In Lieu of Postcards

For St. Patrick’s Day: Thoughts of Kerry, Ireland

Reflections and recommendations on experiencing the magical Kerry.

“A point comes on the fabulous Ring of Kerry when one earnestly wishes the scenery would flatten out and shut up. But it does nothing of the kind. . . Apart from the heady excitement of the big scenic shows, a succession of charming cameos keep the eye busy: stone walls running and wiggling up mountain slopes; turf-cutting scenes to left and right; near an ordinary and unornamental cottage, arum lilies growing in such abundance that they are practically wilding; farther along the roadside, children cheer and wave at the sight of a yellow bus. There is no rest in County Kerry from sights that are both lovely and interesting.”

– Stephen Rynne, from All Ireland, 1956

“Being born a Kerryman, in my opinion, is the greatest gift that God can bestow on any man. When you belong to Kerry, you know you have a head start on the other fellow. . . In belonging to Kerry, you belong to the elements. You belong to the spheres spinning in the heavens.”

– John B. Keane, in Voices of Kerry by Jimmy Woulfe, 1994

St. Patrick’s Day is just around the corner, which prompted me to do a little #TBT post on one of my very favorite places to travel: Ireland, specifically the magical County Kerry.

The breathtaking Ladies' View at Killarney National Park — The breathtaking Ladies’ View at Killarney National Park

To a person who has spent any amount of time in Ireland, St. Patrick’s Day in the U.S. can be a particularly dreary affair – every bar suddenly decides it’s a pub, bud light gets dyed a sickening shade of emerald, and green hats and leprechaun jokes abound. Sure, as someone who has experienced St. Patrick’s Day in Dublin, I can attest that there is a lot of green and just as many boorish drunks (though they are boorish in a slightly different – and to this American, more amusing – way). But nothing about American St. Patrick’s Day celebrates the Irish culture in any meaningful way, and it always feels like a missed opportunity.

Kenmare, Not Killarney

Still, I typically do find myself reflecting this time of year of my love for the Emerald Isle. There are beautiful spots all over the country I could talk about, but as many tourists know, Country Kerry is always a good place to start. When I first visited Ireland back in 2001 with my family (my brother was concluding a study abroad semester in Cork), one of our first stops was in Kerry. We visited the breathtaking Killarney National Park and stayed in Kenmare, one of Ireland’s more cosmopolitan small towns.

Kenmare is a recommended first stop on the Ring of Kerry, which is one of those things that every tourist to Ireland seems to have on his/her agenda. But why not? As the droll mid-century Irish writer Stephen Rynne (I wholeheartedly recommend All Ireland to any Irelandophile who can get their hands on a copy) points out in the excerpt above, it is jaw-droppingly, excruciatingly beautiful. The photos accompanying this blog are those I took upon my third visit to Kerry, in 2016. My husband and I went to Kenmare from Dublin and then on to Caherciveen (and eventually to Skellig Michael, which is a bigger subject for another post).

If you visit Kerry and you’re not, say, the type of person who enjoys browsing in Carrolls Irish Gifts, I’d recommend spending little time Killarney. I’ve been to Killarney thrice now, as it’s the transportation hub within Kerry, and each time its more crowded with tourists and tourist attractions than the last. Killarney National Park is incredibly beautiful and certainly worth a visit. But once you’ve seen it (and it can be lovely to hike, if that’s your jam), it’s best to set out for one of Kerry’s many other intriguing towns.

Kenmare's busy main drag — Kenmare’s busy main drag

Any Irish tourist knows that one of the best sources of news and views is your taxi driver, and I can confirm that the town of Kenmare, a mere 30-minute drive from Killarney, has the Irish taxi driver seal of approval. When we told our Dublin taxi driver we were taking the DART to Kerry, he got right to the point. “Don’t go to Killarney,” he warned making a disapproving face in the rearview mirror. “It’s full of tourists.” Feeling pleased that we must look like the “right” kind of tourists, we assured him that we were in fact headed to Kenmare. He brightened. “Kenmare is lovely!” He enthused. Thirty minutes makes a big difference.

One reason Kenmare remains lovely is that the DART doesn’t go there. The train goes to Killarney, and you find your way from there. We ended up calling a taxi number posted to a dusty bulletin board in the train station, and soon we were riding with Dermot, who not only drove us through Killarney National Park but insisted upon stopping at Ladies’ View so we could take photos. Dermot told us he had never even been to Dublin. He was born in Kerry and in Kerry he stays. Looking around, who could argue with him?

Kenmare is indeed a beautiful town with a number of charming B&Bs (the two I’ve stayed in – both stellar – are the Brass Lantern and Ashfield). The town has your usual host of pubs, seafood restaurants and knitwear shops, but its most interesting historical attraction is the Bronze Age Stone Circle just at the edge of town. Inside the circle, it’s incredibly peaceful. I felt like I could stay for hours.

The awesomely still Stone Circle (with my husband Robert in the background).

Kenmare is an excellent first stop before really embarking on the Ring of Kerry, as it’s a fairly happening town. You get your fix of civilization before preparing to go further out. Many tourists do “The Ring” in the same way: they take a tour bus or drive, hitting all the main towns in a day. But I don’t usually go in for that kind of fast-paced tourism and besides, we had a Skellig Michael adventure planned that necessitated us making our way to the coast. So we headed to Caherciveen, one of the western-most towns on the ring. We rode the (surprisingly prompt) Bus Éireann through some of the most awe-inspiring landscapes there are, and made our way to the tiny western village.

The sleepy town of Cahersiveen — The sleepy town of Caherciveen

Caherciveen, Where “the People Are as Clever as Pet Foxes”

In All Ireland, Stephen Rynne doesn’t spill too much ink on Caherciveen, except to say: “It is an end-of-the-world town with an excellent hotel, and of course all the people are as clever as pet foxes” (102). It remains a pretty accurate description from what we gathered. At first, we marveled at the seeming emptiness of the town. The only people we seemed to spot around were groups of Spanish students, upon whose rowdiness any Irish proprietor we met seemed to comment disapprovingly. No one explained what they were doing there (on holiday?) but they lent an air of youthfulness to an otherwise quite elderly town, and seemed perfectly pleasant to us.

One of the best, simplest meals I've ever had. Kerry crab on brown bread in Caherciveen. — One of the best, simplest meals I’ve ever had. Kerry crab on brown bread in Caherciveen.

On our last night in town, however, we saw Caherciveen come to life: we stopped into what was supposedly the town’s best restaurant, an elegant seafood bistro. We were surprised to see the place filled up over the course of the night with cosmopolitan-looking people of various ages, many of whom seemed to know one another, drinking wine and laughing and talking and having a great old time. The little town wasn’t so quiet after all.

The outskirts of Cahersiveen — The outskirts of Caherciveen. No. Filter.

