Day One of Glyndwr's Way: Knighton to Felindre

"It's no fair putting a camera on the cat's collar and invading his privacy," says Dana after our satisfying Welsh breakfast. And with that, it is time to start our trek. We bid Dana and Nigel (but not the cat, who is out who-knows-where doing something private) a friendly farewell. I even get hugs and cheek kisses. Our hosts will drive our luggage to our next B&B in Felindre, so we only have to carry daypacks. We stop by the local shop for some essential supplies (bread, cheese, custard cremes...) and are ready to go.

We are off to find Owain Glyndwr. His Way officially starts at the Knighton clocktower and climbs quickly out of the village. Equipped with both Ordnance Survey topomaps and a detailed trail guide, we shouldn't get lost, especially since there also seem to be plenty of signposts to follow. The acorn designates a national trail, and the red dragon indicates Glyndwr's way. At times it will become almost a treasure hunt to find the little symbols on the appropriate gate or stile across a pasture full of sheep, but the first few miles out of Knighton are well-traveled and well-signed.

At nine-ish, the day is already hot. For hikes in the States, I am used to starting as close to dawn as possible to avoid both crowds and the heat. Staying in B&Bs prevent such an early start because of the wait for an appropriate breakfast time (usually around eight o'clock, it seems). So, while I am happy to have a full belly and lots of energy for the walk, I am quite warm.
Not that I'm complaining! I brought my waterproofs because I expected wet Welsh weather, and the sky is perfectly blue. The flowers are blooming and the birds are singing and everything is green. I have sunscreen and my wide-brimmed hat and a moisture wicking t-shirt, so I am prepared to enjoy the unexpected sunshine.

As we walk, we see very few people. Occasionally, someone waves from their garden or a farmer rides a tractor in the distance. We pass one old couple out for a stroll on a country lane. Other than that, our company consists of sheep, cattle, horses and the odd farm dog. Many of the dogs seem absolutely ecstatic to see us. Some like this little black pup, want to be petted. Others, like a tail-wagging golden retriever, run full throttle out to greet us only to veer off to pursue some more interesting smell. Once in a while, a border collie type will come to our heels to herd us along until we are safely out of their territory. I am not brave enough to see what happens if I don't allow myself to be herded like a sheep.

And speaking of sheep, I see ones that are all white, some that are brown or black, and a few with spotted legs and faces. Some have long tails that become very noticeable when the lambs are nursing, as they invariably jab their poor mothers in the udder roughly with their whole heads and wag their tails spastically. Others have very short tails and I wonder if they have been docked. Many sheep are marked with letters or numbers in red or blue or green paint, and I wonder where one goes to buy sheep paint. Later internet research will show that there are certain paints designed just for sheep http://www.premier1supplies.com/detail.php?prod_id=44&cat_id=14. I am happy to learn that these paints are non-flammable and can be applied to either a wet or dry sheep.

Most of the sheep have not yet been shorn for the summer and most have one or two lambs following behind. Many are quite dirty, especially around the rear, and it's only the lambs that really look fuzzy and huggable. They tend to think we plan to eat them right then and there, though, so despite my desire to hug a fuzzy lamb, they all run away.

I have often read that sheep are considered the stupidest farm animals, and I see lots of evidence confirming this view. Lambs scoot under gaps in the fence without noticing it and end up fenced off from their mothers. They only realize their separation when our approach makes them nervous, and they are inevitably unable to easily find their way back. Lots of baa-ing ensues, but they don't ever seem to be able to consider the fence logically. I soon encounter a very stupid lamb who has gotten his head stuck in a wire fence. I worry whether my presence will make him panic enough to possibly strangle himself or break his neck, but I'm hesitant to leave him in case he really is stuck (and not just stupid) and might starve to death. We've already passed the odd sheep bone or skull that make it obvious that a farmer doesn't necessarily check his pastures every day. I decide to pull him out, but as I approach closer he manages to break free and run bleating back to his herd. Foiled again in my attempt for a wooly hug.

I still think the lambs are cute, and take lots of pictures of them. This handsome one photo bombs from behind a tree as I try to take a picture of his friends.

The cattle are almost as wary as the sheep. None want me to pet them. Johnny Bamamfa thinks that some of the cows are sporting hairstyles. He finds this hilarious. They just look like cows to me, but I cut him some slack because cows are silly-looking anyway. And some do seem to have bouffants going on. Check out the one lying down in the picture (with hairstyle) as opposed to the standing cow (sans bouffant).

After six miles or so we arrive in the village of Llangunllo, which doesn't seem to have any stores, but does have a red British public telephone box. We don't need to ring anyone up, but it's nice to know that there are still pay phones around, since our ridiculous American mobile phone does not work in Europe. Llangunllo also has a pub, The Greyhound, which, alas, is closed and undergoing construction. We will have to make do with water.

