lake, I felt as high as a kite!  I’d done it all by myself!  I’d conquered my fear of…baby ducks. 

I tried to befriend this second batch of ducklings like I did the first batch, but they were sorely lacking in gratitude, and they kept their distance.  Their numbers quickly dwindled until there was just one fluff ball left.  I named him Peeper because I could hear him peeping a block away.  Sadly, Peeper, too, was gone after just a few weeks.

               As the original four ducklings grew and their fluff turned to feathers, I knew it would not be long before I wouldn’t be able to recognize them unless they were running after me, which they often did if I didn’t see them or if I was distractedly visiting a friend. 

A neighbor told me that one morning she had baby ducks knocking (pecking) on her sliding glass door.

               “Uh, I don’t know where they got that idea,” I said sheepishly.  It sounded like the baby duck version of “Salem’s Lot.”  As I tried to push my dog stroller away from them and Mama and babies chased me in a super-fast waddle, I imagined writing a horror movie called, “When Baby Ducks Grow Up.”

               Every night at 7:00, I would walk to see my baby ducklings, and every night they would come running.  That is, until one week in early September.  That week, everything changed.  As I sat on a rock talking to them, no ducklings came running to me. They were oddly skittish.  After much coaxing, three took short flights out of the water to see me.  I gasped.  “You’ve learned to fly!” I exclaimed.   Saucy sat alone on the water, throwing me suspicious looks as the others danced around me as I spoke to them like some kind of duck whisperer.

               “Come on, Saucy,” I prodded.  “You’ve known me your whole life.  Don’t be afraid.”  But Saucy, who had once boldly nipped at my finger, now wanted nothing to do with me.

               I was about to give up hope on Saucy and leave when she flew high out of the water, circled above me, and then returned to her spot on the water.  Saucy could fly better than the other three by a lot!  But she still didn’t trust me…or maybe she just wanted to show off her flying skills.

               After they learned to fly, the ducklings became more and more skittish and less willing to leave the water.  Then I noticed their mother was not around as much.  She had a new boyfriend she was waddling with.  My babies were scared and alone.

               A few nights later, when I went to visit my duck-kids, I only found three, and they were mixed in with a couple ducks I hadn’t seen before.  A few nights after that, I could only spot two for sure, and they again were skittish.

               Something had changed in the duck world.  Maybe they were making new friends because their mother cut them loose, maybe they’d started dating, or maybe they’d grown up and were ready to move on without me.

Saucy has still remained a loaner to this day, while the others have paired up with mates.  I feel Saucy and I have something in common, and she is the only one who still watches for me and flies over.  Since the other ducks pick on her, I try to have my quality time with Saucy in a secluded spot.  Now, when I go to visit, Saucy and the other ducks are around less and less as the seasons change; and I realize that, one day, Saucy won’t be there.

I know I’ll never see my four babies and Mama duck chasing me down the sidewalk again, and it breaks my heart.  I guess I thought they’d remember me their whole life and come running when I called them.  Apparently, that’s not the case.  My babies have moved on to new things, and maybe it’s time for me to do the same, but I’ll always remember the four little fluff balls that conquered not only my fear but my heart.

               Below I’ve attached some baby duck pics, including the pic of Saucy nipping my finger. I’ll post the video of Saucy flying on my Facebook author page and maybe another video or two.

               May you all find pieces of nature that will melt your heart and help you conquer your fears.

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https://www.amazon.com/dp/B072QT248B

BREATH OF DEATH – PART 2

Tags

#blog, #breathofdeath, #congestiveheartfailure, #doctor, #health, #hospital, #illness, #kristiedickinson, #mysteryillness, #organfailure, #recovery, #sepsis, #sick, #symptoms

I think my brother had been expecting to take me home from California in a body bag, but that didn’t happen.  Fortunately.

On Saturday, one of my friends from work went to Costco for me and bought a bunch of the potatoes, organic sweet potatoes, and organic green beans I used to make Daisy’s food.  She dropped it off to my brother when she visited me at the hospital, and my brother took it home and prepared a massive amount of Daisy food for my dog-sitter, who had moved into my house.

By Saturday afternoon, another friend from hiking came to visit and ran out to get some scrambled eggs, pancakes, and clean underwear for me.  I tease him now because the underwear he got me were about as huge as my swollen feet and went halfway up my rib cage.  I was desperate for anything clean, so I wore them.

Sunday morning, my brother left at four a.m. to catch a flight home out of LAX, and I tried to get some rest.  The odd thing about this fever and sepsis is that you don’t really sleep.  I hadn’t slept more than a light doze for a few minutes in a week.  I couldn’t sleep, and my body couldn’t heal itself.

I was now obsessed with Motrin.  The minute I started to feel the least bit warm, I would call a nurse, have her take my temperature, and give me more Motrin.  Motrin kept the fever symptoms at bay, and I was terrified that the deep chills and sweats would return.  Some well-meaning friends had given me Tylenol for my fever Thursday through Tuesday, and the doctors said it caused severe damage to my liver; so Motrin was my new friend.