Caherciveen (which we learned, after listening closely to a number of taxi drivers, is pronounced “CAR-siv-een”) is a town of a few blocks that dissolves into some of the most beautiful country I’ve ever seen. Water, mountains, wildflowers, and big, fluffy clouds – it’s all there.

One of Ireland’s many incredible old castles, Ballycarbery, is within about a 45-minute walk to the village. We lucked out with beautiful weather and made the journey (see the top image for full effect).

Ballycarbery Castle near Cahersiveen — Ballycarbery Castle near Caherciveen

This is the problem with writing a blog – it’s got to come to a close sometime, but there are certain subjects about which one feels inclined to go on and on. Kerry is one of those. If you’re taking a trip to Ireland, visit this beautiful place. But I’d recommend avoiding the typical hop-on-the-bus, see-a-town-for-10-minutes method. I personally have been to Kerry three times now, and I still haven’t even seen all towns on the ring. But I know this: each and every town has its own special quirks and surprises. So why not just pick one and go?

There are two tiny memories that come to my mind when I think of Kerry: one I saw from the window of the bus Éireann on my last visit, as we rolled through one of the northern towns – either Glenbeigh or Killorgan. It was a lazy Sunday, and I watched a white-haired man emerge from a shop with a newspaper in hand. As he walked down the street, he was greeted by passers-by – clapped on the shoulder, waved to, chatted with. It was a slow, sunny, cool day in Kerry, and nothing could seem more perfect.

The other memory didn’t even take place in County Kerry. I was on a ferry heading to Clare Island in County Mayo as I watched a little boy bend to pet a handsome Irish Setter. “He’s lovely,” the boy said to the dog’s elderly master. “What’s his name?”

“Kerry,” the man said.

The little boy looked up, surprised. “I was born in Kerry,” he said.

The older man smiled at the boy. “So was I.”

I’ll leave you with some more from Stephen Rynne:

“In the nineteenth century, Kerry was already fashionable; in the twentieth century it is almost riotously popular. The ink nearly dries on my pen at the thought of how it is over-written, over-romanticized and now almost overrun. The tens of thousands who have admired its scenery imagine that they know Kerry; so they do—from the outside. There remain the people. ‘Kerry brains’ are proverbial and, if anything, the people of this country outmatch their scenery in the variety and unexpectedness of their intellectual gifts” (107).

The road back to Cahersiveen — The road back to Caherciveen

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Monument Valley and the Mythos of the American West

Even if you’ve never been to Arizona’s breathtaking Monument Valley, it likely lives in your imagination.

“a strange world of colossal shafts and buttes of rock, magnificently sculptored, standing isolated and aloof, dark, weird, lonely.”

– Author Zane Grey on Monument Valley

It’s been over a month since I returned from my road trip around Utah, but I wanted to take my time gathering my thoughts about Monument Valley, a famous park situated on Navajo land at the Arizona-Utah border. Monument Valley is a breathtaking place that invites a strange sensation: it’s totally unique and yet instantly familiar, even if you’ve never heard of it before in your life.

Visions of the American West

In my first post about our Utah trip, I wrote a little about the mythos of the American West, the way it exists in the minds of those of us who have yet to experience it in person. When I talk to friends, especially those from other countries, about where they most want to visit in the U.S., they usually want to go somewhere out west based on this mythos, what they’ve seen and heard and read in popular culture. As I took in the sites of Arches National Park alongside a number of tourists from Europe and Asia, I wondered if what they saw matched their expectations. but I realized that in this globalized society, we probably all have similar points of reference. So to understand what was in their imaginations, I needed to look no further than my own.

Monument Valley in Pop Culture

Though we may not realize it, when many of us picture the American West, we picture Monument Valley. I know I did, for the simple reason that it is far away the most frequently-filmed western location, appearing in countless films and television shows, beginning with John Ford’s 1939 John Wayne film Stagecoach (Vanity Fair published this excellent article some years ago on Ford and Monument Valley). Monument Valley’s pop culture path was forged by Harry Goulding, a rancher who moved with his wife to the barren valley in the 1920s and established a small trading post. When Goulding heard that United Artists was scouting locations to film westerns, he hired a photographer to put together an album, made his pitch, and the rest was history.

Harry Goulding's living room in his former apartment above the trading post. — Harry Goulding’s former apartment, above his trading post at Monument Valley.

After Stagecoach, John Ford continued shooting movies at Monument Valley, returning again and again to the iconic landscape, and other filmmakers followed suit (and continue to do so to this day). Films featuring the Valley include 2001: A Space Odyssey, Once Upon a Time in the West, Easy Rider, National Lampoon’s Vacation, Thelma and Louise, Forrest Gump, and many more. But I have to attribute my mental image of Monument Valley to a decidedly less highbrow source: Looney Tunes. During the cartoon’s heyday in the 1960s, animators Maurice Noble and Chuck Jones – likely inspired by the western films that were popular in their youth – used Monument Valley as the setting for many shorts, most frequently the Wile E. Coyote and Road Runner cartoons.

A classic Looney Tunes short, with Monument Valley in the background.

It’s fascinating to consider how our expectations and conceptions of any particular place are colored by these sorts of tangled associations: my personal understanding of the American West started with Looney Tunes, which in turn was likely drawing from the early impact Western films had on the animators themselves. No matter how it got lodged in our minds, Monument Valley has become shorthand for “American West” for generations of people – not bad for a relatively small swath of land smack-dab in the middle of nowhere.

A Visit to the Valley

But I suppose that’s enough pontificating for now. What travelers should know is that Monument Valley is an incredible place to visit. It’s remote but situated near enough to Bears Ears, Grand Staircase, and even the Grand Canyon that it makes an excellent stop on a multi-park tour. One point to note: the park is on Navajo land and thus is officially a Navajo Tribal Park, not a national or state park. This doesn’t make much of a difference in terms of amenities, but it does mean there are more interesting culture facets to the experience – a Navajo museum within the Visitor’s center includes historical artifacts and art, and the two on-site restaurants both specialize in Navajo food. And it also means that there’s very little else nearby, which makes the experience more special, in my opinion.

The dining room at Goulding's — The dining room at Goulding’s

Amazing notepaper from Goulding's — Amazing notepaper from Goulding’s

We stayed at Goulding’s Lodge, the cheaper of the two lodging options in the park (the other being the View Hotel, which has better views but a less charming decor). Goulding’s is on the fancier side of what I consider a “lodge,” and one of my favorite things about it was their amazing logo. Though I snagged some of the above notepaper, I was sad to discover this logo is not available on a t-shirt.

The Goulding’s dining room serves a typical diner menu with the addition of some Navajo dishes. Figuring I’d be a fool not to eat Navajo food while I had the chance, I ordered the Navajo fry bread huevos. The portion was uncomfortably massive, but I didn’t regret it. Later on, we tried the View Hotel restaurant for dinner, and I had a pretty good green chile stew. The View’s selling point is – you guessed it – dinner with an exceptional view of the monuments. But to get a window seat for sunset, it’s best to show up when they open at 5:00.

