One of these days I’m going to write a book about how NOT to hike Washington’s Mount Rainier National Park (MRNP). Sample chapters, based on true-life observation, may include:

• How to Become Back-country Bear Bait in Three Easy Steps
• Five Sure-Fire Ways to Induce Hypothermia and Not Live to Tell About It
• What to Wear on the Trail to Ensure Utter Misery and Certain Injury

I’ve seen boatloads of park visitors who qualify as “Exhibit A” per all of the above. These are these the folks who seem to forget or willfully ignore the fact that Mount Rainier National Park is a wilderness area, not Disneyland.

I’ve seen them all – flocks of tourists setting out to Myrtle Falls over a ten-foot snowpack in flip-flops, T-shirts and shorts. College-age studs who started a multi-mile hike to Camp Muir, elev. 10,000 feet, just before sunset and minus jackets, gloves, boots or brains. The couple striking out on a seven or eight mile hike in eighty-degree weather without hats, packs, food, or water. Folks who think “being prepared” means a fully-charged cell phone (There are very few places in MRNP where you can get reception. I know. I’ve tried.)

Yea, verily, they renew my faith in a merciful God.

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“On the thin line between dawn and darkness,
Sunrise writes her poem.”
— Joan Walsh Anglund.

It’s true. Some things are worth the wait: Black Forest cake. Christmas. Babies. Sunrise. Especially in the Evergreen State.

“Sunrise” doesn’t have much to do with dawn at Washington’s Mount Rainier National Park. It’s the shy sister of Paradise, the park’s much-fabled and ever-popular sibling. The former is an almost eternally inaccessible alpine aerie at our favorite national park.

Perched on The Mountain’s snowy eastern hip facing Spokane and Yakima, Sunrise is accessible but eight brief weeks a year. Weather, snow and road conditions close all roads to Sunrise for an average of ten months annually. Sunrise is typically open only during July and August. It’s occasionally open into September. This year we got lucky.

With daytime temperatures skimming the low 50s upon our arrival, we felt every whiff of Mountain-washed wind as it bit cold and blue off The Mountain’s icy shoulders. and struck out on the Silver Forest Trail. It’s an easy amble, mostly level walk featuring strategically located viewing platforms and jaw-dropping views of the Emmons Glacier.

But don’t stop at the viewing platforms. The Silver Forest Trail continues east, following the ridge line through meadows where the narrow dirt path is still lined by a few wildflowers not yet cowed by September’s chill. Clinging stubbornly to summer, orange paintbrush, purple Cascade asters and frothy white Western Anemones elbow Red Mountain Heather and clumpy white Meadow Parsley for dribs and drabs of subalpine sun. Rainier is omnipresent to the south, haloed in clouds. The White River and Fryingpan Creek wind far below, slivers of silver snaking along the valley floor.

We stopped to savor Sunrise’s sweet, thin alpine air (elev. 6,400 ft.) and sip our water bottles. No water is available on the trail, so be sure to bring your own. And plenty of film. Ditto jackets. Breezes can bite, even in September.

If you’re able to visit Mount Rainier National Park during the brief two months or so when Sunrise is open, check out the Sunrise Visitor’s Center. You’ll find displays of local flora and fauna, tons of postcards and posters, a roaring fire in the stone fireplace, stunning vistas of the Mountain from an outdoor observation deck, and helpful rangers. Just don’t ask them to identify Joan Walsh Anglund. Her words adorn a cedar display board just inside the front door, but no one seems to know who she was!

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It was that time of year again where my family got to go to our homeland of Cambodia. It was my brothers first time and my fourth. We were excited but didn’t think of the adventures we were about to have.

First we were to cross the Pacific ocean and stop shortly in Japan. Going across the Pacific was no small feat, and being the type of passenger I am, meaning that the slightest smell of airfare food upset me, I can’t sleep AT ALL, and I puke at any shake in the plane….

Anyways, after landing in Japan feeling like a million bucks, we were told to wait for the pilot (where was he?) And after waiting for an hour, we were told “he couldn’t make it.” AND SO, we were herded onto buses and shipped to hotels at one in the morning. Let me say, the Japanese have a particular…scent that my little three year old brother didn’t like. After getting our rooms, we went to the dining room anticipating yummy Japanese food…instead got something resembling uncooked hamburger patty and two tater tots decorated with broccoli and cauliflower. Meanwhile, my brother was saying, “it’s kinda stinky in here.” And I think the Japanese knew enough English to understand. After “eating” we went to a employee and my dad asked “do you have any milk? You know, for babies?” We were rewarded with a blank stare.