As we leave the village, we pass a lady in shorts and wellies washing her pig in a kiddie pool. The fence has a sign saying, "Please do not feed the pig. She is on a strict diet." She is identified as a Kune Kune pig from New Zealand. Her name is "Pig". I do not get to pet her, either, but I do think it's kind of funny to watch a pig get a bath. The woman gives Pig treats for being a good pig. I'm not sure what a bad pig would do if you tried to bathe it.

Seeing the pig get her yummy pig treats makes me want some tasty treats of my own. We decide to have lunch perched on some twisted trees on a hill about the town. Our Welsh cheddar tastes quite nice. As we climb up into the moors, I keep looking for Owain Glyndwr, but I don't find him. Perhaps he knows how to hide in the midst of a herd of sheep.

We keep climbing up and down hills until finally, after over fifteen miles, we see the village of Felindre below us in a valley. It has been a lovely walk, but it's after five and my feet are tired. I am looking forward to a hot meal and a comfy bed.Our B&B looks like it will provide both. It is a very charming old farm, with a cheerful and welcoming English host. Although we've walked the whole day, we are still quite close to the English border. Richard kindly directs us to our room, which looks very comfortable, even without a pink heart in sight. Our luggage is magically there already. Richard offers us tea on the patio after we've had a little time to wash up, which sounds lovely (the only word allowed to describe tea in Britain).

Sitting in the afternoon sun with a refreshing cup of hot tea and some delicious cake feels wonderful. Marmaduke the cat tries to steal our milk. A hen tries to persuade us to drop a few crumbs. Lambs and their misplaced mothers are still baa-ing in the distance. We are the only guests, and everything is peaceful. Since Felindre's pub is closed for meals on Sundays (because the publican has to write up the local fish reports), Richard will be cooking dinner. Lovely.

On the Welsh Border

From Shrewsbury, we take the train to Knighton, the starting point of our walk across Wales on Glyndwr's Way. Knighton, Wales is so close to the border that, while the town is in Wales, the train station is still in England. We will have the entire sunny afternoon to explore the village and its environs, since our long trek doesn't start until tomorrow.

At the Knighton station, I spot a map of the town posted near the entrance. As I approach it to figure out the best way to walk to the B&B, a man calls my name. It is Nigel, an Englishman from the B&B, come to drive us up the hill and across the little town to our lodgings. I wonder if he always knows his guests from the uncertain way they approached the map, or whether our backpacks give us away (not that there is a huge crowd disembarking at this little village platform). Johnny Bamamfa and I thank him for the unexpected ride, to which he replies, "You'll be walking enough tomorrow." It's true; our agenda for tomorrow is anywhere from fifteen to seventeen miles, depending on what book, map or website you ask.

The B&B is a well-kept, old building, painted white with blue accents. Dana, a motherly Polish woman, gives us a friendly welcome and shows us to our room. I step over the threshold and my eyes are instantly overwhelmed. The room is entirely pink. It's covered with hearts and lace and any type of frill that a six-year-old girl might wish for.
Dana is obviously expecting a response. I murmur, "How lovely," or something suitable and examine the tea tray to give my eyes a rest from the pink explosion. The room (in spite of the color scheme) is lovely and comfortable. Besides the stocked tea tray with an electric pot, there is a cushy futon/sofa and even an extra fleecy wrap in the wardrobe in case of chills. The en suite bathroom is huge and filled with every possible selection of toiletry that any high-maintenance woman could ever need.

Dana gives us a map of the town and very maternal advice on what we should see, where we should walk, and what supplies we should be sure to procure for our long walk tomorrow. Her thorough recommendations sound perfect, and, after a cuppa, we head out to explore.

Tomorrow, our east to west walk across Wales will follow Glyndwr's way, which begins in Knighton, but a north-south trail also passes through the town. This trail, Offa's Dyke, follows an eighth century earthwork barrier that once marked the boundary between Powys and Mercia and still closely follows the border of present day Wales and England.

We follow the path north and quickly leave the buildings of the village behind. We take pictures of signs welcoming us to Wales at the border (and to Shropshire, England the other way) and pass some young people and families relaxing along the River Teme in the sunshine of the warmest day of the year so far. I notice some very red shoulders and legs and reapply my sunscreen. We cross a bridge over the river, and begin a relatively steep climb up Panpunton Hill.
As we climb, we begin to encounter sheep, which we find charming and worthy of numerous snapshots. Little do we know that these sheep and lambs and their incessant bleating to each other (all their "baas" sounding a little different, some harsh and gravelly, others nasally, others that Simon Cowell might describe as 'a little pitchy'...) will be our almost constant companion for the next five days. I will learn to distinguish the different Welsh breeds of sheep and I will witness first hand why sheep are generally considered wretchedly stupid animals. My boots will smell of sheep poo even when I get home. But, hey, the lambs are super cute.

After our introduction to British hill walking, we retrace our steps back down into Knighton. Johnny B. does his good deed for the day by finding a wallet on a bench (with money in it with the ID of a young chap) and giving it to some teenagers who swear they are friends with the owner and promise to return it without pilferage. As it is a small town, and there are some girls in the group, we believe them.