On Sunday, still fever stricken but craving a shower, one of my besties from work came to visit me.  She brought a duffel bag with a blow dryer, shampoo, lotion, conditioner, protein shakes, and other goodies.

My Michigan doctor had pointed out to Dr. Handsome how completely malnourished I had become, according to my blood tests, and he suggested protein shakes.  I drank the shakes and tried to order healthy food from the hospital menu like lentils and dark green veggies.  Surprisingly, the hospital menu doesn’t offer a lot of healthy food, so I got the same thing every day, trying to get some strength back.

On Sunday, not only did I succumb to the diuretic, but my C. diff test came back negative, so people no longer needed to wear gowns and masks around me.  No more cooties!

Sunday night, I woke up from my usual half-sleep feeling warm.  I called for a nurse and asked for more Motrin.  When she took my temperature, she said I didn’t have enough of a fever to warrant giving me more Motrin.  What?  No!  I was sure it was going to come back at any moment, and I needed my Motrin before chills set in, darn it!  How would I ever get warm in this cold hospital?  But the nurse refused, and I eventually dozed a bit for the first time since my admission.

By Monday morning, one of my favorite clients from Michigan called me and asked me to call his nephew, who was a doctor at Cedars-Sinai in LA.  I did as I was told, and the nephew doctor asked me if I could drive up to Cedars-Sinai to see him.  I explained my situation because, obviously, he didn’t realize how bad things were. Walking five feet to the bathroom was a huge ordeal that took 20 minutes because my steps were so tiny, and I kept becoming entangled in the multiple IV lines and monitors I was hooked up to.  I couldn’t walk out of that room much less drive!

The nephew doctor asked a few questions and then imparted this advice:  You need to walk and move around, or you could develop blood clots if your limbs are that swollen.  I looked down at my sausage fingers and toes and knew he was right.  Just another thing I’d picked up in the million medical depositions I’d taken in my career:  Blood clots.

Before I presented myself to folks in the hallway for a walk, I showered.  The nurse had to put a stool in the shower for me, and I can’t tell you how difficult that shower was.  My arms didn’t want to hold up the shower wand, and I spent a lot of the time just leaning against the wall.  Drying my hair was no easier than showering.  In fact, the hall walk was put off until I rested for a few hours.

When I finally dragged my “medical conundrum” butt that was now 14 pounds lighter (but you couldn’t tell because of all the swelling) into the hall, I had to pull along my IV pole and lean against the wall to move.  It was H-E double toothpicks, as Maynard would say, but I didn’t want blood clots, so I again had to man-up and move myself down the hall.  It took over 30 minutes to go maybe 20 yards and back, but I vowed to try it again later to keep pushing myself in hopes of getting stronger.

Monday afternoon, two more friends from work came to visit.  It’s funny…I’d always thought I was all alone in California, but you’d be surprised who will show up for you when you really need it.

Even more surprising, Monday afternoon, one of my favorite judges showed up wearing her robe to visit me!  She brought me a poinsettia and wished me the best.  All I remember is telling her that I’d been in the hospital for six days.  I teared up after she left because I was not only very touched by her visit, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to make it out of there if judges were coming for a last visit.

By Monday late afternoon, some of my other neighbors had heard of my hospitalization and stopped by for a visit.

Dr. Handsome was running late on his rounds that day but, when he showed up around 8:00, I was shocked to hear him say, “Your fever has broken.  I’m going to discharge you.”

“My what?” I asked, not believing what I was hearing.

“I can’t keep you here any longer.  Your fever is gone.”

“But I can barely walk,” I argued, terrified at the thought of being without my PICC line and the assurance that someone would be there if I needed them.  “And I’m still coughing like crazy.”

“The cough is from the congestive heart failure,” Dr. Handsome informed me.  “I want you to come to my office tomorrow morning.”

I was terrified and overwhelmed.  I could barely walk or shower.  How would I get to his office the next day?  How would I survive on my own?  What would I do without my beloved PICC line?  What if I died at home and no one found me and my dog ate me?  As seems to be the motto in this story, I had to man-up and do it.  Dr. Handsome wouldn’t send me out into the now-December night if I couldn’t survive…right?  It was November when I had gone into the hospital.

My wonderful neighbors picked me up and took me home, stocking my kitchen with homemade food that I could only eat tiny amounts of at a time.

Sleeping at home alone was scary, but I was exhausted.  In six days, I’d only slept a little bit the last night in the hospital, and I was oddly awake, yet not present the rest of the time.  Every time I laid down, I would begin to cough, so I had to prop up pillows to keep me at a nearly upright angle as I slept.  The diuretic caused me to get up often; and, each time I went from that angle to a fully-upright sitting position on my bed, my heart would clench and stop for seconds that seemed like minutes.  When it started again, I would rise and head to the restroom.  I kept the upstairs hallway light on all night, and it’s something that I only stopped doing in August 2020, nine months later.