Blue-green plant life makes Monument Valley extra magical.

My husband among the monuments. — My husband playing the part of moon-man among the monuments.

Monument Valley is different from many National and State Parks in the area in that there is only one hiking trail – this is really a driving park, whether you choose to do so in your own vehicle or sign up for a tour. We chose to combine our visit with a drive to Valley of the Gods, so we didn’t take the standard Monument-viewing drive. Though it was quite cold, we decided to take the full hike, which lasts a few hours and only features one truly difficult patch (walking up a steep hill in sand – something I’d never done before and wouldn’t necessarily like to repeat). We were the only two people out there on this particular cold Saturday afternoon, and the hike was nothing short of glorious – like being on the moon.

There’s also a lot of kitsch to be experienced at Monument Valley. Harry Goulding’s old trading post and apartment is now a museum featuring film posters, Navajo art, and other artifacts from the Valley’s history. Goulding’s Lodge also has a screening room, naturally, where John Wayne films typically show, in case you want to pop in and see depicted on celluloid the very landscape that surrounds you. There are two massive gift shops as well with a wide variety of must-have junk. But due to the austerity of the surrounding area, none of this feels like too much, and it’s easy to ignore if you prefer a more nature-centric experience.

Our view from Goulding's lodge — Morning view from Goulding’s Lodge

For my money, the biggest thrill of all was just waking up in the morning, glancing out the window of the lodge (camping would be amazing, if you come in warm weather), and seeing the sun rise over those mighty, wild towers of rock. It’s a vision that perhaps your mind already has stored, from Elmer Fudd chasing Bugs Bunny or John Wayne searching for Natalie Wood or Chevy Chase wandering, delirious, in Vacation. But to see it in person, to stand in the midst of it – you can then truly understand what Harry Goulding saw all those years ago. That this is one of the more special places in the world, and that it needs to be shared.

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Flâneuse by Lauren Elkin & the Joys of Wandering

Does the simple act of walking facilitate the best travel experiences?

A Flâneuse, as defined by Lauren Elkin in her book of the same name, is the “feminine form of flâneur [flanne-euhr], an idler, a dawdling observer, usually found in cities” (pg. 7). As a scholar of French literature, Elkin was struck by the fact that men have historically been the ones depicted as walkers, wanders and ponderers – so much so that a word was created for them. But women flâneurs exist, too, and Elkin’s book weaves together the stories of famous flâneuses – Jean Rhys, George Sand, Martha Gellhorn and Agnès Varda, to name a few – as well as chronicle her own history of traveling and wandering.

Flâneuse: Women Walk the City in Paris, New York, Tokyo, Venice, and London is not your typical travel book. It’s not a travelogue, nor does it aim to get inside a particular place. Yet Elkin writes with such insight about the ways we experience place that it will likely appeal most to lovers of travel and travel literature.

A photo of New York City at night, taken while flâneuse-ing. — A (blurry) photo I took of New York City at night while flâneuse-ing.

The Joy of Wandering

I was excited to read Flâneuse when it came out last year, because the concept of the flâneuse gets to the heart of what I find so exhilarating about travel. Walking the streets of a city, particularly in a foreign country, is when I feel the most moved by and connected to a new place. I feel myself become one in a crowd, watching people and storefronts, experiencing a day in the life of a place half a world away from where I usually spend my days. I remember loving this feeling even as a child, when I would leave my small town and go with my parents to Chicago or New York. Walking with them on the streets, I would feel the energy of the city, and long to break off on my own and become a part of it.

Elkin puts this feeling into words regarding her first extended stay in Paris:

In those six months, the streets were transformed from places in   between home and wherever I was going into a great passion. I drifted wherever they looked interesting, lured by the sight of a decaying wall, or colorful window boxes, or something intriguing down at the other end, which might be as pedestrian as a perpendicular street. Anything, any detail that suddenly loosened itself, would draw me towards it. Every turn I made was a reminder that the day was mine and I didn't have to be anywhere I didn't want to be.[pg. 6]

Since those days as a child and teenager longing to amble through a city on my own, I’ve tried to take the time to do just that anywhere new I’ve visited. In recent years I’ve been traveling to Italy, a country that rewards flâneuse-ing almost as much as Paris, with its piazzas and hidden archways, its food and clothing markets, and its vibrant public life, even in smaller towns.

Piazza San't Agostino, Arezzo — Piazza San’t Agostino in Arezzo, Italy, at dusk.

Environments that “Inhabit Us”

Elkin’s book covers a lot of ground (and spends perhaps more time than I would have liked on close readings of works of literature and film). She discusses the debt that the modern flâneuse owes to feminist pioneers, who made it possible for women to walk the streets alone in many parts of the world. And in the memoir sections especially, she writes of the glorious feeling of independence such an action can bring. But she also talks about the struggles of being in a new place, and the difficult journey of figuring out who you are and what you want while also being far from home. It’s a sentiment any ex-patriate or nomad will relate to strongly. In one of the most affecting passages, she writes,

'Environments inhabit us,' Varda said. These places that we take into ourselves and make part of us, so that we are made of all the places we've loved, or of all the places where we've changed. We pick up bits and pieces from each of them, and hold them all in ourselves.

And sometimes we hold on with both hands to things we really want to release. 

This is a hard thing to admit. How do we know what to keep, and what is just an old idea we had about ourselves? [pg. 240–41]

This is a thought-provoking question, particularly for those of us that travel. We are often prompted to change and adapt quickly, to revise our assumptions about both ourselves and others. We are thrust into new situations with new people that cause us to rethink our positions and the way we envision ourselves and our lives. And then there’s the leaving – the sometimes painful process of leaving a place for somewhere new. And the struggle to reserve a piece of your heart for that place while still moving on. But we wouldn’t want it any other way, would we?

Dublin Castle, photographed while flaneuse-ing.

Flâneuse-ing Favorite: Dublin, Ireland

While reading Elkin’s book, I couldn’t help but think of Dublin, the only non-American city I can say I’ve actually “lived” in (I spent six-plus months there on study abroad in 2004). It was the first place in which I really practiced flâneuse-ing for the first time on my own, and I recognized immediately how much it suited me.

When I think of my time in Dublin now, I remember myself hopping on the bus to the city center and ambling around, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone, strolling past shops or over the Ha’penny bridge or through St. Stephen’s Green. I’d hear snippets of conversation, smell sizzling fish and chips or sticky cider and cigarette smoke wafting out of bars, spot graffiti and murals on walls and sidewalk panels. I remember the riotous fun of St. Patrick’s Day, leaving the dorm at 11 a.m. and wandering around all day with this companion and that, meeting friends and acquaintances old and new, and returning at 5 a.m. the next morning with a new zeal for the city in which I found myself and the life I was living.

