Riding the Colorado Rails

About six months before our summer vacation began I wanted to schedule one new and different activity, particularly for the sake of our young daughters. Our neighbors had once taken a train ride through the mountainous terrain between Durango and Silverton, Colorado. Although the trip cost more than $100 for three of them, it was the highlight of their vacation. Marsha recommended making reservations as soon as possible so I ordered our tickets the next day.

Before we knew it, we were on the road to New Mexico and Colorado. After we had climbed amidst cliff dwellings, bought Indian jewelry from Santa Fe street vendors, and eaten plenty of Mexican food, Mark turned the car northward, towards the tiny mountain town of Durango. We arrived at the antique train depot in mid-morning, picked up our tickets and boarded an open-air car.

The temperature plummeted as the elevation climbed, and we snuggled together while we traveled through impossibly deep canyons and acres of undisturbed pines. Our enormous train click-clacked upwards as thick gray-black smoke poured from the engine car. The rock-strewn Animas River rushed far below us and several magnificent wooden homes grasped the hillsides on sturdy stilts.

Suddenly, Mark pointed to a tiny figure. We followed his finger to see a grizzly bear, standing straight up from his forage. A rickety, abandoned mine shaft rose from one hillside and dilapidated, wooden freight cars on the parallel track were almost close enough to touch. As our train approached flatter land, a two-seater biplane flew beside us within only a few feet of the ground.

It was worth every penny to ride those rails.

Looking Up

Some moments become etched in memory for days, weeks or even decades, yet remain as clear as if they just happened. I’ll never forget one early June evening in 1982.

My now-husband, Mark, and I had dated for three short months. Things were finally looking up in the ‘love’ department as the adrenalin of our young relationship infused every second we spent together. Mark’s birthday was imminent and I wanted to celebrate, impress and surprise him in one fell swoop, without spending a lot of money.

I would plan something outdoors for this nature lover, but after summer heat abated a bit. That meant evening. I would impress him with a picnic of easily portable, homemade food – quiche, salad, birthday brownies and a good bottle of wine. That meant cooking ahead without him knowing about it. Finally, I would give him driving directions to an enormous field to watch hot air balloons lift off near sunset, without telling him our destination in advance.

By the time we arrived at the launch, a riot of color filled the sky as the whoosh of air filled balloons that awaited lift-off. We ate our picnic and sipped our wine, and Mark blew out candles, as we stopped every few minutes to capture a perfect image on film.

Twenty-five years, two college-age daughters and a lifetime later, a photograph from that evening hangs on a wall in our home, reminding us to always ‘look up.’

Good Vibrations in Chimayo

Torrential rain followed Ellen and me from Santa Fe to Chimayó, leaving six-inch puddles on the highway. Waves of water slapped against the windshield as each vehicle passed. Hillside runoff in the tiny town created deep pools stained with red mud.

We finally arrived at Santuario de Chimayó, a tiny antique chapel reputed for miraculous healings. Visitors prayed silently in the sanctuary. An anteroom housed several dozen discarded crutches. Religious artifacts lined the walls of a second anteroom where a dusty border of red brick encircled a hole in the floor, filled with a pile of dirt and a small trowel.

We next stopped for lunch at Rancho de Chimayó, a 40-year-old family-run restaurant, where we ate what Ellen called the best meal we’d had during our four-day trip. For the first time since our journey began, she felt like a million bucks. And then the vibrations began. I felt them from touching the blade of Ellen’s knife as she held the handle. She realized she had inadvertently stepped into sacred dirt in the floor of Sanctuario de Chimayó, and the chapel’s miraculous powers seemed very real.

We finished lunch and headed towards Taos. Tentative sunshine pierced the clouds and gradually brightened. A magnificent rainbow arched across several miles, with the highway as as midpoint, a beautiful finale to a memorable afternoon.

Morning in New Buffalo

My extended family had arrived in New Buffalo, Michigan several days earlier, to celebrate my mother’s 75th birthday. From the moment we set foot on Lake Michigan’s sandy eastern shore I felt at home. I recalled countless summer Sunday afternoons spent beside the huge lake during my childhood years, in Grand Rapids, Michigan, eating tuna salad sandwiches, basking in the sun and shooting the waves. I burrowed my toes deeply into the warm evening sand.

Contented smiles etched my parents’ faces as they watched my siblings and our children talk and laugh together after a year apart. Sunset painted the sky with a kaleidoscope of pastels as impatient waves rushed the beach, the force of high tide drawing them ever closer to blankets and lifeguard chairs.