Knowing I was going to see Dr. Handsome the next day, I forced myself to shower, and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.  As is always the case, the hardest things turn out to be the best things.  When Dr Handsome walked in and saw me perched on his examination table, he said, “Wow, you look good!  I would not even recognize you on the street!”  Well, of course that was enough to keep me showering for a long, long time.

Dr. Handsome listened to my heart and palpated my abdomen.  When he pushed on my liver and gallbladder, instead of sharp pain, this time it was only a mild pain.  Somehow, I knew I’d turned a corner. 

When Dr. Handsome told me to come back in a week, I again panicked.  What if something happened?  I’d never been away from him that long.  I wanted to stay at the hospital.  Dr. Handsome seemed to think that, just because I showed up looking a lot better than I had in the hospital, that I was healed.  I was struggling every time I moved, and curled hair does not mean I’m ready to jog a mile.  I didn’t have the same confidence Dr. Handsome had, but I sucked it up and shuffled out of his office.

One of my friends from Michigan who now lives in California drove me to Dr. Handsome’s office that day and then out to lunch.  I shuffled along with teeny-tiny steps, leaning on whatever I could find.  My friend stood close by and patiently offered an arm as I moved like I was 98 years old.

Later that day, I started setting goals.  I set a goal to walk around the lake in my association.  Then I set a goal to push my dog in her stroller around it.  Then I set a goal to partly jog around the lake pushing the stroller.  Considering the fact that it was everything I could do to walk my senior dog two houses down and back, these seemed like lofty goals at the time; but the blood-clot story stuck in my mind, and I became determined to move forward.

I think my first day back at work was a Friday.  I was nowhere near strong enough to return, but I’d run out of sick time my first two days in the hospital and, financially, had no choice but to return.  I remember shuffling out of the parking ramp incredibly slowly carrying my very heavy laptop.  My friend who’d brought the duffel bag to me in the hospital caught up and offered to carry my laptop.  There were three benches between the parking ramp and the courthouse, and I had to stop to rest on each bench.  By the third, I’d teared up and said to my friend, “I don’t know how I’m ever going to climb mountains again.  I can’t even walk into work.”  Truly, I was so weak that I did not see how I could ever recover to my previous strength.

I was an exhausted zombie at work the rest of the day, but I rested over the weekend and, Monday, I only had to stop at two benches when walking into the building.  When the guards at the door greeted me with a “Good morning,” one followed up with, “Where ya been?”

“Really sick,” I said as I shuffled inside at a snail’s pace.  I would lean my upper body on the hallway walls as I shuffled along, and everything was a blur. 

As fate would have it, my supervisor called me my first day back and told me that a trial transcript from a year ago had been ordered, and they wanted it ASAP.  When I opened the files, I was dismayed to see that it was well over 1,000 pages.  How would I ever get this done in time for them?

I believe everything happens for a reason.  I lost thousands of dollars when I missed work due to my illness, and, voila, here came this lengthy transcript that they wanted expedited.  “Expedited” means that I can charge more to move them to the front of the line and get their transcript done sooner than regular turnaround time.  That wasn’t saying much because my current turnaround time felt like it would be a month.  Instead of resting per Dr. Handsome’s orders, I worked lunch hours, nights, and weekends and pushed through, finishing the job just in time and recouping my lost salary.  Maybe that could be counted as a little miracle.

Speaking of coincidences and reasons, it’s funny how my fever broke about 24 hours after people started praying for me on a second continent.  It’s funny how, to this day, the doctors have no idea what I had and what caused it to turn around.  I’m thinking that maybe God has kept me around for a reason.

I lost 14 pounds in that week in the hospital, and I spent the next five months working to regain my strength and then pushing my body to get as strong as it could.  When the Covid shutdown happened, I was horribly worried that my body’s immune system had not yet recovered, and I would not survive Covid if I got it.  I hid out, ate a healthy diet, and exercised so that, if my body had to fight again, it would be ready.

In a follow-up visit, Dr. Handsome told me that, when Covid first hit, he had called the lab to see if they still had my blood.  I’d had every symptom of Covid except the lung fill.  When the lab didn’t have my blood any longer, he asked me to take an antibody test once they came out.  I think it was April or May when I finally took the antibody test, and I was shocked that it came back negative.  That could mean several things:  One, I had one of the first Covid cases in the US, and it was a different strain; two, my Covid antibodies went away in the five months between the illness and the test; or, three, I never had Covid but instead had something that will remain one of the unanswered questions of the universe.

While in the hospital, I learned that the only way to detect whether something is a virus is to do a spinal tap.  Saturday or Sunday, they wanted to do a spinal tap on me, but my platelet count was too low, and they worried I would bleed out.  So maybe we’ll never even know whether what I had was a virus or something else.  Maybe some mysteries were meant to go unsolved. 