James Joyce graffiti in Dublin, Ireland — James Joyce mural in Dublin, Ireland

Dublin is a great city for flaneuse-ing, but not for photographing. It’s perpetually dark and cloudy, and the last time I visited in 2016 (when these photos were taken), the city was swallowed whole by construction. It’s not classically beautiful in the way of Paris, Venice, Barcelona or other romantic cities I could name. And yet it’s an incredible city to walk around. It’s almost certainly in part my own nostalgia – I’ll never be able to separate this place from my own journey, as cheesy as it sounds, into adulthood. But there’s something else about it, too. It has a unique, haunted beauty all its own.

When I’m being a flâneuse in Dublin, I often think of Louis MacNeice’s 1939 poem, simply called “Dublin.” The entire poem captures the essence of roaming around the city, though the second stanza speaks to me most:

This never was my town,
I was not born or bred
Nor schooled here and she will not
Have me alive or dead
But yet she holds my mind
With her seedy elegance,
With her gentle veils of rain
And all her ghosts that walk
And all that hide behind
Her Georgian facades –
The catcalls and the pain,
The glamour of her squalor,
The bravado of her talk.

I’ll leave it there for now. For all you flâneurs and flâneuses out there, may you never tire of exploring. I know I won’t.

Top image: Harcourt Street in Dublin, photographed while flaneuse-ing.

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Communing with the Gods in (what used to be) Bears Ears

What we lose when we shrink our monuments.

Last Friday, February 2nd, was a sad day for proponents of public lands: areas that were formerly part of Bears Ears National Monument officially opened for mineral leasing. This means that oil, gas, coal and uranium companies can now put in requests to mine these beautiful parts of Utah. Why? The usual – money, politics and shortsightedness. So how did we get here? For those who haven’t followed the story, in December President Trump issued an executive order shrinking Bears Ears (along with Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument) – which was designated by President Obama in just 2016 – by 85 percent. What remains are two protected areas, newly christened Shash Jaa and Indian Creek, and among the rest there is some local protection, but mostly none.

This January, I visited the Valley of the Gods, a breathtaking valley of sandstone formations that is considered sacred to the Navajo. It is one of the areas that the executive order removed from National Monument protection. We went other places on our Utah adventure before we made it to Valley of the Gods – including Zion National Park and Monument Valley, which I’ll post about eventually. But the recent news of mineral leasing compels me to share my brief, memorable morning in the former Bears Ears, in words and photos.

I have to note one thing up front, and that is that Valley of the Gods specifically is still protected public land under the Utah BLM. It is a designated Area of Critical Environmental Concern, which I believe means there won’t be any mining or drilling on this particular spot. But this is just one small section of an area that is rich throughout in beauty, history, and archaeology. And some arbitrary parts of it are now free to be corrupted, disrupted, and exploited.

Throughout the debate over Bears Ears, some have asked: why the uproar over the reduction of the monument when it’s only been around for a little over a year? It was doing just fine before, wasn’t it? But the answer is no, it wasn’t.

For years, this expanse of land was subject to vandalism, looting of valuable artifacts, and even grave-robbing. It was this dire situation that prompted a coalition of Native American leaders to petition president Obama to designate the monument. As Jenny Rowland wrote in 2016 for the Center for American Progress, “The combination of Bears Ears’ vast size, number of archaeological sites, surge in looting incidences, and unprotected status make it the most vulnerable place in the United States for these kinds of activities.” Securing its protection was a great step forward in the preservation of Native American history as well as nature. But unfortunately, we’ve now taken a step back.

Exploring the Valley

Valley of the Gods is located near the town of Mexican Hat, just a 30-minute drive from Monument Valley, so it is one of the most accessible parts of the former Bears Ears. Reading about this area, we didn’t get a full picture of just how desolate and interesting it was, however. Once we drove out, it was clear we were in the honest-to-God middle of nowhere. In fact, the whole surrounding area, which is Navajo country, felt unique to me in its quiet – there are not a lot of towns and very few amenities, particularly in the off-season. It was just us, the land and the sky, and the occasional “rez dog” on the side of the road.

I was a bit concerned about exploring Valley of the Gods at first, because it’s only traversable by a rocky dirt road, and we were driving a 13-year-old Volvo sedan. But it was a dry day, so it turned out to be fine, if quite bumpy. Word of warning to those setting out – pay attention to the conditions. If this road gets muddy at all, you’re likely to get stuck. There are other amazing things to see in the area if you’re wiling to traverse the white-knuckle drive up the mesa called the Moki Dugway. Despite my husband’s attempts to convince me, I felt better keeping our little car on reasonably level terrain.

A Truly Alien Landscape

The formations throughout Valley of the Gods are both like and unlike anything else I’d seen in Utah. While the overall red rock and desert-like conditions were similar to what we’d seen at Monument Valley and Zion, the delicacy in the way the rocks seem to have been carved was something new. The name “Valley of the Gods” does it justice – it’s like some divine version of Mount Rushmore, with iconic and commanding figures staring down from a cloudy sky.

To invoke another strange visual comparison, our drive through Valley of the Gods also felt to me like a trip through the Disneyland Upside-Down. One minute we would encounter a bank of castle-like formations, the next a great craggy shipwreck, and later a field of alien pyramids. It was empty except for one or two passing cars, and at times we felt like explorers on another planet.

The “Why” of It All

The whole time, of course, we were asking ourselves one question: how could someone look at these lands, like a slice of Mars here on earth, and decide that they had been granted too much protection? That guaranteeing their longevity and accessibility to the public is a bad idea? That possible mining and development – or that thorny issue of states’ rights – could possibly take precedence over preserving the sheer wonder (not to mention historical value) of this place?

I’m glad to know that for now, the Valley of the Gods is somewhat protected by the Utah BLM. But Trump’s executive order regarding Bears Ears sets a dangerous precedent – that conservation is okay until we decide we want something else, namely money. And then these areas, so rich in history and majesty, are at risk of becoming as expendable as those in power want them to be.

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Cedar Breaks National Monument & the CCC

Reading history through the pristine Cedar Breaks.

We chose Cedar City, Utah as the midway point on our Utah adventure—in part because we had friends there and in part to see Cedar Breaks National Monument before heading to the big kahuna, Zion National Park. Cedar City is a quiet town of around 30,000, but it is home to Southern Utah University, meaning it has a bit more to offer than just nature and sister-wives (it had to be said). There’s a quaint downtown with some cute eateries, as well as the Southern Utah Museum of Art, which is well worth a visit. In early January, Cedar City is typically a winter wonderland, and Cedar Breaks is often closed. But we lucked out with beautiful weather which allowed us to explore one of Utah’s slightly less famous (but no less impressive) natural beauties.