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On the Road to Recovery in Costa Rica

By Laura Garren

In August 2007, my husband suffered a massive stroke that left him without speech or the use of his right arm and, possibly, the ability to ambulate. To say it changed our life is like comparing bubonic plague to the common cold. Six months post-stroke, I was exhausted from taking care of him, managing his medical care and our finances, and trying to maintain my own sanity. I desperately needed a break. Then my friend Hamilton, who lives in San Francisco, suggested I go with him to Costa Rica. I live in South Carolina, so we agreed to meet in Manzanillo, which is on the Caribbean side of Costa Rica and so far south it’s almost in Panama. Chuck’s sisters agreed to take care of Chuck, so I made my plans and soon was on my way. The experience changed me in ways I couldn’t have anticipated, and I returned home with more than memories.

I was somewhere over the Midwest when it occurred to me that I was going to a country where I didn’t know the language. I would have find transportation that would take me across Costa Rica to the southern-most end of the east coast. I then would have to find my way to our rented villa. I had several hours to work myself into an anxious froth, which I tamped with several alcoholic beverages. I wasted that energy, as it turned out: Hamilton had engaged a driver, who was waiting for me at the airport, waving a sign with my name on it. He loaded me into a shuttle and whisked me to the bus station. My destination was Puerto Viejo; five hours of traveling on top of the eight I had logged, and I already was exhausted.

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​I am the oldest of five girls in a family where the estrogen is effervescent and the pets are profuse. My dad is a robust 6’4” and was the alpha-boy eldest of four sons. He came from the John Wayne mold; a real he-man. After years of military service, he is the kind of do-it-yourselfer that defines “family fun” as spending a sweltering Saturday (it is always either sweltering, raining, or snowing) remodeling our home or buzz-cutting our backyard bushes. Unfortunately, after 28 years of marriage to the epitome of the beautiful blonde cheerleader-type, and after 80% of his daughters took after his wife, dad’s attempts to run the family with military efficiency started to unravel. Dad and I prefer quiet lifestyles with order, discipline, and minimal drama. We are the straight-forward, dry humor, take-it-all-in-stride type. In a household of six females though, chaos is inevitable. Especially when the majority of them have hit the teenage years. That starts to wear on the best of humors…and despite being generally genial, dad and I are not known for our humor.

So, the great Exodus of 2008 was bound to be a little…stressful. I didn’t give my dad enough credit at the time, but he was making a family of six happily nested females uproot and transfer cross-country. You gotta give him kudos for staying sane. I am not sure I did. That’s what happens when you’re the “responsible one” in the family.

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The last thing I remember before it all went dark was that tiny little uncomfortable airplane pillow they give you, a paper towel covered whoopee cushion which you’ll spend endless hours unsuccessfully attempting to rearrange like a Rubrics-Cube, into some salvation from the medieval torture device you’re buckled into.

I stood up from that horrid British Airway’s airline seat to seek the lavatory in the aft of the aircraft, just as the pilot announced some incomprehensible message that everyone ignored. At this point, I was less concerned with my own internal relief, as I was the possibility of escaping the row in front of me containing several drooling, and snoring old women, all of which had their seat-backs in full recline.

As I stood in line for the toilet, there, near the rear emergency door of the aircraft, I peered out the window. My future below, somewhere down there in the flickering lights between the hazy clouds of dawn. The lavatory door then folded open just a the plane shook with a bit of air turbulence.

The woman exiting, immediately screamed “Oh Jesus” so loud, half the cabin woke up. I laughed as I closed the accordion door behind me, then winced as I realized the metal knob was still wet. Such are the joys of travel.

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Our caravan consisted of three trucks (one with a camper), two trailers, four cars, and four motorcycles. The vehicles carried two dogs, nine adults, two teenagers, and a three-month old baby. The convoy slowly backed out of the snow-covered driveway in Coventry, Connecticut and headed for the desert in Arizona. We would travel approximately 3,000 miles across ten states. Why?