Our three day vacation was a whirlwind of activity, designed to keep restless teens and preteens well-occupied. We played miniature golf, saw a movie together, shopped, and had a big birthday dinner, leaving only a few afternoon hours for another beach visit. Although my sister-in-law took one long walk with me along the gentle shoreline, it didn’t nearly satisfy my craving for time beside the lake.

On the final morning of our trip I awoke early, tiptoed past my sleeping family, and walked several blocks to the beach, with camera in tow. Sail boats and motor boats bobbed gracefully in the harbor waters. A lone fisherman cast his line over and over again, the horizon barely visible behind him in the early morning mist. Suddenly, flaming orange light edged dark clouds beyond the dunes, as sunrise emerged.

I breathed deeply, savored the fine sand that squished between my toes one last time, and slowly made my way back to the hotel.

Frank's Folly

I had arrived in Tempe, Arizona a day earlier, and played with my camera on the Arizona State campus as I waited for my daughter to finish her classes. Through a spray of palm fronds the Grady Gammage Memorial Auditorium appeared in my viewfinder. It looked something like a single adobe layer of wedding cake; at once, graceful and otherworldly, a curiosity and a beauty.

I'd loved Frank Lloyd Wright’s architectural design since childhood, and this building was no exception. Measuring 300 feet long by 250 feet wide and 80 feet high, this final public commission by Wright, also features 50 concrete columns that support the roof and an architectural pattern of interlocking circles.

The auditorium opened in 1964, 25 months after the first spade of earth was turned, and following the deaths of Wright and ASU President, Dr. Grady Gammage. It seats more than 3,000 people and has hosted events as diverse as Broadway musicals such as Rent to organ recitals, lectures and the final debate of the 2004 presidential election.

But this architectural showpiece is reputed to be on the ASU campus only because of a gambling debt. According to legend, Wright and then president, Gammage, were not only good friends but also gambling buddies. The story goes that Wright originally created this design as an opera house for Baghdad, Iraq. However, when Wright ran out of funds, he put the opera house blueprints down as collateral. Wright lost the bet, and Gammage gained a signature structure for his desert campus.

How I wish I could have seen the look on Wright’s face as he handed Gammage the blueprints…

Miracle on I-35

The Wizard of Oz is set in rural Kansas for good reason. The state’s wide open spaces provide a perfect breeding ground for tornadoes and violent storms.

It only takes a few hours for us to travel I-35 from our home in the Kansas City area to Wichita, Kansas, where much of my husband’s family lives. Usually a smooth and easy trip, it can become unsettling and downright scary when the spring and summer storm season is in full swing.

At 2 p.m. on a steamy afternoon the sky grows black as midnight, lashing the landscape with sheets of rain that are so dense you can’t see the road more than one car length before the windshield. Seemingly endless banks of angry clouds rise from the horizon and brilliant jagged lightning rips through the sky. Each of these powerful storms may emerge or calm down within several hours or several minutes, creating a predictable path of destruction or surprising gift of nature in its wake.

During one trip to Wichita, we received such a gift. From far across the prairie, we saw a break in the mean-spirited sky. Blinding sunlight cut a swath from high above, gilding the parched ground and electrified air. As I grabbed the camera, my husband cautioned there was no way I could take a good photograph through the car window as we traveled at 70 miles an hour.

But weeks later, when I finally developed the film, I found a perfect photograph of the spectacular light shaft – our own miracle on I-35.

7,000 Cranes

During summer 2003, my extended family celebrated my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary in Washington, D.C. Since New York City was much closer to D.C. than our hometown near Kansas City was, my own family took a side trip to the Big Apple. We shopped along 5^th Avenue, checked out the theater marquees that lit up Broadway, and viewed the entire city skyline from atop the Empire State Building.

One afternoon we decided to visit the World Trade Center site. Thanks to a city map, we knew when it was only a few blocks away. From the moment we caught a glimpse of the surrounding buildings, I felt a palpable sense of many spirits in this place. By the time we reached the site the air seemed heavy with their presence.

The placid hole where those magnificent buildings once stood belied the horror of 9/11. But remembrances left by family members and friends of those who died there left no doubt of the trauma suffered by so many. Amidst the countless handmade memorials, one particularly stood out for me.

Tucked in beside heartfelt notes of loss, lovingly framed photographs and miniature American flags were 7,000 brightly colored origami cranes. The accompanying inscription read:

“Students from Junior High Schools in Matsue, Japan made more than 7,000 paper cranes to symbolize their sadness over the events of fall. In Japan, Sebatsuru, or 1,000 cranes, is typically a symbol of healing, but in recent times has come to also represent a wish for world peace. These cranes represent over 7,000 individual wishes for this difficult yet attainable goal.”

Peace be with you.