Cedar Breaks: Convergence of Landscapes

Cedar Breaks, declared a National Monument way back in 1933 by Franklin Delano Roosevelt, would be a major attraction almost anywhere else in the world. But with Zion and Bryce Canyon National Parks both nearby, it is sometimes overlooked. With almost no one in the park the morning of our visit—aside from one woman walking a small, whimpering mop of a dog—we had the parks’ roads and overlooks to ourselves. Cedar Breaks boasts a lot of geologic variety, and many different types of landscapes seem to converge here. The ancient Lake Claron created layers of red, pink, and orange rock over millions of years to create the park’s most impressive formations. Cedar Breaks National Monument is also home to volcanic rock from million-year-old explosions, various species of pine, and an alpine pond.

Due to time constraints, we weren’t able to spend enough time at Cedar Breaks National Monument. I would love to go back in warmer weather for camping, and in particular for one of the park’s Star Parties (it is an official International Dark Sky Park). But while at Cedar Breaks my thoughts turned, as they often do when I find myself in National Parks, to twentieth-century American history, particularly the era of the New Deal.

For awhile I’ve had a fascination with FDR’s New Deal, particularly the Works Progress Administration and the Civilian Conservation Corps, both of which did an incredible amount of work preserving and improving our natural and public spaces. I wasn’t surprised when I saw a panel at Cedar Breaks National Monument describing the CCC’s history there. Its involvement was apparent from the resilient and character-filled infrastructure of the park, from the Visitor Center to the carefully crafted log benches dotting the overlooks.

The Civilian Conservation Corps: A Success Story

The CCC, for those unfamiliar, was a program established to put unemployed men to work following the Great Depression while at the same time striving to preserve, conserve, and make accessible some of America’s most beautiful natural places. Camps of workers were established at many national parks, monuments, and recreation areas throughout the country, with Cedar Breaks being one. The park’s Visitor Center, Ranger Cabin, roads, and scenic overlooks were constructed by the CCC in 1930s, and the structures possess that charmingly rustic, natural look we’ve come to think of as the National Parks aesthetic.

CCC information at Cedar Breaks National Monument

But the CCC was an effective program because of what it did for people, not just parks. The camps recruited men from inner cities—many malnourished due to extreme poverty and in low spirits due to chronic unemployment—and allowed them to see parts of their country they would never otherwise have seen while providing them wages, room and board., and education. Many enrollees wrote back to family members that they had no idea there was this kind of natural beauty in the world, and they fell in love with it.

Neil M. Maher’s Nature’s New Deal, a scholarly history of the CCC, he quotes writing from some of the young men in the CCC camps. “First of all, we are engaged in useful conservation work which will accrue to the benefit of both the present and future generations,” Carl Stark wrote in 1941. “But secondly, and far more important is the conservation of the individual” (p. 104). Another CCC enrollee named Paul Stone noted in the mid-1930s that the setting he worked in was “Not an artificial mechanical world like that of the modern city, but a world alive with more beauty than I had ever known” (p. 100).

The CCC wasn’t a perfect program, of course. But it was in many ways wonderful, educating young workers about conservation and even offering them career paths in areas like forestry. It’s difficult to imagine a program like that happening now. But it’s a notable part of our history—a success story to learn from.

Frozen Navajo Lake, Cedar Breaks National Monument — Frozen Navajo Lake, Dixie National Forest

A Moment at Navajo Lake

Despite not being able to spend much time at Cedar Breaks, its already high on my list of places to revisit. And it’s in the middle of beautiful country, amidst a staggering array of other natural attractions.

After leaving Cedar Breaks we stopped at nearby Navajo Lake, a popular fishing spot nestled between lava beds in the Dixie National Forest. While it was nearly 60 degrees on the day we visited, the lake was still frozen over. There are sinkholes under Navajo Lake into which water drains, and we stood silently on the dry lakebed and listened to the low rumbling of water under ice—a sound unlike any I’ve heard.

Cedar Breaks National Monument and its surrounding environs, while popular in warmer weather, still offer a nice alternative to the massive crowds at nearby Zion. I can’t wait to return and further explore its history—both ancient and modern—its fascinating geology, and its sky full of stars.

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Forgotten Places: Green River, Utah

Towns in decline can tell us a lot about who we were and who we’re becoming.

Small Towns in Decline

I have a fascination with forgotten places, particularly faded small towns. I’m not referring to ghost towns, which are much more rare. Faded small towns that still have people and life and schools and community and businesses, but they’re towns that once were something bigger and more prosperous, and they must wear their decline on their sleeves. They’re towns for which vacancy is a fact of daily life.

One thing I learned growing up in a larger version of one of these towns is that it costs more to demolish something than to let it sit empty. So all around my hometown of Galesburg, IL (which is currently doing okay but, like many towns of its size, declined in the latter half of the twentieth century and was walloped by factory closings in the ’80s and ’90s) there are empty buildings, shuttered and dusty. Some have stood, silently the same, since my early childhood. Their hopes seem to dim just a tiny bit each year, like they’re still awaiting the return of long-gone inhabitants.

Small towns all over the United States are currently in decline due to a number of factors: a loss of manufacturing jobs due to outsourcing and automation, a generational shift away from small communities and toward more urban areas, and the fact that national corporations and online retailers have taken the place once held by local mom-and-pop shops. I’m not here to romanticize the very real economic hard times that small towns face, but I do like to look for the beauty in these forgotten places. Empty storefronts and neighborhoods tell us about a town’s past and the people that have lived there. And the parts of the community that remain vital tell us about what the town is becoming, and how it reconciles the past and the future.

Green River, Utah

Our drive from Canyonlands National Park to Cedar City, Utah was one of the most beautiful – perhaps the most beautiful – I’ve ever taken. Each mile seems to bring more unusual redrock formations: spires, canyons, and mesas. It’s totally desolate, with no services for miles but a number of scenic viewpoints, an acknowledgement that sometimes you’ve just gotta pull off and take it all in. There are few towns along this route, but for lunch we chose Green River, Utah as our stop. And I’m glad we did.

Green River is a prime example of one of those forgotten places that I’ve always found so intriguing. According to the town’s Wikipedia page, Green River was one of the pass-through areas of the Old Spanish Trail trade route in the mid-1800s. In 1876, it became a river crossing for U.S. mail and evolved into a popular stop for travelers. A railroad boom helped grow the town until 1892, when operations moved elsewhere. But the second boom in Green River – the one we see remnants of today – came in the mid-twentieth century, when uranium mining brought more prosperity to the town. In the 1960s, an Air Force missile launch facility was also established, and the population reached its peak during that decade. But once the mining industry dried up, the population dropped to around 900, where it sits today.

Currently, most of the town’s economy mostly rests on the shoulders of I-70, as it caters to travelers and truckers, as well as mountain bikers (the town is a popular freeride spot). There’s also a natural gas field nearby. The town is quiet but friendly, and by necessity welcoming to outsiders.