Regardless, I’m thankful to still be here, and I’m thankful for Dr. Handsome and my team of doctors.  I’m thankful for my brother who took the time and made the effort to visit me, and I’m thankful for all the friends who came out of the woodwork that let me know that I really wasn’t as alone in The New World as I thought I was.  I’m also thankful for all of the prayers from around the world that maybe led to a few miracles. 

Some side effects carried on long after my recovery.  Around May and June, I started losing hair.  A lot of hair.  I initially blamed it on a new shampoo, but now I see that hair loss is one of the after-effects of Covid, so who knows.  My heart took the longest to recover, often clenching up when I’d try to pick up my running pace.  After an August stress test, I was finally cleared of heart issues; and I can only hope that is the last aftershock.

Now it’s time to work my way back up from my lowest low and, hopefully, hit a new high in life.  I’ve set new goals and have become more aggressive about checking things off of my goal list now versus waiting until I retire.  Why?  Because you never know when you’re going to run out of time.  It could be just around the next corner; and, shoot, I’ve got some things I need to do before I see Nestle and my grandparents again. 

I believe life was not meant to look back and have regrets.  I don’t want to reach the end of my road and say, “I wish I’d tried that,” “I wish I hadn’t been so afraid,” “Why didn’t I follow that dream?” “Why didn’t I try harder?” or “Why didn’t I take a chance on love?”  I already regret not trying out to become one of Michael Jackson’s back-up dancers.  Michael’s gone, and I’ll never get that chance.  What other opportunities had I let pass me by because I was afraid or worried about what others would think?  After my hospital ordeal, my overall conclusion is:  I’ve got a lot of stuff to do!               

May you all live each day following your dreams and not putting them off until a tomorrow that may not come.

Nine Days Ever After is the final book in the Katie Collins Romance Series. Katie has to decide between the man she married and the man she thought she’d married while getting involved in a murder investigation!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01CSOTQBE

MISSING MY PUMPKIN SPICE

Tags

#california, #fall, #falldecorations, #familiar, #festival, #festivals, #HarborSprings, #home, #homesick, #hometour, #lansing, #michigan, #mums, #pumpkin, #pumpkins, #pumpkinspice

When I lived in Michigan, my favorite season was the spring because it marked an end to the cold, monochrome white and a time when everything came back to life.  Conversely, I dreaded fall in Michigan, especially that first leaf of changed color that told me that everything I loved would soon be ending, and I would soon be back to trying to find a way to keep warm in a world of white.

In California, I haven’t really missed Michigan until recently.  Oh, I missed the huge kitchen in the house I once had, my writing room, and my yard, but I didn’t really miss any seasons until this year.  This year, as fall comes upon us, I find myself missing things that I never really thought of as special when I lived in Michigan.  I guess I took them for granted.

Mostly, I miss everything pumpkin spice flavored.  Sure, they have everything pumpkin spice flavored out here in California as well, but it’s different.  A pumpkin spice coffee in Michigan is not only a taste, but it’s something to warm you when the days turn crisply cool.  It’s a scent that goes with the scent of fallen, wet leaves.  It’s a scent that I smell emanating from not only my kitchen but from a candle as I curl up by a crackling fire and watch the Hallmark fall movies as the days grow shorter.

Fall is the beginning of Baking Season in Michigan.  It’s a time when people can turn on their ovens again because the hot summer is over.  It’s a time when the city yards containing gardens overflow with fruits of the season.  It’s a time when things like tomato pie, caprese salad, pumpkin cheesecake, pear tartlets, stuffed zucchini, apple strudel, roasted beet and feta salad, and even homemade salted caramel sauce would flow from my kitchen.

Fall is a time when visits to cider mills and pumpkin farms happen on weekends.  It’s a time when there are pumpkin-growing contests and a time where kids start eyeing pumpkins to become jack-o-lanterns.  It’s a time when Halloween is spent sitting on my front porch and handing out candy to 300 well-costumed kids as the adults sit and visit with a glass of mulled wine or hot cider.

Fall is a time when East Lansing comes to life as students return to MSU and tailgates dominate weekends.  Company often comes to town for the games, and the town is overflowing with excited people. 

If you’re not at a football game, there’s a good chance you’re raking leaves into huge piles that kids and pets jump into.  Believe me, I never thought I’d reminisce about raking leaves with frozen fingers as the last leaf would drop Thanksgiving weekend.  Okay, I’d forgotten the frozen fingers part, so I’m missing that part a little less right now.

Fall is the optimal time to take a drive through The Tunnel of Trees, one of the most beautiful drives in the state.  The trees are aflame, and the sunlight has changed from the brilliance of summer to a softer, more golden glow that bounces off the leaves.

Fall has always been a time when the Westside Neighborhood Home Tour happens.  Touring through classic 1920s homes decorated for fall and each home revealing its own story has always been one of my favorite events.  Much of the neighborhood would have their front porches decorated with hay bales, pumpkins, pots of mums, and even cornstalks that would welcome visitors.