We have dinner at the Horse and Jockey Inn, where, though I am seated with my back exposed to the wait staff and other patrons, no one sneaks up on me with a knife to the back. I also have some very tasty (but perhaps not so Welsh) lasagna to power my fuel cells for a big day of walking (and to re-energize; despite our lift from the station, we have still walked thirteen miles today).

It feels weird to sleep in a twin bed (I wave across the aisle to my main man), but it is comfortable. The weather has been so warm and pleasant, I leave the window open, and I sleep well, except for a interlude or two of raucous Saturday night noise from the nearest pub.

Breakfast in the morning is fabulous. The first course consists of cereals and fruit served from the sidebar. I have a bowl of granola-y cereal with lovely Greek yogurt and various toppings of berries and seeds.

Then Dana brings out the hot breakfast. A delicately poached egg sits between a small pile of cooked mushrooms and another of stewed tomatoes. A breakfast sausage and rasher of bacon (not crispy like American bacon, but more like ham) complete the plate, accompanied by triangles of toast on their own little rack and coffee fresh from the press. It's an excellent meal. There's none of the grease that I remember from the breakfasts during my term in Scotland, but, of course, that was in a dorm dining hall, so it's hardly a fair comparison. I try never to think about the food from the dining hall I endured back in the States.

I think the full breakfast should give me plenty of energy to walk a mile or two. Or seventeen.

Shrewsbury: The Coolest Town I'd Never Heard Of

After a morning cappuccino and a pain au chocolat (I could get used to these types of breakfasts), T, who requests to be referred to in my posts from now on as "Johnny Bamamfa", and I check out of our Dublin hotel and walk to the nearest light rail station. We are heading for the ferry terminal in Dun Laoghaire, 12 km south of Dublin. Thanks to a helpful Rick Steves, we know that the town is pronounced "Dun Leary" and don't embarrass ourselves while buying our tickets.

Dun Laoghaire is a charming, seaside town, and I am glad to have a few hours to walk around before the ferry leaves. We stow our luggage in lockers at the ferry terminal, and head out onto the promenade.

After walking along the coast, enjoying the sea air and a couple of pleasant, flowery parks, we stop into a busy place on the old main street for a tasty lunch and tea for two. My deliciously fresh tomatoes with mozzarella and fresh bread remind me yet again how much I miss fresh fruits and vegetables (as well as the altitude-challenged baked goods) in short-growing-season-Wyoming.

We return to the ferry terminal and go through a security checkpoint similar to that of an airport except that I'm not limited to 3 oz. liquids and I don't have to take off my shoes. The ferry is difficult to see out of the terminal windows, so I board the boat without a clear impression of what it looks like. Big and white, mostly. The passenger parts of the ship are almost entirely enclosed, but we manage to find a spot outside at the rear (aft?) to watch the cars drive on and wave our handkerchiefs at Ireland.
The "superfast ferry" doesn't seem all that fast to me as its diesel fuel smell and shrieking children start to give me a headache, but its advertised 99 minute ride sounds much better than the 3 hours and 45 minutes of the not-so-fast-ferry. Even though the Irish Sea breeze is closer to a gale, I spend much of the journey outside. The stifling atmosphere of most of the boat makes the movement of the waves and vibrations of the motors just a tad bit too noticeable.

Holyhead, Wales looks uninspiring. We disembark at a dingy pier to load onto a bus for the dull (except for a stray oystercatcher) drive to the terminal. We explore the town for the forty minutes before our train departs and find a few things to appreciate. There is a cool, new pedestrian bridge with a spiral ramp that leads to the old main street and a local pub that sells me a Strongbow that does wonders to settle my stomach (and tastes good, too).

The train skirts the north coast of Wales, and I find the scenery and the conversations of other passengers suitably entertaining. One bloke bonds with the couple across from him when they all break out beers to drink. Two Spanish girls sit across from us and spend lots of time on their mobiles. The landscape is pastoral and soothing; I see lots of sheep and bunnies, with mountains in the background.

After the train goes from Wales to England to Wales again and back into England, Johnny Bamamfa and I exit the Shrewsbury station (a cool building in itself), take our first look at the town, and say, "Wow." From my internet research, I was expecting a few preserved Tudor-style buildings, but the whole town is full of them. Crooked old buildings surround crooked little lanes, and I love it instantly. Even the TopShop, WH Smith and McDonalds on the main pedestrian shopping street fit with the theme. "Unspoilt by Progress" reads a sign on one pub, and I have to admit that they have a point. Our hotel is similarly Tudor, and very quaint. We are assigned the Prince Philip Suite, and the only Prince Philip I can think of is the ninety-year-old-or-so one currently married to the Queen, which doesn't seem to be a very romantic name for a suite, I have to admit. The room is great, though. From the front door, we walk down a few steps to the bedroom, and down a few more to an area containing a desk, wardrobe and the door to the bathroom. Exposed wood beams and funky angles add lots of charm.

