Dowhill skiing in a space suit

I've always loved winter. Sledding. Snowmen. Snowball fights. The silence of a snowy woods...

But I've never understood the allure of strapping boards to one's feet and hurling oneself off of a mountain. That is to say, downhill skiing.

Please understand, it's not for lack of trying. It might, however, be a lack of coordination on my part. And, perhaps, some scars I acquired on my first attempt.

Hot chocolate -- and more

by Charles L. Dilworth

I served as a Marine in my early twenties. While at Camp Lejuene I was assigned as a Duty NCO one weekend. The Duty NCO's responsibility was to keep a watchful eye on the barracks and make sure the Marines returning from a night on the town got into their bunks without doing any harm to themselves or to others. The biggest challenge was that of trying to stay awake all night. Fortunately, we had a vending machine that dispensed coffee and hot chocolate.

I was doing OK, but after about my sixth cup I decided my stomach would not tolerate any more coffee. The only alternative was hot chocolate.


I inserted my quarter into the machine and watched the chocolate pour into my cup. The force of the stream of chocolate created a layer of foam on the surface of the drink. When I removed the cup and took a sip of the hot brew, I detected a lump of chocolate which had not dissolved (so I thought).

When this lump suddenly grew legs I quickly expelled everything from my mouth.


If there is a moral to this story it would have to be this:

If you must have a late-night cup of hot chocolate from a vending machine, before you do anything else, first bang on the side of the machine to chase away the cockroaches.

Charles L. Dilworth spent much of his childhood out-of-doors, learning about the woods and the critters who populated them. He lives in Allentown, PA, with his wife of nearly 50 years.

What is that buzzing sound?

by Charles L. Dilworth

I guess I was always fascinated by nearly everything in the natural world. As a young boy, hardly an insect, bird, butterfly or animal was ignored by my inquiring mind. Those were the times before, DDT when the fields were practically alive with butterflies of all shapes, sizes and colors. At night, thousands of little yellow lanterns of the “lightning bugs” blinked at us. We had creatures that most people never see any more. I caught crayfish and tadpoles. I had a tadpole in a goldfish bowl. I watched it slowly lose its tail and grow hind legs, then front legs, becoming a frog. I started a collection of insects, attaching them to a layer of cotton in a small box. I found spiders of all kinds, butterflies, snap beetles, centipedes and bees.

And one time, my penchant for collecting insects got me into hot water.

Warning: woman hiking alone

Getting out into nature has always been an important part of my mental, emotional, and spiritual well-being. It's where I go to disconnect from my day-to-day life and re-connect with those parts of me that I hold dear. Hiking and backpacking are spiritual pursuits for me, my version of a "walk-about" or a vision quest. I learn a lot about myself while I'm pushing my body, paying attention to my senses and how they process information about the world around me. I've made important decisions about my life. I've contemplated my own humanity. I've come face-to-face with my mortality.

Because hiking is such an intensely meditative activity, I tend to do most of it alone. Conversation is distracting. The physical comfort and needs of others pull me out of myself. When I hike (or camp) locally, solo walks are fine. Folks are used to encountering someone alone. They smile, nod, move on. Hiking alone in more remote wildernesses, however, elicits strange responses from others on the trail.

I first noticed it while hiking in North Dakota's Badlands. I was exploring some of the shorter, more popular trails, and I came upon a family taking turns photographing one another. I asked if they wanted me to take a photo so they could all be in the picture together. They happily handed me the camera, and when I'd snapped the shot, the woman looked behind me asked me where my friends were.

"Oh," I told her, "I'm traveling alone."

"Oh. Couldn't anyone come with you?" she asked, clucking with solicitous concern.

"Oh, it's not that," I responded. "I didn't invite anyone to come with me."

Her smile froze in an odd expression. The rest of the family's eyes widened a little, their faces reflecting a sort of...what? Suspicion? Revulsion? And they all hurried off, glancing behind them as though they thought I might follow them. And eat them.

At Wind Cave, I joined a group tour consisting of two small families and one or two couples. One of the moms asked me if I couldn't get any of my friends to come on the tour with me. I explained that I was traveling alone. This time, instead of moving away from me as though I might infect them with my aloneness, the family "adopted" me for the duration of the tour, including me in their conversations, pointing out interesting rock formations, watching over me as though I were a lost lamb. It was sweet, but when they invited me to their campsite for dinner, I politely declined. I waved and turned my back on their murmurs of concern for my safety and well-being.

Time after time, as I hiked the Badlands and Black Hills, visited the Crazy Horse Memorial and Mount Rushmore, or just sat at a diner and ate between camps, I was either mothered or shunned. And I found it occurring on other wilderness trips. It also happened in cities. In restaurants, I would often suffer the attentions of "helpful" wait-staff who would seat me with other people or would bring other people to my table to sit with me so I "wouldn't have to eat alone."

