Quiet Beauty

Author, William Least-Heat Moon, memorialized Kansas’ Flint Hills in his bestselling book, PrairieErth. But those who consider only majestic mountain peaks or shell-strewn beaches beautiful may initially have difficulty comprehending its subtle beauty. A trip to the Flint Hills can change all that.

Located approximately two hours southwest of Greater Kansas City, the Flint Hills create a slowly undulating, cow-dotted landscape, where prairie grasses and cultivated fields stand side-by-side. Old-growth oaks, elms and walnut trees accessorize the land. Here coyotes meander and buffalo graze near winding dirt and gravel roads.

Sundown sets the sky on fire, wildflowers grow profusely and the star-laden canopy seems to go on forever. In springtime man ignites fires across the hills, a decades-old tradition that simultaneously clears dying vegetation and paves the way for new growth.

When winter takes hold peaceful beauty wraps the landscape. Boots crunch through several inches of snow, snapping twigs along the way, and wildlife tracks appear as frequently as human tracks do. An occasional hawk soars and swoops overhead, his raucous cries piercing the quiet. For a brief moment, time stands still.

Higher Learning

Yesterday afternoon, blustering wind and icy rain buffeted our umbrellas and soaked our shoes as we navigated the unfamiliar campus to meet a university counselor. We’d unpacked every coat, sock and scarf in the car trunk to guard against nature’s onslaught.

This morning, fog lifts along the highway. A collection of buildings with rust-colored tile roofs and natural stone walls characterizes the Spanish-style village before us. Fall foliage bursts into riotous color against a backdrop of impossibly blue skies and rugged mountain peaks.

The University of Colorado – Boulder is a stunningly gorgeous place where quality education meets ‘Rocky Mountain High.’ Only 15 minutes from campus, an easy hike ends at a breathtaking precipice and bird’s eye view of snow-capped peaks. Further up the mountain pass, rushing falls plummet several stories to a deep, chilly stream.

When higher learning in the classroom becomes a grind, UC-Boulder students seek respite and renewal in the mountain terrain that defines their natural environment.

Sedona Sunrise

By 9 a.m. morning’s chill has already begun its surrender to Arizona heat. Beyond the parched earth and scrub grass, vistas of pastel rock jut into the pale spring sky. Several jet streams gradually fade, becoming indistinguishable from high cirrus clouds.

The aroma of wild sage filters through opened car windows. We finally reach Sedona, a quaint town that is not yet open for the day’s business. We sign up for a jeep tour and then wait in the quiet.

The tour finally begins - a bumpy ride beneath blazing sun. Deep red rocks surround us. Through a random rock window the size of a tanker truck we view dark green foliage. Striated ‘hoodoos’ cluster together, thrusting hundreds of feet upwards from the desert floor.

Heat intensifies and water bottles empty as a stunning chapel appears, its floor-to-ceiling glass wall accentuated with a full-length cross. The chapel occupies a high rock crevice as if it were a natural piece of the millennia-old landscape. A flurry of camera clicks ensues.

The jeep heads downward again, large pebbles clinking and popping against over-sized tires. Red rock majesty fades from view as we descend to the now bustling town, craving water and shade.

Not Cancun

Long before someone coined the term ‘Mayan Riviera,’ Puerto Aventuras beckoned with open-air breezeways instead of enclosed halls, the ocean’s roar rather than the roar of Cancun crowds, and pristine talcum-powder beaches interspersed with rugged rock shoreline.

The smell of fresh paint lingers in the hotel, as future retail shops rise from newly poured foundations. Luscious bougainvillea and feathery palms dot verdant lawns that morph into quiet coves. Iguanas as long as your arm dart across random boulders and then pause to bask in sticky summer heat. Dolphins glide upright through the water, playfully taunting vacationers eager to grab a fin and hitch the ride of a lifetime.

At 7 a.m., sparkling pale turquoise water – agua turquesa - enfolds you in refreshing 70-something warmth. By 7 p.m. you’re sitting, barefoot, in a grass-roofed restaurant, while devouring gargantuan crayfish. A waiter delivers another round of ice-cold margaritas as sunset ignites the sky and high tide crashes into the beach.

Taos Pueblo's Timeless Tradition

For more than 1,000 years, men from Taos Pueblo’s Red Willow tribe have run the Santa Cruz Foot Race in May and September, pitting those from the north side of the river against those from the south side. The race has no winners or losers. Rather, it is a religious ceremony and a kind of prayer for those who live on pueblo lands.