I enjoy a great meal of Welsh rarebit (I've been waiting to try this because of the name; excellent with local cheese) and smoked haddock in a funky little restaurant that I worried might be too posh until I noticed details like the leopard-skinned table cloth in the corner, the purple feather boa drapery bunting and the deer head peeping through a red sequined mask. Back at the hotel, my sleep is disturbed only by the rowdy Friday night revelers at the Loggerheads pub across the alley.

My goal in the morning is to find The Dingle, a beautiful garden I saw on the internet, and, yes, I also want to find it because the name makes me laugh. En route, we see a coffee place with big windows looking out on an interesting street and an ad for coffee and cake. Tomorrow we will start our stay in bed & breakfast spots. If the Welsh breakfast is anything like the English or Scottish ones, it will include lots of fried meat, potatoes and eggs and maybe even blood pudding. I savour my cake.
The Dingle is a fantastic garden. Johnny Bamamfa and I wander through it and the larger Quarry Park surrounding it and end up walking quite a long way along a path near the lovely, meandering River Severn. We have long since burned off our cake breakfast and are more than eager for lunch. The Three Fishes pub doesn't disappoint. In another old Tudor building, we eat fish and chips and mushy peas that taste absolutely wonderful. Several old gents at the bar, who seems to be passing the time with pints while their wives and daughters are shopping, give us friendly advice about our upcoming walk across Wales. One has hiked the trail, others have been to some of the villages, they all cheerfully argue about distances and difficulties and where the loveliest spots lay.

We tour all of Shrewsbury that we can cover on foot. The only thing left is to find the statue of Darwin, the town's most famous son. We do find him, as well as his indoor mall. I chuckle and wonder what he would possibly think of his most prominent legacy, complete with The Body Shop.

Dublin through a Sleepless Fog

The first time I went to Ireland, I was sixteen years old. I remember lots of rolling green countryside, kissing the Blarney Stone, and crossing a scary, cool suspension bridge near the fantastic Devil's Causeway. I also remember the Irish Immigration Officer gleefully mocking the birth state listed in my passport.

Sixteen years later, as I tentatively approach the Dublin Airport Passport Control Booth, I wonder what taunts may be forthcoming. But the guard simply inquires about my travel plans and exhorts me to spend more money in Ireland than in the UK. It is five in the morning.

The bus to downtown is even easier to find than the Internet suggested. The early-morning city seems quiet and shuttered, but it's still fun to look around. I never get over that joyful feeling of being able to emerge from an airplane into a completely different environment. The bus already passes buildings that look older than anything in the States. The cars are driving on the left. According to posters, there's a Tom Stoppard play on, and Stockard Channing is starring in The Importance of Being Earnest. A most suitable play for Dublin, I think. I look forward to finding Oscar Wilde's statue later in the day.

The bus driver seems to be making his route up as he goes along. Halfway down O'Connell Street he tells us that he is no longer planning to go to the main bus station (the destination we had specified when boarding). He drops us off at the closest parallel point. No matter, we weren't interested in the bus terminal, anyway; I had just chosen it as a reasonable starting point from which to walk to our hotel.

So my man and I begin to walk what will be the first of seventeen miles for the day. We have packed lightly, for just this occasion, but it will still be nice to drop the luggage off at the hotel. It is still super-early in the morning, but the hotel staff is obviously used to these insane transatlantic flights and have an efficient luggage storage system. I ask what time check-in begins. "Two o'clock." The desk clerk looks at our jet lagged faces and tells us that if we come back around lunchtime our room should be ready.

Unladen, my main man and I emerge from the hotel in search of coffee and something freshly baked. Living in Laramie has left me with a permanent craving for baked goods, since breads and cakes don't tend to work as well at high altitude. After a two hour drive, a four hour flight to Boston, a mad dash through ancient Logan airport (down administrative hallways, past areas that look like construction sights with no construction, until finally "We're outside!? They make you go outside to get to the International Terminal?", rushing through security again...), and a five and a half hour flight with very little sleep (they barely even dimmed the lights) to Dublin, I was at sea level again. Well, I guess I was at sea level in Boston, but I was too harried to notice. Seriously, when even Philadelphia has a nicer, easier to navigate airport, you know there's a problem.

Anyway, coffee. The hotel is by the Liffey, slightly east of the main part of town. We wander in the general direction of Merrion Square and find a little shop with pastries in the window. Sold. I start my vacation out right with a Napoleon and a cappuccino. Yum.

We amble towards Grafton Street, where things are starting to wake up. Later in the day, the stores and pubs will be mobbed, but for now, people are wearing their early morning, got-to-get-to-work faces. We look, we stroll, we check out Ha'Penny Bridge and Temple Bar and try to decide where we might want to sample the first pint of the holiday later in the afternoon. We visit St. Patrick's Cathedral, which has a pretty park with flowers and fountains on one side. A bench calls our name. The coffee and sugar have worn off.