Finally, there are the fall festivals in Old Town, most markedly Oktoberfest.  People stroll the streets that are decorated with stalks of corn tied to lampposts, hay bales, mums, and pumpkins that welcome you to each shop.  Under a large tent, you can sample all kinds of adult beverages as a band plays late into the night.

None of these things apply in California.  The air probably won’t become crisp until December.  I have not seen a pumpkin farm or apple orchard here.  There are no cider mills offering fresh apple cider or pick-your-own apples.  I haven’t heard of any festivals.  I haven’t seen decorated front porches.  I haven’t seen a home tour here, and the only forests aflame are really actually aflame.  Last year, I sat outside for hours waiting for trick-or-treaters.  I finally had to flag down three big kids walking by (who kinda scared me) to give them candy.

So, yes, I can go out and buy a pumpkin spice latte at Starbucks in California, but, as I’ve explained, it doesn’t bring with it all of the excitement that drinking a pumpkin spice latte in Michigan brings.  Maybe it’s time to go home.

May you all find your own “pumpkin spice” and relish it this fall.

Did you know that Leviathan, Book 3 in the Harbor Secret Series, is now available in audiobook format? Woot!

https://www.amazon.com/Leviathan-Harbor-Secret-Book-3/dp/B08HJRVPJQ/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=%22Kristie+Dickinson%22+Leviathan+audiobook&qid=1601430479&sr=8-1

CLIMBING OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE – PART 3

Tags

#bucketlist, #california, #camp, #camping, #goallist, #goals, #hike, #hikerchick, #Mountwhitney, #MtWhitney, #summit

The next four miles to Trail Camp weren’t bad.  The smoke had cleared, the scenery rivaled Yosemite, and I chugged along happily sipping water from the bladder in my backpack.  The more water I drank, the lighter my pack became, so I was very motivated to drink lots of water!

We were surrounded by huge mountains of granite on each side with our goal in front of us.  We balanced on large rocks to cross streams and climbed giant steps of stone as we ascended the mountain and the greenery fell behind us.

Reaching Trail Camp, which is basically a lot of stone sandwiched between two small lakes, we stopped to filter water and refill our supply before the last stretch of maybe five miles that had no water source.

The world up here looked like a moonscape.  It was all rock and dust with a few patches of snow.  We pulled out our windbreakers or light jackets as our sweat began to cool.  As we sat, a brave marmot, who was obviously used to humans feeding him, approached us.  That was the first marmot I’d ever seen, and they look like beavers with a fluffy tail.

We started to eat lunch, and that’s when my headache kicked in.  It was a headache only on the left side of my head, and it was mild.  A guy in the group, who had also taken Diamox ahead of time, complained of the same headache.  I pushed my concern to the side and pulled the heavy, water-filled backpack onto my back, ready to continue on.

Rested and replenished, we started up the 99 switchbacks.  I’m not sure if there are actually 99, but that’s what someone called them, and it certainly felt like 99 switchbacks.  Again, snow-melt streams crossed our path as we climbed back and forth, back and forth for hours.  Reaching the top, we looked down to see Trail Camp and, below that, heavy smoke moving into the area where we had left our tents.  I felt a need to rush because not only did I not want to be hiking in the dark, but, if the smoke was too heavy to sleep on the mountain, I had to pack everything up, stuff it into the backpack, and get out before dark.  I wanted to stop taking breaks and move my hiking pace to a trot to avoid the Chupacabra that I was sure lurked in the dark shadows of the forest below.

Reaching the spires at the top of the switchbacks, we now had a view of Sequoia National Park and, someone said, King’s Canyon.  I was relieved to see there was less smoke on this side of the mountain, and I removed the N95 mask I’d worn up the switchbacks to protect myself from irreparable smoke damage to my lungs.

The trail along the back side of the mountain wasn’t steep, but there were many large, granite rocks that lay across our trail, providing uneven footing.  Many spots had a steep drop-off, but the beautiful views of jagged mountains and clean lakes below were rewarding.

When we started the trail on the back side of the mountain, the sign said it was only 1.9 miles to the summit.  Woot!  I was practically there!  What were a mere 1.9 miles?  Well, as it turned out, these were the longest two miles of my life!  It just went on and on.  One person passed us and told us it would be another 45 minutes.  An hour later, someone passed us and told us it would be another 30 minutes.  I started to feel as if this would never end.

As we neared the summit, about a mile out, my headache increased, and I felt pain behind my eyeballs.  I remembered my doctor warning me of brain swelling at high altitudes.  Brain swelling or not, I’d just hiked the toughest 11 miles of my life, and I was not going to quit.  I had to push through because I knew, if I didn’t, I would always wonder if I could have completed the hike and would want to come back and try again.  I remembered my Charlie Brown, coffin-sized tent and pushed forward, determined not to come back. 