Forgotten Places : Poem inscribed on another abandoned storefront in Green River, Utah — Poem inscribed on another abandoned storefront in Green River, Utah

Storefront Poetry

Downtown Green River has a large number of empty businesses, sprinkled casually between a few still-open restaurants and shops. Many of these are fairly well-preserved, with old signage still intact, offering a nice little slice of the past. The most inspiring thing I saw during my short visit to Green River was a poem someone had written in the window of an abandoned storefront. Composed by an unknown author, it reads:

Sitting on the river’s edge
The smell of driftwoo
(Not exactly driftwood; drift sticks
washed ashore from a recent
rain & subsequent flood).

Muddy water.

Sun sets behind the butte
Slowly, like when you sit [cut off]
bathtub and let [cut off]
drain, lying still, [cut off]
In small pulses as it drains
Pulling you down, increasing
gravity, pulling away the weight
of sadness, getting chilly but
also still warm on the bottom
half of you, if split longways.

It’s a small, personal poem. Maybe not a masterpiece, but way more moving than something I expected to read on the papered-over window of a shuttered business.

The Place for Everyone

I can only imagine there are many other such instances of subtle beauty in Green River, one of Utah’s forgotten places. Though I only spent about an hour there, I sensed something special in this town.

We spent most of our time in Green River at Ray’s Tavern (slogan: “the place for everyone”), one of a few local eateries, with a charmingly brief menu featuring burgers and fries, beer and wine (a selection of various Franzias, naturally), steaks, chops, and apple pie.

After devouring our burgers, it was time for us to hit the highway. But Green River and its mysterious faded charm remained on my mind. It’s one of the many small towns in this great big country that seems easy to ignore, but deserves a second look.

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Awe & Tranquility in Canyonlands National Park, Utah

Winter at Canyonlands is beyond peaceful.

The toughest thing about taking a road trip throughout Utah is that there’s not enough time, a fact that became especially apparent on day two, when we visited both Arches and the expansive Canyonlands National Park. To thoroughly explore even the southern half of the state would take months, some heavy-duty climbing equipment, an all-terrain vehicle, and some guts. My husband and I? We had a week, minimal hiking experience, and a 13-year-old Volvo. But even with only about a day in the Moab area, we caught glimpses of magic. And we promised ourselves we’d be back.

First Things First: Diner Love in Moab

The day started, of course, in our cozy room at the Big Horn Lodge in Moab, from where we adjourned to the connected Moab Grill. The place was fairly busy for a Wednesday morning in a half-empty town, and we were surrounded by what appeared to be locals carbo-loading on their way to do some sort of manual labor or another. After I helped myself to a delicious plate of corned beef hash and eggs and we went to pay, none other than the Moab Sheriff came strolling in the door, cracking jokes and greeting the elderly gentlemen drinking coffee at the counter (“And how’s Sheldon today?”) as well as the hostess (“Hi there, Brenda”). I don’t have warm feelings for Sheriffs per se, but it was pretty cute.

Balanced Rock in Arches National Park, Utah. — Balanced Rock at Arches National Park, Utah.

The north window at Arches National Park, Utah.

A Few More Hours in Arches

Having not see quite enough of Arches National Park to satisfy ourselves, we drove back in the morning, figuring we’d get a little more time in before departing for Canyonlands National Park. Arches, after all, contains the largest concentration of natural arches in the country – more than 2,000, formed from red sandstone deposited around 150 million years ago – and each is uniquely breathtaking. The scenic drive throughout the park offers views of countless cleverly-named formations, though we decided to take the brief hikes to just the Windows and Balanced Rock. Though it was still icy and fairly frigid, it was a nice, clear morning to stroll around a bit. There were not many others out, and a feeling of quiet hung over the park.

Sitting along the edge of the north window and taking in the remarkable view of the park’s outskirts, it was easy for me to understand why Arches is one of the country’s most popular National Parks. I was certainly glad we came in the offseason, however, as the sheer volume of spring and summer visitors would make it an entirely different experience. Crowds have also put Arches in danger: these landforms are not impervious to wear and tear from visitors. And while most people try to do as little harm as possible to the landscape, there is always an idiot or two who insists on climbing all over the rocks, despite the many signs forbidding this (as we unfortunately witnessed at Balanced Rock). The NPS is currently working on solutions to curb the crowd issues, but for now I’d certainly recommend visiting in winter, weather conditions permitting.

I would have loved to spend more time at Arches, particularly to see the petroglyph panel near Wolfe Ranch. But we had to be in Cedar City that evening, and we wanted to check out the comparatively mysterious Canyonlands. So off we went.

Island in the Sky, the most accessible part of Canyonlands National Park.

Canyonlands National Park: For Three Levels of Bravery

Canyonlands National Park, though far bigger than Arches (its canyons and mesas stretch over 527 miles), is less iconic for a reason: it’s nearly impossible to capture in photographs. While still popular, its size and layout allows it to weather the impact of crowds better than Arches. The park is divided into three parts: Island in the Sky, The Needles, and The Maze.

If I had the right gear, the determination, and the time, I’d go for the latter two. The Needles requires lengthy hiking and/or driving on rough roads, but offers incredible views of the colorful Cedar Mesa Spires and prehistoric petroglyphs. And The Maze is the most intriguing of all, so named due to its extremely limited accessibility. The Canyonlands NPS site warns that visitors rarely spend fewer than three days in The Maze, simply because it takes so much effort to get into and back out of. But this remoteness is key, as it offers protection from the kind of degradation Arches is suffering. Horseshoe Canyon, the most famous part of The Maze, houses some of the most notable and well-preserved prehistoric rock art in the country, including the Great Gallery, a detailed panel featuring both petroglyphs and pictographs of human figures.

Due to our short time frame, our two-wheel drive, and the season, we saw only Island in the Sky, which has paved roads, a number of scenic overlooks, and perhaps the park’s most famous trail, Mesa Arch.

Silent, Vast, and Beautiful

To say that Island in the Sky is simply third-best ignores its incredibly still, vast, staggering beauty. Even the drive out from Moab to the Island in the Sky entrance offers a meditative experience. While Arches is practically in town, the entrance to Canyonlands only appears after driving miles of empty, Mesa-lined roads. Cell service is gone in a heartbeat. Man-made structures of any kind and even livestock quickly disappear from the landscape. For miles it is just you and your thoughts, framed by jagged red rock as far as the eye can see.

Our first stop was Mesa Arch, to which there is a fairly easy trail (with a few ups and downs). This is the most classically picturesque spot in Island in the Sky, and the view through the arch reminded me of an ancient city, the spires of the canyon like precariously built castles and fortresses.

Island in the Sky also offers a series of overlooks (the view from one pictured at the top of this article). On this particular cold, sunny Wednesday, there were few visitors, so we were able to have some overlooks completely to ourselves. One of my favorite memories of our trip is standing stock-still next to my husband at Grand View overlook, trying and failing to take it all in, hearing nothing but the soft, flapping wings of the occasional raven circling overhead.