Runners congregate at either end of the race path. They wear multi-colored loincloths and ribbons wrap some of their braids and ponytails. Feathers adorn other jet-black flowing tresses. Wispy feathers cling to their skin, painted in geometric patterns of white, ash, and clay.

Pueblo women draped in brilliant fringed shawls stand tall, along second and third floor rooftops, in their white moccasin boots. They create a patchwork blanket of color against warm adobe, misty blue mountain peaks, and a cobalt sky. Sterling silver sparkles and turquoise blinks from handcrafted bracelets and necklaces.

Runners of all ages travel two-by-two. Bare feet slap the dusty path. Few men break a sweat in the chilly morning air. A steady gaze and single-minded focus etch their faces as chests heave, legs pump and hundreds of neighbors and visitors watch.

The women signal approval and encouragement with high-pitched trilling sounds that split the air – sounds as old as the race itself. Village elders flank the path, waving small leafy branches behind the passing runners, like gatekeepers at a horse race. One tiny participant hesitates to run through the noisy crowd, so a gray-haired village elder takes his hand and runs with him to the finish line.

Individual runners pass the enraptured crowd once, twice, three or four times before they stop. As the last runner finishes, participants from both teams gather for a celebratory procession through the pueblo.

An original, longer version of this piece entitled A Timeless Ceremony appeared in Potpourri, A Magazine of Literary Arts, Summer 2003, and won Honorable Mention in the Writer’s Journal Travel Contest.

Endless Night

Because my husband, Mark, and his coworkers sold enormous quantities of a product line, the wholesaler paid for all salespeople and their significant others to spend two nights in Las Vegas, at the new MGM Grand Hotel - plus airfare, ground transportation and meal costs. All we needed were suitcases and gambling money.

We arrived at the Grand in stifling heat, its vibrant blue glass forming angular outer walls. Graceful palms rustled and swayed in a slight breeze. We entered the hotel through the belly of a multi-story carved lion with enormous turquoise eyes.

Lights blinked at every turn. Insistent ‘ding-ding-dings’ rang as delighted gamblers eagerly cupped their hands below slot machines that regurgitated hundreds of tokens. Cheers rose and fell when blackjack players showed their lucky hands and craps shooters rolled winning dice. Cigarette smoke and clinking ice permeated every foot of the casino. And female gamblers still wore cocktail dresses from the previous night at 6 a.m.

With only two hours remaining in our whirlwind trip, Mark and I decided to try a slot machine renowned for high payouts. Our last few tokens rattled into the heart of the machine, he slowly pulled down on the golden handle, and we held our breaths. The first round of pictures stopped at a pair of cherries attached by their stems. Seconds later, we had another pair. Finally, the third cycle ended with a third pair of cherries.

As the dinging began I cupped my hands below the machine and Mark scrambled for a token bucket. We’d won back every bit of our cash, just in time for our airport departure.

International Relations

In the mid-1960s, my family moved to a suburb of Oakland, California, for what my parents called our ‘California vacation.’ Two years later we moved to Pittsburgh, Pa. Thirty years later, I revisited the Bay Area with a close friend.

We sought a lunch spot in San Francisco’s Chinatown, and one block seemed hauntingly familiar. I remembered eating Chinese food there with my elementary school Girl Scout troop. Our waiter taught us how to use chopsticks correctly and I tried in vain to pick up bits of chicken and vegetables. But, by the end of the meal, I had abandoned my fork.

My elementary school had a sister school in Japan, so I joined a singing group that learned and performed Japanese songs. I loved to wrap my tongue around the unusual syllables and know my words made sense in another country. I used those words again, a decade later.

While I worked towards a master’s degree in speech pathology, I lived in an international dormitory. As my Japanese roommate moved into our room, an Iranian friend repeated the words of ‘Sakura,’ a popular Japanese song, through the intercom – under my direction. The year I spent living with students from Japan, Quebec, Canada; Micronesia, Thailand, Nigeria, Iran, Iraq and China taught me more about life than anything I’d ever learned in a classroom.

Six years ago, a Pakistani friend from the dorm and I rekindled our friendship via email. He later visited our home and cooked for me, my husband and our teenage daughters.

Last week, my husband and I hosted ambassadors from U.S. embassies in Japan and Pakistan for Sunday dinner. As we talked and laughed throughout the evening, I once again felt at home.