After a comfortable rest in the park, we amble towards Christ Church Cathedral. T risks his neck jaywalking across a particularly complex intersection. I wait at no fewer than four crosswalks to meet him, wondering if this only seems complicated because of my travel fatigue.

We walk. We circle back to St. Stephen's Green, which is indeed green. The tulips are huge, even taller than those I remember from the Netherlands. Another bench welcomes us until I declare that I either need more caffeine or a nap.

We head to Bewley's on Grafton Street, the oldest coffee place in Dublin. It is a happening joint, with antique touches and dark wood. I settle onto a plush, red velvety bench and enjoy a very fine cappuccino. We watch the locals and the tourists for awhile.

After an enjoyable light lunch at a tiny basement eatery, we check into the hotel for a siesta. At this point, I am so punchy that the vending machine snacks have me doubled over in laughter. The potato chips (crisps) are called "Tay-tos" and have a happy little potato man on the packet. http://www.taytocrisps.ie/ T thinks I am insane.

The room is comfortable and after a quick shower, I set my alarm to go off in a couple of hours and fall right asleep. The alarm rings, and I jump. "Oh no, we've slept all night!" I cry. T laughs. I admit to being disoriented, but I feel so much better.

We take another pleasant walk around the much busier city. We have our first Guinness in a classic pub, toast Fem Chick and her main man for their well-wishes, and discuss all the things we are looking forward to on this vacation.

We have Irish Stew in a pub called the Hairy Lemon. I couldn't resist the name, and it was a very good choice.

We find Oscar Wilde. It is a successful day.

We'll be back again in ten days to catch our flight back to the States. After that, I hope I don't have to wait another sixteen years to return to Ireland again.

The Exit Not Taken

Happy Ski Day

I recently celebrated my birthday by going downhill skiing in Wyoming. My new helmet served as a good luck charm, for, not only did I not fall down, I was also not slammed into by any snowboarders. Wicked.

Two days later, I helped celebrate my main man's birthday by going downhill skiing again, this time in Colorado. Again, no spills, wipeouts or collisions. I should have bought a helmet years ago.

Two birthdays are definitely better than one, and any day in the mountains beats a day at work. Not that I was playing hookey or anything.

This year I wasn't feeling too bothered with getting older. I figure if I can still backpack and ski without too much trouble, I haven't gotten old yet. At one point, I rode up on a lift with a seventy-plus-year old man who said his ski poles were older than me. That didn't hurt.

I usually don't put photos of myself on the internet. But I think I can make an exception just once. There I go, shredding the slope....and my chosen slope wasn't even Wyoming crowded!

Iced In

When the temperatures dip below zero, and it's too cold for skiing, and the streets become so icy that everyone's developed a ridiculous shuffling walk, and my fingers turn red and my hair fills with static from the dry air, and the cats look at me reproachfully for ever bringing them to this place and step on me with their chilly paws, and I cannot walk to work without risking frostbite ... at least the windows are pretty.

Please Don't Spear That Poor Buffalo

The other night I dreamed I was feeding pickle spears to a baby buffalo. They were the kind of pickles that often accompany a sandwich and chips at a restaurant. It was the kind of buffalo that one might encounter on a South Dakota prairie, shortly before its mother charged and trampled one for messing with her young one.

I'm not even a huge fan of pickle spears. I only like dill pickles, and sometimes a spear-shaped pickle is merely a sweet pickle masquerading as an edible one. I also prefer my dill pickles whole, so that I can bite a chunk off with a satisfying crunch. Pickle spears tend to be a little lacking in the crunch department.

Don't these poor beasties look like they could use a few good pickles?

The dream bison baby certainly seemed to enjoy the pickles. I was in a kitchen with him, and I had prepared a whole smorgasbord of items to tempt his palate. I was quite concerned that he would be hungry, since his stampeding mother seemed absent.

The dream baby buffalo also wasn't the lighter, tannish color of this photo. He was the dark brown that one usually associates with bison coloring. My subconscious brain must have forgotten the detail that baby buffalo have lighter fur. It just shows that you can't trust anything in dreams.

Unfortunately, I don't have any pictures of pickles. Or smorgasbords. I would take a photo of the kind of pickles that I like if there were any in my fridge, but there are not. The last time I went grocery shopping and thought about pickles, the store did not have the good ones.

The Weather...Again

Yesterday, the world looked like fall. The leaves had turned all sorts of pretty shades of yellow and orange and red and were starting to accumulate on the ground.

Today, it's winter. The first minor dusting of snow fell on September 21st, but today--October 10th--at least 5 inches cover the ground. All the roads out of town were closed for a few hours this morning. Good thing I didn't have anywhere to go.

The University homecoming game kicks off at noon. It's 18 degrees. I think I will have another cup of tea and read a book.

Wear Your Welcome Thin

When I first moved to Wyoming, I took a picture of the welcome sign at one of the borders. With its picture of Devil's Tower and a cowboy riding a bucking bronco, it seemed a fitting introduction to Wyoming.