The experience we had at Canyonlands is difficult to describe and even harder to photograph. My advice is simply to go yourself, and be present in it – to look, listen and feel, to breathe the air and hear the silence.

Sources:

https://www.nps.gov/arch/learn/historyculture/people.htm

https://www.nationalgeographic.com/travel/national-parks/arches-national-park/

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Winter Adventure in Arches National Park, Utah

Braving the ice and avoiding the crowds at Arches in the off-season

Utah: The Quintessential Western State

Growing up, I was pretty naive about the American West, picking up associations as I went from pop culture. I knew there were giant cacti and Joshua trees, mesas and red dirt, canyons and tumbleweeds, retro roadside motels and diners galore. I didn’t really know what was where, but I knew I wanted to go someday.

My first adult journey west of the Mississippi (not counting the distinctly non-western state of Iowa) was, at age 22, to New Mexico, a state that appealed to me but of which I was utterly ignorant. I was hosted by my then-boyfriend (now-husband), who grew up in Albuquerque, and I prepared to be wowed by the Land of Enchantment. I was picturing big mesas, red rocks and canyons of the type featured in Looney Tunes – but my bubble was burst. “That’s Utah,” he explained to me gently. And before I could even ask, he added, “and real roadrunners are small and brown.”

New Mexico did turn out to be as enchanting as advertised, but that’s a story for another post. What took me by surprise back then is that Utah — a state I hadn’t given much consideration — was actually the quintessential Western state. Thanks to the large number of classic western movies filmed there (those that inspired the iconic Looney Tunes backgrounds), when we imagine the “American West,” most of us will, by default, picture Utah.

Fast-foward 12 years, and I still hadn’t been to this mystery state. So when we were planning our recent winter break, my husband and I decided it was finally time. We would already be in relatively nearby Crested Butte, Colorado, where his parents had rented a cabin for New Year’s weekend. Why not take off from there, we thought, and embark upon a weeklong road trip through the heart of Western fantasies? There was the question of weather — we weren’t quite sure if we would regret venturing out in our 2-wheel-drive Volvo, given the January potential for ice and snow. But the forecast was clear, so off we went.

Ice-Hiking in Arches National Park

Our first stop was Moab, where we planned to spend parts of two days exploring what little we could of both Arches National Park and Canyonlands National Park. We rolled in around 2:30 p.m. – just enough time to see a bit of Arches before it got dark (which happened at about 4:30, it being January 2nd and all). After stopping at the Visitor’s Center (one of my favorite National Park activities), we set out on the scenic drive up to Delicate Arch, that most iconic of formations. I’ll admit I felt like a bit of a cliche going right for the money shot. But if Utah feels strongly enough about Delicate Arch to put it on their license plate, we figured we’d better lay eyes on it before sundown.

The beauty of Arches National Park in a winter dusk.

There are a number of ways to see Delicate Arch: two different viewpoint areas and a hike. We briefly considered the viewpoints, but we had been in the car all day and the weather was a balmy 40 degrees. “Let’s do the hike!” we said. The sign at the trailhead warned the hike was “difficult,” but the fact that we saw all manner of people on the return trail – children, the elderly, dudes in athletic shorts and young women in inappropriate footwear – we figured it couldn’t be that bad. We’re not avid hikers, but we’re in reasonably good shape. How bad could it be?

Truthfully, it wasn’t that bad. It is truly a strenuous hike, with a particularly lung-busting climb up a never-ending stretch of sheetrock and a final ascent up a gravelly cliff-edge to the arch, but it’s just 3 miles roundtrip. The issue – a drawback, I suppose, to visiting in winter – was the ice. The steep section leading to the arch was completely coated in the stuff, a fact that boggled my mind when I thought about all the people I had seen returning from the trail, including an elderly man carrying an enormous tripod. Had they turned back before reaching the arch, or simply scrambled their way up – and back – somehow?

The most insidious element of the situation was that but the time the ice became a problem, we were so close – you’d have to be truly terrified to turn back at that point. So we soldiered on at a snail’s pace, watching a number of the people around us (this time of year, the park was particularly popular with German, Chinese, Korean, and Japanese tourists, which made for a cool, sort of international experience) falling frequently in a cartoonish, leg-flailing style. My palms started to sweat and I clung to the boulders at my side, imagining the various ways I might slip and slide off the edge, just another footnote in one of those books about people who fall off of cliffs in National Parks (they have those). My story would be sold in the gift shop.

Sign warning of ice on Arches trails. — Actual footage of us on the Delicate Arch trail. Unfortunately, this sign was posted on a different trailhead – one that wasn’t icy at all.

Reader, we did make it to the top, where I observed the breathtaking arch (pictured at the top of this page), lightly snowed-upon and glorious, before a cloud-streaked blue sky. We stood for a few minutes, watching much smarter people than us strap on their crampons (duh! taunted the voice in my head, unhelpfully), and looked at each other. “We have to go back down,” my husband said regretfully, “before it gets dark.”

I have what I consider a minor fear of heights – nothing life-altering, but when I get close to, say, the slippery edge of something, my hands start to go clammy. I solved this problem on a 2016 trip to Ireland’s Skellig Michel (a subject for another post), by using a tactic suggested by the island’s intimidating UNESCO agent: “A lot of people just sit and scoot down the steps that way,” he said, no hint of a smile whatsoever. “There’s no shame in that.” As it turned out, there was in fact a fair bit of shame in that. But shame is preferable to ending up in a book about National Parks deaths, so down I sat for the second time in my life, scooting along the most treacherous parts of the trail, staggering to my feet, and repeating until I’d cleared the hairiest bits.

I couldn’t understand why no one else on the trail was taking this approach, as I witnessed at least 50 percent of them – my husband included – falling hard like amateur figure skaters. Pre-emptive falling seemed to me a superior solution – but it didn’t to others. During my brief scooting phase, I fended off help and pity from a number of strangers, who implored me to take their hands, to lean on them, even though moments earlier I was sure I’d seen them flailing, arms in a windmill pattern. I wasn’t about to take anyone over the edge with me, thank you very much. So I assumed the role of Trail Loser, prompting worried murmuring and the shaking of heads. Say what you will, but I went home bruise-free and merely a little damp, which not even some of the well-cramponed could claim.

A Peaceful Dusk in the Park

It was then that we came to my favorite part of any hike: the descent. My husband and I were both giddy after our icy escapade, so happy to be on familiar, less slippery ground that we could actually enjoy our surroundings. The sky was already darkening, casting a dark blue light on the snowy terrain surrounding us. While there were still some people on the trail with us, they were growing fewer and fewer. Winter in Arches National Park feels peaceful, vast and, in the dark, somewhat alive, the shadows of mesas, arches and other redrock formations looming like mystical creatures or fairy tale castles. Despite our harrowing hike, I was instantly glad we had come at this time of year, with smaller crowds, less heat, and the chance to see the beautiful sunset light play across the snow.