At about this same 11-mile mark, one of the members of our group became horribly ill from altitude sickness and vomited.  They couldn’t make it.  They stopped, climbed onto a large rock, and said they’d wait for us to summit and come back.  I felt a little panic and a sense of urgency.  We were both on Diamox, we’d both gotten a light headache at Trail Camp, and I worried I’d be next in line to toss my trail mix if I didn’t get this done and get down to a safer elevation STAT.

Leaving our friend behind, we pushed on, walking through endless fields of granite boulders.  Taking a turn at the last quarter mile, we went up and up and up until we rounded a corner and saw a small, stone building at the top.  We had arrived!  Woot!

The thing about this adventure is that I’d never doubted that I could make the long hike.  I’d trained for it with running, weightlifting, and elevation hikes.  I was ready.  As we looked down at the smoke now moving into Trail Camp, the most challenging part of this adventure, for me, was going to be the camping.  My stomach tightened nervously, and my head and eyeballs throbbed in the high elevation.  We took our photos, signed in, and then I couldn’t wait to get the bleep out of there before I had the same altitude sickness as our friend.

After replenishing our water supply at Trail Camp, we continued our descent another four miles to camp.  The setting sun reflecting off the smoke cast an eerie, pink glow on the mountains as we moved quickly in an attempt to avoid being caught in the dark; but we weren’t that lucky.  The last 1.25 hours were in complete darkness, and I mindlessly followed the fastest person in the group as I fell into second place behind him.

The forests around us were very quiet except for a wolf or coyote howl, which didn’t do much for my morale.

“Have we overshot the campsite?” the guy in front of me asked, stopping his brisk pace.

The second guy pulled out his phone and opened the Alltrails App.  “Nope, but we’re close.  Another five minutes.”

“Five minutes” turned into a lot more minutes as we slipped over rocks in streams and walked on, not able to see into the dark forest around us.  I was thinking about my tent and rolling into it, exhausted; but then I rethought that.  We’d left everything unzipped so marmots or bears or whatever would not chew through the tent to get to our stuff.  Right then and there, I decided I would be emptying the contents of my tent and giving everything a good shake in case a snake or something else had squiggled in.

As we neared our campsite, I could hear the roar of the waterfall nearby and the gurgle of the stream we crossed before entering our home not-so-sweet home.  Now came the tough part.  Now, I was going to have to put on my big-girl pants and do this outdoor thing.  There would be no complaints, not a peep.  I would just somehow squeeze into my Charlie Brown, coffin-sized tent and drift away to Dream Land, right?  Unfortunately, I wasn’t that lucky.

Join me soon for Climbing Out Of My Comfort Zone – Part 4!

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The Tunnels is available on Amazon in e-book, paperback, and audiobook formats!

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01H9CXO7C

CLIMBING OUT OF MY COMFORT ZONE – PART 2

Tags

#adventure, #bear, #bucketlist, #california, #camp, #camping, #goals, #hike, #hiker, #hikerchick, #Mountwhitney, #MtWhitney, #roughingit, #tent

It’s 3 a.m. on Sunday morning, and my phone alarm wakes me up in my hotel room.  Thanks to screaming kids in the room next door, even though I’d gone to bed at 8:30 p.m., I’d only gotten 3.5 hours of sleep.  Not the preferred amount for climbing the highest peak in the contiguous U.S.

I quickly guzzled an entire bottle of water.  Hydration, right?  No.  It was part of my plan to never have to use a WAG bag to haul out human waste on this trip.  So far, my plan was working.

After showering, just as I had in my days of ballet and pointe shoes, I carefully wrapped a couple of my blister-prone toes in tape before dressing and pulling on my hiking boots.  I slipped the lip gloss that I could not do without into a pants pocket and put everything unneeded for the hike into a bear can to leave in my trunk.  For my fellow indoor folks, a bear can is a large, plastic container you store anything scented in while camping.  The theory is that this will keep the bears away – or at least out of your stuff.  I wish they made a tent-sized bear can.

I forced myself to eat a yogurt and part of a muffin the hotel provided before grabbing my pre-packed backpack that I was sure weighed 60 pounds and headed to the car.

I met the other three hikers in my group at the Mt. Whitney Portal shortly after 4 a.m.  After one last restroom call, we donned our headlamps, slipped on our backpacks that carried camping gear, and headed into the quiet darkness to begin a trek to conquer a mountain as well as my own fear.

We couldn’t have gone a quarter mile before my shoulder blades started to throb under the weight of my backpack.  Everyone else was handling their backpack with such ease that I was sure mine must weigh considerably more.  My backpack was so overloaded that the brain of it hung over the backboard and pushed my head forward, not allowing me to look skyward.  I knew the others in my group were seasoned hikers and campers, and I refused to be the weak link.  I didn’t utter a peep of complaint but followed them through the darkness on the four-mile trek to our camp site as smoke from forest fires drifted around us.