Then, on one drive to Colorado, I noticed that the Wyoming sign was missing. It looked like it had been chopped down and stolen. Since the Colorado welcome sign was still in place, I figured that it may have been a prank of football fans of the rival Colorado Rams, and expected that the sign would soon be replaced.


A year and a half later, I was still waiting. A large pile of dirt became the only thing marking the Wyoming border.

When friends came to visit, I made sure to point out the state-line dirtpile, which had, in my mind, come to represent the particular attitude of Wyomingites.

Part of the attitude is a feeling of "eh, good enough". This attitude is evident in such cases as a Laramie church, built almost two years ago, that still has the steeple sitting on the ground next to it. I guess no one quite had the energy to erect it after the rest of the building was finished. And you don't really need a steeple to hold a church service.


This Wyomingite attitude seems to hold that that doing nothing is easier that any kind of action. There's a kind of hope that things will work themselves out if they're just left alone for long enough. Most of the streets in Laramie aren't plowed in the wintertime, because the snow will eventually melt when enough people drive on it.

There's the also the widespread feeling that Wyoming is separate from the rest of the world, and special for being so. When discussing the issue of global warming, one Wyomingite said, "I'm not concerned. I'd like to see the sea level try to make it to 7200 feet."

One day, however, someone got their act together and a new sign appeared, redesigned to match the new licence plates which show the Grand Tetons instead of Devil's Tower.


I think it matches the dirtpile nicely.

I am really sick of that bucking bronco, though. It seems to be the official symbol of both the State of Wyoming and the University of Wyoming and is everywhere: on signs, building fronts, bumper stickers, and even stenciled onto the sidewalks around town.

The symbol, while overused, is not out of place. Rodeos are popular summer entertainment, and there are still working cowboys out here. The other day, driving home from a hike, I had to stop the car to wait for four cowboys to finish their cattle drive.


The cowboys were interesting to watch as they guided the cattle down the road and off into an adjoining pasture. They rode their horses well and looked the part with their traditional cowboy hats and boots.

When I was a kid, I heard George Strait sing a song in which he wore his welcome thin. I thought a Welcomethin was a kind of cowboy hat, because George Strait always wore one.

Laramie is a nice place to live, but I wonder if there might be certain signs that it's time for me to move again?

Ladybug Luck

Is finding a horseshoe in the wilderness a good omen? Horseshoes are supposed to bring good luck, but losing a shoe-in-the-mud sounds more like bad luck for the horse. Consider his uneven trudge home, stepping on sharp rocks with his naked hoof, cursing those lazy humans who forced him to haul their tent into the mountains. He may have become lame by the time he got home. How does his bad luck somehow translate into good luck for me?

I've also heard that for a horseshoe to be lucky, it must be placed like a "U" so that the luck doesn't run out. What kind of logic is that? Luck isn't tangible, yet it can be held in place by steel in the right formation? What if I hang my found horseshoe at an odd angle? What then, huh?

Some people consider ladybugs a sign of good luck, possibly because they can eat some garden pests. But if I see a swarm of any kind of bug, regardless of whether the bugs wear an attractive shade of red with cute black spots, I'd take it as an omen to hurry away from the area.

Finding a penny doesn't seem worth much, but is supposed to be lucky. My man, who scoffs at my blog topic and insists on their being no such thing as omens, refuses to pick up a penny unless it is heads-up. He "doesn't really believe it" but still flips over a tails-up coin anyway. I say, bring on the black cats. Or any color cats, really. Aren't kitties wonderful? They should stop making those worthless pennies, anyhow.

I read that pine cones can be considered a sign of good luck. That must be why I'm eager to hike in evergreen forests so often. I also read that mud is a sign of bad luck (especially for the horse that lost his shoe in it), and my hikes are often muddy from rain or snow melt or stream crossings. I guess the prevalence of mud counteracts the abundant pine cones, or else I would be winning all those lotteries that I don't even enter.

I haven't photographed the mud. Would a mud photograph be considered toting bad luck around, or would taking the picture counteract the bad luck? I just can't keep track of these things.

Weather omens are another tough subject. Initially, one might think that sudden dark clouds looming in the sky could be considered a bad omen, especially above timberline, where one's head is the most evident target to the approaching lightning. But, once back in the protective covering of friendly spruce trees (with cones, naturally, like those pictured...hang on, are my spruce cones not lucky? Is it only pine cones that bring good luck? (Yeah, tell that to all the pine trees dying from the recent beetle invasion. (No, not the Beatle invasion. I'm sure Paul McCartney does not want to ravage the pine forests of Western America. In fact, I bet seeing Paul McCartney would be a good omen (unless he was throwing things angrily in my direction because I put him in my blog without permission (but if he was throwing horseshoes, would that be lucky? Would it still be lucky if my windows got smashed in the process? What if my nose got smashed, too? I could perhaps (luckily) sue him for a large settlement that could pay for my reconstructive surgery as well as a few very nice vacations, and I would always have a good anecdote up my sleeve (Did I tell you about the time Paul McCartney broke my nose with a lucky horseshoe?)))))), the cloud-cover can be welcoming. The forthcoming cool breeze and raindrops chase off the swarms of mosquitoes and may eventually result in a beautiful rainbow: an undisputed good luck omen (unless you're a leprechaun whose gold is in danger of being stolen).