The Big Horn Lodge in Moab, Utah: a decent night's rest and a great sign. — The Big Horn Lodge in Moab, Utah: a decent night’s rest and a great sign.

We’d be back in the morning to explore more, so on still-shaky legs, we checked into the charming Big Horn Lodge for the night, stopped by the delightful hole-in-the-wall El Charro Loco for delicious enchilada platters, and went to sleep knowing there were more adventures in store.

I’ve got more to say about Arches National Park and Moab in my next post. Stay tuned!

Specifics

Hike: The Delicate Arch is trail is 3 miles round trip, and it is categorized as “difficult” by the National Park Service. Take a look at the official Arches National Park page (which we failed to read) for details before embarking.

Eat: El Charro Loco, Moab is a delightful hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint that seems to be popular with both locals and tourists. There are not a lot of really good, cheap places to eat in Moab, so even though you may have to wait for a table, it’s worth it.

Sleep: For its low off-season prices and retro charm, we chose the Big Horn Lodge in Moab for our accommodations. It’s not fancy, but it’s clean, comfortable, and has a great diner attached (featured in my next post). In winter, rooms start around $60/night.

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A Love of Travel…and Where It Comes From

There is something about travel that quenches some essential human thirst — to understand the lives of others, to see the earth that we live in and exploit, to experience the truly novel, to feel uncomfortable and awed and like the most rock-solid version of oneself.

A Childhood of Road Trips

I’ve had a love of travel for as long as I can remember. I think one reason for this is that I’ve always felt I’ve had multiple homes. My father is a professor, and with the academic life comes uprootedness: my parents, both from eastern Pennsylvania, moved to a small town in Illinois before I was born and, despite initial misgivings, remain there to this day. For me as a child, this meant lots of road trips “back east.” Every summer (and some winter holidays), we would load up in the car for the one-and-half-day’s drive to Mountain Top, PA, the tiny town near Scranton where my maternal grandparents lived, tucked away up a steep road in the Appalachian mountains. I loved these trips, and the regular contact with relatives far away made me feel not-quite-midwestern, but not-quite-northeastern, either. Though my home was in Illinois, I never remember feeling completely owned by it, always aware of the fact that it is possible have roots all over.

These early road trips meant a lot to me. I loved the chance to go to a different place — to breathe different air, see new landscapes, and be someone just a little bit different. But I also loved the journey itself. My family became pros at the road trip: we would compile bags full of travel games, books, and magazines, load up a cooler with a picnic lunch (bologna and cheese with a mustard happy face, please), and crank up the oldies radio. We’d play wiffle ball at rest stops and splash in the hotel pool — no matter how rinky-dink. Though my brother and I would have our occasional backseat squabbles, and certainly, things went wrong, I can’t remember much of that now. My memories focus on the bliss of being on the road.

One of the things I loved best about traveling was what one might call roadside Americana: truck stops and rest areas; motels, hotels, and lodges; the people, signs, and oddities that flew by the window. When I was only six years old, we took the quintessential Americana road trip, a journey across the western U.S., taking in the Badlands, Mount Rushmore, the Corn Palace, Yellowstone National Park, and a multitude of other things I can’t specifically remember, but which left an impression on me. I recall a big horn sheep perched on the edge of a mountain, aisles of glorious kitsch at Wall Drug, the unfamiliar and thrilling sights, sounds, and smells.

The degree of adventure, however, was beside the point: We went a number of exciting places, like Walt Disney World and New York City, but I never lost my love for that familiar summer road trip, through the flat plains of Indiana to the Cross Country Inn in Toledo, Ohio to the quirky Appalachia of my parents’ hometowns. The trappings of the road were everywhere, and they were enough to satisfy me.

The Magic of Study Abroad

Photo from my semester in Ireland, 2004, which contributed to my love of travel. — One of the few non-blurry photos from my semester in Ireland, 2004. This was taken on Inis Mór, in the Aran Islands.

If those summer road trips were the first way travel changed my life, then the second was the semester I spent in Dublin, Ireland as a junior in college. I had been to Ireland once previously to visit my brother on his study abroad, and briefly to France on a class trip, but that had been the extent of my international travel. My semester in Dublin was a revelation. Difficult at first (and I should note that I wrote a whole essay about this experience for proFmagazine.com), the semester turned into the best of my life. I grew up that semester, came into my own, fell in love with my now-husband, and fell in love with both Ireland and Europe. After a period of poverty and graduate school (don’t they always go hand-in-hand), I was able to go back, and have since been lucky enough to travel more in Europe — particularly Italy.

I realize that my stories are not unique. There is something about travel, whether it’s a simple day trip or an international adventure, that quenches some essential human thirst — to understand the lives of others, to see the earth that we live in and exploit, to experience the truly novel, to feel uncomfortable and awed and like the most rock-solid version of oneself.

Why Write a Blog?

As a writer, I’d never before thought about writing a “travel blog” — one reason for this is that I never considered myself that much of a traveler. Sure, I traveled more than most people, but constricted as I was by a full-time job, I couldn’t be constantly on-the-go, nor could I spent long periods of time away from home. But in 2016, I realized it was time for a change, and transitioned from my full-time university job to a life of freelancing and teaching (more thoughts on that here). My husband is an Art History professor with summers free and many opportunities for travel, and we decided the small hit to our income was worth it for the sheer flexibility of my new career. And it has been 100% worth it, not least because I’ve made travel a central component of my life, and I haven’t looked back, traveling for work (teaching study abroad students), to visit friends and to simply see as much of the world as I can on my limited budget.

I share my love of travel today with college students, leading study abroad trips in Italy. — With our study abroad group in Napoli, learning about the mafia, 2017.

In Lieu of Postcards won’t necessarily be your typical travel blog, however. While I do travel frequently, my husband and I don’t live the #vanlife that’s so popular these days, that nomadic existence of life constantly on the road. We are middle-class people with jobs and responsibilities, after all. I see this blog as an outlet for my writing, not simply to document the places I’ve been and the experiences I’ve had there (though it will certainly be that). I’d like to explore travel and wanderlust more deeply, as states of mind. I plan to supplement the travelogue model (went here, did that) with investigations of the quirks of places I visit, their history, and the attendant pop cultural and literary associations that whirl around in my thoughts. I’m not a mountain climber, a gear-head, or much of a foodie (though like any traveler worth her salt, I appreciate good cuisine — and good puns), and you won’t see me striking meticulously glamorous poses or doing yoga on the edge of a cliff (spoiler alert: I fear cliff-edges). To summarize: I hope to write a blog that’s not just navel-gazing but thought-provoking, not aspirational (did I mention I don’t have much money?) but simply interesting — and perhaps occasionally inspirational — to readers out there who also love travel, whether it’s just a few hours or half a world away.

Did I scare you away with my long-winded thoughts? If not, I hope you’ll consider visiting me here from time to time, whenever that wanderlust mood strikes.

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