Less than a mile into the hike, my pack was causing me a huge amount of not only discomfort but imbalance.  When I’d first put it on at the car, I had struggled to keep from falling backward.  Now we walked along a dark path with uneven footing, balanced on logs crossing streams, and stepped on slippery rocks crossing streams.  Easy, right?  Not with what I was sure was an extra 60 pounds on my back.  My balance was completely thrown off, making the stream crossings in the dark especially precarious.

When someone stopped for a break, I found a large rock and leaned on its rocky shelf to hold my backpack and relieve my stress.  My pain was now not only in my shoulders but in my collar bones.  The heavily-laden straps dug into my skin.  I was worried.  I didn’t see how I could possibly make it to the camp site with this pack.  I was afraid to walk back in the dark with bears, Bigfoot, and possibly a Chupacabra lurking in the shadows.  I was more afraid of the Chupacabra than I was of permanently damaging my back, so I blinked back the tears of fear and pain and powered on.

Two miles in, my mind was constantly going back and forth between quit now and go back or ask for a break.  No one else seemed to be having a problem with their pack, so I was not going to be the complainer or quitter.  Not a peep. 

That’s when I remembered something.  It was something from my very distant past and an unlikely source.  I remember my ballet teachers saying, “Every movement comes from your center.”  For some reason, that sentence played over and over in my mind until I acted on it.  Instead of slumping my back and moving my legs of lead, I pulled in my center, sending energy up, into my back.  Every time my legs moved, the movement started in my center and emanated outwards.  I know it sounds silly, but it helped.  My back pain seemed to lessen, and I imagined myself flitting across a ballet stage, as I had in my teens and 20s, lightly, easily, and with every movement coming from my center.  The sentences and images continued to play in my mind, constantly reminding me every time incorrect muscles fired.

As the sun came up and we turned off our headlamps, I could see the amazing scenery around us.  It reminded me of Yosemite.  Grand mountains of granite jutted up all around us.  There were green, pine forests, mountain lakes and streams, and even some wildlife.  It was beautiful, and I prayed a silent prayer of gratitude for being allowed to experience this.

When we finally reached our camp site, I was so relieved!  I couldn’t believe my body had hauled this pack that felt heavier than a large bag of dog food on my back four miles up a mountain.  Taking that thing off was one of the best days of my life and one of my largest accomplishments.

Next came setting up camp.  I’d done a test setup of the tent in my living room, so I felt pretty confident that I could handle this even though the setup instructions consisted of four pictures, two of which looked exactly the same.  I quickly spread everything out, assembled the frame, and put the ends into the holders at the four corners of the tent.  When I assembled the center cross pieces and tried to slip them into their holders, they kept snapping out and collapsing the tent.  One of the guys came over to help me.  He couldn’t get it to stay together either.  I knew we had to get on the trail if we were going to summit today, so I told him to never mind, it would be fine.

“Can you even sleep in that?” he asked in a dubious tone.

“Sure,” I said with a light wave of the hand.  “I’ll be fine,” I concluded looking at my coffin-sized tent that looked like something Charlie Brown would end up in.

“Can you even get your stuff in there?” he asked, unconvinced.

Not wanting to hold anyone up, I waved my hand again, “Yeah, yeah, it’ll be fine.  Let’s go.”

Putting on our packs that were only slightly less heavy without the camping equipment, we headed for the trail to complete the next eight miles.  I glanced back at our campsite to see three full-figured tents and my little, Charlie Brown, coffin tent.  But I didn’t make a peep.  I could man-up and do this for one night.  This was a little farther outside of my comfort zone than I’d planned to go, but I was going to do this.  I wasn’t going to play it safe.  I was going to make the memories and push my limits, darn it.  And away we went.

My crazy heavy backpack. It doesn’t look so big now.

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Join me for Part 3 of Climbing Out Of My Comfort Zone soon!

It all started with Nine Days In Greece, a vacation for a workaholic attorney that turned into so much more!

https://www.amazon.com/Nine-Greece-Katie-Collins-Romance-ebook/dp/B00P6ZB2ZQ/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=%22Nine+Days+In+Greece%22&qid=1599917597&sr=8-1

CATCHING THE WAVE

Tags

#adventure, #california, #californiaadventure, #comfortzone, #life, #living, #surf, #surfing, #wave, #wetsuit

               In Flirting with Forty, one of my favorite movies, the super hunky surf instructor says to Heather Locklear, “Sometimes you have to step outside of your comfort zone to catch the wave of your life.”  I couldn’t agree more.

               Every year around the time of my birthday, I like to do something that assures me I’m still living my life and not just going through life existing on autopilot.  Sometimes it’s checking something off of my very lengthy bucket list, sometimes it’s embarking on an unknown adventure, and sometimes it’s trying something new.