If a pronghorn crosses your path, you will have good luck. They don't wear shoes, either, so your nose should be safe.

An Elk with a View

July marks the start of the real hiking season in the Rockies. Enough snow has finally melted to allow access to the higher elevations, though drifts still remain to add an additional challenge to any trek. I love climbing through the changing vegetation, watching the lush mixed forest become a thinner one of various evergreens, then climbing further until only twisted, windblown spruces and hardy shrubs are left. The fabulous mountain views above the treeline are only heightened by the stubborn wildflowers that spring up wherever they can.

The other day, I enjoyed just such a hike in Rocky Mountain National Park. The trail to Flattop Mountain began at about 9500 feet and rose to over 12,000 in the course of 4 miles. I relished in the fresh air as the wildflowers changed from goldenbean to columbine to rosy paintbrush to alpine buttercup with every mile.

Then, there above timberline, a something emerged on the horizon. It had the golden brown color of a marmot, but was much too large. At lower elevations, I would have dismissed it as a tree stump. I got out my binoculars and discovered a handsome bull elk.

As the trail climbed closer and closer to the great beast, whose antlers were still encased in their protective velvet, I kept expecting him to become nervous at my approach. I thought he would soon get to his feet and run (hopefully away and not at me in an angry charge), but he kept right on chewing his cud, only occasionally flicking an ear at a pesty bug.

Two mere humans were not going to disturb this elk's enjoyment of the fabulous view. The sun was shining. The pika were scurrying, and the marmots were chirping. A ptarmigan hen surveyed her five fuzzy, newly-hatched chicks as they pecked the ground.

My man and I summited Flattop, looked up and saw another peak beckoning. We continued on to the next highest mountain, Hallett Peak at 12,713 feet, where we enjoyed a wonderful lunch of bread and cheese. It was a fantastic day.

The snowy winter and very wet spring have resulted in spectacularly full rivers and waterfalls. The wildflowers are amazing at all altitudes. I don't think you could go wrong with any hike in any direction, as you never know what you might see.

A few days ago, I did a hike of over 14 miles into the Rawah Wilderness in northern Colorado. About 4 or 5 miles into the hike, I noticed a commotion to the left of the trail. Two thrushes were flapping and squawking on the ground. At first, I thought they were protecting a nest, and concerned about my intrusion, but then I saw that one of the birds was trapped.

The poor bird's wing was wrapped around a spiny, dead spruce branch, like the one pictured. He (lets just call him the he...he was flapping around so much I couldn't see him very well) was completely stuck, upside down and panicking. I usually do my best to leave nature alone (except for slapping at mosquitoes), but I just couldn't leave this bird to die, starving to death while hanging upside down.

I threw my fleece over him while his mate screeched at me. He stopped moving as soon as he was covered, but I was concerned that he might overheat or have a heart attack from fear. I gingerly eased the fleece down a tiny bit, worried about an emerging beak pecking me at any moment, and saw that only the tip of his wing was trapped, wrapped tightly around the spiny branches. I quickly broke some of the branches away, then pulled his feathers free, my pulse racing as I hoped I was doing the right thing.

I pulled off the fleece and jumped back. The bird fluttered away into the undergrowth, his wing seeming to work at least partially.

I felt pretty good. The bird was free. Maybe he would even survive.

The glacier lilies were blooming in the snow melt.

Alpine vistas awaited.

Get Your Kicks...

...not quite on Route 66, but off the road a little ways you're sure to find some fantastic cactus trees, and what other reason could there be to travel the great Southwest? Deadly scorpions and poisonous snakes and torturous temperatures? The tacky horrors of Las Vegas or the constant traffic jams of sprawling cities? Definitely not. Only cactus trees could bring me to the desert in the middle of summer (well, and a car with comfortable air-conditioning).


The Saguaro is the king cactus tree, and I'd wanted to see one for as long as I remember, probably since the first time I saw one in a Snoopy cartoon. The Saguaro is emblembatic of the West, with its image used on kitchen decorations everywhere. Yet, I'd never seen one in the wild.

I was already in Southern California. It only took a detour of a couple of hundred miles through Arizona to find Saguaros popping up on the side of the road. Farther south, landscapes completely full of cactus trees emerged, and finally, I found Saguaros that I could get right up to.



These monsters are amazing. It's also quite fun to say "Sa-WAH-ro" over and over again in a gravelly voice. Try it. It even gets the attention of lazy cats.

Saguaro National Park near Tuscon contains not only hundreds of these great Saguaros, but also hordes of other cacti in various stages of tree-ness. It's a cactus-lovers paradise.

