10,000 Balloons

A sea of people already fills seats throughout the basketball stadium, half an hour before the ceremony begins. Shades of maroon and gold mark sections filled with new graduates, as their loved ones create a cacophony of color and style nearby. Each person wonders where four, or five, or six years of study has gone - how it has come to an end in the blink of an eye.

Thousands of balloons shift in a secure net, high above the crowd, awaiting the final congratulatory comment and student processional into the ‘real world.’ Large video screens spring to life, as Arizona State University’s president introduces esteemed colleagues and guests that share the stage. We gaze at Jessica, whose fuchsia floral lei makes it easier to find her amidst the throngs, hold each other’s hand for a moment and grin, before returning our attention to the festivities.

Two hours pass with amazing speed, despite the 6,000+ graduates on the floor. After the speeches, masters and doctoral candidates, and a handful of distinguished undergraduates cross the stage to receive their diplomas. The president then congratulates students from each department of study within the university, and they stand together as they celebrate ends and beginnings.

A maroon and gold cloud rains down on the graduates as the overhead net drops. The crowd disperses into scorching heat, hundreds of hugs, and a flurry of photographs.

Ancient Dwellings

Sheer talus cliffs, pock-marked by hundreds of caves, rise majestically before us as morning heat builds. We follow a narrow path that winds like a serpent’s tale between natural curves of low rock walls and ancient cave dwellings, at times with barely enough space to walk through. Strangely shaped rock outcroppings thrust themselves upward at varying intervals.

Reconstructed talus homes cling to canyons and mesas all around us. Smoke smudges from fires used for cooking and heat half a millennium ago still color the walls and ceilings of some caves, while primitive petroglyphs adorn others. The girls scurry up a 10- to 12-foot long wooden pole ladder and enter a wide cave that could easily seat a dozen people. They mug for a photo as they back down the ladder.

This is Bandelier National Monument, located 48 miles northwest of Santa Fe. The Anasazi people inhabited this area from approximately 1000 AD to 1500 AD, and their ancestors reportedly still live in the present-day pueblos of San Ildefonso and Cochiti.

Cochiti residents guided anthropologist-historian, Adolph F.A. Bandelier, here in 1880. In 1916 archaeologist Edgar L. Hewett helped establish the monument. Now part of the National Park Service, Bandelier includes 32,737 acres and 70 miles of trails. Vehicles may travel on only three miles of public roadway and wheelchair access is limited.

Stomachs growling, we wind our way downward along the narrow rock walkways, heading for air-conditioning, new adobe and lunch.

Chicago's Fairest Wheel

A dozen cousins’ shoes and sandals lie in a jumbled mass on the warm sidewalk as we sunbathe beside the sparkling expanse of Lake Michigan. Its time for a break from our walk along the congested, bustling Navy Pier.

An enormous, 150-foot Ferris wheel lifts upwards of 200 riders through steamy August heat and high above the crowds, with a clear view of Chicago’s John Hancock building and surrounding business towers. For the kids, though, it’s the novelty of flying without a plane and watching family members on the ground shrink to the size of ants.

Younger children in our group rush the musical carousel, scramble aboard and pick out the perfect animal on which to sit; each horse or frog or one of several dozen other creatures hand painted to resemble the carousels their grandparents rode as children. The ride slows and children beg for snacks.

A hundred conversations and the smell of popcorn fill the air as we jostle through crowds on the way to purchase plump, juicy, Chicago hot dogs and tart, frosty lemonade. We finally escape the din and board a Shoreline Sightseeing boat. A welcome breeze takes the edge off summer heat as the engine roars to full throttle and the skyline shrinks behind us.

Going Home

Thirty years after my family left the San Francisco Bay area, my friends and I dined in a glass-walled restaurant under a bright blue sky, with an uncluttered view of the sparkling Pacific. Satisfaction wrapped me like a warm blanket.

After lunch, we headed towards my old neighborhood outside Oakland, in suburban Walnut Creek. None of the streets or buildings looked remotely the same as my 12-year-old memory recalled. Only the old-growth trees on sun parched hills behind the houses remained similar, though larger.

I finally asked a neighborhood teenager, “Where is 273 Lombardi Circle? I lived there 30 years ago and we can’t find it.”

“That’s where I live. I bet my mom would let you see the whole house.” Half an hour later, we thanked the girl’s mother profusely for allowing me to revisit my childhood for a brief moment.

The next morning, our California counterpart took us to Half Moon Bay. Our feet sunk into lightly chilled sand as mist broke above the hillsides and low breakers sped toward the beach. After touring the tiny town, we turned our rented convertible towards the Golden Gate Bridge’s rust-red span.

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.