               They say, “When in Rome, do as the Romans,” so, this year, I signed up for a surfing lesson with a friend.  Technically, I had tried surfing about five years ago in Mexico, but it wasn’t an official lesson, the waves were pretty big, and there were jagged rocks sticking out of the water everywhere.  I knew it was not going to go well when my instructor had advised, “Just don’t hit the rocks.”  There was no steering wheel on the board, so I wasn’t sure how he expected me to avoid the rocks; but he was a hunky, older version of the surf instructor in Flirting With Forty, so I rolled with it.  Needless to say, I never got up, and it was bleeping scary.

               Because of my past attempt, I was pretty nervous about the birthday lesson this year.  Just the idea of getting my hair wet made me uncomfortable, but prancing around in a wetsuit in public didn’t do much for my self-esteem either.

               Once we got wet-suited up, the petite, ponytailed, ex-gymnast instructor had us put our boards on our head and carry them to the sand.  Seriously, this was the hardest part.  My scrappy arms were burning, and I struggled to hold the giant board on my head.  Adding to my struggle was my need to constantly suck my stomach in while prancing under the board in that wetsuit, so this walk to the sand turned into a major workout.

               Once we got to the sand and dropped our boards, we were instructed where to lay on the board and how to stand up.  The trick is to go from laying flat on your tummy to pushing your butt up into downward-facing dog, and you then bring one leg forward into a lunge.  Well, my leg didn’t want to go very far forward, so I just grabbed it and pulled it forward.  After the third time, the instructor noticed what I was up to and told me that wasn’t going to fly.

               After instructing us on how to fall off the board (I kinda checked out on that part because I had no intention of doing that), we were off to the water.  As soon as we got knee deep, we were instructed to lay on the board and paddle out.  At my lesson five years ago, paddling had been super hard.  Maybe it was because of the tsunami-sized waves.  In comparison, we were at what my fellow Michiganders would call a bunny hill this time.  Paddling out was easy!  My scrappy arms barely even noticed!

               Once we were out, the instructor would stand next to our board and give us a push when the wave came and then tell us to stand up.  Easy, huh?  Not.  So…much…to remember.

               Technically, I got up on my first try, but not for long, and it wasn’t pretty.  The board started to turn and, again, I had no steering wheel, so I quickly lost my balance, and the unthinkable happened:  My hair got wet.

               Having gotten past the worst part, the next twenty attempts showed some improvement almost every time.  There was still plenty of hair wetting in between but, the more you do things, the easier they get. 

               I guess that’s kinda how life is.  Stepping outside of your comfort zone is scary but, the more you do it, the easier it gets.  If you’re not trying new things or stepping outside of your comfort zone, you obviously don’t have any problems.  Everything is smooth sailing.  But are you really living?  They say the only people who don’t have problems live in a cemetery, meaning you’re already dead.   As for me, I’ve got plenty of problems, so I must be doing something right.

Admittedly, dropping everything midlife and moving across the country to California was my largest step outside of my comfort zone; but all of my other accomplishments before that were smaller steps outside of my comfort zone that helped me build up to this one.  My most exciting payoff I’m hoping to gain from this move?  Probably not winning the gold cup in a surfing competition, but I’m not-so-secretly hoping to run into the hunky surf instructor in Flirting With Forty walking around town.  I’m right next door to Hollywood, right?  Of course, I’d have to step outside of my comfort zone to talk to him, but that’s another story.

Learning to surf was fun.  When you finally get up and ride the wave, for a short time, you feel as if you’re a part of that wave as you fly over the water.  You feel a connection to something bigger than yourself, and it gives you a rush that I struggle to further describe.  I can see why so many people here in California enjoy surfing, and I would definitely do it again.

May you all catch the wave of your life by stepping outside of your comfort zone, using every gift you were given, and living your best life!

Coming soon! Leviathan, Book 3 in the Harbor Secret Series, in an audiobook format!

A SON’S HAND

Tags

#baby, #change, #child, #faith, #hand, #leap, #love, #parentallove, #parentchild, #poem, #poetry, #son

College Child, kinda wild

She had her fun and produced a son

Parents said no, baby’s father let go

So she reached for a love that wasn’t so

He said he’d help, but she had to flee

She moved to Cali, carried her life on her sleeve

Mother and child took a train

Hoping for love and life to gain

She had a baby and degree

But there was a future she couldn’t see

She took a chance, gambled it all

Hoping for a life where she could safely fall

Brave, young mother took a chance

Never looked back, not even a glance

She left the snow for a life she didn’t know

So young, she leapt, she let her past go

When she arrived, for a while, love thrived

Things fell into place, and she walked with grace

As baby grew, mama knew

Happiness was to be found somewhere new

Again she tried, and again she cried

Seemed as if every man had lied

She packed her bags, clothes, and toys

Left in the night gripping baby boy

This wasn’t her plan, she had big dreams

But the extended hand wasn’t as it seemed

Her dream became the hand she held

Her life it inspired and compelled

To her boy the hand belonged

Innocent and pure, it kept her strong

What she didn’t know or conceive

Was in herself she had to believe

She was smart, proud, and strong

She needed no help, they’d get along

Love that she sought in a man

She instead found in her son’s hand

The End