Why? I wondered.

I noticed over time that it was not the same with solitary men I met on the trail. No one asked them why they were alone. No one worried or fretted over them. No one avoided them as though they were somehow dangerous. They were left to themselves or greeted politely with a little chit-chat about the condition of the trail or sights to see, then released back into their peaceful solitude.

Interesting.

Was a woman traveling alone somehow suspect? Did people consider me mad? Deranged? Antisocial? Did my perceived boldness imply that I was possibly dangerous?

On the other hand, was my solitude mistaken for loneliness? Was I seen friendless? Foresaken? Was I in need of social distraction? Was I someone to be pitied?

And if so, why? How could it be, in this day and age, that a woman couldn't enjoy her own company without people's taking special note of it? I know that women are generally social creatures -- connection is important to us -- but don't we all need to be by ourselves sometimes? And so what if some of us choose to hike, camp, kayak, or eat at a restaurant without companionship? Do people still believe we ought to travel in groups? Or -- worse still -- in the protective company of men?

I've never gotten answers. But I know I'm not *alone* in my experience.

While in the Badlands, I met another solitary woman, hiking up the way I'd just come. We made eye contact and stopped to chat a little. I asked if she was traveling alone. She flinched.

"Are you getting strange reactions from people when you tell them you're alone?" I asked.

She sighed and smiled wearily. "Yeah. It's like I'm diseased or crazy or something."

"It's almost worse when they try to adopt me into their families," I groaned.

"I know what you mean," the woman nodded, chuckling. "There's a reason I chose to be out here alone."

I nodded silent agreement, and we stood lost for a moment in our thoughts. Then we traded quiet words of farewell and parted ways.

Contentedly alone again.

Farewell to August -- and good riddance!

I've watered
and staked
and pruned
and pulled
and mulched

and still...
I can't stop
the relentless spread
of August

------

I recently told a friend, "I don't know what made me think I could live in Indiana." It's not that the state doesn't have its charms. Indianapolis has theater, big and small: the Indiana Repertory Theater, The Phoenix, and Theater on the Square (or TOTS, as it's affectionately known). The Dance Kaleidoscope is our modern dance troupe, and they're wonderful. Broad Ripple boasts some of the best micro-breweries in the area, including the Broad Ripple Brewpub and Brugge Brasserie (which also serves A!-MAY!-ZING! crepes).

But the heat and humidity... Ugh!

We had weeks upon weeks of temperatures in the 90s, at least three weeks of which were completely without rain. So, all of the moisture was hanging in the air we were trying to breathe while all my landscaping drooped from drought. Ironic...

Luckily, September has come to our rescue -- at least momentarily. This weekend's temperatures are finally in a comfortable zone, and I'm sleeping with my windows open and the AC off.

Tomorrow, I'll take my kayak out to one of our city parks, Eagle Creek, and paddle around the reservoir. Crested cormorants. Egrets. Blue heron. American coots. The occasional merganser. Banded kingfishers. And, apparently, a nesting pair of bald eagles.

September: the only way to halt the relentless spread of August.

Out-running bison in North Dakota

A few years ago, my friend, Mary, and I took off on an adventure to follow the part of the Lewis and Clark Trail starting in Bismark North Dakota and extending to the North Dakota Badlands.

At the end of our trip, we did some hiking in the Theodore Roosevelt National Park. I'd been to the Badlands of South Dakota -- had even done some solo backpacking and camping there -- but I'd never seen North Dakota's. They were, as advertised, stunningly beautiful.

As in most places in that part of the country, herds of bison roam freely around the park. If you keep at a respectable distance, and you don't engage in any predator-like behaviors (e.g. "sneaking up" on them to take a photo), they generally ignore visitors. Bison generally weigh between 2,000 and 2,500 pounds and can sprint at speeds of up to 30 mph. As huge as they are -- and as cow-stupid as they look -- they are surprisingly nimble, jumping fences as easily as any deer and able to turn quickly while running. (They also have creepy eyes and know physics, but that's a story for another time.)

Despite numerous warnings posted throughout our National Parks, despite rangers' attempts to save people from themselves, and despite the obvious humongousness of the beasts, several tourists are gored or trampled every year, sometimes to death. Bison are seen as photo opportunities, not as wild animals. In fact, my mother overheard a Yellowstone tourist comment, "The signs are just for show. Buffaloes aren't really dangerous. If they were, they'd be fenced in. They wouldn't be allowed to roam around the park where people go." Yep. Darwinism definitely has its place.

The thing with bison is this: They'll tolerate you. And tolerate you. And tolerate you...

Then they just get up and kill you.