I've always been a fan of cacti, partially because they are the only plants I can reliably grow, but also because of their odd ways of growing new bulges or arms on a seemingly random basis. They can produce amazing flowers and fruits and quite a variety of spines with hooks, barbs or piercingly sharp points. I don't even get mad if I have to grab some tweezers after my cacti dealings. After all, it was my own fault for not keeping my hands to myself.

Other very cool cactus trees are the Teddy Bear Chollas, whose acquaintance I met (they are living creatures after all) in Joshua Tree National Park in California. They look like they could even be cuddly, so the government helpfully installed lots of signs suggesting that touching was probably not the best idea. I like to hug trees, but even I'm not about to hug a cactus tree. Cacti seem to prefer that people respect their personal space bubbles.

My favorite trees are still evergreens. I can never get enough of their smell, and their needles make a splendid trail carpet for hikes. I love the giant Douglas firs of Oregon and the red pines of drier climates. I admire the larch pine's funky needles and the massive size of the redwoods. Firs, pines and spruces are the trees I want to live with.

But for vacation, I'll take cactus trees!

Buy My Junk (I Mean, My Vintage Collectables)

An R2D2 postbox near the corner of the historic Plaza in Santa Fe made me laugh. It was worth a picture, and once taken, I went on with my day with no further Star Wars thoughts besides those normal ones of comparing a passing Shih Tzu to an Ewok or perhaps quoting a little dialogue from Return of the Jedi. The droid sighting did not, notably, make me want to sign into Ebay to see whether I could bid on an R2D2 mail box for my Star Wars collection.

I no longer have a Star Wars collection. I never really had a true collection at all, just lots of toys that I used to play with as a kid. The figures and creatures were boxed up half-forgotten in the closet for lack of any takers. My nieces somehow were just never interested.

One day, lamenting the Jabba-sized boxes taking up my closet space, I vaguely remembered someone commenting "some day that stuff will be worth money." With curiosity, I clicked on Ebay, not really expecting to find much.

Amazingly, Star Wars collectibles are big business. The "vintage" stuff from the old movies is highly traded, and some of it is actually bought and sold for real money. I couldn't believe that I could make money from old stuff that I just hadn't gotten rid of because of fond memories.

The more I looked on Ebay, the more I found that my junk included some rarities. I had this weird monster that I don't even remember from the movies. He was in near mint condition because he was so ugly I rarely played with him. However, since I have a meticulous personality, he still had his staff (with skulls? Why would I want to play with this creepy guy?) and even a collectible coin.


This figure alone netted me over $40. No joke. I had never even visited Ebay before, but overnight I became an avid dealer. It was almost addictive to check my bids and see the crazy amounts that people were willing to pay for this crap.

I sold almost all my Star Wars stuff for prices well over any that my parents paid when they bought them new (I ignored parental queries over commissions for their insight in purchasing just the right toys).

The interest in the plastic junk was not limited to dudes in manky basements in Ohio. I made over $25 on this group of monsters, which was bought by a collector in Spain. I had no idea Spain had Star Wars geeks! And I couldn't believe that some guy (yes, the purchasers were mostly guys) would pay another $25 for me to ship it to him over there! I remember buying this Rancor Monster and Wampa at a garage sale for a buck or two when I was a little kid. Now that's a return on an investment!

Then I turned to the other toys left in my closet. My Barbie dolls, it turned out, were pretty worthless. They weren't old or unique enough. I gave them away via FreeCycle to a very excited little girl and moved on.

I found that I had some My Little Pony's from the 80s, which were also considered "vintage". I'm not sure if twenty years is old enough to earn that label, but what do I know? Most of the ponies were only worth a bit of cash (which I was happy to take), but Internet research soon revealed that I had three rare boy ponies. Boy ponies were made one year only, so there weren't that many of them (I wonder if it was controversial at the time for the all girl pony herd to suddenly have a bunch of stallions added. I just remember wanting them because they had cool Clydesdale hooves. And hats.). Most of the boy ponies for sale had lost their hats, bandannas and special combs or had been the victims of unfortunate haircuts. I, being me (and no disparaging comments on my picky personality, thank you), still had all the accessories.

Doesn't he look nice? He earned me almost $30, and his two buddies brought in even more. $30 for a plastic horse from 1987. My man, with a new appreciation for My Little Ponies, asked, "Have you got any more of those ponies hidden anywhere?" Alas, I never had that many in the first place, so this was a one-time-only bonanza.

The women who bought the ponies (yes, the purchasers were all women) responded giddily to the arrival of their packages with comments like, "Thank you, he's perfect!!!!!" The ponies obviously weren't going to be given to children as toys, but were going to be added to a display case in very weird houses. I didn't belong in this Pony World, so I sold quickly and got out.

In one month on Ebay, I earned enough cash for numerous concert tickets and ski passes, and I much prefer those experiences to a collection of plastic toys that I haven't touched in fifteen years. Although I will still smile at a R2D2 mailbox or other Star Wars reference, I think I've outgrown much of all that. Except that I have a cat named Wookie. And I can use the Force to make people do my bidding. That's the only rational explanation for my recent windfall.