Wally, my second husband, had been killed in a car accident and the shock took its toll on me emotionally and I came close to a nervous breakdown. Six months after his death, I flew to Arizona to visit my sister. While there, my heart began to heal. I called my family back in Connecticut and explained, “When I get home, I’m selling the house and moving to Arizona. If you want to come with me, I’ll pay your way out here . . . and you can each bring a friend.” This would be the most difficult decision I had ever made. Many nights when my family was asleep, I would go into the furnace room and sit on a stool in the corner. Here I could cry my heart out and my family would not feel my fear.

After having a huge yard sale, we rented the largest U-Haul truck available. We packed the remaining furniture and belongings into the truck. My husband left me with dozens of chickens, a steer, and two pigs. I called the slaughter house and they butchered the animals and packaged the meat. We loaded the packages into a huge freezer in the rear of the truck and each night at a motel, we backed the truck up to the building and plugged the freezer into an electrical outlet. We would be depending on the meat supply to last us until everyone found jobs.

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Stepping from the cool hotel lobby into the Greek midday heat is like leaving an oasis behind. Immediately, my lungs fill with dry air. No vegetation tames the gusts of wind blowing from the scant hills. The air is saturated with dust and within seconds, the fabric of my cocktail dress clings to my body.

It is half past four and Thomas and I are headed for the church where our friends’ wedding and their eighteen months old son’s baptizing ceremony will be held at five o’clock. All the information we possess is that the church is situated near kilometer 49 of Souniou Avenue, on top of a hill.

The road along the beaches is packed with cars. It’s a Saturday in July and everybody seems to spend it on the beach. Greek people, young and old, love to wander through shallow water while having endless conversations.

Reaching kilometer 49, there is no church. We keep going for another couple of kilometers and then stop. Our slip of paper only says Nikolaos. But all road signs are written in Cyrillic. Our anxiety is increasing by the second. We turn back and ask an elderly man at a bus stop. One of the wonderful things in Greece besides Tsatsiki, of which we ate way too much the night before, is that many people speak at least a little English. The man’s finger points towards the sea, at a small island with a small, very indistinct stone building. We look at him incredulously.

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By Susie Woodhams

BAD PETERSTAL-GRIESBACH, Germany — When I called Hotel Dollenberg to ask about its weekly guided hike through a northern stretch of the Black Forest, I discovered my German was as poor as my fairy tale knowledge.

‘‘So you want to make ‘Tischlein deck dich?’’’ the clerk said.

‘‘Uh, I was talking about the hike and lunch. The one that starts at your hotel and happens only on Tuesdays,’’ I replied uncertainly in English.

To quell my confusion, the clerk explained that ‘‘Tischlein deck dich,’’ which translates to ‘‘Little table, cover yourself,’’ is the title of a Brothers Grimm fairy tale known in English as ‘‘The Wishing Table.’’

In it, a young man receives a simple table, which produces a feast on command.

Only in this case, after snaking three hours through the forest backdrop of many Grimm tales, hikers stumble upon a feast at 3,200 feet.

The idea is to reward participants with a three-course, sit-down lunch as they take in views of the Rench Valley and verdant highlands – and on a clear day, even Strasbourg’s cathedral 30 miles northwest in France. Refreshed, they then complete their 8-mile journey down to the five-star hotel.

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I always feel like I have cheated the friends or family who visit me in the Alsace region of France, my home the last three years.

Never mind that their digital cameras overflow with images of medieval villages packed with colorful, half-timbered houses, often draped in geraniums and roses. Or that their bellies bulge from sampling golden tube cakes known as kugelhopf; oniony tarte flambée that resembles a thin, white cousin of pizza; or perhaps something grander from one of more than 20 Michelin-starred restaurants that dot this northeastern region of France.

Still, I fret that they haven’t experienced enough — perhaps a hike that follows an Alsatian fairy tale to Ferrette’s Cave of Dwarfs, or another that weaves through German and French World War I bunkers near a rocky spur above Cernay. Yet they assure me they have hit the high points of Alsace, including tasting stops along the 110-mile Route de Vin, or Wine Road, and a peek into a few castle ruins, of which there are about 100 relatively intact.

While short-stay tourists often leave feeling content, the people who live here tell me the rest of France still has trouble embracing the culture of Alsace, a 30-mile-wide ribbon of land bordered by the Vosges Mountains to the west, Germany and the Rhine to the east, and Switzerland along the southeastern edge. Laurence Winter, an Alsatian-born author, wrote a book, which was turned into a popular stage comedy, about surviving when your husband is transferred to Alsace — often stereotyped as a German outpost with heavy food and strange accents.

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